Trouble With Harry (15 page)

“I know you are, sweetheart, and I appreciate that you're so concerned for the children, but close acquaintance with them forces me to be blunt—disaster follows them like shadows. What they don't cause by their own actions seems to be drawn to them. Once you learn to accept that, you'll be much easier in your mind.”

“Hrmph.” Plum didn't agree with that, but realized the moment to fight that battle was not now.

“Was that all you wanted?”

“No, what I have to say to you concerns me.”

Both of his eyebrows raised. “You? What could you have to tell me about yourself that was unpleasant? You haven't changed your mind about me and now want to run off with Juan?”

“No, it's not that,” she answered, unable to keep from responding to his teasing grin. She kissed the tip of his nose. “There's no other man who could possibly compare with you, Harry.”

He had the smug look of a man with a well-pleasured wife, but as she was the wife in question, she didn't mind.

“It's…uh…about last night.”

“Last night?” His eyebrows rose again. “What about it?”

Plum's cheeks turned pink under his gaze. Stupid cheeks. She had worked through a great many of the calisthenics with Harry, had seen, touched, and tasted almost every part of his person, and still she blushed whenever she mentioned their activities. “Last night, when you performed Matador Facing a Wild Bull, you…you”—her gaze dropped to his shoulder—“finished inside me rather than out, as you have done in the past.”

“Ah. Yes. That.” Harry's voice sounded a bit strained. Plum peeked up at him, unsure of what she would see, but surprised to find his eyes filled with remorse. His jaw tightened, a muscle flexing in his cheek before he spoke. “I apologize, Plum. I had not meant to do that, but the matador move had me a bit closer to the edge than I anticipated. I assure you it won't happen again.”

Her hopes plummeted. “It won't?”

“No. I made a promise, and I will hold by it.”

Well, hell. She should have known it was a mistake and not a sign he was softening toward her. Still, she had promised herself weeks ago that when Harry finally trusted her with his seed, she would trust him with at least one of her secrets. “I see.”

“Plum?” He lifted her chin and peered into her eyes, worry evident in his. “I didn't hurt you when I did the matador, did I?”

“No, you didn't. It's always been one of my favorite calisthenics, but Charles was never very good at it.”

Harry relaxed, a slight smile playing around his lips. “I suppose it's not right to wish the dead ill, but I have to admit I'm happy to know that I can outperform your first husband on at least one front.”

Plum bit her lip again, damned her weak spirit, took a deep breath, and steeled herself for Harry's reaction. “Charles wasn't really my first husband, you are. That is, he
was
my first husband, except he was already married when he married me, although I didn't know that until six weeks later, when he admitted that our marriage was bigamous, and he had done it simply because he knew I'd never become his mistress, which was true, I would have never agreed to anything so shocking, only what I did turned out to be more shocking, because everyone thought I had simply jumped into his bed, when I truly thought we were wed, and they cut me, cut my entire family until I was disowned, and sent my poor sister into a fatal decline as a result of the scandal.”

She ran out of breath before she could finish the explanation. Harry sat still as a stone throughout all of it, his eyes steady on hers, not a word passing his lips. Her gaze dropped before his, unable to bear looking at him any longer. She had known telling him the truth would be awful, but this was unbearable. “I should have told you before we were married. I was too afraid you wouldn't marry me if I did. I am a coward at heart, Harry, and for my deception I am very sorry. You deserve better. If you'd like me to…to leave, I will.”

His finger curled around her chin, lifting it, forcing her to meet his gaze. His eyes were dark and unreadable. “Leave this room, or leave me?”

Tears pricked behind her eyes. She swallowed, her throat tight and aching. “Whichever you prefer.”

His kiss took her completely by surprise. His mouth was warm, so warm and loving as he feasted on her lips, then slid his tongue inside to take full possession. Hope, blighted into dust, began to gather itself again. “Silly wife. As if I could survive without you.”

“You couldn't survive without me?” Plum asked, her voice quavering as the tears filled her eyes. He wasn't upset? He wasn't angry? He wasn't hurt and disappointed and shocked by her past?

He kissed her again, gently this time, his thumb wiping away the tears that spilled over her eyes. “You should know by now that I can't live without you, none of us can. I'm sorry you were treated so poorly, both by the man to whom you'd given your trust, and by your family, but you can't imagine that it has any effect on us now.”

“But…but…the scandal!”

Harry chuckled, he actually chuckled. Plum's spirits, which had been residing in the bottom of her new boots, rose and soared. He wasn't angry! He could laugh! He wanted her still! “I think I like you silly as you are now. It's such a refreshing change from the competent, unflappable Plum. It gives hope to those of us who are made of much coarser earth.”

“It was a very bad scandal,” Plum said, ignoring his teasing compliment, feeling that as long as he knew the worst, he should be told the full extent of its ramifications. “My father said I would never be received in polite company again, and that no one nice would know me.”

“Your father didn't reckon with me,” Harry said, his slow smile making Plum's eyes fill with tears again, tears of love this time. How could any man be so wonderful? “You're my wife now, Plum. The fact that you were taken in by the worst sort of rogue twenty years ago will not be an issue.”

“But, Papa said—”

“Your father was wrong. I know the
ton
, and although there is nothing they like more than scandals, this one will not be fodder for their picking.”

“How do you know that? They were very cruel to me and my sister. Thom has been made to suffer, too, by not being brought out when she should, by not having the advantages she should, or being taken in by my family when her uncle died. I wouldn't want my sin to hurt the children as she has been hurt.”

“Thom looks anything but hurt.” Harry laughed. “She's blossomed here, in case you haven't noticed. The only blight on her horizon is those blasted breeches you refuse to allow her.”

“Yes, but the children—”

“Are fine and this cannot hurt them. You might not think much of my title, but I assure you being a marquis has a few benefits, one of which is the ability to blot up any spills in your copybook. What my title can't induce people to forget, my reputation will.”

“I happen to be a very messy writer,” Plum said, thinking that not even Harry could wield enough power to make the
ton
accept the notorious Vyvyan La Blue as his wife. That secret, at least, was safe. No one but her, Thom, and her man of affairs knew the truth, and none of them would speak.

Harry laughed again, hugged her, and kissed her very quickly before gently pushing her off his lap. “If you don't leave now, I'm going to throw everything on the floor, set you on the edge of my desk, spread your lovely white thighs, and—”

“Harry!” Plum stared pointedly at the open window. A newly employed gardener stood just beyond, staring in with his mouth hanging open.

Harry gave her another of his infectious grins. “You see? You're a bad influence on me. Now go, before I really give him something to gape at.”

“But, I'm not finished speaking with you about the scandal—”

“There's nothing more to be said.” He made shooing motions with a handful of papers. “Take your lovely, tempting self off and do something frivolous. But not too strenuous, you'll need your strength later. I've thought up a variation on Hummingbird Supping Nectar that I think you'll like.”

Plum clung to the door frame, her knees weak at the thought, but she made one more attempt to reason with him. “The scandal—”

Harry set down the papers and walked over to the door, gently pushing her through it. “The scandal is no more. I swear that to you.”

“But—”

“But nothing. There is nothing to but. I defy you to but me again.” He pried both of her hands off the door frame, kissed each finger, then started to close the door. “Thank you for warning me, but now I must get back to work, else I won't have time to demonstrate my improved hummingbird technique.”

“Harry—”

“Leave. Begone. Avaunt. Off wit' ye. Bye-bye.”

The door clicked quietly as it was closed in her face. Plum stared at the door for a moment, thought about using the second of her three daily allowed sighs, and decided the moment wasn't sigh-worthy enough. “Pooh,” she said, instead.

“Just so,” Temple agreed as he rose and handed her a salver full of letters.

“What's this?”

“His lordship asked me to give them to you.”

“Oh.” A sudden thought brightened her. “Is it something to do with his project?”

“I'm afraid not. They are invitations and letters of congratulations from the local gentry.”

Plum blanched and backed away from the salver as if it contained a poisonous asp seated atop a large pile of offal. “I don't want them. Take them away. Tear them up. Burn them. Bury them deep in the compost heap.”

Temple watched her back up toward the door, pursing his lips as she fumbled for the doorknob. “I sense you have a reticence with regards to correspondence of a social nature. I do not wish to pry, but would I be permitted to ask the reason you wish me to destroy invitations issued to his lordship and you from polite persons of an upstanding nature and general good reputation?”

“No, you may not,” Plum said, then made her escape through the door, closing it quickly behind her and standing with her back to it as she tried to calm her wildly beating heart. Harry might be convinced that his name alone could keep people from gossiping about her, but she had no such conviction. Until she was sure that he really did have that sort of power, she'd spurn all invitations that might bring her face-to-face with someone who knew of her past.

Coward
, the mocking voice in her head whispered.

“About this I'm simply being cautious,” she said aloud and went off to see what sort of deviltry the children had gotten into.

It was the sheerest fluke that Plum happened to be strolling through the lowest levels of the garden when she heard the scream. She was supposed to be receiving the local vicar, but she left Thom to do those honors and went out with Burt the head gardener to look at reclaiming the last bit of wilderness in what was once a grand tiered garden.

“I believe this was an herbaceous border at one time,” she said to Burt. “If you were to clean it up and plant some—good heavens, what are the children doing now?”

Plum and Burt turned to look at the crescent of willow trees that lined a small pond filled with stagnant, odiferous water. She frowned and started toward the pond, her chin set. Burt trotted behind her. “Drat those children, I told them just two days ago they weren't allowed to hunt frogs on that pond anymore. The last time they did, Anne pushed Andrew out of the boat, and he came in reeking to high heaven.”

“Pond gets the runoff from the compost heap, it does,” Burt said.

“That would explain the stench. If I find that they're out in that boat again, I'm going to—”

Plum never had time to complete her threat. As she and Burt cleared the trees, a sight to chill any mother's blood met her eyes. The boat had capsized, its bow pointing upward, the stern submerged. Digger had one child—Anne or Andrew, she couldn't tell which—under his arm, and was swimming through the algae and slime to the shore. Another child—McTavish—clung to the side of the sinking rowboat, shrieking like a banshee. The water beyond McTavish rippled, and the top of a towhead emerged for a moment before it sank again.

Plum didn't waste any breath on exclamations—she kicked off her slippers and ran for the edge of the pond, instinctively taking a deep breath before diving into the foul water. Dimly she heard Burt beside her, and set off for whichever child was drowning beyond the boat.

She gasped as her head cleared the water—the pond was so foul, it tainted the air sucked into her lungs, searing them as if she was breathing in smoke fumes, making her choke and gasp. Digger yelled from shore that he had Anne, which meant it was Andrew who had gone under. Plum took a deep breath and dived. The water stung her eyes, and was so murky and filled with matter churned up by Andrew's flailing body that she could not see. It was only by luck that her outstretched hands felt the whisper of fabric. She lunged forward, both hands trying to follow the elusive material until an arm came into her grasp, an arm that snaked itself around her in an iron grip. She grabbed a handful of jacket and kicked upward, her lungs burning, her eyes an agony.

“I've got him,” she yelled as soon as she surfaced. Andrew coughed and sputtered with her, his arms and legs thrashing as she tried to keep his face out of the water. “Stop fighting me, Andrew, or you'll drown us both.”

“Can't swim,” he gasped and wrapped both arms around her neck, cutting off her air.

“Just…ow! Stop choking me, we're only a few yards from shore…relax. You're safe now.”

Slowly, hindered by Andrew attempting to climb her as if she was a ladder, Plum got them to shore. Digger was bent over a retching McTavish, Anne lying in a moaning heap next to him. Burt waded back into the pond to pry Andrew off her body.

“All right,” Plum said just as soon as she spat up some of the foul water she'd swallowed. She wiped her green slime-covered hair out of her eyes and glared at the four children lying on the grass before her. “You are all in so much trouble, you cannot possibly begin to fathom the depth of it. Did I not just tell you two days ago that you were not to go out on the pond?”

Digger groaned and picked gelatinous ropes of algae off his front. “Lord, she's going to lecture us now.”

Plum gasped. “Digger! Language!”

He rolled his eyes, an act that had Plum seeing red—despite being covered in stinking green. “Don't you roll your eyes at me, young man!”

“I'm an earl,” Digger said, pulling himself up to his full height. “I can do whatever I like.”

“You're a young man perilously close to having his breeches down to receive a thrashing,” Plum snarled. Burt, sensing that all was well—at least health-wise—slunk off to change his clothes. Anne and Andrew snickered.

Plum glared them into silence before turning back to her oldest stepson. “Of all the stupid, inconsiderate acts—you could have drowned yourself and your brothers and sister with your foolishness! Do you have any idea how annoyed your father would have been if I had to tell him you all had drowned?”

Digger shrugged. Plum, stinking to high heaven and scared more than half out of her wits by the near-drowning of four children who had become—despite their tendencies to drive her insane—very dear to her, shoved him toward the house, turning to help Anne to her feet as the other children slowly got to theirs.

“Digger's going to get a whipping,” McTavish said with great complacency as he took Plum's hand in his. “Papa will be mad at Digger, won't he, Mama?”

Digger's shoulders twitched.

“Don't you ‘Mama' me in that endearing, adorable tone, you little rapscallion,” Plum said, shaking with the aftereffects of terror as the blissful numbness of anger wore off. “Your father is going to be very angry with all of you. I wouldn't be surprised if he takes each of you out to meet his razor strop.”

Anne's eyes opened wide. “He wouldn't whip me, I'm a girl!”

Plum, who knew full well that Harry had never lifted a hand in punishment toward his children, wholeheartedly supported his policy of instilling in them the belief that they were just a heartbeat away from a well-deserved beating. “You think not?
I'm
not so sure of that.”

Anne's brow puckered worriedly. Plum, who wanted to clutch the children to her with one hand while shaking them with another, decided that it wouldn't hurt to let them stew over their punishment. When she thought of how near they had been to real tragedy… “I wouldn't like to be in your shoes now, I certainly wouldn't.”

McTavish's hand tightened around hers. He looked down at his feet. “You wouldn't?”

“No, I wouldn't. Wasn't it just yesterday your father lined you all up in the library and lectured you for twenty minutes about disregarding orders he and I give you?”

Digger snorted. Anne looked more worried. Andrew scowled. McTavish released Plum's hand and tried to run off after a pretty butterfly. She grabbed the back of his shirt and marched him toward the house. “Yes, indeed, I would be very, very worried had
I
been one to disregard your father's strictures.”

“What's a stricture?” McTavish asked as Plum gently pushed him up the steps to the veranda.

“Order.”

“Papa won't whip me, he says I'm too young,” he replied and scampered up the last of the steps. “Race you to the kitchen!”

“Nursery!” Plum bellowed as the children turned left at the top of the stairs and ran off down the length of the veranda. “Change your clothes before you do anything else, and don't you think you've escaped so lightly! I have not finished talking to you about ignoring—don't you give me that look, you are in enough trouble already, you do
not
want to be pushing me any further!”

Plum sighed her third sigh of the day as the children raced away, wondering for the hundredth time how she was to prove her excellent mothering skills to Harry when his children defied her attempts to mold them into well-behaved examples of manners and decorum rather than the wild heathens they were. She sniffed back a tear of self-pity and immediately wrinkled her nose. The sun warming her wet shoulders had heightened the horrible stench to the point where it could drop a horse at fifty paces. “Bath first, then Edna can burn this gown,” she said to herself as she squelched wetly through the French doors into her sitting room. She would just run upstairs before anyone saw her…

That thought died as she realized the sitting room was already in use.

Plum blinked in surprise as Harry rose from the rose damask settee, a cup of tea in one hand, a small plate of biscuits in the other. “Ah, there she is. Plum, my dear, may I introduce mister…mister… Good Lord, woman! What
have
you done to yourself?”

The vicar! She'd forgotten about the vicar paying a call! Plum's eyes closed in horror for a moment as she tried to blot from her mind the sight of the appalled faces of the vicar and his wife turned to gape openmouthed at her. A third woman clutched a handkerchief to her nose as she surveyed Plum from slimy head to weed-encrusted foot.

Thom, seated beyond Harry and playing mother as she poured tea, stared at her in equal surprise. “Been swimming, Aunt Plum?”

Harry took a step near her, then quickly retreated once he got a whiff of the eau du pond. “What the devil…sorry, Vicar…what's going on?”

“I…er…” Plum glanced to the side. The vicar, a pleasant-looking, mild little man, gazed at her with real concern. His wife fanned herself vigorously while discreetly extracting a small vial of perfume from her reticule. The other woman, dressed in puce with a bonnet that resembled a warped saddle, wore a look of pure, malicious delight. Plum dragged her gaze from her to Harry. “There was a little accident at the pond. No one was harmed, but I…er…fell in. If you will excuse me, I will change into something a little more suitable.”

“Suitable?” the woman with the saddle on her head snorted. Plum paused at the door, unsure if she should apologize for her untoward appearance, or just gracefully sail out of the room and act as if she was above such petty concerns as smelling like a bog. “Anyone
less
suitable to be the Marchioness Rosse than Charles de Spenser's whore you would have a long way to find.”

The vicar's wife gasped and dropped her vial. Harry turned slowly to look at the woman. Thom, with calm deliberation, removed the cup and plate clenched in Harry's hands, then rose and stood by her aunt.

Plum lifted her chin and gazed as coolly as possible—not an easy feat when one was dripping with pond slime—at the woman. “You must be Miss Stone.”

“I am,” the woman said in a loud aggressive tone. “I know who you are, as well.”

“Yes, of course you do, you would be a fool not to know,” Harry said suavely, but Plum could see the tiny muscle in his jaw twitch. He was angry, very angry, and although she knew he wasn't angry at her, it was her fault he should be exposed to the scorn of such a vile woman. She felt sick, nauseated that what she had dreaded would happen, had. “She is my wife, the stepmother of my children. She is my marchioness.”

“She is also the mistress of Charles de Spenser, youngest son of Viscount Morley,” Miss Stone crowed.

The vicar's wife swooned backward, drooping in the approved manner on her husband. The vicar's eyes were wide with astonishment as he waved his wife's vial under her nose.

“
Was
the mistress of Charles de Spenser,” Harry said calmly, the tension in his hands belying his placid tone.

Miss Stone's vicious smirk of triumph dimmed a bit in the face of Harry's complacency. “You know of her shame?”

“I know of her marriage to Charles de Spenser, yes. And although I don't believe my wife's past is the concern of anyone present but her and myself, I will this once make an exception to my natural distaste in discussing such a private subject with persons not related to us.”

Plum blinked back a few tears of adoration for Harry. She'd never heard him speak in such an aristocratic, cold voice, but she knew he did it for her sake. She was torn between a desire to kiss her darling avenging angel and the need to shield him from the contempt she knew he would face.

“A bigamous marriage,” Miss Stone spat. “He was married already when she went to his bed.”

“I had no idea Charles was already married—” Plum started to say, but ceased when Harry took her hand in his, stroking his thumb over the pulse in her wrist.

“You don't have to defend yourself to these good people,” he said, never once taking his eyes off the evil Miss Stone. “Although obviously they have heard only the basest lies, no doubt being good Christians they will be delighted to learn the truth, not to mention being filled with joy to learn that you were innocent of any wrongdoing other than having a too loving heart. They will be shocked when they are told of the cruelty practiced upon you by a disgusting cur of a man who thought nothing of using and abandoning you, and I'm sure they will do their utmost to remedy any false impression created by the slanders that other foolish and stupid people have spread in the misguided belief they were speaking the truth. Surely, everyone here knows how I worship the very ground you walk on, and that I would never, under any circumstances, allow anyone to say ill of you without exacting the most heinous and exhaustive of retributions.”

Plum held her breath, her eyes on Harry's as they glittered meaningfully behind his spectacles. Miss Stone was no match for him. Before his threatening gaze, her eyes wavered, then fell as she slumped back into the chair, deflated of the spite and venom that had puffed her up like a balloon.

Harry turned to the vicar and his wife, both of whom immediately swore their wholehearted devotion to clearing any misconception regarding Plum's past.

Plum herself stood in silent misery-laden bemusement, watching Harry carefully. He turned to her, pulling her hands to his mouth as he winked before kissing her fingers. “My dear, I'm sure you wish to change into something a little less reminiscent of a cesspool.”

“Yes.” Plum blinked at him, her mind more than a little numb. Had he just winked at her? Had he taken the wind so effectively out of Miss Stone's sails? Had he, with just a few words, erased the shame of her past?

“Now, perhaps, would be a good time?” His eyes twinkled at her. She goggled at that. He could twinkle after what just happened?
Twinkle?