Книга - Regency Bride: Hattie Wilkinson Meets Her Match / An Ideal Husband?

Regency Bride: Hattie Wilkinson Meets Her Match / An Ideal Husband?
Michelle Styles


Hattie Wilkinson Meets Her MatchIn the eyes of the ton, Hattie Wilkinson is a respectable widow, content with her safe, if somewhat modest life.On the other hand, Sir Christopher Foxton prides himself on being regarded as one of London’s most notorious rakes with a particularly mischievous streak!Upon their first meeting, Kit threatens to shatter Hattie’s well-ordered peace – and her reputation! – if only she’ll allow herself to succumb to his playful advances. This time, they’ve both finally met their match…An Ideal Husband?When heiress Sophie Ravel finds herself in a compromising situation, notorious Richard Crawford, Viscount Bingfield, swoops in and saves her reputation! She might have escaped the attentions of one undesirable, but will Richard’s protection expose her to even more scandal?Richard curses his impetuousness at offering a betrothal in the heat of the moment! He gladly accepts Sophie’s terms that the engagement remains a pretence until, quite by chance, he unlocks his shy fiancée’s passionate nature. Now nothing will steer him from wedding – then bedding – his blushing bride…







Regency Bride

Hattie Wilkinson Meets Her Match

An Ideal Husband?

Michelle Styles






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Born and raised near San Francisco, California, MICHELLE STYLES currently lives near Hadrian’s Wall with her husband, a menagerie of pets and occasionally one of her three universityaged children. An avid reader, she became hooked on historical romance after discovering Georgette Heyer, Anya Seton and Victoria Holt.

Her website is www.michellestyles.co.uk (http://www.michellestyles.co.uk) and she’s on Twitter and Facebook.


Table of Contents

Cover (#u046a925c-39f3-5941-9a64-63be388de875)

Title Page (#ue4c66013-7f79-533c-8480-e54ea9439419)

About the Author (#u3c46fe89-e101-5e19-9c8b-1c593c260d3a)

Hattie Wilkinson Meets Her Match (#ubf280009-97d1-56ba-92a0-e0a439077355)

Dedication (#u9917adf3-ba9a-5202-953b-b1114c4b6672)

Chapter One (#ulink_1e0e8d45-dd46-5321-92e8-8bfa0d463ba4)

Chapter Two (#ulink_32b524b0-4b82-56e6-9ec0-be0475dc0452)

Chapter Three (#ulink_973f3d41-dc1a-567d-af84-e3736fbd1e09)

Chapter Four (#ulink_548cca8b-2e3b-5c83-84b6-a92d41d6f709)

Chapter Five (#ulink_7e91d03b-2fed-5040-a194-c786d412082a)

Chapter Six (#ulink_82d94724-7264-5967-b29c-eb5ec442e7f7)

Chapter Seven (#ulink_e95326ef-388f-5913-a887-c92e82e9ca9f)

Chapter Eight (#ulink_bd1d3d1a-744c-55be-8c54-613d9a3ca009)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

An Ideal Husband? (#litres_trial_promo)

Dedication (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


Hattie Wilkinson Meets Her Match (#u0e0c6d9a-fac3-5d17-8acb-29efc8599b9a)

Michelle Styles


For Victoria Parker whose support and enthusiasm for this story helped so much




Chapter One (#ulink_9658873d-f326-54a4-8410-a094d69f7e11)


End of June 1816—the Tyne Valley,

Northumberland

A stifled noise, halfway between a giggle and an excited gasp, caused the Honourable Harriet Wilkinson to halt in her march back to the ballroom. Her entire being tensed. She knew what that sound signalled—in Summerfield’s small card room, someone flirted with ruin.

‘None of your business, Hattie Wilkinson,’ she muttered. When had she become a censorious busybody poking her nose into other people’s lives, rather than someone who understood a ball held the possibility of romance? Today was no time to start, and particularly not at a ball to celebrate the first anniversary of Waterloo.

Another trill of laughter sounded. ‘That is highly amusing. Why should I ever feel in danger with you?’

Hattie sighed. Turning her back on an unknown couple was one thing. Turning her back on her high-spirited niece during her first foray into polite society was quite another. Far too much was at stake. Livvy with her clear blonde looks, graceful manner and more than adequate dowry had the potential to be a huge success in the London marriage market … if she was allowed to make it that far.

Hattie leant forwards and rattled the door handle.

‘I wonder,’ Hattie declared in a voice loud enough to wake the dead, ‘where on earth have my gloves gone? I suspect I left them in the card room earlier. I had better check.’

She placed her lace gloves in her reticule, counted to ten slowly and flung open the door. The snug room with its artfully arranged tables, high-backed sofa and small fire in the marble fireplace was the sort of room that could offer privacy, especially as there was an unseasonable chill in the June air. In the centre of the room, her sixteen-year-old niece stood closer than strictly proper to a gentleman in evening dress.

Hattie pointedly cleared her throat. ‘Excuse me, but I have mislaid my gloves.’

The couple sprang apart. Hattie noted Livvy’s bright pink cheeks and mussed lace. Silently she thanked her guardian angel that it was she who had happened on the couple rather than one of the old cats who prowled the corridors searching for the latest tittle-tattle.

‘This is Mr Hook, Aunt Harriet. He and I …’ Livvy flushed scarlet. ‘That is—he’s a visitor to Northumberland and …’

‘I’m looking for my gloves. Have you seen them, Livvy dear?’ she asked brightly, ignoring the way Livvy quickly attempted to straighten her bodice and how young but dangerous Mr Hook appeared with his London-cut frock-coat and tousled Corinthian-styled hair. The time for a lecture on propriety, the necessity of maintaining one’s spotless reputation and not settling for the first man who pays you a bit of attention was due later after Hattie had extracted Livvy from this tangle.

‘You must know the ones I mean, Olivia,’ she continued. ‘The lace ones which your dear mama gave me for my birthday.’

‘Your gloves, Aunt Harriet?’ Livvy did an impression of a trout, repeatedly opening and closing her mouth.

‘I think they might be in here. I was …’ Hattie paused, trying to think up a reason why she might have been in the card room earlier. Her mind refused to yield the excuse. She opted for a brilliant smile. ‘Olivia dear, would you mind helping me to search?’

Livvy behaved like any sixteen-year-old and rolled her eyes. ‘If I must, Aunt Harriet, but honestly …’

‘I positively insist. I am all sixes and sevens. Balls and me … well, the least said about my nerves the better.’ Hattie waved a vague hand, well aware that Livvy had no idea about her normal behaviour at balls and quite probably considered a twenty-seven-year-old aunt bordered on senility in the general course of events.

A crease formed between Olivia’s brows and Hattie could see the desire to appear older warring with her natural inclination to stay with her new swain. ‘Yes, you are always like this at balls. When did you last have them? Think carefully now.’

Hattie’s shoulders relaxed. Livvy had taken the bait, even down to spouting the exact words she always used with her nieces. The next stage of operation commenced now—gently guiding Livvy back to the ballroom with no moonlit detours.

‘And you will do the usual and help me to look. Your sharp eyes are so much better at finding things than my ageing ones.’

Hattie waited for Livvy’s agreement. Slowly and steadily she would prise Mr Hook from Livvy’s life before he did any lasting damage. Unlike Livvy, she knew precisely the pitfalls of London gentlemen who made extravagant promises. Whilst she had avoided ruin seven years ago, she had been unable to avoid the heartbreak that goes with discovering one’s beloved had, in fact, been another woman’s beloved at the same time. Livvy would not suffer that fate. None of her nieces would. Silently Hattie renewed her determination.

‘Perhaps your aunt left them in the garden,’ Mr Hook said in a falsely concerned voice. ‘We could investigate, Miss Parteger.’

‘What a splendid idea.’ Hattie clapped her hands and fixed Livvy’s would-be seducer with a stern eye. ‘You may search the garden, Mr Hook, while dear Olivia and I search the library, drawing room and the card room. Make sure you leave no stone unturned in your quest to find my gloves.’

Mr Hook gulped twice and scampered out of the card room faster than a fox with the sound of a hunting horn ringing in his ears.

The sound of slow clapping filled the room.

Someone is here! Livvy mouthed, turning redder than a beetroot. A cold shudder snaked down Hattie’s back. She’d once been a carefree girl like Livvy. But after succumbing to the advances of a dashing soldier, she had been hustled into a quick marriage, a marriage she had considered romantic beyond her wildest dreams until she had discovered the sordid truth after his death. Even now the humiliation of her discovery caused the bile to rise in her throat. Livvy deserved better.

‘Bravo! Bravo!’ a rich masculine voice called out. ‘A truly stunning performance.’

‘What are you doing here, sirrah?’ Hattie demanded, brandishing her reticule like a sword towards the sofa. ‘Listening into others’ private conversations? Show yourself.’

The man rose from the sofa with a book in his hand. Hattie swallowed hard. He was the sort of man to make the pulse beat faster—crisp black hair with brooding dark grey eyes combined with broad shoulders and a lean frame. His face was saved from utter perfection by the presence of a nose which had obviously been broken several times in the past. ‘One could hardly help overhearing. You are the one who should be apologising for interrupting my reading and sending my godson on a pointless game of Hunt the Gloves, but I shall forgive you if you beg prettily.’

‘Aunt Hattie?’ Olivia tugged at Hattie’s hand as she started to back out of the room. ‘It’s Sir Christopher Foxton.’

Christopher Foxton. The name thudded through Hattie. The entire village had been gossiping about him for weeks, ever since it became known that he’d finally decided to visit Southview Lodge. About how he’d beat a man near to death over a game of cards and while the man lay recuperating had stolen his mistress and his fortune. How he was unbeaten in the ring, daring to fight bare-knuckled with the best of them. But mostly how because of his breeding, good looks and personal charm, every door in London was open to him and how various mamas predicted that they would capture him for this or that daughter, even though his mistresses were reputed to be some of the most sought-after courtesans in London.

The amount of sighing and speculation over him had reached such epidemic proportions that it seemed all anyone in the village could speak about was Sir Christopher and his exploits.

Hattie raised her chin a notch and met his intense gaze head-on. He had another think coming if he expected her to beg his forgiveness, prettily or not. She was immune from such men and their superficial charm.

‘Where are my gloves, then, if I have sent your godson on a pointless game?’ Hattie cried, exasperated. Confessing her rescue mission was out of the question. She’d rather face a gaggle of gossips dressed only in her chemise and petticoat than reveal her true purpose to this … this rake!

‘Your gloves are in your reticule.’ Sir Christopher held out an uncompromising hand. ‘Allow me to demonstrate, my dear lady.’

‘There is no need. And you will call me Mrs Wilkinson. I am not your dear or anyone else’s dear or any other endearment you care to mention.’ Hattie clutched the reticule to her chest. Panic clawed at her stomach. The gloves! How could he know? How would he twist the discovery?

‘There is every need, Mrs Wilkinson.’ Sir Christopher’s tone hardened to well-tempered steel. ‘Your reticule.’

Silently Hattie passed the beaded reticule over to him. Their fingers brushed and a single tremor of warmth ran up her arm. Ruthlessly, she suppressed it. A delayed reaction to all the gossip about his private life, that was all.

He weighed the reticule in his well-manicured hand as if trying to decide what to do. She prayed for a miracle and that he might suddenly reveal a handkerchief. He opened it and withdrew a pair of lace gloves with mulberry bows tacked to the cuffs.

‘Very pretty they are, too. Or perhaps you have another pair and keep these for emergencies.’

‘They are mine,’ Hattie ground out, silently wishing him, his dark brooding eyes and his infuriatingly superior expression to the devil. ‘I obviously forgot where I had placed them. I thank you for your assistance.’

‘Always happy to oblige a lady.’ He made an ironic bow. ‘But you owe me a forfeit for finding them.’

‘A forfeit?’

‘The next dance.’ Kit Foxton concentrated on Mrs Wilkinson. The woman with her carefully coiffured crown of blonde braids and severe dress needed to learn a light romance at a ball was something to be desired rather than condemned.

‘Olivia, close your mouth,’ the overbearing Mrs Wilkinson declared. Her skirts swirled as she turned, revealing surprisingly shapely ankles. ‘Sir Christopher found my gloves. We shall be returning to the ballroom. Behave as if nothing has happened. Say nothing about this incident. Ever.’

‘Such a simple stratagem, but I found your gloves.’ Kit clenched and unclenched his fists. Mrs Wilkinson appeared to believe that she had the right to pass judgement on others’ behaviour and to fashion the world how she wanted. He looked forward to proving her wrong. ‘You may have them back once the forfeit is properly paid.’

Mrs Wilkinson gave a pointed cough. ‘Olivia, the ballroom! Now!’

‘What are you afraid of, Mrs Wilkinson? Why are you running when it is you who started this game?’ he called out. ‘Your reputation being ruined? It takes more than a few moments of pleasant conversation to sully a reputation as you must know.’

She froze, slipper dangling in mid-air. ‘My reputation has never been in danger. Ever.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it.’

She slowly turned to face him with her hands balled on her hips, blue-green eyes flashing with barely suppressed fury. ‘It never will be. I would thank you to remember that.’

‘You want to dance with my aunt? But she is a widow of seven years!’ Miss Parteger clapped her hands together.

‘Dancing is not forbidden to widows,’ Kit said. A widow. Why did the knowledge not surprise him? The only shock was that she must have once experienced romance.

Kit frowned as Mrs Wilkinson turned her head to glare at her niece and he saw her long swanlike neck. The curious dead part of his soul that had been part of his existence for a year stirred and moved. Mrs Wilkinson had possibilities.

‘We appear to be in a bit of a tangle here,’ Mrs Wilkinson said, putting her hand on her hip. ‘You will cease your funning this instant, Sir Christopher, and return my gloves.’

‘They are safe in my care until the forfeit is paid. To the victor, the spoils.’

‘Just wait until Mama hears about this,’ Miss Parteger said, clapping her hands together. ‘She will be at sixes and sevens with excitement. Aunt Harriet has a beau. Finally.’

‘I would suggest, young lady, that you hold your tongue about this adventure.’ Kit gave a cold nod. Mrs Wilkinson had lost. He knew it and, more importantly, she knew it. She would yield to his suggestion.

Miss Parteger blinked rapidly. ‘Why?’

‘Because if you don’t, it will reveal you were somewhere where you shouldn’t have been and your trip to London might become a distant dream,’ Mrs Wilkinson replied without missing a beat. The colour drained from her niece’s face. ‘And, yes, Sir Christopher, I will dance with you, but it must be the next dance. I want this fanciful forfeit finished and this entire episode an unwelcome memory as soon as possible.’

Kit resisted the temptation to crow. There was no point in grinding one’s opponent into the floor like his father used to. Kit didn’t require abject humiliation, just total surrender.

Kit held out his arm and smiled at the overly confident Mrs Wilkinson. A waltz in this backwater would be too much to hope for. A simple quadrille which would allow him to put his hands on her waist was all he desired. Mrs Wilkinson needed this. She would thank him for it … later. ‘Our dance awaits.’

As Hattie set foot in the ballroom, flanked by Livvy and Sir Christopher, the music ceased and the mass of humanity seethed around the dance floor as people exchanged greetings and partners.

Hattie breathed deeply and released Sir Christopher’s arm. Tonight’s adventure was finished. A solitary quadrille with Sir Christopher to prove her point, and she’d be finished. The dance would prove useful if Livvy was unable to resist confiding her adventure. She would merely claim that Sir Christopher had requested a dance and she’d agreed. No one needed to know the precise circumstances.

‘Shall we?’ She gestured with her fan towards the middle of the dance floor, well away from the chandelier and its dripping wax.

‘This dance? Don’t you want to know which one it is?’

‘Why wait? Or are you a coward?’ she called out. ‘I wish to get this forfeit over.’

She was halfway across the dance floor when the master of ceremonies announced that the next dance would a German waltz. Hattie halted. A waltz? The next dance couldn’t be a waltz. They never waltzed at Summerfield. A waltz would mean being in Sir Christopher’s arms, looking up into his dark grey eyes. Impossible!

‘It would appear I was wrong. It isn’t a quadrille, but a waltz.’ Hattie shrugged a shoulder and attempted to ignore the ice-cold pit opening in her stomach. ‘Fancy that.’

‘Is a waltz problematic?’ he asked, lifting a quizzical brow, but his eyes gleamed with hidden lights.

‘Such a shame. We agreed to a quadrille.’ Hattie gave a falsely contrite smile. Escape. All she needed to do was to escape. He wouldn’t come after her. He wouldn’t create a scene. ‘It has been a pleasure, Sir Christopher.’

She dropped a quick curtsy and prepared to move towards where Stephanie sat, surrounded by the other matrons, surveying the dance floor.

Sir Christopher reached out and grasped her elbow, pulling her close to his hard frame. ‘Not so fast. We have an altogether different agreement.’

She tugged slightly, but he failed to release her.

‘Have you gone mad? What in the name of everything holy are you doing?’ she said in a furious undertone. ‘All I wanted to do was to rescue Livvy from your godson. Nothing more.’

‘You promised me the next dance, Mrs Wilkinson. A German waltz is the next dance.’ He tightened his grip, sliding it down her arm until her hand was captured. He raised it to his lips. ‘I hope you are the sort of woman who keeps her promises.’

Hattie hated the way his velvet voice slid over her skin, tempting her to flirt with him. Her traitorous body wanted to be held in his arms. But that would lead to heartbreak. She’d sworn off such men for ever. She concentrated on all the gossip about him—the women, the duels and the gaming—but her body stubbornly remained aware of him and the way his fingers held her wrist.

‘I implied, rather than specifically promised. There is a difference,’ she said, looking him directly in the eyes. ‘You of all people should know the difference.’

‘An implied promise remains a promise.’ His full lips turned upwards. ‘Consider what might have been, Mrs Wilkinson, before you reject me entirely.’

Hattie studied the wooden floor, scuffed with the marks of a hundred dancing slippers, and concentrated on breathing steadily. Her entire being longed to say yes. Charm, that’s all it was, just as it had been with Charles. Once she allowed herself to be swayed, she’d lose everything.

‘I suspect you say that to everyone.’ She gave a light laugh and her pulse started beating normally again. ‘You’ve never seen me waltz.’

‘Ah, you don’t know how to waltz. You should have said rather than stooping to subterfuge.’

‘Waltzing reached Northumberland several years ago.’ Hattie put her hand on her hip. Talk about assumptions. Did she really look like a frumpy wallflower? When had that happened? ‘I can and do waltz when the occasion demands. I simply prefer not to waltz right now.’

‘Unfortunately, we can’t always get what we want, Mrs Wilkinson. Here all I had intended to do was to dance with you. However, if you insist, we shall have a flirtation in the garden. My late uncle always said that northern women were bold, but until I met you, I had no idea.’

‘Do such remarks cause the ladies in London to swoon at your feet? Up here, you are more likely to get a slapped face.’

‘It is one of my more endearing traits. Impossible, but with a modicum of wit,’ he said, giving her a hooded look. ‘But will the lady waltz? Or is she a coward with two left feet?’

‘I’ll waltz with you, if only to prove you wrong about my dancing ability,’ Hattie ground out.

‘Hand on my shoulder now and we shall begin.’ His tone became rich velvet which slid over her skin. ‘I promise you a dance to remember.’

‘Are you a dancing master now? Is there no end to your many talents?’

‘I endeavour to give satisfaction, particularly to the ladies.’

‘Proprieties will be observed, Sir Christopher.’

‘Did I suggest otherwise?’ Kit stopped. The instant his hand had encountered hers, he’d felt an unexpected and searing tug of attraction. For over a year, he hadn’t felt any attraction and suddenly this. Why her? Why this widow with an over-developed sense of propriety and hideous hairstyle? He had made it a policy not to be attracted to respectable women ever since Brighton.

‘I’m pleased we hold the same view.’

‘What can I ever have done to result in your censure?’ he murmured, slightly adjusting his hand so it fit more snugly on her slender waist. Kit gave an inward smile as they circled the room. Mrs Wilkinson’s lesson was proving more enjoyable than he first considered. He inched his hand lower. She gave him a freezing look and he returned to the proper hold.

‘Your reputation preceded you, Sir Christopher.’

Kit could easily imagine what the village gossips were saying about him and his wicked past. There had been a time when he hadn’t cared or appreciated what life could offer. He had gambled and whored with the best of them. He fought bad men with his bare hands. All that had ended a year ago when his best friend gave up his life for him and he’d become one of the walking dead.

‘You have been listening to common tittle-tattle. That should be beneath you,’ he said.

She tilted her head to one side and gave an unrepentant smile. ‘When someone as notorious as you comes from London, his antecedents are discussed. It is the way of the world. Mr Hook is your protégé. He follows your methods, but fortunately for my niece, I happened along rather than one of the Tyne Valley gossips. Olivia will not suffer the fate of so many of your women.’

A blaze of anger went through Kit. She’d judged not only him, but also Rupert, on the basis of a few pieces of tittle-tattle. He renewed his determination to ensure that a full and complete flirtation happened. ‘I’m no saint, Mrs Wilkinson, but neither am I a black-hearted villain. I have never ruined a débutante or indeed participated in the ruining of a débutante. Neither have I ever seduced a woman from her children or her husband. It is against my creed.’

‘But they said … I’m sure … the stories …’

‘Yes, I know the stories, but more importantly I know the truth. Do you? Have you ever been misjudged?’

She dipped her head, showing her intricately braided hair. Only the smallest curl dared escape. ‘Perhaps I have been over-hasty in my judgement. I will accept your word that you would have said something if I had failed to come into the card room. And I’m wrong to punish you for another’s actions.’

‘Apology accepted. Shall we start again and endeavour to enjoy the dance?’

He pulled her waist closer to his body so that her skirt brushed his legs. Her hand tightened about his. His breath caressed the delicate curve of her shell-like ear. Her shoulder trembled under his fingers. He smiled inwardly. A little romance always brightened everyone’s life. He looked forward to discovering Mrs Wilkinson’s hidden depths.

‘Will you give me a chance to prove the gossips wrong?’ Kit asked quietly. ‘Will you dance with me again or, better still, take a turn about the garden where I can plead my case?’

He waited for her breathless agreement.

‘This is where the dance ends,’ she said in a voice that left no room for dissent. She gave a small curtsy. ‘We would hardly wish to cause a scandal. We are only strangers after all.’

‘I must become a friend and discover what sort of scandal you have in mind,’ Kit murmured. ‘Be reckless. Further our acquaintance. You intrigue me.’

‘One dance will have to satisfy you, Sir Christopher.’ She stepped out of his arms. ‘I bid you goodnight.’

She strode away, her hips agreeably swaying and her back twitching. Kit frowned. He had nearly begged for her favour. He never begged. His skills were rusty.

He patted his pocket where he’d placed the gloves. Their little romance was not over until he decided. Mrs Wilkinson had a lesson to learn and she would learn it … thoroughly. ‘Until the next time, Mrs Wilkinson. Sweet dreams.’

Mrs Wilkinson paused, half-turned, then, appearing to think better of a retort, she resumed her march in double-quick time as if the devil himself was after her.




Chapter Two (#ulink_5b2fa15d-6996-53f8-86e4-cf90515ad01a)


‘You left Sir Christopher Foxton standing on the dance floor even though the dance hadn’t finished!’ Mrs Reynaud said with a stifled gasp as Hattie reached the end of her highly edited tale the next morning. The sunlit parlour with its dimity lace curtains and artfully arranged ornaments was a world away from last night’s splendours of the ballroom.

‘It was the right thing to do.’ Hattie reached for her teacup. There was little point in telling Mrs Reynaud about how her legs had trembled and how close she’d been to agreeing to his outlandish suggestion of a turn about the garden. She knew what he was, why she couldn’t take a chance with him and still the temptation to give in to his charm had been there. Even after all she’d been through with Charles and his unreliability, a part of her had wanted to believe in romance and she refused to allow it to happen.

‘Do you know you were the only lady he danced with all night?’

Hattie set the cup down with an unsteady hand. She could hardly confess to have been aware of Sir Christopher in that fashion. ‘How do you know that on dit?’

‘My maid had the news from the butcher’s boy this morning,’ the elderly woman said. ‘Your waltz is the talk of the village. I’ve been in a quiver of anticipation. Thank you for telling me what truly happened, my dear. It makes my mind rest easier.’

Hattie kept her gaze focused on the way her papillon dog, Moth, was delicately finishing her biscuit, rather than meeting Mrs Reynaud’s interested gaze. The whole point of the story was to enlist Mrs Reynaud’s advice about Livvy’s behaviour and how best to approach the talk she knew she’d have to give, rather than discuss her near-flirtation with the village’s current most notorious resident.

Why was it that women lost their minds as soon as Sir Christopher’s name was mentioned? Her sister had gone fluttery when Hattie returned from the dance floor, demanding to know how Hattie was acquainted with Sir Christopher. Hattie glossed over the card-room incident and Stephanie appeared satisfied.

‘It was a waltz, nothing more,’ Hattie said finally, seeking to close the matter. ‘We had a brief verbal-sparring match. He dislikes being bested, but the game has ended. Honours to me.’

‘Do you know how long Sir Christopher will be in the neighbourhood?’ Mrs Reynaud handed Moth another biscuit. The little brown-and-white dog tilted her head to one side, waiting, but after Hattie nodded gobbled the biscuit up.

‘He failed to confide his intentions.’ Hattie stroked Moth’s silky ears. Moth had come into her life just after Charles’s death and for many months was the only bright spot. ‘It has taken him over a year to visit his inheritance. Our paths won’t cross again.’

‘Predicting the future is always fraught with danger, my dear.’ Mrs Reynaud brushed the crumbs into a pile for Moth. ‘It does my heart good to hear news of him after such a long time, even if it’s only for a short while.’

‘Are you acquainted with him, then?’ Hattie stared at the woman.

‘I knew the family years ago. His late uncle arranged for me to have the lease on this house.’

‘Perhaps he will call on you once he realises you are here.’

The colour faded from Mrs Reynaud’s face, making the pockmarks stand out even more. ‘My dear, I … I have changed a great deal since we last encountered each other.’

Instantly Hattie regretted her words. Over the last two years since Mrs Reynaud had taken up residency in the tiny cottage, she’d become accustomed to Mrs Reynaud’s ruined features. ‘An old friend never looks at faces. They are pleased to renew the friendship.’

‘I doubt that he will remember me, whatever the state of his manners,’ Mrs Reynaud said, raising a handkerchief to her face. ‘Pray do not bother him with an old woman’s remembrance of a past acquaintance. I was wrong to mention it. Ever so wrong.’

‘Very well, I won’t insist.’ Hattie buried her face in Moth’s fur. What was she doing, clutching at straws, searching for a way to encounter Sir Christopher again? Had her experience with Charles taught her nothing? A few minutes waltzing with a confirmed rake and she behaved worse than Livvy. ‘It is a moot point as our paths are unlikely to cross.’

‘Are you that ignorant of men? He forced a forfeit and waltzed with you and only you.’

‘He did that for … for his own purposes,’ Hattie explained. ‘They say his mistresses are the most beautiful women London can offer. Why would he be interested in someone like me and my few charms?’

‘You underestimate yourself, my dear, and that borders on foolishness.’ Mrs Reynaud held out her hand. ‘I merely wanted to point out that having done your duty to your fallen hero and mourned him properly, you can start to live again. But if your heart is for ever buried with your husband and you are one of the walking dead, then so be it. A pity with you being so young.’

Hattie swirled the remains of her coffee. Living again. She thanked God that Mrs Reynaud didn’t know what her husband was truly like. The extent of his perfidy and hypocrisy had only emerged after his death.

Before then she had considered that she had a blissful marriage with someone utterly reliable and steadfast. She’d had no idea about his other family or the debts he’d run up. Thankfully, the woman in question had been discreet and she’d managed to scrape together the required amount. But no one else knew. She had her pride.

Sometimes she felt as if she was still living a lie, but she couldn’t confess the full horror. Not now, not ever. It remained her problem and she didn’t want false sympathy.

She opted for a bland, ‘I hardly know what to say.’

‘A light-hearted flirtation never did anyone any harm. Allow a little romance into your life. You’re a handsome woman and should be aware of your power! You should celebrate being alive, rather than running from it.’

Hattie focused on the tips of Moth’s ears as Moth snuffled crumbs. Flirtations could harm people, if they believed in romance. That lesson was etched on her heart. ‘I’ll bear that in mind, should ever the question arise.’

‘Oh dear, I fear I’ve shocked you. It’s what comes from living abroad for such a long period.’ The corners of Mrs Reynaud’s mouth quirked upwards. ‘You’ll get over it in time and forgive me, I hope. I do so look forward to your visits. They are always the highlight of my day.’

‘I should go to Highfield and see how Livvy fares before I go back home,’ Hattie said, plopping Moth into the now-empty basket. Moth gave a sharp bark and placed her paws on the rim.

Although she loved her sister and nieces and nephews, Hattie maintained her own establishment—the Highfield Dower House at the edge of the Highfield estate. Her old nurse Mrs Hampstead served as her housekeeper. Close enough to be on hand if there was a crisis, but far enough to maintain her own life.

She had come to Northumberland shortly after Charles’s death was confirmed. Her mother had died of a fever a few months before and her father of a broken heart, a week before Charles’s things arrived.

She’d always been grateful neither of them knew of Charles’s perfidy. She couldn’t have hidden the truth from her mother.

When Stephanie’s plea for help came, Hattie had considered it better than staying in London with her brother, the new viscount, and his wife. She had discovered a peace in Northumberland that she hadn’t considered possible.

‘You spend far too much time running around after your sister and her brood. She uses you as an unpaid lackey.’

‘There may be flowers or notes,’ Hattie said at Mrs Reynaud’s look. ‘And don’t worry, I will tell you everything about Livvy’s progress when I next visit. I think you are right, a quiet word and then tales about the wonders of a London Season should suffice.’

‘Come tomorrow. I will regale you with tales about how I escaped from the harem. Lots of danger and excitement.’

A great longing to see far-flung places and experience life swamped Hattie. When she was a little girl, she used to watch the ships on the Thames and swear she’d go abroad some day. But the furthest she’d travelled was to Northumberland and now that had become home.

Now that Stephanie’s children were nearly grown, she could start thinking about travelling. Doing things for herself rather than for others, but she still had to be aware of how her actions could affect the family. Outward appearances were everything. ‘Did you really escape?’

‘I feel the sheikh desired me more than I desired him. I was a great beauty once, you know.’

‘You still have a beautiful soul, Mrs Reynaud.’ Hattie covered Mrs Reynaud’s hand and ignored the tear that trickled down Mrs Reynaud’s face.

‘You have no idea the mistakes I have made and how I’ve paid for them.’ Mrs Reynaud’s gnarled hands fumbled for a handkerchief. ‘Sir Christopher… Remember, I specifically want to know when he departs from the neighbourhood.’

Hattie firmed her mouth. She wouldn’t enquire into Mrs Reynaud’s reasons, but she suspected they would both be relieved when he went. ‘If I learn any more news about Sir Christopher, I’ll tell you. I promise.’

The gravel crunched under Hattie’s feet as she marched towards Highfield’s rose garden. Despite the pile of unopened cards and several bouquets littering the drawing room, her sister and nieces were entertaining gentlemen callers in the rose garden.

Hattie knew she should have come earlier, but she had wanted to visit Mrs Reynaud and get her opinion before she acted. Surely Stephanie could cope with Livvy’s high spirits for a few minutes? When the time was right, she intended to have a quiet word with Livvy. Romance at a ball was all well and good, but some day, you had to wake up and face the harsh reality of the morning after when the evening prince turned out to be an unreliable toad.

Moth gave a sharp bark, indicating she wanted out of the basket. Hattie set the basket down. Moth gave Hattie a quizzical look and wandered off to investigate the garden, but came racing back almost instantly and sat at Hattie’s feet. Straight behind her strode Sir Christopher, his black coat and tan breeches gleaming in the sun. A gentleman caller with a difference.

‘Ah, I had wondered if you were going to grace us with your presence, Mrs Wilkinson, before I managed to wear out my welcome.’

‘Sir Christopher.’ Hattie hoped any high colour would be attributed to her walk, rather than his nearness. Mrs Reynaud had put ideas in her head about flirtations. Not precisely true. Her sleep had been filled with dreams of them dancing where Sir Christopher spun her round and round as Charles stood in the shadows.

‘Is the miscreant dog yours?’ he asked. ‘I caught her attempting to dig a hole in the borders. She is hardly bigger than a cat.’

‘Yes, Moth is mine. She is a papillon.’

‘A trained killer, rather than a butterfly.’ Sir Christopher bent down and tickled Moth under the chin. Moth lifted her chin a notch higher before rolling over and exposing her belly. Moth gave a little whimper of pleasure as Sir Christopher obligingly stroked her belly.

Hattie belatedly realised she was staring and turned towards a stand of deep-blue delphiniums. ‘An unexpected pleasure.’

‘My godson was anxious to call on Miss Parteger, but my true purpose involves you.’

‘Me?’

‘The return of your gloves.’

Hattie winced. The gloves. How had she forgotten he had retained them until the blasted forfeit was over? ‘Where are they?’

‘Your sister has taken possession. She expressed surprise that you were so careless with her birthday gift.’

‘It was good of you to return them.’ Hattie kept her gaze carefully on the gravel path, rather than meeting his intense grey eyes. ‘I’m sure my sister will hand them to me. She is very trustworthy in that regard.’

‘I assumed they were precious to you. You were very concerned when you mislaid them earlier in the evening.’

‘That had a different purpose, as you rapidly guessed.’

‘I know, but you neglected to finish your forfeit and collect your gloves. What does this say about you?’

Hattie winced, knowing she’d been the one to make the mistake and leave the dance floor so abruptly. She’d been foolish to give in to her anger and to forget that he held the gloves hostage last evening. It wasn’t his fault that she’d once believed a night’s romance at a ball would last for ever. All Sir Christopher had required was light conversation during the dance and a polite goodbye, something seven years ago she’d have done without considering the consequences. Instead she had behaved like the worst maiden aunt, storming off as if he had attempted to make love to her on the dance floor. ‘The dance was over.’

‘We shall have to examine another forfeit for leaving me bereft on the dance floor.’

‘Have you spoken with your godson about his behaviour?’ she said more tartly than she intended as she tried to banish the sudden image of Sir Christopher kissing her. She would not be agreeing to any sort of renewed forfeit.

‘Rupert now understands the necessity of behaving properly if he desires to further his acquaintance with your niece. Your niece is very adept at the use of her fan. He had considered that she was older.’

A cold shiver went down Hattie’s spine. She could just imagine. She knew all about Livvy’s fascination with fan language for flirtation purposes. She’d warned Stephanie about it weeks ago. Obviously nothing had been done. The problem was how to discuss Livvy’s use of the fan without revealing where she had been. ‘Livvy is impetuous, but innocent. It was a game to her, to see if she could. Nothing more.’

His shadowy grey eyes locked on to hers. ‘And was it a game for you, bursting in on them? Attempting to find evidence of a flirtatious game gone too far? Or is any flirtation too far for you?’

‘My niece’s reputation is paramount.’ Hattie hugged her arms about her waist and tried to control the shiver. ‘And anyway, why are you wandering about the grounds on your own?’

‘Your sister is playing the chaperon while I attempt to find the cedar of Lebanon. As Rupert has decided he wants to do more than play infantile fan games with your niece, he needs to make a favourable impression on your sister.’

‘Have you found the tree?’ she asked brightly.

‘I was on my way when your dog discovered me.’ He checked his fob watch. ‘A quarter of an hour to make a good impression is all Rupert requires.’

‘You need to find the tree before your time is up. Truth in all things.’

‘We reach complete understanding at last, Mrs Wilkinson.’ A smile tugged at his features. ‘It is part of my creed.’

Hattie shook her head. His charm was lethal. She was certain most women discounted his words and only focused on the seductive warmth in his voice. Listening to him, it was easy to understand why he enjoyed such a reputation with ladies. But she knew the trick—the words, not the tone, were important.

‘You’re going in the wrong direction,’ she called as he started going towards the boating lake.

‘Am I? How remiss of me.’ A dimple shone in his cheek. ‘Perhaps you will be kind enough to show me the proper way, Mrs Wilkinson? Getting hopelessly lost could ruin the entire matter. Consider it a fair exchange for leaving me on the dance floor.’

‘When you put it that way, how can I refuse? Find the tree and all obligation will end.’

‘Something like that,’ Sir Christopher murmured.

Hattie placed her gloved hand on his arm. Every inch of her being hummed with awareness of him and the tantalising sandalwood scent he used. A pleasant conversation would not harm anyone, particularly as she remained in control. Mrs Reynaud was right. It was about time she started living, rather than hiding behind her widowhood.

‘We should take the left-hand fork here,’ he said.

She glanced at him under her lashes. His entire being radiated smugness. ‘You engineered this walk! You know precisely where the tree is. Stephanie gave you directions.’

‘Walks are more pleasant if there are two people, even if one of them has tendencies to be sharp-tongued.’

‘I’m not. What is the point of having a mind if I can’t speak it?’

‘Never apologise. Women fall over themselves to falsely compliment me. You make a change.’

‘Why were you in the card room?’ she asked to keep her mind away from the potential rocky subject of comparing her to other women. ‘You hardly seem to be the shy and retiring type. Were you waiting for a lady to appear? One of those who fall over at your compliments? Surely you can confess all to a sharp-tongued widow like me.’

He stopped abruptly in front of a spreading oak. All humour vanished from his countenance. ‘You continue to do me a disservice, Mrs Wilkinson. I only ever pursue one lady at a time.’

The butterflies started beating inside her. One lady at a time. He had sought her out after the dance when he could have sent the gloves.

The news made her blood fizz and tingle.

She removed her hand from his arm and took a gulp of life-giving air. She was not going to start to believe in the illusion of romance again. Charles Wilkinson had for ever cured her of that. Sir Christopher had an ulterior motive, but he would be disappointed. She would show him that at least one woman would not tumble into his bed with the merest crook of his finger or a seductive laugh. Two could play this game. He would learn a lesson.

‘Is that the only explanation I will get?’ She forced her voice to sound playful. You’ll trap more flies with honey than vinegar, she reminded herself.

‘You require more?’

‘The mystery intrigues me. Did you see the fan play between Mr Hook and my niece and know where the proposed liaison would happen?’

‘I was not playing an errant knight. Alas.’ Kit stopped and stared out into the garden with its low hum of bees and faint birdsong rather than at the soberly dressed woman who stood next to him. The scene contrasted so much with the thick mud and scent of gunpowder that had filled his nostrils a year ago. The feeling of being truly alive washed over him again.

The circumstances, rather than the company. Kit forced the brief panic down his throat. After his mother’s departure when he was four and his later experience in Brighton, he’d vowed never to care about a woman. In any case, Mrs Wilkinson was far too severe for his taste. She wanted an explanation, she would get it. That would be an end of the matter.

‘A year ago last Thursday, I attended a ball in Brussels. It was all gaiety, but like many other men I had to leave early. We went from the Duchess of Richmond’s ballroom to the mud and stink of war. I returned, but many of my comrades didn’t.’ He waited for her to take the hint and politely change the subject.

‘You were at Waterloo? As a soldier?’ she asked, her eyes growing wide and luminous under her bonnet.

‘I was at Waterloo,’ he confirmed.

‘No one ever mentioned you being in the Army. Not a single word.’ She turned her head and all he could see was the crown of her impossible bonnet and the back of her shoulder.

‘Does it bother you?’

‘It is unexpected. I have heard stories …’

Kit could well imagine what was said of him. And for the vast majority of his life, he hadn’t cared. It was far better to be thought heartless than to be ridiculed as someone whose mother couldn’t love him, who had left his father because of him.

After Waterloo, it had changed. Brendan Hook had thought him a good enough friend to die for. London and his former pleasures lost their allure.

‘It doesn’t matter what others think. It has never mattered,’ he said. ‘The battle only occupied a few hours of my life. Being in the Army lasted a few short weeks and then I went back to my usual haunts.’

‘You are wrong to minimise it,’ she said, turning back towards him. ‘Very wrong. You played a part in a great victory. People will be celebrating Waterloo for years and you can say that you were there.’

Kit regarded her earnest face with its English-rose complexion, gazing up at him. She possessed a delicate beauty, he realised with a start. He wondered how he’d overlooked it before. But the highly conventional widow was also not his type.

Kit was very strict about the women in his life and his rules surrounding them. They asked for no more than he was prepared to give. They were experienced and knew the rules without them being clearly stated. He always ended it before emotions were involved.

Mrs Wilkinson was trouble, but he was also loath to leave before this lesson in mild flirtation finished.

He turned the conversation to more mundane subjects as they continued towards the tree. To his surprise, the conversation about gardens was far more enjoyable than he had considered possible at the start of the journey.

‘Behold the tree. We can turn back now,’ Mrs Wilkinson said as they rounded a bend.

‘Yes, the tree. It is a magnificent sight.’

A gentle breeze moulded her skirt to her remarkably fine legs. Mrs Wilkinson possessed a far better figure than he’d first imagined. Kit struggled to keep his gaze on her face and not wonder why she had failed to remarry. None of his business.

‘You keep changing the subject.’ She laid a gloved hand on his arm. ‘Why keep your service a secret? Weren’t you supposed to be there?’

‘I rapidly acquired a lieutenant’s commission in the Life Guards once I heard of Boney’s escape and was lucky to get that. Everything was snapped up in days. The whole of London society seemed to be in Brussels last year. A number of friends couldn’t even get a commission, but they came anyway. They got out when the fighting got too hot and left it to the proper soldiers.’

The green in her eyes deepened. ‘But you stayed until the end. You didn’t run, even though you are determined that I should think the worst of you. If you had run, it would have been the first thing you said.’

‘I know how to be a soldier.’ Kit’s shoulders became light. Even without his saying it, she believed he’d done the right thing. He hated to think how few people ever believed that of him. It mattered. ‘Eton prepares one for it.’

The memory of those long-ago days swept over him. Back then, he’d thought himself capable of anything. In his final year, he’d believed himself in love and that Constance Stanley would marry him once he asked her.

His illusions were shattered when he’d arrived at her house unexpectedly with the engagement ring in his pocket. He’d overheard her assessment of him as the son of two wicked people and how her family needed his money and how she’d feared that she would have to marry a devil. He had stepped out of the shadows. Constance’s shocked face had said it all. All of his father’s warnings thudded into him. He bid her and her companion good day and gave the ring to the first beggar woman with a baby at her breast that he saw.

Never again had he allowed himself to contemplate marriage. Never again had he allowed a woman to get close, preferring to end the thing before it happened. Kit had a variety of presents he’d send—a bouquet to end a flirtation, a strand of pearls to end a brief but hugely enjoyable weekend, sapphires to end something longer.

Mrs Wilkinson turned her back on him and walked with quick steps over to the cedar. She stood there, unmoving for a moment, her brows drawn together in a frown. He waited for her to make a remark about the weather or society.

‘Why aren’t you down in London? With Rupert’s father?’ she asked.

He turned from her and stared towards where the great cedar towered over the garden. Everything was so peaceful and still, except for the distant cooing of a dove, calling to its mate. No danger here. This was the England he’d fought for, not the bright lights of London. He wanted that peace that had eluded him. He wanted to show that he had changed and that he did deserve a future, a future that he did not intend to squander. ‘Rupert’s father died.’

‘I didn’t know. I’m sorry for you and for Mr Hook.’

‘False sympathy fails to matter. You never knew him.’

‘You’re wrong. Any man’s death should be remarked on and he was your friend. You must miss him,’ she said with an intense earnestness. ‘When did you decide to come up to Northumberland?’

‘When I was on the battlefield, surrounded by men dying on either side, I swore that next year I would be somewhere which epitomised what I was fighting for.’ The words came from deep within him. He wanted her to understand that on the battlefield he’d decided what was important and how his life needed to change. She, of all the people he’d met recently, might understand and the very thought unnerved him. ‘I thought of the fair, the Stagshaw Bank Fair, and how it is held every year on the fourth of July.’

Her dusky-rose lips turned up into an incredulous smile. ‘You are asking me to believe that you decided to come to Northumberland when you were at Waterloo? I can think of a dozen other more likely places that should have sprung to mind.’

‘It seemed as good a place as any to my fevered mind. When I was a lad, my uncle brought me here. The day has long stood in my memory. He bought me a wooden jumping-jack.’ He shook his head.

There was no need to explain that it had been the first time since his mother’s departure that he’d received a gift or anyone had taken notice of him beyond cuffing him on the ear. He’d kept that jumping-jack for years, hidden in his handkerchiefs so that his father would not stumble across it and destroy it.

‘It seemed like a place worth fighting to see again. I said as much to Brendan, who was on my right—there will be time enough to reminisce as the years go by, but next year I would be upin Northumberland and would go to the fair. He agreed to go with me.’

‘And that is why you and Mr Hook are here,’ she breathed. ‘To honour your vow.’

Kit closed his eyes and said a prayer for Brendan’s soul. He had said enough. She didn’t need to know the rest. He’d asked Brendan to exchange places with him because he thought he’d get a better shot. Brendan had agreed with a laugh and a clap on his back. The next thing he’d heard was the soft thud of a bullet hitting Brendan in the chest. Brendan’s last words were about his son and his hopes for Rupert’s future. Kit had promised and he intended to keep that promise.

‘But he would have been here. We made a vow together.’

‘Is it why Rupert is with you? To fulfil his father’s vow?’ She tilted her head to one side. ‘It would appear that I misjudged Mr Hook. There are not many men who would have done that.’

‘His mother died soon after he was born.’ Kit stared at the grass. There was no need to explain that Rupert’s mother had been a courtesan and they had only married on her deathbed, at Brendan’s insistence. Seventeen and a widower with a baby. Brendan always claimed his heart had died with the woman. Kit tended to counter that at least he had a heart. ‘Rupert’s grandmother took charge of the boy, but she died shortly after hearing of her son’s death. I promised her that I’d make sure her grandson would become the fine man that his father wanted him to be.’

He willed her to understand his reasoning.

‘I hope the fair lives up to your expectations.’

He forced a smile. ‘I’m sure it shall. Anyway, I was invited along with Rupert to the ball, but I found I needed time alone to reflect, particularly as they had played a reel that I remember from the Duchess of Richmond’s ball. I went to the card room for a few moments and found a book. You know what happened next.’

‘I’m sorry for not believing you.’ She took a step closer to him. Her dark-red lips softly parted.

‘It doesn’t matter.’ He knew he lied. It mattered more than he wanted it to. ‘It is in the past. I rarely think about the past.’

‘It was my fault. I rushed away from the dance floor,’ she whispered, putting her hand on his arm. ‘We should have had the second dance. I would have if … if I’d realised about your past.’

‘Never do something because you feel sorry for a person.’ He covered her hand with his. Their breath laced. He knew that all he had to do was to lean forwards a few inches and her mouth would yield. He was surprised that he wanted to. But for the lesson in flirtation to be complete, the movement needed to come from her. He’d be magnanimous in the lecture which he gave her later.

‘Aunt Hattie, Aunt Hattie! I know you are here. Moth found me. We have visitors! You will never guess. Livvy has an admirer!’ a young voice called.

Mrs Wilkinson jumped back and her cheeks flamed bright red. ‘I need to see my niece. You do understand the propriety of the thing.’

Kit forced his hands to his sides. His little lesson in flirtation was proving more enjoyable than he’d considered. He would see where the game led. ‘No one is preventing you.’




Chapter Three (#ulink_2a73f7cd-8d49-5967-ac1f-711cfb0ca7d6)


Hattie picked up her skirts and ran to the rose garden, not daring to look behind her and see if Sir Christopher was following. If Portia hadn’t shouted, she would have kissed him. Her lips ached with longing. It went against everything she had promised herself and yet she didn’t feel ashamed, only disappointed. The next time … Hattie stopped and pressed her fingers to her temples. There would be no next time. Sir Christopher had explained why he was in the card room. The matter was finished. She’d survived. Hattie picked up speed as if the devil himself was after her.

As she reached the rose garden, Portia hurtled into her, throwing her arms about her. ‘You will never guess who is here!’

Hattie disentangled herself from the hug and regarded her favourite niece who was four years younger than her sister, Livvy, and still far more interested in four-legged creatures than young men. Her pinafore had a series of smudges and a solitary wisp of hay clinging to the hem. Hattie knew despite her mother’s orders Portia had spent time in the stables, helping out.

She always kept a tit-bit in her pocket when Moth came to call. It was no surprise to Hattie that Moth had gone wandering off to find her treat, but a small part of Hattie wished she hadn’t and that she and Sir Christopher had remained under the cedar tree. Alone.

‘Sir Christopher and Mr Hook,’ Hattie answered, putting away all thoughts of kisses from Sir Christopher. It wasn’t going to start.

If she ever was attracted to any man again, it would be to someone who was steady, sober and scandal free, someone who was completely different from Charles Wilkinson. Not someone who lived and breathed sin. If Charles Wilkinson had a dark wild side which no one knew about until it was too late, then Sir Christopher was midnight-black wild through and through. She forgot that at her peril. Sir Christopher was not a man to be relied on. A man whose wit and conversation were to be enjoyed rather than to be thought of as a life’s partner.

‘Sir Christopher wanted to return my gloves from last night and Mr Hook came along for accompaniment.’

Portia’s plump face fell. ‘You knew? How!’

‘Aunts know these sorts of things. Little birds.’

‘I’ve the honour of being the little bird,’ Sir Christopher said, coming to stand by her, a bit closer than strictly proper. His stock was ever-so-slightly undone and she glimpsed the strong column of his throat. Hattie hurriedly pretended an interest in the roses. ‘Your aunt met me, Miss Portia, and kindly showed me the cedar of Lebanon’s location.’

Portia beamed back at Sir Christopher, her entire countenance lighting up under his voice’s spell.

‘There, you see,’ Hattie said, putting an arm about her niece’s shoulders and turning her away from Sir Christopher. ‘All is explained.’

‘How did you find the cedar tree, Sir Christopher? Does it approach the magnificence of your boyhood home or surpass it?’ her sister, Stephanie, called out from where she sat in the rose garden with a silver teapot by her side. On her other side perched Mr Hook, looking much like an overgrown schoolboy. Livvy appeared all young innocence in her light-blue muslin gown, but the tips of her ears glowed pink. Hattie hated to think how quickly that sort of innocence vanished.

‘I found what I was looking for, yes.’ Sir Christopher gave Hattie a searing look.

Hattie resisted the temptation to explore the renewed aching in her lips. No one could brand with just a look. She clenched her fists. She was not going to behave like a fool again. Heady romance was an illusion that she could ill afford.

‘I discovered Sir Christopher and kept him on the right path.’ Her voice squeaked on the word path. Hattie cleared her throat. ‘It was the charitable thing to do.’

Stephanie, who looked like an older and plumper version of Livvy, held out the gloves with a superior smile. ‘How clever of you to visit this morning, Hattie … particularly as Sir Christopher thought you’d be here. I wonder how that came about?’

A distinct air of accusation rang in Stephanie’s voice. She thought Hattie had arranged all this! Sir Christopher wore a smug expression as if it was precisely the outcome he’d hoped for. Hattie shifted uneasily. Why did he want anyone to think they had a flirtation? She could hardly be the type of woman with whom he generally flirted.

‘I’ll take possession of them. They have caused a great deal of trouble.’ Hattie plucked them from Stephanie. A faint scent of sandalwood caressed her nostrils. She hurriedly stuffed them in her basket. When she arrived back at the Dower House, she would put them in her bottom drawer, never to be worn again.

‘You really are too careless, Hattie. Those gloves were a gift. I spent hours getting those bows correct. First you mislaid them at the ball and then you place them in the basket all higgledy-piggledy.’ Stephanie carefully poured a cup of tea. ‘You were always the careless one of the family. When will you ever grow up and take responsibility for your actions?’

Sir Christopher cleared his throat. ‘I was grateful for the excuse to call.’

‘Will you and your godson be in the Tyne Valley long?’ Stephanie asked in a speculative tone.

‘It depends on a number of things.’

‘It will depend on Aunt Harriet, that is what Sir Christopher means,’ Portia said, bristling with self-importance.

‘What on earth are you talking about, Portia?’ Stephanie asked with an arched brow.

‘Aunt Harriet is in the midst of a flirtation with Sir Christopher,’ Portia burst out, her entire being quivering with excitement. ‘Last night in the card room at Summerfield as well as today beside the cedar. Livvy told me. She swore me to secrecy, but that’s why Sir Christopher kept the gloves. Why will no one tell the truth?’

‘Out of the mouths of babes,’ Sir Christopher said in a low tone.

‘Next time I want to go, Mama. Things happen at balls. Please, Mama. Pretty please.’

‘You are twelve, Portia,’ Livvy replied with crushing firmness. ‘You have years to wait.’

Portia stuck out her tongue.

‘Portia, you know it is wrong to repeat tales, particularly highly embroidered ones,’ Hattie said before either of her nieces uttered another damning phrase or their squabbling descended into all-out war. ‘Sir Christopher has returned the gloves and seen the famous tree. His time will be required elsewhere. Do not seek romance where there is none, young Portia.’

Sir Christopher showed no inclination to take her hint and to depart. If anything, he seemed to be amused at her discomfort. He sat down and accepted the cup of tea that Stephanie held out. ‘Fascinating place. Northumberland. My godson and I look forward to attending the Stagshaw Bank Fair.’

‘Oh, the fair. Of course, I should have guessed the reason for you being here.’ Her sister leant forwards. ‘Mrs Wrigglesworth said it true when we first heard of your arrival—Stagshaw Fair attracts all sorts of people. Everyone had wondered. But hopefully having seen the delightful entertainment Northumberland has to offer, you can be persuaded to stay longer.’

Hattie bit her lip. Stephanie was up to something. She could feel the sense of impending doom creeping up her spine. She dismissed it. Stephanie knew of Sir Christopher’s reputation. She’d never dare.

‘I’m sure Sir Christopher is fully capable of finding entertainment to occupy his time,’ Hattie said, seeking to end the discussion. ‘We mustn’t presume, Sister.’

‘My godson and I would be delighted to take a full part in the village life while we are here. The estate I inherited has been neglected for far too long. And the company is utterly charming.’ He inclined his head. The twinkle in his eyes deepened. ‘We should go for a picnic out to Stagshaw to see what it is like before the fair. A local guide would prove of great assistance.’ His voice became silken smooth. ‘Would tomorrow suit, Mrs Wilkinson?’

Hattie’s mouth went dry. There should be a thousand different reasons why she should refuse, but she heard herself say, ‘Tomorrow would be wonderful.’

‘Then it is all settled. Tomorrow at noon.’

‘We will all go.’ Hattie looked at Livvy, who suddenly straightened her back and blushed a violent pink at the hopeful glance Mr Hook gave her. Now that she knew Mr Hook was properly interested in making an honourable offer she was prepared to help. They did deserve a chance to get to know each other better, properly supervised. A picnic was hardly a debauched party. ‘Livvy and Portia love picnics. It will make for a splendid expedition. You were saying just the other day, Stephanie, how we ought to picnic more often now that the fine weather had arrived.’

‘Then it is settled. The day will be much brighter for the presence of all the ladies here.’

‘Oh dear!’ Stephanie banged her cup down. ‘Tomorrow is no good at all. Far too much is on. Livvy and Portia have their dancing class. And I will be required at the Corbridge Reading Rooms. Colonel Cunningham will be thrilled to learn that we now have the world expert on newts in our midst. An illustrated lecture must be organised before Mr Hook departs.’

‘Please, there is no need,’ Mr Hook said, turning a violent red. ‘It is nothing. My research is at an early stage.’

‘I disagree, Mr Hook.’ Stephanie raised an imperious hand. ‘You mustn’t be allowed to hide your light under a cloak of false modesty. You’ve informed me about your prowess and this must be shared with the neighbourhood. Immediately, before the schedule is cast into iron. There is a committee meeting tomorrow which I must attend.’

‘Stephanie!’ Hattie glared at her sister. Stephanie enjoyed the kudos of being on the village hall committee, but hated actually doing any work. She always produced the flimsy excuses to avoid the meetings where events like lectures were decided. ‘We’re talking about an invitation to a picnic, rather than this summer’s lecture series schedule, which was decided weeks ago.’

‘You must go of course, Hattie. You gave your word.’ Stephanie waved a vague hand in the air. ‘I feel certain that Sir Christopher and his godson understand why I must decline. Mr Parteger told the Colonel the other day that the lecture series was looking a bit thin. And the Colonel had the temerity to blame me. Schedules are made to be altered.’

Mr Hook turned a sickly greenish-yellow. ‘I’ve not lectured before. I’ve no plans.’

‘Then you must start. How else will you get on in this world? Mr Parteger has always said that we must have educated men as Livvy’s suitors.’

‘In that case, I … I would be honoured.’ Mr Hook mirrored a tomato for colour.

Hattie curled her fists and attempted to ignore Stephanie’s triumphant look.

‘Of course, I will go on the picnic.’ Hattie turned towards Sir Christopher. ‘I would be delighted to accompany you and Mr Hook. Mr Hook can plan his lecture there.’

The flecks in Sir Christopher’s eyes deepened. ‘The picnic will be all the more memorable for it.’

Kit relaxed against the carriage seat, going over the morning events. It had unfolded differently than he’d planned, but not disastrously. After the picnic, he decided, he would send the flowers. He wanted to see Mrs Wilkinson fully blossom and realise the error of her censorious ways.

If he stopped prematurely, she would revert and cause her nieces problems. The lesson needed to be learnt thoroughly. Kit enjoyed the sense of goodness which radiated from his decision to take Mrs Wilkinson on the picnic.

‘Do you care to explain precisely what happened while I was exploring the garden, Rupert?’ Kit asked to keep from thinking about the precise shape of Mrs Wilkinson’s mouth. ‘How did you end up with a possible lecture engagement for a subject that you have never professed an interest in? Do you even know what a newt looks like?’

Rupert tugged at his neckcloth. ‘Of course I know what a newt looks like. They are a type of amphibian, have four legs and a tail.’

‘Is there some reason for Mrs Parteger to suspect that you are a world expert on newts?’

‘I needed to say something to mark me out from the crush.’ Rupert’s ears turned pink. ‘Miss Parteger is an angel. Two more bouquets arrived when you were touring the garden. I was desperate. Then I remembered how Miss James’s father dismissed me as a know-nothing. It was not going to happen again. My tongue rather ran away with me. Newts were the first thing to pop in my brain.’

‘You are now committed to giving a lecture about a subject you know nothing about. How is that going to impress anyone?’

‘But I love her! I want to be with her. I know you will think me mad, but it is how I feel about her.’ He thumped his chest. ‘Sometimes, you know in here. The instant you see her. It was as if I had been waiting all my life and she walked into the room.’

Something inside Kit twisted. Rupert had no idea about love. It was calf-love like he’d experienced with Constance, something that burned bright and fierce and vanished. And when it went, it hurt like the very devil. Every boy goes through it in order to become a man. And now he was a man, he protected that vulnerable bit of him so he would not get hurt again.

‘You don’t know what you are saying, Rupert. You hardly know her. How long will it last? Do you remember what you said about Miss James?’

‘That was different.’ Rupert flicked his fingers. ‘I was merely a boy of nineteen.’

‘You are only twenty!’

‘What were you like when you were my age?’

‘Young and foolish. Luckily your father stopped me before the folly went too far.’ Kit shook his head. Never again would he allow a woman to share his secrets. All Constance had done was to mock him about his parents’ scandalous past. ‘I thanked him for it later.’

‘Do you ever see her?’

‘Who?’

‘The woman who broke your heart? The one my father used to mention in his cups.’

‘Your father was right. My broken heart lasted until the next dance when I found another lady who welcomed my attention.’ Kit forced a laugh. His heart had been broken long before when his mother refused to look at him, despite his pleading, as she went out the door and his life. He’d settled for something less and kept his patched-up heart protected.

‘Surely your heart was truer than that!’

‘What heart? Didn’t you know I’m heartless? How many women have despaired of taming me and thrown the accusation at me when I ended the affair?’

‘My father didn’t think that. He used to say—’

Kit held up his hand, stopping Rupert’s words. ‘Whatever he said, he said in confidence. Your father had a unique way of looking at life.’

‘I wish he was here,’ Rupert whispered.

‘Your father asked me to look after you.’ Kit glanced up at the carriage’s ceiling, regaining control. ‘I’m offering my advice. You keep your word. If you are determined to give this lecture, you study. My uncle did have an interest in amphibians and his papers and books are in the library. They should be enough to enable you to give an account of yourself. And you never make a false claim again. Lying never makes for a happy relationship.’

Rupert hung his head. ‘Now you are committed to going on a picnic with The Widow.’

‘Which I plan to enjoy.’ Kit frowned. The lesson in flirtation was going better than he’d hoped. It would be one that Mrs Wilkinson would not soon forget. She might not thank him for it, but her two charming nieces might benefit. ‘I could not have arranged matters better.’

‘You and Mrs Wilkinson … but she is so old.’

‘She is younger than I am.’

Rupert screwed up his face and stared out the window. ‘I had always thought … they tell stories about you and the beauties. Mrs Wilkinson will never be a toast of London.’

Kit tapped his fingers together. He refused to indulge in speculation about Hattie Wilkinson’s beauty. Rupert would not understand that it was precisely the point. Hattie Wilkinson possessed a refreshing charm that hadn’t been powdered and primped to an inch of its life.

‘One final lesson for today, Rupert. Never discuss a lady. Ever.’

‘What precisely is going on, Stephanie?’ Hattie asked once her nieces had been otherwise occupied with refurbishing their bonnets. For the first time in a long while, Livvy had expressed an interest in improving her mind, but the suggestion had been firmly quashed by her mother.

‘Whatever can you mean, dear?’ Stephanie looked up from where she was sorting out a variety of ribbons. ‘I do hope you are not going to be tiresome, Hattie, and ruin your chances again. Simply because you had a wonderful marriage that was cut cruelly short does not mean you will not find happiness again.’

Hattie sighed. Her decision not to tell anyone about the full extent of Charles’s betrayal did make for awkward moments. Stephanie refused to believe that her marriage was anything other than breathtakingly romantic. And this was the second lecture she had received today about making more of her life. Why didn’t anyone understand that she was content as she was?

‘This is Sir Christopher Foxton! Are you aware of his reputation? Marriage won’t be on offer, if he has anything beyond mere politeness in mind.’ Hattie clasped a hand to her chest and tried to regain control of her emotions. ‘There, are you satisfied? I’ve said it. He is notorious in the extreme. He will be after more than an innocent conversation.’

‘Why did he visit me and take pains to be correct?’ Stephanie rolled her eyes. ‘He brought the flirtation out in the open rather than hiding it behind closed doors. No man wants to remain a bachelor for ever.’

‘You are mistaken, Sister. Some men are determined to remain bachelors. They are far from safe in carriages or conveyances of any kind. And Sir Christopher is first amongst them.’

‘Sir Christopher seems very pleasant, rather sweet.’ Stephanie crossed her hands in her lap and gave one of her Madonna-like smiles, which always grated on Hattie’s nerves. ‘On the other hand Mr Hook was painfully ill at ease. He droned on about his blessed newts. I doubt he even knows what women are.’

‘You dislike Mr Hook’s shyness?’ Hattie stared at her sister in astonishment. She had anticipated Stephanie’s objecting to Rupert Hook on the grounds of his association with Sir Christopher, but not because of his timidity. ‘I believe you’re wrong about the man. He has an abundance of confidence.’

‘I dare say he will do for a chaperon for this picnic of yours or you can take Mrs Hampstead if you wish to have conversation on subjects other than amphibians. The man will not be moved. I did try.’

‘Surely it is better for Livvy to realise what a bore Mr Hook is rather than to sigh for the love of his fine eyes. You can allow Livvy to accompany me,’ Hattie said firmly, giving her final argument.

‘Hattie, I do despair. Livvy is too young for such things.’ Stephanie made a superior clucking noise. ‘Sir Christopher Foxton pursues you. You should allow yourself to be caught and then force the marriage. It is how it is done.’

‘You’ve muddled everything, Stephanie. The visit was about Mr Hook properly courting Livvy, rather than Livvy arranging clandestine meetings with her fan.’

‘Pshaw!’ Stephanie slammed her hand down on the table. ‘My little Livvy would never do such a thing. Besides, Mr Hook was not acquainted with Livvy until today. Sir Christopher formally introduced him.’

With a heavy heart, Hattie rapidly explained the events of last evening, emphasising that Sir Christopher had only danced with her to prove a point about making assumptions. A forfeit, nothing more and then she’d left him standing on the dance floor.

‘According to your tale, Sir Christopher was already chaperoning. Why was he there if not to ensure that nothing untoward happened to my dear girl? I do declare that people have done him a grave disservice in the past. He is the most perfect of gentlemen. I refuse to hear another disparaging word said against him.’ Stephanie leant forwards and gestured with her fan. ‘That is the end of the matter. Sometimes I worry that you became a walking ghost after your husband died. Why not enjoy the fun of a mild flirtation? After all, it is not as if you don’t know where the boundaries lie.’

Hattie pinched the bridge of her nose. The conversation was starting to spin out of control. She refused to confess after all these years. At first it had been far too hard and Stephanie had never enquired. Her throat had swelled every time she thought about Charles and how he’d used her, how she’d stood mourning at his grave, bereft, and then had discovered about his other family, the woman he’d loved. And she had felt so stupid.

Her whole idyllic life had been a lie. Never again would she make the mistake of loving someone who could not love her back. Her blood ran cold every time she considered it.

‘You would have to ask him why he was in that card room.’

‘And you should ask yourself why he chose to dance with you and then to invite you specifically on a picnic. Now shall we speak about the colour of ribbon you will wear on your bonnet to this picnic?’

Hattie ignored Stephanie’s peace offering. ‘Why do you want me to go on this picnic alone? Do you truly want me to ruin my reputation?’

‘You are a sensible widow of twenty-seven who learnt your lesson years ago. If it had been anyone but Charles in that summer house, I shudder to think what would have happened. He worshipped the ground you walked on back then … It was utterly romantic. Your wedding when you fainted at the altar was so … so special. Then he had to leave to go to the front and wrote you such beautiful letters. They made me weep when you showed them to me.’

‘Yes, I was lucky there.’ Hattie fought to keep the irony out of her voice.

Stephanie smiled. ‘I want you to have your last chance at a second marriage. Go on the picnic with Sir Christopher without distractions.’

‘Livvy and Portia are not distractions.’

‘I, too, remember last year when Portia put the lizard in Dr Hornby’s tea. He had planned to propose to you that day. Portia and Livvy never gave you that chance.’

Hattie hid a smile. It had taken her the better part of three hours to capture that lizard. ‘It happened for the best, Sister.’

‘Hmmph.’

Stephanie in these moods was insensible to reason and ever likely to come up with more transparent schemes for entrapping Sir Christopher into marriage. Hattie gave an involuntary shudder.

There was no hope for it. She refused to sit here and allow herself to become embroiled in one of Stephanie’s projects.

She would have to go and explain to Sir Christopher the dangers. He had to understand why the picnic and any hint of intimacy was an impossibility. And she had to do it before she lost her nerve.

Hattie clicked her fingers. ‘Moth, we are going.’

Her sister’s face creased. ‘Hattie, I am only doing this because I love you and want you to be happy. You need someone in your life. You looked happy when you arrived in the rose garden. Your cheeks were bright pink.’

‘I like my life with Moth, with Mrs Hampstead and with you and your children.’ She raised her chin. She refused to go back to that needy deluded girl who believed romance happened when two people’s glances met across a crowded room. Going on a picnic with Sir Christopher was not going to happen.

‘Hattie …’

‘It satisfies me. Do not tell me otherwise.’ Hattie hoped Stephanie believed her words because she was less than sure.

Hattie stood in the gloomy panelled hall of Southview Lodge. A variety of stuffed birds peered down at her. All the way here, she had planned her speech. Somehow it seemed right to explain the situation in person rather than writing a letter. Sir Christopher had to know what Stephanie was trying to do and why it would never work. The solution had come to her as she tramped home over the fields. Sir Christopher needed to know about her sister’s machinations.

She had deposited Moth with Mrs Hampstead before driving the governess cart to Southview. She intended on handling this problem on her own without interference from Moth and her penchant for investigating.

‘Mrs Wilkinson, what a pleasant surprise.’ Sir Christopher came out of his study. His stock was undone and he was in his shirtsleeves. His black hair swooped down over one eye. Despite her intentions of being aloof, a curl of warmth twined its way around her insides.

Hattie inclined her head and was pleased her straw poke bonnet shadowed her face. ‘Sir Christopher, I do hope you will forgive the intrusion.’

‘I wasn’t expecting any visitors. My uncle’s affairs are in a bigger tangle than I had anticipated. He appears to have used a code …’ He ran a hand through his hair, making it stand on end. ‘But as you are here, you must stay and have a cup of tea. Come into the drawing room.’

‘My sister was rude in proposing that Mr Hook lecture,’ Hattie began before she lost her nerve. ‘Take no notice of her. She became dreadfully confused and believes Mr Hook is a shy newt-fancier who needs bringing out.’

‘Is this a problem?’

‘Is he … a newt-fancier? A world authority? He appears awfully young for such a thing.’

The corners of his mouth twitched. Hattie risked a breath. She might not have to confess about Stephanie’s other machinations after all.

‘Rupert confessed. He misjudged the moment. Rupert shall be spending all his time studying the habits of newts until the lecture. He should know better than to lay false claim.’

‘He doesn’t know.’ Hattie clapped her hand over her mouth. ‘Oh dear. Just before I left the Dower House, Livvy arrived, looking for books on amphibians.’

Their shared laughter rang out.

His eyes turned sober. ‘You didn’t come all the way here simply to tell me about Rupert’s folly. Out with it, Mrs Wilkinson. What else was your sister attempting to do? Why must I be wary?’




Chapter Four (#ulink_a059f477-1aea-56da-97db-e2fa6767b324)


He knows. Hattie’s heart sank. Sir Christopher had known about Stephanie’s intention all along. She twisted the handle of her reticule about her fingers and wished she was anywhere but here in Sir Christopher’s hallway. She had made a mistake in thinking he was naïve or at best unaware. He was no fool, but a hardened and experienced rake. He must have foiled hundreds of marriage schemes in his lifetime.

Her first instinct was to slink away, but she had started so she had to continue—no matter how much she wanted the ground to rise up and swallow her.

‘My sister wishes to play the matchmaker. You and I.’ Hattie tried for a sophisticated laugh, but it came out strangled. ‘How ridiculous! Anyone can see how ill-suited we are. I like to speak my mind too readily and you … you … well, you have a certain appetite for life.’

A flash of something—sorrow, disappointment?—crossed his face, but it was gone before she could really register it was there and his face became a bland mask.

‘I would have used a different word,’ he said.

‘Stephanie refused the picnic invitation so that you would be forced to take me on my own. She knew I would never be rude and find a threadbare excuse to call it off.’

‘Why did she think her being there would be an impediment?’

‘My sister unfortunately recalled that I once used my nieces to sabotage her previous efforts.’ Hattie knew her words were coming much too fast, tumbling over one another like a cart picking up speed as it careened down a perilous slope. ‘A childish trick. I should have seen the possibility before it happened and saved everyone the embarrassment. What I was thinking … who knows?’

‘Perhaps you were thinking that a picnic with me would be a pleasant way to pass an afternoon.’ His grey eyes flashed. ‘A picnic, Mrs Wilkinson, is not an invitation to a debauched party. Nor is it a prelude to sticking your neck through the parson’s noose.’

‘The expedition should be called off. Immediately.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it will encourage Stephanie and her folly,’ Hattie said weakly, trying not to think about the way his mouth looked or how his eyes sparkled. A note giving a bland reason would have been simpler.

‘I’m more than delighted to be spending time with you, Mrs Wilkinson. The arrangement suits me very well.’

‘Does it?’ Hattie gulped. She refused to consider that Sir Christopher might actually be attracted to her. The notion was completely absurd. She lacked the attributes that men like him prized. He had an ulterior motive. He had to. Her head pained her slightly.

‘Had I thought you’d accept without your family for chaperons, I’d have proposed the current arrangement in the first place. For Rupert it was desolation but for me it is serendipity.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I take it you will bring your dog as a chaperon. It is always best to have a solitary chaperon … it provides cover.’

‘My husband died at Talavera, Sir Christopher.’ Hattie focused on a picture of an English castle which hung on the wall behind his right shoulder. It was easier to say the words when she wasn’t looking at his face. She tightened her grip on her reticule. She refused to tell him the truth about the sham of a marriage and her humiliation, but he had to understand that whatever game he was attempting to play stopped here. ‘I have no wish for another.’

‘Marriage has never been one of my aspirations, Mrs Wilkinson. My parents were exceedingly unhappy. I trust you understand me.’

Hattie gave a little nod. She had thought as much, but the plain statement caused a tiny bubble of disappointment to flood through her. Just once she would have liked to have been wrong and for Sir Christopher to have had honourable intentions.

A tiny voice in the back of her mind whispered that he was the sort of man to make a woman believe in romance. She ignored it. That sort of thinking belonged to another woman. She knew what her responsibilities were. She liked her life as it currently was. She knew what was important to her. Free love was for women like Mrs Reynaud and her sheikh, not her.

‘Thank you for being frank, Sir Christopher.’ She met his gaze full on, never flinching or wavering. ‘I must also inform you that I’ve no intention of our acquaintance becoming more intimate. I enjoy my current reputation and wish to maintain it. In the circumstances …’

‘More intimate?’ His grey eyes became flecked with a thousand lights. ‘You do like putting the cart before the horse, Mrs Wilkinson. Most women wait to be asked. I shall allow you the opportunity to change your mind should the subject ever come up.’

‘I find my sister’s attempts at matchmaking intensely irritating.’ Hattie quickly concentrated on the black-and-white tiles of the entranceway, rather than giving in to the temptation to drown in his eyes. ‘Her schemes made my life a misery throughout the years until I found a way to halt them. Why should I have to seek another husband? There is no law against being a widow.’

He tilted his head to one side, his eyes coolly assessing her. ‘Your husband must have been a lucky man. To have someone so devoted after his death.’

‘He was a man in a million.’ Hattie attempted to look pious and sorrowful. She had already had her folly with Charles. She had swallowed whole the lies of instant adoration, love and eternal devotion that dripped from his lips that night in the summer house.

She had continued to believe in the false illusionary world where she was the very heart of his universe until she had sorted his private papers, which arrived after his death. The stark black ink tore the illusion from her soul.

It was then she learnt what he truly thought of her, how another woman had had his regard and his joy at the birth of his son, a son he’d fathered after their marriage. That had been the hardest thing—reading about his joy at the birth and knowing how much she’d longed to have a child.

‘I have no desire to change your mind. I only wish to go on a picnic with you.’

‘And I should accept your word?’ she asked. ‘Without questioning it?’

His eyes flashed. ‘I may be many things, Mrs Wilkinson, but I am no liar. Nor do I take advantage of unwilling women. Nothing will happen on this picnic that you do not desire.’

‘Then I have no choice but to accept your assurance that the picnic will be between friends.’ Hattie hated the way her heart jumped. The gloomy mood that had plagued Hattie on the way over vanished. Sir Christopher wanted to go on the picnic with her, despite knowing about Stephanie’s machinations. She swallowed hard. Stephanie would not give up. The picnic would only embolden her. ‘What am I to do about Stephanie? I’ve no wish for you to become burdened or embarrassed.’

He took a step closer. ‘A determined matchmaker needs to have a concrete reason to desist. You and I know of her intent and we can count er it … if we work together. If done properly, your sister might learn a valuable lesson. The world needs fewer meddlesome matchmakers. We will be doing a service to society.’

‘Why are you willing to do this?’ Hattie put her hand to her throat. She could see the sense in Sir Christopher’s scheme but … She shook her head. ‘You gain nothing.’

‘Except the pleasure of your company for a few hours.’ His eyes danced with a myriad of greys.

Hattie attempted to control the sudden fluttering of her insides. Mrs Reynaud had been completely wrong. Like most men of his ilk, he was probably attracted to sophisticated ladies of the ton or courtesans, rather than twenty-seven-year-old widows who were long on the shelf. ‘I hope the company will suffice, then.’

‘And now you have given me a further purpose. You need to be able to live your life free from your sister’s interference. You should not have to worry about her matchmaking simply because you wish to enjoy the banter and repartee.’

‘I welcome your assistance,’ she whispered and held out her hand.

‘You have it. To confounding the matchmakers, my intelligent friend.’ His fingers curled around hers. Strong and firm. She swayed toward him, lips parting.

Somewhere in the bowels of the house, a clock chimed the quarter-hour. She let go abruptly, aware that she had held his fingers for a breath too long. She forced her mouth to turn up. He thought her intelligent, but unappealing. It reminded her of Charles’s journal. My new wife is a sensible choice, but far too intelligent for my taste. Just once she wanted to be thought of as fascinating. A tiny piece of her had wanted Mrs Reynaud’s scandalous suggestion to be true and that he’d pull her towards him and kiss her thoroughly.

She had entirely misread the situation earlier. A small shudder ran down her spine. She had nearly kissed him under the cedar. And now again here—just after she had proudly proclaimed no interest in marrying again! When had she become forward? And what if he thought she was an advocate for free love?

How embarrassing would that have been! Poor silly deluded Hattie. Always gets it wrong. Another of Charles’s entries in his journal. She knew what she wanted from life and being one out of many women was not for her. ‘I thank you for the compliment.’

‘And you will come on the picnic with me? As a friend?’

He leant close and his breath laced with hers, doing strange things to her insides. He smelt of sandalwood and the faint tang of wood smoke. All she had to do was to lift her mouth a few inches. A slight tilting of her head was all it would take, except he wasn’t interested in her, not in that way. Hattie concentrated on breathing, slowly and steadily, controlling her desire.

‘I’d like that, Sir Christopher. True friendship is beyond price.’

‘Kit. We are friends and intimates, Hattie.’ His voice rolled her name.

‘Very well, Kit.’ Even saying his first name seemed intimate and wicked as if she was slowly but inexorably sliding towards the sort of woman who did indulge in serious flirtations. ‘It took me three months before I dared think of my husband by his first name, let alone call him by it.’

‘Then it is just as well that I’m not your husband.’

‘Until tomorrow.’ Hattie hated the way her blood leapt. She could stop any time she wanted. Going on a picnic did not mean she was going to become his mistress. It took more than a solitary picnic to ruin a reputation.

Kit made certain that he gave the appearance of relaxing back against an oak tree as he finished his share of the picnic, but his entire body was intensely focused on where Hattie Wilkinson sat, blithely eating strawberries. Her hair today was in a loose crown of braids with a few tendrils kissing the back of her neck.

The picnic had been far more pleasant than he’d anticipated. The conversation with Mrs Wilkinson had ranged from a mutual admiration of Handel and loathing of sopranos who added trills to arias to the games of chess and cricket. Mrs Wilkinson, he discovered, was a keen bowler and took pride in her ability to take wickets.

Having concluded the debate about the correct way to bowl off-side, Mrs Wilkinson reached for the few remaining strawberries in the dish.

‘How did you guess I adored strawberries? Normally Livvy or Portia eat their fill before I get a chance to have more than one.’

‘Another reason to be pleased you came without them.’ Kit pushed the dish towards her. He’d nearly accomplished his mission. Mrs Wilkinson had blossomed. Perhaps it was as simple as her needing to understand that life went on without her husband. He hoped the man had deserved her devotion. He wondered how any woman could be so devoted? He doubted if any woman would shed real tears for him. Crocodile tears because he was no longer picking up the bills, but not real ones that came from deep within.

‘One more, then.’

‘You mustn’t be shy. Take as many as you want. They are begging to be eaten.’

‘When you put it that way, how can I refuse?’ She gave a quick laugh and brought a berry to her mouth. Her teeth bit into it and the juice dribbled, turning her lips bright red. Kit silently handed her a handkerchief and indicated towards her chin.

She hastily scrubbed her face. ‘Honestly, you would think after all these years I’d learn. How long has it been that way?’

‘Long enough. You look delightful.’ He leant back against the tree, put his hands behind his head and savoured the moment. ‘This picnic is supposed to be about enjoyment.’

‘And you think eating strawberries in the sunshine is a suitable pastime?’

‘None better.’ He shifted so his legs were stretched and struggled to remember the last time he had felt so content. There again, he found it difficult to remember the last time he had taken a woman on a picnic. The women in his life were far more inclined towards intimate late-night suppers, silken sheets and expensive presents. He had rarely wanted to talk to any of them about matters beyond the bedroom.

With Hattie Wilkinson, he wanted to hear her views. He enjoyed debating with her and disconcerting her in order to win.

A tiny frown appeared between her brows. ‘I would have thought a man with your sort of reputation …’

‘Simple pleasures are the best ones.’ He reached across and popped the last strawberry into her mouth.

She half-closed her eyes and a look of supreme pleasure crossed her face. ‘Those are exceptionally good strawberries. Don’t you agree, Mr Hook?’

Full of more than his fair share of cold game pie, watercress sandwiches, fruit cake and elderflower cordial, Rupert sat with his head in a book about newts, mumbling about amphibians and their feeding habits and ignoring Hattie’s attempts to bring him into the conversation. Mrs Hampstead, Hattie’s housekeeper, likewise ignored the conversation and knitted.

It would be easy to do this every day.

Kit inwardly smiled at the thought—the great bon vivant Sir Christopher Foxton indulging in rustic pleasures. He could imagine the caustic remarks. He should end the flirtation now, before he was tempted to enjoy it or, worse still, repeat it and start to count on it. Counting on women for anything beyond the basics was a bad idea. He’d learnt that bitter lesson long ago. His mother had turned her elegant back on him and never attempted to make contact with him after she left.

Kit struggled to his feet. His mother, her lack of care and her penchant for scandalous behaviour were far from suitable topics for conversation or thought on this glorious day.

‘Is there something wrong?’ Hattie asked at his sudden movement. The light in her eyes flickered and died.

‘Shall we explore the area to work off some of the lunch? You may have eaten the strawberries, but I had game pie,’ Kit said, gesturing towards where the busy coaching inn stood.

Physical activity was what was required. It would keep his mind from wandering down unwanted paths. After today, there would be no more picnics with Hattie Wilkinson. This was about a lesson in short flirtation rather than a prolonged friendship.

‘There is nothing much here,’ Rupert said unhelpfully, looking up from his book. ‘Just some empty fields.’

‘When you see the two crossroads, there is little mystery as to why the fair is held here,’ Kit continued, giving Rupert a meaningful glare. ‘Do you know how long the fair has been going on, Hattie?’

‘Since time immemorial,’ Mrs Wilkinson replied, dusting her fingers with a white handkerchief.

She leant back and the bodice of her gown tightened across her breasts. In other women, he’d suspect that it was done deliberately, but with Hattie, he was sure it was unconscious. All too often recently, his life had been filled with women who knew what they were on about and sought to accentuate their sexuality, leaving him cold.

‘There are some Roman remains just to the north of the inn. We could walk there.’ Her long lashes fluttered down, hiding her expressive eyes. ‘It is possible they had a fair. I’ve never really considered it.’

The tension went out of Kit’s shoulders. Virtue radiated from every pore. He could end the flirtation there. Something simple and it would be over. It was better to be done now, than to risk liking Mrs Wilkinson. They had no future. She’d never agree to an affair and he had no wish to become respectable.

The thought sent a pang of unaccustomed melancholy through him.

‘The perfect destination for an afternoon stroll.’ He made a bow. ‘If you are up for exploration and exercise …’

Mrs Wilkinson stood up and shook her skirts. Her carefully arranged crown of braids slipped to one side. With a laugh she brushed the grass stains from her skirt.

He considered his last three mistresses, all high-stepping courtesans, and if they would have reacted so favourably to a picnic or to eating strawberries or, worse, having any of their immaculate clothes soiled. The thought of the hysteria, shrieks and sulks which would have ensued made him shudder.

‘Shall we all go and explore? Mrs Hampstead and I will take the rearguard while you and Rupert …’

‘I do believe Mr Hook can stay with me,’ Mrs Hampstead said, looking up from her knitting.

‘But why?’ Hattie tapped her fingers together. ‘I can remember you always proclaiming about the virtues of a walk.’

‘I wish to find out about newts and I have seen enough stone to last me a lifetime. Why a bunch of old stones provides such amusement I’ll never know. But I know all about you and your walking, Miss Hattie. You were never able to sit still as a girl and you’ve never changed,’ Mrs Hampstead said with a placid smile. ‘Walk off your energy with Sir Christopher. You are a grown woman, not an impetuous girl of sixteen. I trust your judgement, even if you don’t.’

Rupert turned a dull purple and swallowed rapidly. ‘I’m sure you will find the subject quite dull, Mrs Hampstead. That is to say—a walk will do everyone some good.’

‘Not at all. It will do my bones no good to go clambering over rocks and stones.’ Mrs Hampstead patted a place beside her. It amused Kit that so many people in Mrs Wilkinson’s life seemed to think a bit of romance would do her good. ‘I have an enquiring mind and Miss Parteger came over yesterday to specifically ask about the subject. She assures me that you are a great authority. You are going to give a lecture in Corbridge and she plans to sit in the front row listening.’

‘Miss Parteger said that? She plans to?’ Rupert dropped the book and the page flopped open to lesser spotted newts and their habits. He hurriedly shut it and his face grew even redder. ‘Of course the lecture was pure speculation on her mother’s part … I mean, if called upon, I will be delighted to lecture. I believe I can give a convincing lecture … on newts.’

‘It is good to see that you are willing to rise to the challenge, Rupert,’ Kit said, looking at his protégé. Rupert was learning to honour his commitments and hopefully to think carefully before laying claim to any prowess again. He would repay his debt to Rupert’s father.

Rupert ducked his head. ‘I would endeavour to do my best.’

‘Practice always makes perfect.’ Mrs Hampstead fluffed out her skirts. ‘Mr Hook, I’ve waited a long time to hear about such things and I trust you will oblige me.’

‘You will have to imagine the illustrations.’

‘I have an adequate imagination.’ Mrs Hampstead reached for another ball of wool. ‘I told Dr Hornby that last year when he did his lecture on battles in the Bible. My imagination is more than adequate for the task required. What are you two waiting for? Go and enjoy yourselves.’

Kit exchanged an amused glance with Mrs Wilkinson. She gave a little shrug as if to say she knew about the stratagem.

‘Shall we leave Mrs Hampstead and Rupert to their discussion? I fear I don’t find newts as fascinating as Rupert currently does.’

‘I’m sure Moth would enjoy the exercise,’ Mrs Wilkinson said, snapping her fingers towards where Moth lounged in the sun.

‘I believe Moth would like to stay as well. The summer sun is a bit hot for her.’ Mrs Hampstead gave Hattie a significant glance. ‘You can tell us all about the ruins when you return. Take your time, my dear. We will be here when you return.’

Hattie concentrated on smiling sweetly rather than screaming. The disease of matchmaking appeared to be highly contagious. First her sister, and now Mrs Hampstead felt she should be encouraging Kit with a view towards matrimony. She shook her head. The man had dodged more marriage traps than most. Besides, he was a person to be enjoyed, rather than to lose one’s heart to.

A walk alone with Kit—the very prospect was enough to set her nerves jangling like some young débutante’s.

There again, sitting in the blanket, gazing at his regular features and listening to his voice rumble over her had done nothing towards eliminating the attraction she felt for him. Familiarity was supposed to breed contempt … when in this case all it bred was the desire to be kissed. She clenched her fists.

She refused to start believing in romance again. It led straight to heartache.

Hattie picked up her parasol and hoped that Kit would not see her heightened colour and attribute it to the wrong reason. ‘A walk will be just the thing.’

‘You obviously haven’t informed your housekeeper about our arrangement,’ Kit observed when they reached the small pile of stones which marked the remains of Portgate.

Hattie stumbled over a stone. They had covered the ground between the picnic and the ruins in silence. She’d kept thinking up topics for conversation and rejecting them as unsuitable. She’d finally settled on the weather when, without warning, he mentioned the very topic she wished to avoid—the blatant attempts at matchmaking.

‘What sort of arrangement do you mean?’ she asked, attempting to stay upright.

‘Our friendship. Or is everyone chronically addicted to matchmaking in Northumberland?’

‘In my defence, I tried to warn you.’

‘Surely you confided in someone about this? Women always confide in their female friends.’

She glanced upwards to see how he felt about it, but the planes of his face gave no clue. Her heart sank. Of course, he could scent matchmaking wiles. Such men always could.

Her grip on the parasol tightened.

‘Mrs Hampstead used to be Stephanie’s nurse as well as mine. They remain close. If I want to fool my sister, I can hardly confess to Mrs Hampstead. You do understand my reasoning, don’t you?’

‘Perfectly.’

Hattie shook her head. Even the thought made her blood run cold—confiding in Mrs Hampstead. The fewer people who knew about her arrangement with Kit, the better.

‘All I can do is to apologise.’

His eyes widened. ‘Why apologise? None of it was your doing. And I do think I am old enough to see through a simple matchmaking stratagem. I’d have hardly remained single for this long if I didn’t. It amused me to see it happen. Do you think she will tell your sister?’

‘Yes, of course.’ The words tasted like ash in her mouth. Hattie pulled her bonnet forwards. She hadn’t asked for Livvy to list her shortcomings this morning—passable figure, too long of a nose and far too inclined towards sarcasm. And she failed to smile enough.

‘All we are doing is going for a walk, Hattie. Relax and enjoy the moment. Nothing untoward will happen. Nothing to cause adverse comment.’

Hattie hated the butterflies which had started beating in her stomach and the way her jaw hurt from trying to keep a smile. This going for a walk alone was a poor idea.

If anything it emphasised that she wanted to be with him as more than a friend. She liked thinking of herself as independent and not needing a man, but right now all she could think about was how alone she was and how his arms felt when they waltzed.

‘It was sweet of Livvy to ask Mrs Hampstead about newts,’ she said, attempting to keep the subject away from the matchmaking scheme.

‘Rupert is learning a valuable lesson in the folly of trying to please people.’

‘Please people?’ Hattie stopped beside a large pile of stones. ‘It certainly backfired on him. Livvy still likes his well-turned calf muscles, but if his object was to impress her mother, he singularly failed. He is about to endure a baptism of fire. They still speak about the great Hollingbrooke disaster from ‘98 when Mr Hollingbrooke tried to give a lecture on the history of lime kilns and people began to throw rotten fruit.’

He reached out and caught her elbow. ‘Hattie.’

‘We have exhausted the subject, yes, I know.’ Hattie gulped air. She babbled when she was nervous and today was no exception. ‘You have no interest in the great Hollingbrooke disaster and it was wrong of me to bring it up.’

‘Hattie,’ he said again. He stood looking at her with his top hat pushed back, giving him a rakish look. ‘I didn’t go on this picnic to discuss my godson or his prospects. I came because—’

‘We don’t need to discuss why,’ Hattie broke in before he could finish. The last thing she wanted to hear was his proposal for confounding the matchmakers. She needed to end this now, before she started to enjoy his company. She refused to go back to that naïve girl whom Charles had taken advantage of. ‘When we return to the picnic, it will appear that we had a quarrel. The nature of said quarrel will be highly trivial, but on an important point of principle. I will inform my sister that we will have fallen out of civility with each other. After that we become civil but distant acquaintances. The only thing I need from you is to decide how long we stay out here. I’m sorry if my words are blunt, but there you have it.’

She waited for him to agree. Or to at least comment on her rudeness. The solution had come to her in the middle of the night, when she had awoken from a dream about his mouth against hers.

‘Hattie.’ He took a step closer. She became aware of his elusive scent and the way his stock was intricately tied. It was one thing to make plans to counter a dream Kit and another to be confronted with the living and breathing man.

Her mouth went dry. His eyes were a luminous grey and his face seemed suddenly intense and serious. She knew she ought to pick up her skirts and run like the very devil was after her. She stood still. Behind her, some bird burst out into a trill of song.

‘Kit,’ she breathed.

He lowered his mouth and his lips lightly brushed hers. The kiss, if you could call it that, was over in a breath.

Hattie fingered her lips. They ached slightly. Two bits of knowledge hammered through her. First she wanted to be kissed again, more thoroughly and second, perhaps more importantly, he was attracted to her. The realisation made her wary, in case she had mistaken it. ‘What … what was that for?’

‘You wanted a reason for us to fall out of civility. I gave you one.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘I refuse to apologise. It was the most agreeable part of my day so far. What happens next is up to you.’

Hattie nodded, and attempted to ignore the way her heart thudded. ‘You expect me to pick up my skirts and run as if the devil is after me?’

He tilted his head to one side. The grey in his eyes deepened. ‘Did I mistake the moment?’

‘You have a funny idea of women.’

A dimple showed in the corner of his mouth. ‘You don’t think it was enough. You want more.’

‘I am made of sterner stuff and fail to wilt when someone seeks to mock me. In any case, a simple quarrel over the Romans would have sufficed.’ Hattie concentrated on a particularly nondescript piece of rock. Her mouth ached and she knew she wanted more, but that went beyond the bounds of propriety. She refused to get herself into a situation where she jeopardised her reputation. ‘Your choice of topic leaves a lot to be desired.’

‘You want to be kissed again. Immediately and more thoroughly.’

‘You are being ridiculous.’ Hattie pressed her lips together and attempted to banish the strange quivering in her stomach. ‘I never said anything of the sort.’

‘You told me to pick the topic and I have. It is far better to fall out of civility over something like a kiss than over anything else.’

‘The question of whether or not I want to be kissed by you is inappropriate.’ She crossed her arms over her breasts and tried to ignore the way they felt. ‘Completely and utterly inappropriate. I could hardly confess to Stephanie that I fell out of civility because of a kiss! Imagine the commotion.’

‘But you do want to be kissed.’ He cupped her cheek with firm fingers. She fought against the impulse to turn her face into his palm. ‘It is in your eyes.’

‘In my eyes?’

His thumb traced the outline of her mouth.

‘And your lips.’

He lowered his head. This time his kiss was slow and coaxing. Instead of merely brushing her lips, he tasted and explored. Slowly and steadily. Tiny nibbles at her lips made her stomach contract and warm pulses shoot through her.

Hattie brought her hands up and rested them on the solid broad cloth of his coat. His hand moulded her body to his. At the insistent pressure, her lips parted slightly and she tasted the cool interior of his mouth. Nothing in her life had prepared her for the sensation rippling through her. It made the memory of Charles’s kisses seem like poor milk-water.

He groaned and deepened the kiss, drank from her. His hand tangled in her hair, pushing her bonnet off her face. He rained kisses down her cheeks, her eyes and her nose before returning to plunder her mouth.

Hattie allowed herself one more heartbeat of pleasure. She felt ridiculously feminine and pretty, someone to be cherished. Cherished?

The thought poured ice water into her veins. She refused to become like one of those women who fell at his feet. She was never going to become another notch, to be enjoyed and then tossed away. She had been there with Charles and never again. No romance required.

She beat her hands against his chest. Instantly he loosened his arms. He looked down at her with a quizzical expression in his eyes.

She stumbled backwards and attempted to breathe normally. Her body protested at the sudden rush of air between them. She knew her eyes were too large and her lips too red. She grabbed at her bonnet and tore a ribbon. It lay glistening in her hand, mute rebuke of what she’d done.

Anger at herself, at him and at life in general washed over her. After all her promises, all she had been through, the first man with a reputation crooked a finger and she behaved like a babbling schoolgirl.

This stopped before it ever started. ‘That should never happen again. Ever!’ she said when she had regained her balance. ‘I forbid it!’




Chapter Five (#ulink_2efbd4db-80ed-56f8-a60b-cb14dd7b3c31)


‘Forbid?’ Kit watched Hattie through narrowed eyes.

Hattie’s breath was far too quick and her eyes were huge blue-green pools. It took all of his self-control not to pull her back into his arms. His response to her was entirely unexpected. Ever since Waterloo, nothing—not even with the most experienced courtesans London could offer was there any excitement or response, but one gentle brush of his lips against hers and his body started to rage out of control. He’d kissed her again to make sure and had nearly fallen off the edge.

He wanted to drink from her mouth and leisurely explore the contours of her body. Silently he willed her to come back into his arms and to allow the kiss to develop further. With a great effort, he concentrated and brought his breathing under control.

‘You only needed to tell me to stop,’ he said when she continued to stand away from him, looking at him with those huge eyes. ‘And I will, if that is what you truly desire.’

‘I should never have done something like that. I’m not like that. I’m not given to …’

‘I’m very honoured.’ Kit clung on to his sanity. She was frightened of her response. Intellectually he should have expected it, but it still hit him in his gut. She had enjoyed the kiss until she had started thinking and remembering that she was a respectable person.

‘All I know is that it must not happen again. I’m not that sort of a woman. I’m a widow who has responsibilities. I’m not looking for a quick tumble in the hay.’

‘Do you see any hay around here?’

Hattie gave an impatient stamp of her foot. ‘You know what I mean!’

Hattie took a step backwards, half-stumbled on a rock and tumbled down on her bottom. She gave an exasperated cry.

‘Do you need help?’ Kit held out a hand to help her up, but she ignored it and scrambled to stand up.

‘I can manage on my own. I always do.’

‘Your bonnet is crooked.’

‘Is it? I … I hadn’t noticed.’

Kit reached out and straightened her straw bonnet, placing it firmly on her head, pulling it forwards so she was once again the perfectly proper woman he’d first met. He should say the words he’d planned to end it, but they stuck in his throat. He wanted more of her. He wanted to see if the promise in the kiss held true, but he knew he’d have to go slowly, coax her and discover why the physical frightened her. He wanted to see what would happen when she fully gave in to the passion that simmered under the surface.

‘There, no one will guess. Your armour is back on.’

‘Armour?’

‘To keep you safe from the world’s scrutiny. No one will remark if that is what you are afraid of.’

‘Nothing. I am not afraid of anything.’ Her words were barely audible as she half-turned from him. ‘It has to be this way for both our sakes.’

Kit allowed his hand to drop to his side. Not only did her body have to crave his touch, but her mind as well. He wanted her to want him as he wanted her. He’d felt the passion in her kiss. He wasn’t ready for the flirtation to end. He wanted it to continue and for them to explore this white-hot spark that flickered between them. He’d be a poor person if he gave up at the first hurdle. ‘I’ll respect your wishes, but will allow you the luxury of changing your mind.’

A long sigh escaped her mouth before she straightened her back. ‘I can’t. I won’t. It ends here. It has to. Things like this don’t happen to me.’

‘Denying your passion won’t bring your husband back.’

‘You seek to discomfort me. Never mention Charles Wilkinson again. He has nothing to do with this. He died seven years ago.’ She wrapped her arms about her waist. ‘That … that demonstration of your prowess was totally unnecessary.’

Kit clung on to her response as a dying man might cling to a wooden spar. She didn’t say unwelcome. He hated that it mattered and that he wanted her to want him. Silently he cursed her husband and what they must have shared. He’d never had to compete with a ghost before.

He could just imagine the upright Army hero who had won her. Someone who had more to offer than he ever could. A sudden irrational hatred of the man filled him.

‘Why did you do it, Kit?’

‘If we intend on falling out of civility, I wanted it to be for something real,’ he said lightly, pushing the unaccustomed jealousy to one side. He never examined the past. ‘The truth is far easier than a lie. The mealy-mouthed kiss earlier was nothing, but this, this will make the falling out worthwhile.’

The colour rose in her cheeks, rivalling the dusky pink of her lips. ‘Just so you understand, there can be no future.’

‘I try never to look to the future,’ Kit said stiffly. ‘And I never regret the past where women are concerned. It helps.’

She clasped her hands together so tightly he could see the knuckles through her gloves. ‘Just know that I have no intention of becoming somebody’s mistress. Anyone’s mistress. I wouldn’t want to soil … to soil my spotless reputation.’

‘We are friends.’ Kit bit back the words that he didn’t want her to become just anyone’s mistress—he wanted her to be his.

It would be laying claim to her. He’d never laid claim to anyone. To claim someone meant that you cared. And if you cared, you got hurt.

‘We should go back to the picnic.’ She turned away from the ruins. ‘Mrs Hampstead may need rescuing from Mr Hook’s lecture.’

‘We should indeed.’ Kit put his hand in the small of her back. ‘Careful. The path is unsteady.’

‘I can walk on my own.’ She made no attempt to move away.

‘Sometimes everyone needs help.’

‘I’ll remember that.’

‘You appear far more serious than I intended,’ Kit remarked when they neared the picnic area. Rupert’s voice declaiming loudly about the sleeping habits of the great crested newts punctuated the air. ‘What have I done to cause the frown besides kissing you?’

‘I was considering how to break the news to my sister of our incompatibility so I can prevent further meddling.’

‘Surely the kiss is excuse enough?’

Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘There is no need for anyone to know about the kiss. I have no plans to tell.’

‘Honesty is always best.’ Kit stifled a smile. The kiss had caused her to go off balance by a bit, but she hadn’t fully capitulated. A wise man knew when to retreat and when to advance. He’d pursue her slowly and see what happened, but first he’d give her the protection she craved. ‘We quarrelled and you see no way to mend the quarrel. You are far too distraught to talk about the quarrel because it was over a trifling matter.’

‘That excuse might do.’ She gave a heart-stopping smile. ‘It will do very well indeed.’

Kit raised two fingers to his hat. They said that there was a first time for everything, but he had never considered that he’d be involved in this—pursuing a woman by giving her advice on how to break up with him. Quarrels were made to be mended. He would see this one was. ‘Until the next time.’

‘Will there be a next time?’

He leant forwards and brushed her cheek with his forefinger. ‘You can count on it.’

Reasons why she was not interested in Kit Foxton …

Hattie read down the list of reasons, starting with his notoriety and his lack of reliability and ending with the taste of his kisses making her unsettled. She frowned. The taste of his kisses was not something she wanted to consider. With a furious stroke of her pen, she crossed it out.

‘There you are, my dear,’ Mrs Reynaud said, bustling into the drawing room of the Dower House. Unlike the day before, which had been bathed in brilliant sunshine, a steady rain fell, adding to the general air of gloom.

Hattie nearly dropped her pen in surprise. She was hard pressed to remember when Mrs Reynaud had last come calling. Hattie slid a piece of paper over the list.

‘Is something the matter, Mrs Reynaud?’

‘I feared something had happened to you,’ Mrs Reynaud explained in a rush as she removed her veil, depositing it on an armchair. ‘You failed to stop by this morning. There were things I wished to discuss with you. The picnic you had yesterday with Sir Christopher … did everything go as you would wish?’

‘I went on a picnic. For the most part, it was highly pleasant. Mr Hook practised his proposed lecture and sent Mrs Hampstead to sleep. I ate my fill of strawberries for once as neither Livvy nor Portia were there.’ Hattie folded her hands in her lap and tried to keep from looking at the list. ‘There is little to discuss. A typical picnic. Nothing exciting. No handsome highwaymen or rescuing distressed maidens like you always seem to be encountering.’

‘No picnic is typical if it involves Sir Christopher.’ Mrs Reynaud lifted her chin. ‘Your sister quite bristled with importance when she called yesterday. You dined with Sir Christopher Foxton. Your sister has expectations, great expectations. Left to her own devices, I believe she would be calling for banns. Do you have expectations, my dear?’

‘My sister came to see you,’ Hattie said slowly. How many other people had Stephanie happened to tell? Expectations indeed! Silently she offered up thanks that she had already dispatched her note to Kit, severing any connection. It had come to her last night. After the kiss they enjoyed, sending a letter was her only course forwards, but it had to be carefully worded, coded without appearing to mention That Incident. She had retained a copy to show Stephanie when she appeared, but she didn’t want to appear too eager to share the news.

‘Mrs Parteger required urgent advice about Mr Hook and her eldest.’ Mrs Reynaud narrowed her eyes. ‘I believe you mentioned something about me knowing Sir Christopher …’

‘Only in passing.’

‘It was many years ago.’ The elderly woman fluttered her hands as two bright spots appeared on her pockmarked cheeks. ‘I wouldn’t want Sir Christopher to feel that I claimed an acquaintance. And I have no knowledge of Mr Hook’s antecedents in any case.’

‘Stephanie should never have bothered you with such a trivial matter. I fear she wanted to gossip about the picnic.’ Hattie leant forwards and lowered her voice. ‘No doubt she neglected to mention that Sir Christopher invited the entire family, but she declined, preferring to concentrate on arranging a series of lectures.’

‘No, your sister never mentioned that.’ Mrs Reynaud gave a merry trill of laughter. ‘I thought Colonel Cunningham had charge of the lectures this year because it was something your sister loathed. Indeed, we very nearly did not have any lectures last year because your sister forgot.’

‘Stephanie changed her mind. She thinks Colonel Cunningham needs some assistance now.’

Mrs Reynaud’s eyes danced. ‘Fancy forgetting that piece of information about who was originally invited. It puts the invitation in a different light.’

‘My sister is rather inclined to make overmuch of the matter.’ Hattie stood up and faced Mrs Reynaud. The sooner she stopped the gossip, the better for all concerned. ‘The matter is now closed.’

‘The matter with Sir Christopher or Mr Hook?’

‘Both.’ Hattie remembered the uncomfortable way Mr Hook had shifted in the carriage and how Mrs Hampstead had confided that she doubted anyone, even Livvy, could sit through something that dull and tedious. It was better for all concerned if they drew a line under the entire episode. ‘Livvy might suffer for a few weeks, but London gentlemen never stay. It is no good hoping they will. They never do. I will inform Stephanie and the lecture can be postponed before real harm is done. I would hate for anyone to be disappointed.’

Mrs Reynaud tilted her head. Her sharp eyes assessed her. It seemed as if her gaze bore into her soul. Hattie toyed with her pen as her cheeks flamed.

‘He kissed you. More than once, I reckon,’ Mrs Reynaud said in solemn tones. ‘It is far from a crime and occasionally most enjoyable. You were discreet. Yes. Yes, that goes without saying. You are the sort of woman who would be discreet. It was always part of my trouble when I was young and foolish. I forgot to be discreet.’

Hattie put her hand to her throat. How had Mrs Reynaud guessed? Nearly twenty-four hours later, and there should be no mark on her. Hattie glanced down and saw the word kiss, underlined, rather than scratched out. She moved the piece of paper more firmly over the list.

‘We quarrelled. I doubt he will kiss me again. Nor would I wish him to.’ She tilted her chin upwards. ‘I sent him a note explaining the situation. It is impossible. He is impossible.’

‘Why did you do that if you wanted to end it?’

Hattie put her hand on her stomach and concentrated on keeping her shoulders straight. She could hardly explain that she saw herself becoming like the woman whom Charles had loved, living on the margins of society, and for the first time it had tempted her.

‘Because I have Livvy and Portia’s reputation to think about,’ she said firmly. ‘How could they make the matches they need if their aunt is pilloried for being wicked? Sir Christopher does not believe in marriage. His parents had a dreadful one, I believe.’

The colour drained from Mrs Reynaud’s face. ‘He spoke to you about his parents and their marriage?’

‘Only briefly to explain why he intends to remain unwed.’ Hattie resolutely did not look at her list.

‘People should not visit the sins of one generation on the next.’

‘It was a brief interlude and now it is over.’ Hattie walked over to the window and looked out over the garden with its gravel paths and roses. Off to her left, she could just make out Highfield’s chimneys and the great cedar of Lebanon. This was home and safe. She was not prepared to risk her heart again. Charles had seen to that. Life would have been much easier in ways if Kit had been the marrying kind, but he wasn’t. His honesty made her decision easy. ‘I love the girls like my own and I would hate anything I did to ruin their chances of a good marriage.’

Mrs Reynaud made an impatient noise. ‘Stop using them as shields to stop you from living. You are as bad as a foolish débutante who believes that a man’s promise in a summer house offers a life of undying romance.’

‘The heat of the moment overcame me, but I recovered before any real harm was done. He accepted my verdict.’ Hattie pressed her hand into her stomach. Even a day later, the intensity of the final kiss made her senses reel. She had been so close to giving in completely. And she knew the next time she kissed Kit, she’d lack the will-power to stop. A very large part of her had wanted to drown in that kiss and blot out any memory of Charles’s rough love-making. And she worried that it made her very wicked indeed, whatever Mrs Reynaud might say.

‘As you say, it is all over. Then no harm is done.’ Mrs Reynaud came over to her and put her hand on Hattie’s shoulder. ‘In my experience with men like Sir Christopher, they wish to be the one to end things. Formally. Informally is quite another matter.’

‘This time it will be different,’ Hattie said decisively as she gave Mrs Reynaud a copy of the letter. ‘I was very firm and unyielding.’

‘And you are prepared for the consequences, my dear?’ Mrs Reynaud handed the letter back to Hattie. ‘If Sir Christopher is half the man I have heard him to be, he will not give up at the first hurdle. He will see your letter as a challenge, an invitation to raise the stakes.’

‘A challenge?’ A pulse of warmth went through Hattie. ‘You’re wrong. He will see the logic of my argument. After all, it is not as if it were a serious flirtation.’

Kit tapped the note with his forefinger. The various scrawled words leapt out at him. Faint aromas of Hattie’s jasmine scent permeated the paper and forcibly reminded him of how her lips had yielded. How she had forgot herself and given in to the passion for a moment.

Hattie had put her case for breaking with him in flowery language which did not detail the situation. She regretted that they were incompatible and that the picnic had proved a great trial. From now, they would have to be distant friends.

‘Liar,’ he whispered. ‘All a quarrel means is a chance to become closer. You want this friendship. And I’m going to prove it to you. I do not quit over a simple misunderstanding. Or a baseless fear.’

Kit held Hattie’s note over a candle and watched it smoulder and burn to ash. Over? It wasn’t over until he ended it. He made a point of it. No woman had left him since Constance and she had begged in the end to return.

He paused. Hattie wasn’t like any woman he’d been involved with before.

It didn’t matter. He refused to allow Hattie to end it on such a slim pretext. No woman had ever written to him like that. And Hattie certainly had not kissed him like they would not suit. He had allowed her a chance to raise her drawbridges and retreat. But retreat was not for ever. The next stage needed to begin. Today, before she had a chance to think.

‘You wanted to see me, sir?’ Johnson, his valet, appeared in the doorway.

‘I find I require my evening clothes after all today.’

‘You are going out?’

‘The musicale in celebration of Waterloo awaits.’

‘Sir?’ Johnson struggled to keep his face blank. ‘You loathe such things. Tuneless playing.’

‘I shall go and enjoy myself. Where was that note from Mrs Parteger? After all, I do have an invitation. A seat has been saved.’

‘You were wrong to send that letter discarding Sir Christopher.’ Stephanie sank down next to Hattie in a flurry of feathers and ruffles.

‘This is not the time to discuss it, Stephanie,’ Hattie said through clenched teeth. She had to wonder how much Stephanie knew of the contents. ‘The concert to celebrate the deliverance from Napoleon is about to begin.’

‘You always do such things to me. At least this time, hopefully I learnt about it early enough.’ She glanced over her shoulder. ‘Oh dear!’

‘I have no idea what you are talking about, Stephanie.’ Hattie slid towards the vacant chair on her right. Stephanie’s feathered turban kept tickling her nose. The last thing she needed now was a frank-and-public discussion about her severing relations with Kit. ‘What is the problem?’

‘Maria Richley has waylaid Sir Christopher.’

Hattie fought against the inclination to turn her head. She had counted on Kit not appearing at this concert. ‘Really? I wish her the joy of it.’

‘I feel certain that the Widow Richley will not squander any opportunity. No … hush.’ Stephanie laid a proprietary hand on Hattie’s arm. ‘All might not be lost, Hattie. Be civil if he approaches.’

‘You are making it seem like I am younger than Portia.’

A trill of laughter cut through the musician’s tuning. Hattie turned her head. Maria Richley clung to Kit’s arm as if she were drowning. Over the heads of the other concertgoers, Kit nodded directly at her. A sardonic smile curled on his lips. He leant down and said something to Maria Richley, which sent the woman into further peals of laughter.

Hattie forced her eyes forwards. She crumpled the music programme in her hand. It was none of her business if he chose to enjoy Maria Richley’s favours. All it did was to confirm that she’d been correct in the first place. That man was trouble.

Only she wished that he had not stood quite so close to Maria Richley.

Her view was suddenly obscured by a large expanse of black broad cloth.

‘Mrs Parteger, Mrs Wilkinson … if I may squeeze in? You have a free seat, I believe.’

Hattie shrank in her seat. She was now going to have to spend several hours trapped between Stephanie’s headdress and the vicar, Dr Hornby’s, bulk. The perfect way to spend an evening. No doubt Kit would have secured a place with plenty of space for Maria Richley.

‘Doctor Hornby.’

‘Your sister said that you would be here, Mrs Wilkinson. How delightful to see you again.’ Doctor Hornby gave a jowly smile. ‘I’m looking forward to the planned lecture series now that it is finally settled. You will come to my lecture on the problems of mapping the Holy Places in two weeks’ time?’

Murder, Hattie decided, was too humane a punishment for Stephanie. She needed to be tortured slowly. ‘I look forward to it.’

‘My dear Mrs Wilkinson, you do me such honour.’ Doctor Hornby made a grab for her hand and froze. His face became a mottled purple.

‘Are you well, Dr Hornby?’

‘Perfectly fine. I must leave you ladies.’

Hattie had half-turned and saw Kit glowering. He gave her a cold nod. ‘As long as you are certain.’

‘On second thoughts, I do believe Miss Gormley has saved me a seat. I would hate to disappoint her.’

‘I understand completely.’

Hattie drew in a breath of air and concentrated on steadying her pulse. She resisted the urge to turn around and see Kit’s reaction. They were finished, and she was not going to be kissed again. Ever. The thought made her unbearably sad.

‘If you will excuse me … I believe this is my seat.’ Kit pushed passed her and sat down in the chair Dr Hornby had just vacated.

‘I hadn’t realised it was spoken for.’

‘It was.’ He turned his back on her. ‘Mrs Parteger saved it for me.’

Stephanie developed a sudden interest in her programme and ignored Hattie’s sudden jab to her side.

Hattie spent the entire concert busily trying to ignore his very existence. And failing. She rejected a number of possible conversation topics but finally settled on a polite discussion of music. She’d demonstrate to Stephanie and Kit that she bore no ill feeling. The remainder of the concert was spent in happy contemplation of what she would say.

When the concert was over, he stood up.

‘It has been a pleasure, Mrs Wilkinson, Mrs Parteger.’

Before Hattie could utter another word, he was gone.

‘You could have done more, Hattie. I am highly disappointed in you.’

‘He nearly cut me dead.’

‘You were the one to send the letter. Ill timed and ill advised. I was attempting to mend bridges. Sir Christopher is a neighbour.’

He’d only sat with her to prove a point. Stephanie in her misguided way had given him an opportunity. Hattie narrowed her eyes. ‘If you ever do that again, Stephanie, I will create a scene and, more than that, a scandal. How would you like me to be embroiled in a scandal?’

‘Some people are entirely too touchy.’ Stephanie gave a loud sniff. ‘Very well, you will hear no more from me on the subject. I entirely wash my hands of you, Harriet Wilkinson. I hope you enjoy your widow’s bed.’

‘I find it utterly comfortable. Far better than my marriage bed,’ she muttered under her breath.

‘Aunt Hattie, it is his carriage. I know it is,’ Livvy breathed when Hattie turned the governess cart into the Corbridge High Street the morning after the concert.

‘Whose carriage?’ Hattie asked absently as she brought the cart to a halt outside the ironmonger’s. Her dreams had been confused last night after the concert. Twice she had woken with her mind full of thoughts of Kit and the way his lips had moved over hers. She should have said something before he left. It was quite possible he considered that she had a part in that saving of a seat débâcle. She couldn’t decide which was worse—Stephanie’s behaviour or the fact she had been supremely aware of him.

Today was a day for concentrating on the jobs that needed to be done before the Stagshaw Bank Fair, rather than considering what might have been. Once the fair was over, he’d depart the neighbourhood and she would not have a constant reminder. She could get over this attraction.

‘Whose carriage, Livvy?’

‘Sir Christopher’s, of course!’

Hattie ignored the sudden fluttering in her stomach. She had made the correct decision. She’d no other choice. Any lady would have done the same thing. ‘I wasn’t aware that you ever paid much attention to carriages.’

‘It has butter-yellow wheels and is quite new. Mr Hook told me all about it. Sir Christopher purchased it once they arrived in Newcastle by packet boat.’

‘Other carriages have butter-yellow wheels,’ Hattie said, more to control her own sudden onset of nerves than Livvy’s. After the concert where he’d barely spoken to her, she wasn’t entirely sure what to expect.

Livvy kicked the board under her seat. ‘Can I go to the circulating library?’

‘May I. Where are your manners today, Livvy?’

‘May I go? Portia, you will come with me.’ Livvy grabbed her sister’s arm. ‘Aunt Hattie, surely you can’t object if I have a companion. I wish to improve my mind.’

Portia gave an indignant squeak.

Hattie pinched the bridge of her nose. ‘I thought you wanted to go to the haberdasher’s for more ribbon.’

‘I can do that after. Please. I want to see if the latest by the author of Waverley is there. And Papa wants a book on animal husbandry. He wants to settle an argument with Colonel Cunningham. I will catch you up in the haberdasher’s.’

Hattie gave a weary wave. It would make life easier if neither Livvy nor Portia accompanied her on her errands, particularly when she needed to find out if indeed the firebox for Mrs Belter’s cook stove could be repaired as Mr Ogle had promised weeks ago or if she’d be better investigating the range of stoves at the Stagshaw fair for Mrs Belter. The fair did represent an opportunity to buy a wider range of goods than were generally available in the Tyne Valley.

She watched the pair for a few steps and decided that they would be all right. Livvy could not get up to any mischief at the circulating library and the probability that Mr Hook was actually there was slim. The back of her neck crept. The last person she wanted to encounter was Kit and if Mr Hook was in the library, Kit would not be far behind. And she certainly did not want to explain about the concert.

She stepped into the ironmonger’s and collided with a solid expanse of chest. Hattie inhaled the sandalwood scent. Strong fingers caught her elbow and steadied her.

She hurriedly took a step backwards out of the shop. She ducked her head, hoping that he wouldn’t see her flaming cheeks. ‘Sir Christopher. This is most unexpected.’

‘Mrs Wilkinson.’

Hattie shifted in her boots. Of all the people! This time she refused to be cut. ‘I wanted to make sure Mr Ogle had finished a job for me.’

‘It is your habit to enter establishments without checking to see if anyone is coming out?’ His grey eyes danced.

Her heart did a little flip. He wasn’t angry with her. He was flirting with her as if the breach never happened.

‘Yes, I mean, no. I was thinking of other things.’

‘Obviously of great import.’

‘Domestic triviality.’ She squared her shoulders. This encounter would not throw her off balance. She had made her decision, but it did not prevent her from being civil. ‘You understand how it is.’

‘Wool-gathering,’ he said decisively. A smile tugged at his lips. ‘It is a bad habit. You neglected me dreadfully during the concert.’

‘You left straight after the concert.’ She pulled at her gloves, straightening the fingers. ‘I wanted to thank you for rescuing me.’

‘Rescuing you?’

‘From Dr Hornby. He can be difficult to sit next to.’

He tilted his head to one side. ‘It was my seat. Your sister signalled to me when I came in, I thought you knew.’

‘Obviously I was mistaken.’ Hattie picked at the seam of her glove. She wished she had thought of that scenario. She should have guessed something like that had happened. Stephanie could be singularly stubborn. ‘Despite my best efforts, my sister harbours hopes.’

‘If he bothers you again, let me know. Simply being the vicar does not give him the right to touch people.’

Hattie glanced up quickly. ‘You saw that.’

‘I happened to look over. Even if it had not been my seat, I would have done something.’

‘You would have?’

‘You are the only true friend I have in the neighbourhood.’

‘You plan on staying in the neighbourhood?’ Hattie gripped her reticule tighter. He was going to stay for longer. A mixture of fear and excitement vibrated through her. She would have to see him again and again, but on what terms? Friendship was the only sensible course. She had to think about safeguarding her reputation.

‘I am undecided about what to do with the Lodge.’ The tone in his voice seemed to indicate something troubled him more than the Lodge.

‘And will you be doing up your tenants’ houses?’ Hattie asked, trying to steer the conversation away from their friendship.

‘They appear to be in good order. My uncle may not have cared for his own comforts, but he did make sure that his tenants all had a roof over their heads.’ Kit drew himself up to his full height. ‘I do employ the same estate manager. No one has been to me with complaints about him.’

She thought about Mrs Reynaud and how she had mentioned him. It would be the perfect opportunity for them to renew their acquaintance. ‘Perhaps your tenants might like to meet you. People like the personal touch rather than being treated like a component in one of those newfangled machines. You hardly want to be considered aloof.’

He quirked his eyebrow. ‘Are you seeking to teach me my duty now, Mrs Wilkinson?’

‘No. It was merely a suggestion. I believe they feared you would never arrive.’

‘Sir Christopher, there you are.’ A trilling voice called behind Hattie. ‘Mama and I thought we had lost you. I should be most distressed if that happened.’

Miss Dent and Maria Richley. How many other women after that? Hattie ground her teeth. Had he lied when he said that he only pursued one woman at a time? Kit knew what he was on about. She shouldn’t have to spell out how tenacious the Dents could be. He had the perfect right to see anyone he wanted.

‘Miss Dent, I was endeavouring to follow, but circumstances dictated otherwise. Please go on to our arrangement. I will follow you shortly.’ He inclined his head. ‘You must excuse me, Mrs Wilkinson. We must continue this highly interesting conversation some other time. I did promise Miss Dent that I would join her father for a cup of coffee in the Reading Room. He apparently knows a good joiner and the staircase at the Lodge will have to be replaced.’

Hattie kept her head up. It was not as if she had any claim on him. She had made her choice the other day. And if anything, her encounter showed that she was wrong to suspect his hand in Dr Hornby’s odd behaviour.

‘You are busy, you should have said. The social whirl surrounding this year’s fair has been phenomenal. I’ve no wish to keep you … from your duties.’

‘I’m never too busy to speak with a friend.’

‘I thought …’ She attempted to focus on the coal scuttles, grates and variety that adorned the walls of the ironmonger’s rather than on Kit’s face.

‘We remain friends.’ There was no mistaking the finality in Kit’s voice. ‘We may have quarrelled, but it is settled now. What is friendship without quarrels? Life would be very dull indeed.’

The air rushed out of her lungs. He was determined to ignore her letter. It shouldn’t make her heart feel so light, but it did. ‘Yes … yes, of course.’

His smile brought sunshine into the gloom of the ironmonger’s. She wasn’t going to ask for more than he could give. She knew what he was. He was precisely the same as Charles and if she ever forgot that for a moment, she’d lose her way. She was not going to be betrayed like that again. ‘I knew you’d see it my way.’ His smile increased as he rocked back on his heels. ‘I burnt your letter. It held little of value.’

‘You burnt it? Did you even read it?’

‘I know why it was written, Hattie. And you are wrong to be afraid. I wanted to let you know that.’

She was conscious of staring at him for a heartbeat too long, of drinking in his features. She was very glad now that he hadn’t read the pretentious twaddle. It didn’t change things. Serious flirtations were out. The risks were too great. ‘I’m not afraid.’

‘That is good to know.’

‘There are things I must do.’ Hattie forced her chin upwards so she looked Kit directly in the eye. Here she retook control of the conversation. ‘Mr Ogle was going to fix Mrs Belter’s firebox. It needs to be done or I shall have to order another stove at the Stagshaw fair.’

‘Who is Mrs Belter?’

‘One of my brother-in-law’s tenants. Stephanie can’t be counted on to ensure my brother-in-law knows how they are doing. Over the years, I took the responsibility on. It keeps me out of mischief and makes everyone’s lives happier.’

‘Far be it from me to keep you from doing anything.’ He put two fingers to his hat. ‘Until the fair, Mrs Wilkinson.’

Hattie put a hand to her head as she stepped back into the shop. He probably thought her sighing from love just like Miss Dent and Maria Richley. She gave a little smile. The next time she encountered him, she would not feed his self-importance. Until the fair. Had she agreed to meet him? Did he think they were going to meet? Impossible! She had to find him and tell him that it was not going to happen.

Hattie hurried back out of the ironmonger’s. Her feet skittered to a stop.

Kit stood facing the door, arms crossed. He raised an eyebrow and inclined his head. She curled her fists. He knew she’d appear. He had waited for her to appear. Silently she cursed for behaving precisely as he thought she would. Seven years after Charles’s betrayal and she acted worse than Livvy.

‘Is there a problem, Mrs Wilkinson?’

‘I … that is …’ The words stuck in her throat. She swallowed hard and tried again. This time she stuck her chin in the air and took refuge in her dignity. ‘I had no plans to see you during the fair.’

‘But you have no objections, should it happen?’

Hattie waved her reticule in the air in a gesture of magnanimity. ‘If it happens, I will not cut you.’

‘You have relieved my mind.’ His eyes danced. ‘The thought has kept me awake in recent nights. What could be worse than being cut by Mrs Wilkinson at the Stagshaw fair? How can I prevent it?’

Hattie allowed her hand to drop to her side. All the pretence flowed out of her. ‘You are laughing at me. You think me a censorious widow who has forgotten what it is like to be alive.’

‘Not at all. I’m not given to flights of fancy. I do have the honour of having been on a picnic with you. I have heard you laugh.’

‘Then what?’ She found the answer mattered suddenly.

The dimple in the corner of his mouth deepened. His gaze seemed to pierce her very soul. ‘I’m merely welcoming our return to friendship. Nothing more. Your servant, Mrs Wilkinson. Stop being so hard on yourself.’




Chapter Six (#ulink_ff6eb9c6-c975-5a94-9068-b2ac245d5d02)


‘Hurry up, Livvy,’ Hattie called from the governess cart just after ten on the fourth of July. ‘You don’t want to be late for the fair. Your mother and father left over an hour ago.’

Portia had run over and clambered immediately in, but Livvy slowly picked her way across the puddles, holding a white parasol over her head. Hattie wanted to get out of the governess cart and bodily pick her up. All night she had thought about Kit and how she’d behave during the fair. They were friends. The fact that she kept remembering the kiss they had shared was her problem.

‘Isn’t the sun fierce this year?’ Livvy said, finally getting into the cart. ‘You will freckle, Portia, if you don’t pull your hat forwards.’

Portia stuck out her tongue and pushed the straw bonnet back.

‘If there is any bickering, you can stay at home.’ Hattie gave the reins a shake and the horse started off smartly. All she could hope was that the day improved. This was the sort of thing she loved—being with her nieces. Except today, it felt a bit like everyone took her for granted. There was a question of how she greeted Kit as she had not bothered to inform Stephanie about the precise ending of hostilities. ‘I mean it, Portia and Livvy. I want no repeats of last year.’

‘You can’t do that!’ Portia’s eyes went wide. ‘I have been waiting for oranges and gingerbread for ever so long. Whenever I’m feeling sad, I tell myself—oranges and gingerbread lumps as big as hats at the Stagshaw fair. Somehow it makes everything seem more bearable.’

‘I am sure there will be time for both oranges and gingerbread … provided you both behave yourselves.’ Hattie concentrated on navigating the rutted road. The short journey to Stagshaw was fraught with difficulty after so many carriages and carts had churned up the road. The last thing she needed was a broken wheel or to get stuck in the mud. She had taken pains with her dress and had tried out a new hairstyle. ‘I’ve saved some pennies for you. Shall we see how many squares of gingerbread we can eat?’

‘Can I use the money towards a pair of Hexham Tans?’ Livvy smoothed her skirt and tilted her chin. From where Hattie sat, it appeared that she was striking a variety of poses, trying them out to see which suited her best by looking at her shadow. Hattie remembered the phase all too clearly. ‘I would like a pair of gloves more than anything and I have almost enough. I’ve saved my Christmas and birthday money especially.’

Portia snorted. ‘You mean you are hoping to run into Mr Hook and don’t want your face grubby. Personally I fail to see what the fuss is about. He doesn’t appear to know much about newts. I asked him about the toads in our garden when we ran into him at the Halls’ At Home. And he kept primping his curls when he thought no one was looking. The tousled look.’

Livvy rolled her eyes. ‘There is a difference between toads and newts, Portia. Any fool knows that.’

‘Will he be giving the proposed lecture before he departs? I understood they were only staying for the Stagshaw fair,’ Hattie asked, attempting to keep her voice casual. Her mind raced to think about whether Kit had actually said they were staying or if today was truly going to be goodbye. Her heart sank. She wasn’t ready to say goodbye.

‘It depends on what Colonel Cunningham decides, but I plan to sit in the front row when it happens.’

‘Livvy, we weren’t going to speak about meeting Mr Hook in the High Street. Mama said. Sir Christopher would barely speak to Aunt Hattie at the concert. They have fallen out of civility and it is all Aunt Hattie’s fault. Her best chance for marriage in years is gone.’

Livvy clapped her hands over her mouth. ‘I’m so sorry, Aunt Harriet. I understand now about the sorrows of the heart.’

‘Is there a particular pair of gloves you want or are you going to look over the stalls?’ Hattie asked, silently damning Stephanie. Sorrows of the heart and Kit being a good marriage prospect indeed. She was not wasting away for love or looking for a loveless marriage with a charming but unreliable man. The only person who would see the irony was Kit.

‘Oh, I thought I would wander up and down the stalls until I found the one I wanted.’ Livvy gave an elaborate shrug.

‘Does your mother approve of your plan? You are hoping to meet Mr Hook.’

‘Mama fails to understand.’ Livvy bent her head and fussed with her lace gloves. ‘I’m sixteen, but I also have a brain. I want to go to London and have a Season. I’m not about to do anything foolish.’

‘You did go into the card room.’

‘Mr Hook explained that it was not my best idea, but how else could I meet him?’ Livvy screwed up her nose. ‘Sir Christopher gave him a talking to. Being young is no reason to be ignorant of society’s pitfalls.’

Despite her earlier misgivings, Hattie was impressed. Mr Hook had obviously considered his position and decided that he wanted to court Livvy. She might not agree with everything, but the light romance would not put anyone in danger. ‘I agree with Sir Christopher.’

Livvy clapped her hands together. ‘Why did you have to fall out of civility with Sir Christopher? It makes everything much more difficult. Mama has taken against Mr Hook for some unknown reason. And now they say Sir Christopher has taken up with one of the Dent sisters. The elder one who has the annoying laugh. And the younger one probably will get her claws into Mr Hook.’

‘I heard that it was Maria Richley.’ Portia put her hand over Hattie’s. ‘We weren’t meant to tell. Mama made us promise.’

Hattie pasted a smile on her face. Stephanie obviously knew that Portia would be unable to keep a secret and had primed her. After the incident at the musicale with the seating arrangements, she should have guessed that Stephanie was not going to give up her matchmaking scheme easily. Still the gossip caused a slight jealous twinge and that surprised her.

All in all it was safer if no one knew about her renewed friendship with Kit. Hattie forcibly turned the subject away from Sir Christopher and back towards safer subjects like gloves, gingerbread and the possibility of exotic animals.

The odour of spice and citrus fruit mixed with animal and overlaid with sawdust took Kit back to his childhood. He could remember every step of the fair even though he had not been in twenty-five years. The stalls looked tantalisingly familiar—here one for London Spice and there another selling oranges. Still further on were the stalls devoted to all manner of pots and pans. It appeared as if a large tented city had sprung up overnight. Kit struggled to see the windswept field where he and Hattie had picnicked only a few days before.

The memory of waiting outside the ale tent and hoping that his uncle would not turn out like his father sliced through him. Your father has it all wrong, Kit. Bad blood doesn’t mean you have to be bad. Damn your mother to hell. Never wait on a woman.

Kit frowned and pushed the memory away. Over the years he’d perfected the art of not thinking about the past and only living in the present. And the present meant deciding what to do about Hattie. He wasn’t ready to face that … yet, and it was unlike him to be mealy-mouthed. He would end it after the fair. The gift he gave her would be special, but in keeping with their relationship. The weight on his shoulders eased. He was going to do the right thing.

‘Do keep up, Rupert,’ Kit said as Rupert endeavoured to linger at the gun stall and then at Moles Swords where the latest models were hung with precision and a crowd of ten deep stood. ‘You purchased a sword before we left London. Maybe now you will understand why I urged you to wait. Moles always brings out its new range for the Stagshaw fair.’

Rupert put down the rapier with a loud sigh. ‘You are right. Nothing, not even a sword, can give me pleasure when the sight of my beloved is denied.’

‘Petulance does you few favours,’ Kit murmured.

‘You were the one to get into this muddle. Women should be enjoyed, not mooned over.’

Rupert gave a glance behind him and his entire countenance lit up. ‘Miss Parteger is at the glove stall, right when she said she would be. You are wrong, Kit, some women you can count on.’

Kit tensed. Hattie stood next to Miss Parteger, seemingly absorbed in choosing a pair of butter-yellow gloves. Her straw bonnet trimmed with green ribbons made a pleasant contrast with her round gown. Not a London sophisticate, but refreshing, someone who was comfortable in their skin. Was it just the novelty of freshness that intrigued? Kit frowned. It didn’t matter. He would return to London soon and the flirtation would be over.

‘Shall we go and investigate the famous Hexham Tans?’ he said.

As he approached, Hattie looked up. Her straw bonnet framed her face, shadowing her features and making her look far more desirable than the majority of women of his acquaintance.

‘Are you buying gloves?’ he asked after they had exchanged pleasantries.

‘Livvy is. She desires a new pair and they always do specials on fair days. She is looking at the other stalls, but I always come back to Hedley’s.

There is a certain something about the way they soften the leather.’ She stretched out her hand. ‘I can’t make up my mind about whether the butter yellow or light tan is best.’

‘For riding?’

‘General purpose.’

He looked down at her hands. Her fingers were small and slender, but there was a certain indomitable strength in them. She was the sort of woman who would bend, but not break. ‘Can a lady accept gloves from a gentleman or would it be too intimate a gift?’

Her eyes twinkled, warming him. He found he’d missed the barely suppressed humour. ‘I suspect you already know the answer.’

‘A pity as those butter-yellow gloves suit your hands perfectly.’ He waited for her to agree. ‘It is a fair day after all and the normal rules don’t apply.’

‘I would hate to cause talk. And you make your rules as you go along in any case.’

‘Not all my rules. Some are immovable.’

‘But most of them. It lulls people into a false sense of security.’

‘Is it my fault if they wish to be lulled?’

Hattie stripped off the glove and handed it back to the stall owner with a decided shake of her head. As she began to make a pile of the various other gloves, Kit signalled first to the stall owner and then to Rupert, handing the stall owner some money. He’d give Hattie the gloves when the time was right.

‘Is the fair everything you hoped at Waterloo?’ she asked, glancing up just after he had completed the transaction.

‘It is everything I remember, but it is as if I am looking through a Claude glass rather than actually being here.’ He gave a laugh. ‘Perhaps I need a guide.’

Her hand brushed his as she reached for the next set of gloves. ‘Is there anything missing? Something that would help make the day perfect?’

Kit contemplated saying her exploring the fair with him, but decided that it would be revealing too much. He opted for something safer, less declaratory. ‘I need to find a toy manufacturer.’

Her hands stilled. ‘What sort of toys? Dolls? Wooden tops? You hardly seem like the child-loving sort.’

‘Jumping-jacks—little men or women with a string you pull. I had one from the fair when I was a young boy. My uncle bought it for me.’ Kit gazed over her shoulder and knew it would help ease the unsettled feeling if he could find the stall. It would reassure him that there was nothing magical about the stall. The jumping-jack was just that, a wooden toy. ‘I wanted to see if such a creature still existed. The stall holder had a humpback and a hook nose, but he made the most wonderful wooden toys.’

Her mouth became a perfect O. ‘You had one as a boy. From this fair. It is why you wanted to come back here?’

‘That’s right,’ he agreed, surprised that she had guessed. ‘My uncle gave me one as consolation.’

‘Consolation? That is a strange word to use. Why did you need consolation? Had someone died?’

‘I had waited outside the ale tent for hours.’ Kit clamped his mouth shut. He had explained too much already. He remembered thinking that he’d meet his mother. Of course she had never appeared. He’d blocked the memory until now. The last thing he wanted was to discuss his mother, particularly not with Hattie Wilkinson. He’d already revealed more about his past than he’d intended. He never spoke about her. It saved having people look at him with pity.

‘You won’t find one on this row.’ Hattie’s brow knitted. ‘The toy manufacturers are two rows down, near the London Spice merchant. I think I know the one you mean. I used to buy my nieces and nephews toys from him when they were little.’

‘It sounds straightforward enough.’ Kit touched his hat. He silently thanked her for not pursuing the topic. ‘Rupert …’

Rupert had wandered down the stall and appeared to be in earnest discussion with Miss Parteger over a pair of gloves. Instantly he broke off the conversation and stood up straighter. Rupert appeared to have taken their conversations to heart. Kit gave a wry smile. Then he was Brendan’s boy and Brendan could always be counted on to do what was right.

‘I’m about to go that way after Livvy finishes and I return her to her mother.’

He caught her hand. ‘And you won’t lead me astray?’

She tilted her head to one side. Her eyes danced with mischief. ‘I can show you if you like. As for leading you astray, I fear you went from that path long ago.’

Kit laughed. A heartbeat later, Hattie joined in.

The sound of her laughter made the whole day seem brighter. Kit knew he would get his way. He’d enjoy today and finish the flirtation before it started to mean anything. It was better that way. He’d retrieve the gloves from Rupert later and send them with a note before he left for London. And he would leave for London, once his business here was finished.

‘That would be perfect. With you by my side, Mrs Wilkinson, I know I shan’t lose my way.’

‘I’ll tell Livvy to hurry up. She has lingered far longer than I thought she would. Portia and Stephanie went off to buy oranges over an hour ago.’

‘Rupert can look after your niece. He is quite safe.’

‘Are you sure? The memory of the card room lingers.’

‘He has grown on this trip. You must take my word for it.’

‘I shall.’

Kit called to Rupert and told him to take Miss Parteger back to her mother without stopping for refreshment on the way. His godson blushed a deep scarlet.

‘Very neatly done.’

‘I like to think so.’ Kit tucked her hand in the crook of his arm before she had a chance to pull away. ‘What is the wagering that they do stop? Maybe not for refreshment, but to watch a Punch and Judy show or one of the other entertainments?’

‘Just so you know, I never bet on a sure thing. It takes the fun out of it. Everyone should have a little romance in their life. It will be harmless.’

‘You surprise me, Mrs Wilkinson. I was willing to wager on you not understanding about young romance except I make it a policy never to wager on a lady, only with her.’

Her eyes turned cloudy and something close to sorrow tugged at her mouth. In that instant, Kit hated her late husband. Seven years and he retained a hold over her. ‘You are wrong about that. I understand about romance and its perils all too well.’

‘Is this the one you want? Now that we are finally here.’ Hattie held up a red-coated jumping-jack.

‘And whose fault is that?’

‘Yours, I believe.’ She gave a light laugh, basking in the warmth of his smile. ‘You kept seeing another stall you wanted to investigate.’

‘It has been an age since I’ve been to a fair. I wanted to make certain things were here.’

‘Including having a go at the ha’penny man?’

‘I did win.’

The toy stall had proved more difficult to find than she thought it would be, not the least of which Kit seemed intent on taking the most circuitous route. Not that she had strenuously objected. She had enjoyed talking with him and laughing. They seemed to share the same sense of humour. They were friends, nothing more. It could never be anything more.

She refused to go back to the girl she had once been, and in any case, Kit had been clear about his views on marriage. She wished that she could be like someone in Mrs Reynaud’s stories, but there were considerations. She shivered slightly, remembering how Charles’s mistress had said that they were more alike than she thought.

To banish the unwelcome memory she blindly reached for another toy.

‘Do you like this jumping-jack? Personally I think he has a roguish smile, just the sort of thing for a man like you.’

‘It will do.’ His hand closed over it. A sudden fierce longing crossed over his face. ‘The one I had as a boy had a dark-green coat with white trim.’

‘You must have loved it.’

‘It meant a lot to me once. It was about my only toy.’

Hattie’s heart bled for the lonely boy that he must have been. ‘Your only toy?’

‘My father didn’t hold with such things, but as it was a present from my uncle, he allowed me to keep it.’

‘Then it was good that you loved it so much.’

He tilted his head to one side. ‘I suspect you find it strange. But my father had his own views on life.’

‘Not at all. Just tell me that he died a lonely and bitter old man.’

He lifted an eyebrow. ‘Why?’

‘It saves me from having to kill him. Children should have toys. There is time enough to be grown up.’

‘My father would not have agreed. Boys need to learn to be men. My father was a hard man.’

‘But you are not your father.’

‘I’m grateful you realise that. I try not to take after either of my parents.’

Hattie relaxed in the sunshine of his smile. A sharp longing sliced through her. If only … Hattie pushed it away. It was far too late for regrets. She was not the type to indulge in casual affairs of the heart. She had her responsibilities and duties to think about. This had to be the last time she indulged in a flirtation with Kit.

‘The jumping-jack will be a present from me,’ she said, taking control of the conversation.

His eyes narrowed. ‘Are jumping-jacks different than gloves?’

‘Jumping-jacks are better given as gifts. Every child since time began knows that. It adds to the magic.’

‘I agree.’ There was a catch in his voice and he turned his face from hers.

‘Is something wrong?’ She laid her hand on his arm. ‘Kit, explain. We are friends. I want to know.’

He turned back towards her. His eyes held a distinctly sultry look which caused a warm curl to wind its way around her insides. ‘I normally never let my lady buy me anything.’

A warm shiver went down her back. She envied the unknown lady who would be his. A longing to feel his lips against hers and the touch of his hand against her skin filled her.

‘But I’m not yours, am I?’ she returned more tartly than she had intended. ‘It is a gift from a friend, nothing more.’

His eyes bore into her, searching down to her soul. Hattie returned his gaze as steadily as she could, hoping he didn’t see the white lie.

‘I stand corrected,’ he said finally. ‘In that case I shall be delighted to accept the gift. Child that I am.’

‘Play with it wisely. It is what I always tell my nieces and nephews when I give them a toy,’ she joked after she had paid the wizened toymaker.

Keep it light. She needed to keep it light. She gripped her reticule tighter. Their time was coming to an end and she didn’t want it to.

She could easily imagine what one of his London mistresses would be like—the highly sophisticated way she’d laugh and how her gestures would be perfectly poised. Everything she wasn’t and could never be.

‘I intend to treasure it.’ Kit tucked it into his breast pocket. ‘It should be safe there. Thank you, Hattie. It is a first being given something like this from a woman, but then you are unique.’

Hattie dipped her head. There was a wealth of meaning in those words. If she wasn’t careful, she would start wanting to be kissed again. And that would be a very bad idea. ‘I should get back to the family. Livvy and Portia will be wondering what has happened to me.’

‘Surely they can spare you for a while longer yet? There must be some part of the fair you haven’t explored. Perhaps you’d like your fortune told. There are always gypsies at fairs like these.’

‘I’m not overfond of fortune tellers. My husband used to enjoy such pastimes.’

‘And you gave them up as frivolous on his death.’ He held up his hand. ‘Say no more, Hattie. Your past defines you.’

‘That is not it at all.’

‘Why can’t you linger with me a while? We won’t have our fortune told. We can enjoy the fair in other ways.’

‘They count on me. I don’t know where I’d be without them.’ A sudden chill passed through Hattie. She’d been so close to agreeing. She needed to keep this friendship light and easy, but not lose sense of what was truly important in her life, permanent and lasting—her family. ‘It helped so much to have them near after Charles’s death. They restored my faith in humanity.’

‘You should try living for yourself more.’

‘It’s funny … that is precisely what Mrs Reynaud said.’ She straightened her back. ‘You mustn’t worry. Once they are grown, I intend to travel the world, really travel. There are so many places I long to see. I make a list every year. I only stay in Northumberland because Stephanie and her girls can’t cope without me.’

‘Mrs Reynaud?’ A puzzled look came on his face and he seemed to go rigid. ‘Do you know someone called Reynaud?’

‘An elderly lady. One of your tenants. At Pearl Cottage.’

‘None of my tenants is called Reynaud. I would know.’

‘Perhaps she used a different name.’ Hattie gave a little shrug. ‘Her agreement was with your uncle. I think she knew your family when she was younger.’ Hattie lowered her voice. ‘She has led an exciting life and doles out tales of her wickedness. Stephanie doesn’t entirely approve of her, but I enjoy her company.’

Kit’s face became carved out of stone. All humour and goodwill had vanished. ‘I can’t remember ever meeting a Mrs Reynaud. What does she look like?’

‘She says she is much altered. A few years ago before she came to the Tyne Valley, she suffered from smallpox and totally lost her looks. Recently she has become more of a recluse than ever. Mrs Belter told me that she had refused to come to the fair because the children might point their fingers and call her a witch.’

Kit tapped his fingers together. He looked her up and down in an assessing sort of way. Hattie was aware of the simplicity of her dress and the fact that it was several seasons old. He must consider it hopelessly naïve and unattractive. He took a step closer to her and his eyes became almost feline.

‘I agree with her assessment, whoever this Mrs Reynaud is. You should have a life, Hattie, and let your nieces lead their own.’ His hand slid down her back and his breath tickled her ear. ‘It is your life to live. You only have one. Seize it.’

‘I don’t understand what you are saying.’ She hated the way her voice caught. Her lips ached as if he had kissed them again.

‘I think you do.’ His voice rolled over her, silently urging her to move closer. Seductive in the extreme. ‘I think you understand me very well. We could be good together.’

Hattie pulled her hand away. She pressed her fingers to her temples and willed the siren call to be gone. She knew what he was asking and she also knew she wasn’t ready. Not today and probably not ever. She had to leave now and not look back.

‘Hattie?’

‘When I require your advice, I’ll ask,’ she said stiffly. She had nearly done it and she couldn’t. She’d hate herself later if she embarked on an affair. She wasn’t going to be like … like her late husband’s mistress. She shuddered, remembering the time she’d visited and how awkward it had all been. She had to stay with where she was safe. She started to walk away from Kit.

‘Where are you going now?’ He reached her in two strides and put his hand on her elbow, bringing her against his body. ‘I didn’t think you were given to false modesty, Hattie.’

‘Stephanie will have created a small camp for us near the black-faced sheep. She worries about my brother-in-law becoming lost and so they go back to the same place every year.’ Hattie jerked her arm away. To think how close she had come! Poor deluded Hattie had nearly done it again. Been swept away on the romance and forgetting the cost. ‘They will be wondering where I am. It was bad of me to go off like this.’

The dimple shone in his cheek, highlighting his lips. ‘Your brother-in-law gets confused?’

‘It is the one day of the year that he spends time in the ale tent. Stephanie refuses to go in, but always waits to take him home.’ Hattie gave a careful shrug, but she was aware of how near he stood and where his hands were. Her sister and brother-in-law were very different but they did seem to have a happy marriage, something that was for ever going to elude her. All she wanted to do was to find a quiet place and regain control of herself. She’d been so close to giving in to temptation. It had been seeing the longing in his face when he held the jumping-jack in his hand which had nearly undone her and made her think that he might want something else. ‘It is an arrangement which has served them well.’

‘Shall I walk you there? Fairs can be notorious for drunks and others making a nuisance. Allow me to keep you safe.’

‘I can find my own way.’ Hattie used her reticule as a shield. ‘The fair has so much to offer. You must try the ale tent yourself. If you find my brother-in-law, remind him that we are expecting to go home at a reasonable hour rather than at eight when the fair finishes. Please let me go, Kit.’

‘Independent to a fault.’ He held up his hand and his eyes became steely grey. ‘I understand.’

Hattie didn’t flinch even though she was dying inside. ‘It is the way I like it. Independent but respectable. I can’t have it any other way.’

‘Because of your husband’s memory?’

‘Do not bring my late husband into this.’ A cold chill went down her spine. She couldn’t lie about Charles. Not to Kit. The thought stunned her.

‘Let me know if you ever feel lonely.’

‘I bid you adieu, Kit. I’ll understand if you have to go back to London suddenly.’ She made an expansive gesture as her insides wept. ‘I hope this is everything you wanted.’

His hand curled about hers and then let go. ‘Thank you, Hattie … for my jumping-jack.’

Hattie forced herself to walk away without looking back. It was one of the hardest things she had ever done, but she knew it was the right thing. Kit suddenly appeared to be taking liberties, to misunderstand why she’d purchased that stupid jumping-jack. She was safer on her own.




Chapter Seven (#ulink_948adc84-e7c4-5331-aae2-6eaab3c540c4)


Walking away from Kit was the right thing to do, Hattie thought as she strode away from where he stood. To stay would mean giving in to temptation and starting to believe that there was something between them. She had nearly cried when he told her the story about the jumping-jack and then he became so cold, practically accusing her of trying to interfere. And then he’d made the suggestion and it changed everything. She was not going to tumble into bed with him. Ever.

Hattie pushed past the gawkers around the find-a-penny man and the farmers and their wives outside the exotic curiosity stall. She resisted the temptation to turn around and see where Kit was.

A gypsy cart had become stuck in the middle of a boggy bit. Hattie attempted to squeeze around the back, ignoring the gypsy woman who offered to read the pretty lady’s fortune. When she was a little girl, Mrs Hampstead used to tell stories about how gypsies spirited people away, over and over again because Stephanie loved being scared. Even now, Hattie was not entirely comfortable around them. They were harmless for the most part and a simple ‘no’ generally sufficed.

A gypsy man with a scarlet bandana and a gold earring loomed up in front of her, asking if she wanted a bit of lucky heather.

Hattie shook her head ‘no’, picked up and hurried off in the opposite direction.

By the time she’d recovered her composure, she realised that she was in completely the wrong place, close to the rough end of the fair where the cockfighting and bear-baiting happened, with no easy or straightforward way to get to where Stephanie had set up camp.

She wished she had taken Kit’s offer to escort her back but that would have only prolonged the agony. It was over and done. She could go back to her dull, unexciting life.

‘Hey, watch where you are going.’ a man shouted at her and she managed to duck before she was hit by a large metal trap.

‘That was far from my fault,’ Hattie muttered and turned down another row of stalls. These were devoted to all manner of farm equipment. She turned another way and heard the cries of a cockfight. She could never understand why anyone would think such a thing was entertainment.

She rubbed her hand over her face. Several painted women sauntered passed, with swinging hips and fixed expressions. The distinct odour of stale alcohol choked the air.

Hattie picked up her skirts and began to hurry towards the ale tent. It was early enough so there should not be too great of a problem. But once there, she’d get her bearings. Stephanie was going to be annoyed. She could handle Stephanie, but she knew if anything had happened to Livvy or Portia, she’d never forgive herself.

What could she have been thinking about, going off with Kit like that? She’d abandoned Livvy for nothing but her own pleasure. Hattie quickened her steps. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot. Her boots seemed to pound out the words. Hattie reached for a handkerchief and covered her nostrils.

‘What’s your hurry, my dear?’ A rough hand grabbed her elbow. Her captor sported a purple scar stretching from the corner of his right eye to his nose. Two more men stood behind him, egging him on. ‘We can have some sport with this one.’

‘I am not your dear.’ Hattie drew herself up to her full height and gave her most imperious stare. The last thing she wanted to show was fear, particularly not to a man who looked the worst for drink. It was all a misunderstanding. ‘Unhand me and allow me to go about my business unhampered.’

‘Pardon me for breathing.’ His hand loosened. He said something in an undertone to his loathsome companions.

A nervous trembling filled Hattie’s limbs. It was that easy. Mrs Reynaud was right. A positive attitude could work miracles. Her virtue was her shield.

She started to move on, slowly and sedately, but purposefully. The men were drunk. They’d leave her alone. Once she’d returned to Stephanie, she was never going to hanker after travelling or adventures again.

‘Give us a kiss. Proud lady.’ Another hand caught her upper arm. The stench of sour ale and tobacco filled her nostrils. This time she was pulled back against his fat chest.

‘Let me go.’

Kit let Hattie walk away into the crowd. It had all gone wrong when she’d mentioned the name Reynaud. Stupid, really. There were hundreds of people with that name. It wasn’t Hattie’s fault that his mother had abandoned him for a Frenchman named Jacques Reynaud. The woman in question was probably another innocent caught up in the mess his mother had left behind.

He’d taken the crude and insulting way out, using his seductive voice to make suggestions, making her unsure. He’d known that she’d leave. Coward that he was. And all because of a name from the past that should no longer have any power. He was a man, not a youth who had been teased endlessly about his mother and her morals. Disgust filled him. He knew the proper way to act in society. But it was better this way. Their friendship had to end before … before he started to care.

He curled his hand about the jumping-jack and regarded the various faces of the farm labourers and other men. The noise from the ale tent had increased. Hattie might think that she didn’t need his help, but he was not about to abandon her. Not when it was his fault to begin with.

He watched her take a wrong turning and then followed a few paces behind. Once she was back with her family, he’d relax and she’d cease to be his problem.

He lost sight of her when she rounded the gypsy caravan. Kit went down one aisle and then another, but nowhere did he see Hattie’s back. He started to circle around towards the ale tent, ignoring the shorter route by the cock and bear pits. Hattie with her strict sensibilities would never go there.

Let me go.

Her voice floated on the air.

Kit broke into a run. Near the cockpit, he saw her, surrounded by a group of farmhands who were the worse for wear with drink. Several of them gave coarse laughs and called out obscene suggestions.

Hattie’s hand beat against the largest one’s chest. Her straw bonnet had slipped off her head and lay abandoned in the mud. Kit cursed. Her predicament was all his fault.

He knew the dangers that a fair could bring and he’d been the one to allow her to wander about on her own. His mistake and he always owned up.

He glanced around. Four against one. The odds were not good, but he refused to stand by. Going and fetching the parish constable was not an option. But if he started something, others would join in and lend a hand.

‘Unhand that lady!’

‘Mind your business. We are having a bit of sport.’

Kit clenched his fists. His eyes flickered from face to face, memorising their features. He’d lost count of how many fights he’d experienced, but he knew how to fight and he was sober. ‘I doubt that is possible. She is with me. I look after my own. Unless you want to be seriously injured or worse, let her go now.’

The mountain of a man loosened his grip on Hattie. The primitive urge to tear him limb from limb filled Kit. He struggled to keep his temper. Cool and collected won fights—giving in to anger resulted in errors. He’d learnt that back at Eton when he’d tried to defend his mother’s name.

‘Who will stop me? You? On your own? I have won my last six bouts in the ring.’

A would-be pugilist who had had far too much to drink. Kit stifled a laugh. It was going to be easier than he thought.

‘It is a serious mistake to doubt my ability. My pugilist ability is renowned in London. Ask at any pub about Kit Foxton and see what they say.’

The mountain scratched his nose. ‘It ain’t known up here.’

‘We could have a bare-knuckle fight if you wish, but allow the lady to go about her business,’ Kit said in a deadly voice.

‘And you think to come from London and tell us our ways.’

‘You should respect your betters.’ The blood pumped through Kit’s veins. He looked forward to the fight. To do something. ‘Shall we have at it, here and now?’

The mountain shoved Hattie away from him. Kit breathed again. ‘If you wish.’

‘Kit …’ Hattie was suddenly very afraid ‘… he has a knife.’

‘Go, Hattie. Get help. This shouldn’t take long.’ He turned his head slightly and felt the first punch graze his temple. ‘You shouldn’t have done that. I don’t mind a fair fight, but not an unfair one. We start when we start and not before.’

He landed a punch squarely in the fat farmhand’s middle, brought his knee up and connected again. The man countered with a wild stab, but the knife missed by a hairbreadth. Kit punched again, harder, and the man collapsed on the ground. When the man was down on the ground, Kit stamped on his wrist and the knife dropped from his grip. Kit kicked the knife away.

‘Playing with knives can get you hurt.’ Kit picked him up by the lapels. ‘Are you ready to begin our fight?’

The man grunted and wildly flailed his arms. Kit landed a blow on the man’s jaw. The man gurgled slightly and lay back. Kit lowered him to the ground. It was easier than he thought. Kit dusted down his breeches and turned his back on the prone man. ‘Does anyone else have a quarrel with me?’

The three men looked at each other and began to back away. Cowards.

Kit gave them a look of utter contempt. ‘Next time, give the ladies more respect.’

‘I ain’t finished yet, Londoner.’ A fist came out of nowhere, landing in the middle of Kit’s back.

Kit crouched and began to fight in earnest as blow after blow rained down on his head. Somewhere in the distance, he heard the sound of a parish constable’s whistle.

The world turned black at the edges and a sharp pain went into his jaw, swiftly followed by a pain to the back of his head.

‘All my fault, Hattie, I didn’t mean to frighten you,’ he murmured. The world went black.

Hattie swallowed the scream and rushed over to where Kit lay in the dirt, heedless of the way her skirt swept into the thick mud, ready to defend him, now that he was defenceless.

She put her hand on his chest. He was still breathing. The attackers had either run off at the sound of the whistle or lay on the ground, groaning. The fight was over. Kit had won, but at what cost? He couldn’t be seriously hurt because of her folly, could he?

Hattie offered a silent prayer. She didn’t care what happened to her reputation or anything else as long as Kit was all right. This entire mess had happened because of her pride and her fear. She knew where the blame lay and she wanted to make amends. A shiver went through her.

‘Come on. Kit,’ she said. ‘We need to get you to the doctor.’

Kit mumbled incoherently and failed to rise.

‘Here now, what is going on?’ a burly parish constable demanded, bustling up. He gave another loud toot on his whistle. He started in surprise. ‘Mrs Wilkinson, what are you doing here? Messed up in this nonsense? It isn’t a sight for a lady such as yourself. Where is your family? Someone should be looking after you. It ain’t safe around here. Here is where the gaming happens. And the cockfighting. Your brother-in-law should have known better.’

Hattie heaved a sigh of relief. Mr Jessop was the parish constable for St Michael’s, rather than being from one of the other parishes. It made things much easier. She stood up and faced him.

‘I made a mistake and turned the wrong way. Thankfully, my guardian angel was looking after me and sent a protector.’

‘Where is he?’

‘There on the ground. Sir Christopher Foxton.’

Mr Jessop gaped. ‘Sir Christopher Foxton? He is involved? This is bad, very bad.’

Hattie noticed the other men turn white and start to edge away. A group of farmhands stood solidly behind Mr Jessop, preventing them from leaving.

‘These men attacked me and Sir Christopher defended my honour, Mr Jessop. What you see is the aftermath of battle, which I am delighted to say Sir Christopher won.’ Hattie rapidly explained the situation, giving an account that was accurate in all the particulars but skated over some of the details. There was no need to tell the constable about the quarrel which preceded the event. All he had to know was that Sir Christopher had defended her honour with great vigour.

‘In broad daylight?’ The parish constable’s eyes widened. He drew himself up. ‘What is the world coming to? You should have stayed to the main part of the fair, Mrs Wilkinson.’

‘They were insensible with drink.’ Hattie pressed her hands together and tried to keep her limbs from trembling. ‘It is lucky Sir Christopher happened by when he did.’

‘Do you wish to press charges?’

Hattie regarded the patch of spreading red on Kit’s chest and the way his face was swelling. A primitive urge to see the men hanged filled her. She pushed it away. ‘You must do as you see fit, Mr Jessop. It was a fight, but it is also the day of Stagshaw fair. You will have to speak with Sir Christopher when he is in a better state.’

‘I see, Mrs Wilkinson. No doubt there will be a few sore heads in the morning. A spell cooling off over in Hexham gaol will do them good.’

‘I wish to get medical help for Sir Christopher before anything else happens. Sir Christopher’s well-being is the most important thing.’

Kit mumbled something. Hattie bent down. ‘What is it you want to say?’

His fingers curled about hers. ‘Don’t leave me,’ he murmured in a broken whisper. ‘Please stay … please, I beg you.’

Hattie’s heart flipped over. She smoothed a lock of hair from his forehead. He’d risked his life for her. All this had happened because she had decided to take offence at his flirtatious comments, comments which were not meant to be taken literally. She had behaved worse than an aged maiden aunt. He wasn’t asking her to stay for ever, just until he recovered. ‘Yes, I’ll look after you. I promise. I’ve no intention of leaving you.’

He gave a crooked smile and closed his eyes. ‘Good.’

She held his hand, waiting until he became calm and his breathing regular. After what Kit had said, her decision was surprisingly easy. It didn’t matter that Stephanie would be terribly shocked. Stephanie would get over it. One simply did not turn one’s back on someone who had risked his life for her.

‘His lordship can’t stay here,’ Mr Jessop said. ‘It’s not right.’

‘I will take Sir Christopher back to the Dower House where he can be properly nursed.’ Hattie stood up. ‘I would appreciate the doctor arriving there as soon as possible. I will want several stout men to help me to get him into the governess cart.’

‘Back to your house, ma’am? Are you sure that is wise?’

‘I pay my debts, Mr Jessop, and I owe this man a huge debt. You send Dr Gormley to me once he has been found.’

‘It is fair day, Mrs Wilkinson.’ Mr Jessop rocked back on his heels.

‘You may try the ale tent or, failing that, machinery exhibition. The good doctor is as fond of inventions as the next man.’

Hattie waited, trying to keep her gaze steady. Surely Mr Jessop was going to assist her, rather than throwing up roadblocks?

Mr Jessop nodded and gave the orders. ‘It is my profound regret that this happened. We run a clean fair. It must be ten years since anything of significance has happened.’

‘I know you do. It wasn’t your fault.’ Hattie bent down and shook Kit’s shoulder. ‘Kit, can you walk or do you need to be carried?’

‘Give me your shoulder, Hattie, and I’ll walk. I can do anything if you help me. I can do more things if you’d kiss me.’ The words were a bit slurred and Hattie wondered if he’d hit his head in the fight. The Kit she was used to would never say such a thing.

Mr Jessop, she noticed, had studiously averted his eyes. So much for her hope to keep anything with Sir Christopher private—the gossip would be all over the fair within minutes. ‘If you are sure you don’t need us for anything else, I will get him back to my house. I believe he has hit his head.’

‘I’ll help you, ma’am, in case he falls like,’ a thin farmer said. ‘Way aye, I saw the whole thing and one of them brought a walking stick down on his head. ‘Tweren’t right, that. The man’s a hero. It weren’t many men who’d do something like that.’

‘We will haul this lot up in front of the magistrates come Monday morning,’ Mr Jessop declared.

‘I will be happy to give evidence,’ the farmer said. ‘And me lad as well.’

Hattie felt the tears well up. She hadn’t expected any assistance and now it seemed people were queuing up to support her.

‘Let me know if his condition worsens,’ Mr Jessop called out as she started the slow march towards her governess cart with Kit’s heavy weight leaning on her shoulder.

‘Obviously.’

Was what she was doing the right thing? Hattie gave a small shudder when she thought about Stephanie, but that couldn’t be helped. She’d given Kit her word and she intended on keeping it. They were friends.

Please let him be all right. That was all that mattered.




Chapter Eight (#ulink_596747c8-be3c-58cd-8f4a-82364781a23c)


Kit woke with a start from confused dreams about Hattie, his uncle and various jumping-jacks. A single candle shone by the bed and there was an engraving of some biblical scene hanging on the opposite wall. The room was small and austere, a sickroom and utterly unfamiliar.

His entire body ached and his right eye was swollen shut. And he was dressed in a voluminous nightshirt, unlike the sort he normally wore. His head ached like the very devil.

He searched his mind, trying to figure out how he’d arrived here. The events of the afternoon came flooding back. As far as bright ideas went, taking on four men was not one of his better ones. But try as he might, between landing the first punch and to just now, his mind was a blank.

He put a hand to the back of his head, probing. A huge pain shot through him, blinding in its intensity. He’d obviously banged his head. But beyond a few aches and pains, he would survive. There was no reason to stay here, helpless and at the mercy of some unknown quack.

He swung his feet over the side of the bed and started to push his protesting body to a stand.

‘Oh, no, you don’t. You are to stay in bed and get well.’ Cool hands pushed him back down on to crisp linen sheets. He turned his head in case his fevered mind had conjured her up.

The candlelight made her blonde hair shine and highlighted the hollow at the base of her throat. An angel. No, an angel would not wear a sprigged muslin. An angel would be dressed in flowing robes. It was Hattie in the flesh and blood. Her sewing had fallen to the floor as she stood to enforce her command. The sheer domesticity of the scene made him want to weep.

He rubbed his left eye and tried to open his right to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. He could not remember the last time when someone volunteered to look after him. Since an early age, it had always been someone who was paid and done out of duty, rather than for any other reason. A sense of great humbleness filled Kit. Hattie had done this for him.

‘Where am I?’

‘At my house.’

‘Your house?’ Kit searched his mind, but the big black well prevented him. ‘What am I doing here? The last thing I remember is getting into a fight with a stubborn drunk.’

‘You are to stay in bed until the doctor says that you can rise.’ She crossed her arms and glared at him. ‘I’d be grateful if you obliged me in this if nothing else.’

He tried to catch her hand before remembering how she’d walked away from him and settled for clutching the sheet instead. He refused to beg. He had deliberately driven her away.

‘Hattie? Why am I here? How? You live miles away from Stagshaw. The last thing I recall is the fight near the cockpit. And that drunk with his paws on you.’

‘Not too far.’ She turned her face from him, revealing her slender neck. ‘I had them bring you to my house. It seemed the best place. A bit closer than Southview. I was being practical after … after the fight. You couldn’t be left on your own, waiting for the doctor to show up.’

‘I thank you.’

‘It was the least I could do in the circumstances. I’d do it for any wretch who risked their neck to save me.’





Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Получить полную версию книги.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/michelle-styles/regency-bride-hattie-wilkinson-meets-her-match-an-ideal-hu/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.