by Lynn Messina
Table of Contents
Title Page
copyright © 2014 by lynn messina
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
About the Author
The Harlow Hoyden
The Fellingham Minx
The Bolingbroke Chit
Excerpt: The Bolingbroke Chit
Miss Fellingham’s Rebellion
Prejudice & Pride
THE OTHER
HARLOW GIRL
LYNN MESSINA
potatoworks press
greenwich village
COPYRIGHT © 2014 BY LYNN MESSINA
COVER DESIGN BY JENNIFER LEWIS
ISBN: 978-0-9849018-8-3
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
All Rights Reserved
Published 2014 by Potatoworks Press
Without limiting the rights under copyright above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without prior written permission of the copyright owner and publisher of this book.
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Chapter One
As Miss Lavinia Harlow prided herself on possessing faultless good manners, she considered soaking a gentleman with an exploding garden hose to be not only a significant breach in social etiquette but a deeply mortifying miscalculation as well.
With a horrified gasp, she dropped what little remained of the hose to the conservatory floor and raised an appalled hand to her mouth as droplets fell from the soggy stranger’s impeccably cut bottle-green waistcoat. Bravely moving her gaze upward, she discovered everything about the gentleman was impeccable: His shoulders were reassuringly broad but not robust, his jaw was agreeably firm but not obstinate, his nose was pleasingly patrician but not aquiline. The only thing about him that did not fall in line were his eyes, which were a remarkable shade of aquamarine—not quite blue, not quite green, wholly breathtaking. The color was so stunning, it made her own cornflower blue seem insipid by comparison, an inconsideration Vinnie thought was the height of rudeness.
“I beg your pardon,” the gentleman drawled in a fine baritone.
He bowed slightly, and Vinnie realized that his composure was just as faultless as the rest of him. If the water dripping into his inappropriately beautiful eyes caused him the least discomfort, he gave no indication. Indeed, he stood drenched in the Duke of Trent’s conservatory with the same bland indifference as he would completely dry in his grace’s drawing room.
That he had the excellent good breeding not to let his displeasure show irritated Vinnie further. Knowing she was in the wrong was uncomfortable; not being taken to task for it was unbearable.
If only he had the consideration to vent his spleen, Vinnie thought, then she could be justifiably annoyed at him for overreacting to what was merely an unfortunate accident.
Vinnie knew full well that it was she who should be begging his pardon, but she’d never doused anyone before, let alone a personage so refined and handsome as the gentleman standing before her, and she was quite at a loss as to how to proceed. Reasonable options occurred to her—ring for a servant to help him remove his topcoat, provide him with a cloth so that he may dry his hair—but for some reason she couldn’t put any of these plans into action. All she could do was stare in horror as water dripped from his nose.
The situation was intolerable. She had to do something immediately.
“Turpentine,” she said with unexpected vehemence.
At this inexplicable communication, the gentleman raised one eyebrow. “Turpentine?” he repeated mildly.
For a moment, Vinnie was transfixed by the perfect elegance of his eyebrows. They were so dark as to be black, and the contrast between them and his aquamarine eyes was as unsettling as the eye color itself. His hair, cut a little longer than fashionable and just a shade lighter, intensified the effect.
Where was I?
“Yes, turpentine,” she repeated more calmly. “I’m working to improve the flexibility of the garden hose. You see, the modern garden hose is typically made of leather stitched together, which works well enough, but its utility is limited by the poor elasticity of the material, which makes it burst rather than stretch. In 1791, however, a shoe manufacturer named Samuel Brill patented a method by which he combined Indian-rubber and turpentine to make the leather of his shoes impervious to rain and puddles, and I thought that perhaps a variation on his method could be applied to the garden hose to improve its elastication.”
Even as she made her remarkable speech, Vinnie knew her behavior was beyond the pale. One didn’t talk at length on an obscure topic of no interest to one’s listener at the best of times. To do so when one’s audience was miserably wet was insupportable. And yet she couldn’t seem to stop herself.
“I have made six formulations so far,” she explained, “and this latest was the most promising. Indeed, it outscored its predecessors in all five categories, including ability to withstand increased water pressure, which is, of course, the most important measure. Admittedly, my technique is primitive, since I use a screw pump, which dates back to the ancient Egyptians. Archimedes, as you know, invented—”
Vinnie broke off midsentence when she noticed the bored expression on the man’s face. It was that look of utter ennui that finally gave Vinnie the self-possession to stop her aimless chatter and to say something sensible.
“I do apologize,” she exclaimed in a breathless rush, more embarrassed than she’d ever been before. It was one thing for a device like a garden hose to malfunction; that was a work in progress and could be improved upon with time and effort. But her inability to work properly could not so easily be fixed, and she knew it. She’d been like this her whole life—either as quiet as a church mouse or as chirpy as a magpie. For her, there no midway point between a lack of conversation and too much of the wrong kind. This defect explained why she’d never caught on with the members of the ton, despite being reasonably dowried and passably pretty. She’d managed to attach only one parti in her twenty-four years, and he turned out to be a traitorous spy who tried to end her sister. Instead, Vinnie had ended him.
And she knew if that story ever got out, it would be the end of her social career, such as it was.
“I’ve behaved atrociously. First, my hose explodes on you and then I compound the error by rambling on about inconsequential things,” Vinnie said, struggling for calm. Looking at him made sense harder to come by so she looked away. She reached for the bell tug to summon a footman, then rummaged through the side cabinet for something with which to dry him. She found an old cloth that was more rag than cloth and was sensible enough not to offer it to him. Clutching it anxiously in her fingers, she turned back to him and smiled with some effort. “I do hope you can forgive me.”
“Of course,” the gentlema
n rushed to assure her. “No doubt it’s my fault for startling you.”
The suggestion was so absurd—not just the scientific inevitability of increased water pressure and stiff leather but also the obviousness of the lie—that Vinnie burst into laughter. As if a dam had broken, she let free a torrent of giggles so intense it brought tears to her eyes. She knew this unrestrained amusement was a social faux pas as bad as the soaking and the babbling, but she didn’t care. There was something so liberating about sincerely felt mirth.
As the laughter subsided, Vinnie dabbed the tears from her cheeks with the worn cloth in her hand. Then she looked back up at the gentleman with her brightest, most genuine smile, intending to thank him for his generous description of the situation, but the look of annoyance on his face stopped her. With an abrupt hand, he swept his wet black hair back from his forehead, causing fresh droplets to course down his nose. It was the first indication that he was less than comfortable in his saturated state.
Vinnie felt a new wave of embarrassment—how all too brief that moment of liberation had been!—but refused to let herself be ruled by it. Instead, she straightened her shoulders and called upon the great good sense for which she was famous. Everyone knew Miss Lavinia Harlow was not given to frivolity. She was a capable young woman who was often sought out for practical reasons: advice on how to fix a drainage system, a partner to fill out a country dance. She vowed to apply her levelheadedness to the situation, and just as she was about to assure her company that she would have him dry and drinking tea in no time, a footman entered the room.
“Ah, Tupper, there you are,” she said, greatly relieved. Finally, the end of this appalling episode was in sight. “As you can see, this gentleman is in need of assistance. I’m afraid my garden hose experiment went sadly awry just as—”
She broke off as she realized she had no idea who the gentleman was or what business he had in the Duke of Trent’s conservatory. Should she pause now for introductions or brazen it out? She knew the former was the correct course of action, for her governess had impressed upon her that it was never too late to do the right thing, but she was loath to draw attention to the fact that she had previously done the wrong thing. Perhaps the lack of introduction had escaped the gentleman’s notice. He had been soaked by a cold rush of water, after all. Something like that tended to shift one’s focus.
Brazening it would be.
“And this poor gentleman was the unfortunate victim of my scheme,” she explained. “Please escort him to the red bedroom.” Why she specified the red room when the London town house didn’t any have such accommodation, she had no idea, other than a desire to appear in control of the situation. She knew Tupper to be an intelligent and able young man and was confident he would devise a solution that wouldn’t make her look like a complete ninnyhammer. “I’m sure the duke’s valet wouldn’t mind arranging for some clothes to be lent as a temporary measure. The two gentlemen seem to be of the same size, though I think perhaps the duke might have the advantage of a few inches. Additionally, tell Mrs. Wellburger”—actually, the housekeeper’s name was Mrs. Crenshaw but correcting herself now would make her appear foolish—“to send up tea and a light collation of cheese and meats. And lastly, please make my apologies to Caruthers for the mess caused by my unsuccessful garden hose experiment and leave a cutting of the Bletia purpurae in his room as a thank-you for his prompt attention to this matter.”
It went without saying that Tupper didn’t know a Bletia purpurae from a Cattleya skinneri—or, for that matter, a Rosa moschata, which was but a common garden rose—and she would have to clarify that later, lest he unwittingly damaged one of the duke’s favorite orchids. For now, however, she spoke with authority, confident that her audience knew she was competent and in charge.
Vinnie forced herself to look once more at the man with the unsettling aquamarine eyes whose name she didn’t know and curtsied. The whole ordeal had left her a little weak in the knees, which explained why she dipped far lower in her curtsy than was proper for a personage of nonroyal blood. If she had an ounce of room left in her body for more embarrassment, she’d be horrified that the unknown gentleman probably now thought that she thought he was the prince regent himself. But she didn’t have the room, so she simply straightened her shoulders and smiled politely. “I’m sure Tupper has everything well in hand, so I will take my leave of you. I apologize again for the mishap and appreciate your understanding. Good day, sir,” she said, meaning good riddance, and swept out of the room, determined to never think of him again.
The Duchess of Trent, formerly Miss Emma Harlow and still currently the Harlow Hoyden, laughed at the disgruntled look on her sister’s face.
“I’m sorry, my dear, but I simply don’t keep track of the comings and goings of everyone in this town house. I don’t even know where my own husband is, let alone anyone else’s,” she said, closing the book in her lap and straightening her legs, which were curled under her in the armchair. Prior to Vinnie’s interruption, she’d been employed in the very unhoydenish activity of reading quietly in her study while snacking on tea cakes. The room was large and cheerful, with dappled yellow flowers on the walls, a welcoming settee and oodles of bright sunlight pouring in through the windows. It was all a lady could desire in a study, yet Emma had been quite vexed when Trent had insisted she take it. She’d wanted something small and simple, a bare room with a fireplace and an armchair and perhaps a table on which to rest her teacup, preferably in the servant’s quarters or in the cellars. The problem with a large and cheerful study with a welcoming settee was that people felt welcomed.
Her sister didn’t count as people, of course. She never minded a visit from Vinnie, and some of her happiest moments in the London house had been spent in this very room reading while Vinnie worked on her horticultural text at the desk near the east-facing window.
“I didn’t say he was married,” Vinnie announced, plopping down on the settee, which her sister noted with fascination. Vinnie never plopped. She always lowered herself gently—onto chairs, benches, sofas, picnic blankets. Of course she did. Vinnie was the perfect lady, the pattern card of how a young miss should deport herself among the ton.
Emma didn’t know how she did it. Whenever she herself tried to abide by the constricts of society, she was inevitably undone by impatience or annoyance or boredom or a general impishness that could never quite be tamped down. It had, she admitted, been easier to stay out of trouble in the six months she’d been married to the duke, but that was because they’d been rusticating in the country for four of them. It was much harder to break the rules when there were so few of them.
“I said he was rude and awful and pompous and quite full of himself and insufferable, but I never said a word about his marital status,” Vinnie replied in a huff. “I wouldn’t presume to know it. As I mentioned, I don’t even know his name.”
Emma laid the book on the table next to her, piled several tea cakes onto a plate and plopped onto the settee. “Here,” she said, handing her sister the generous serving.
Vinnie accepted the dish with a quizzical look. “Why are you feeding me?”
“You must be hungry,” she explained.
“I must?”
“You always get out of sorts when you’re hungry.”
“I’m not out of sorts. I’m merely expressing my displeasure over an extremely disagreeable experience,” she said reasonably.
As her sister stared down at the tea cakes, Emma leaned over and wiped her cheek with a cloth.
“What are you doing now?” Vinnie asked.
“There’s a streak of dirt on your cheek. In fact, there are several.”
“What?” she asked, dropping the plate onto the settee as both hands flew to her cheeks. “Where?”
Emma laughed. “They’re just small streaks, and I think they show you to advantage. You look like a proper English lady enjoying a genteel afternoon in her garden.”
“Oh, that stupid cloth!” Vinnie said angril
y, imagining how absurd she must have looked issuing orders to Tupper with dirt stains on her face like a chimney sweep or a climbing boy. “I laughed so hard, I cried and then I dabbed at my tears with one of the cloths from the side cabinet where sundry supplies are kept. I should have known better. I did know better, which was why the awful rag was still in my hands.”
“But I thought the gentleman made you angry,” Emma said, reordering the scattered cakes on the dish and brushing the crumbs off the cushion.
“He did. Exceedingly angry. And then he said something that made me laugh uncontrollably,” she explained.
“Quite a range of emotions,” Emma observed and pressed the plate of tea cakes on her again. “No wonder you’re hungry.”
Lavinia was about to assure her for the second time that she wasn’t hungry—it wasn’t all that long since she’d had lunch—when Jane, the Dowager Duchess of Trent and Emma’s mother-in-law, entered the room.
“Ah, there you are, my dear,” she said with a delighted smile, as she directed the footman to lay an armful of ledgers on the table. “That will be all, Jepson. Thank you.”
Having the Harlow Hoyden as a daughter-in-law should have appalled the dowager duchess above all else, especially when she’d gone through the trouble of picking out the wonderfully proper Miss Portia Hedgley for her only son. But in fact Emma presented Jane with the one thing she loved more than propriety: a rehabilitation project. To her, Emma was like a provincial drawing room decorated in the outlandish Oriental style of the Prince’s Pavilion in Brighton. All she needed was someone with excellent taste to take her in hand and replace all those garish fixtures with good, old-fashioned English furniture. The dowager, of course, had the credentials: She was respected by her peers, feared by her juniors and generally held in high regard by her relations. If the Harlow Hoyden had landed in any other family in the kingdom, the stock of her new relations would have gone down. Of that, Jane was certain. But since the Hoyden had had the very good sense to land in her family, the stock of her new relations was sure to rise. The Dowager Duchess of Trent would do everything in her power to ensure it. The truth was, she had been waiting her whole life to stand on her consequence and was almost grateful to Emma for giving her the opportunity.
