by Donna Hatch
“At the river, you retrieved Miss Harris’s bonnet when no one else did, not even the gentleman courting her. This tells me you are thoughtful and caring and aren’t overly concerned with society’s opinion. Then you gave a coin to an urchin. That tells me you are generous and aware of others in need. But you didn’t approach the alley, which suggests you’re intelligent enough to stay away from danger.”
That day, she’d worn such a gentle, compassionate expression that Phillip had been unable to look away. At the moment, however, her mien retained that wariness he feared had become deeply ingrained. Somehow, he would prove to her he was not of the same ilk as the unworthy man who had hurt her.
He continued to expound on her admirable qualities. “And when Miss Harris grew frightened, you told her a story to keep her distracted, so you’re clearly imaginative and quick thinking.”
That day, she had been so animated in her role of storyteller that Phillip had wanted to put his head in her lap and listen to her for hours. He’d do it now, if she’d let him.
Now she watched him, carefully, as if seeking reassurance of his truthfulness.
Emboldened by her fixed attention, he said, “When you laughed instead of getting angry or weepy about falling into the Thames, I knew your character is strong and you are capable of finding humor even in mishaps.” Wryly, he added, “And you forgave me for causing you to fall in, which speaks volumes about your heart. I prize these qualities.”
They continued their slow stroll around the perimeter of the room. “I thank you for your kind interpretation of my actions, but this does not discount the fact that we are not social equals.”
Phillip winced. If she were the daughter of a poor country vicar, or a gentleman farmer, their differences in rank would be easier to overcome. Could he convince Suttenberg and Mother to give their blessing?
“Regardless, I wish to become better acquainted with you. And to enjoy your companionship.”
Her hand tightened. “If you are looking for a mistress, I am not of that inclination.”
He choked. “No, certainly not. I assure you, that is not my intention.”
“Then what is your intention?”
With the courage that had spurred him to tackle every new challenge he’d ever thought beyond him, he admitted, quietly, “To determine if you are the one my soul seeks.”
She stopped walking and looked into his eyes, all the hard edges in her expression softening until she looked sweet and vulnerable. Had he gotten through to her at all?
Her wariness returned. “Pretty words, but I have learned not to believe such things. Thank you for the turn about the room.”
She withdrew her hand and left him standing in the middle of the floor. Alone.
Chapter Six
Meredith tried and failed all evening to keep her focus on the game of whist at the Daubreys’ party. Mr. Partridge continued to invade her thoughts. Each time she weakened enough to look at him, he met her gaze with puzzled hurt. Her conscience gave her a sharp prod. Yet how could she trust him when he might be no better than the cads who’d lied to her in the past?
When the game ended and the guests stood or sat in groups talking and laughing, Aunt Paulette leaned close and whispered, “He’s fascinated with you.”
“He should know better,” Meredith snapped.
“He’s the very best ton, niece. Not only does he come from good family, but he has a reputation for being a very decent gentleman.”
“All the more reason for him not to be seen with me.”
“Meredith,” Aunt Paulette chided gently.
“Why on earth should I reach so high as the son of a duke? Not just any ducal family—the Duke of Suttenberg. No one could bear the scrutiny of being aligned with them.”
Aunt Paulette nodded sadly. “You would fall under the all-seeing magnifying glass of London’s worst social critics.”
“If my father’s profession didn’t bring condemnation on my head, my past would. Sooner or later, it would be revealed.”
“At least enjoy his company while you can. If you are seen with the brother of the Duke of Suttenberg, others will assume you are worthy of notice. This could be used to your advantage.”
“I will not use him, just as I will not be used by him—or any man.” Speaking of being used by a man, how did Miss Harris fare?
Meredith found her in a circle speaking with other young ladies her age. Mr. Morton approached and tapped Miss Harris’s shoulder. They spoke, and he gestured to the balcony. Meredith straightened. Was he trying to lure her outside and take advantage of her?
The young lady shook her head and glanced back at her friends, but Mr. Morton hovered nearby. Time for a rescue.
Meredith walked as quickly as possible to Miss Harris’s side. “Good evening, Miss Harris. Are you enjoying yourself?” She glanced at Mr. Morton in clear challenge.
He blinked at her as if uncertain how to proceed now that she had intervened.
Miss Harris, however, greeted her enthusiastically. “I had hoped to speak with you again this eve. Please, do tell me the end of that delightful story.” Though Miss Harris would not be classified as pretty, her sweetness gave her a certain appeal.
Meredith smiled. “If you wish. I did not imagine it would be such a popular story.” Mr. Partridge had, surprisingly, made the same request, and with such compelling earnestness that she would have found it hard to refuse him anything. Which made him exactly the kind of man she ought to avoid.
Quickly, she completed the tale. Miss Harris laughed over the ending. Still standing awkwardly nearby, her suitor smiled in an attempt to be part of the conversation. Meredith asked him benign questions and shrewdly watched him. Mr. Partridge was right; the gentleman showed no signs of the kind of smooth charm found in roués. Still, he might have a hidden agenda. Fortune hunters came in all packages.
An older woman bearing such a strong resemblance that she must surely be Miss Harris’s mother gestured. “Come along, Cora dear, our carriage awaits.”
Mr. Morton addressed Miss Harris. “Tomorrow, then, Miss Harris?”
Miss Harris nodded. “I look forward to it.”
Miss Harris explained to Meredith, “Tomorrow we are viewing the Earl of Tarrington’s private art collection. Would you come as well?”
Meredith considered. It would provide another opportunity to observe Mr. Morton and his behavior toward the sweet Miss Harris to determine whether she ought to issue a warning about the young lady’s suitor. “That’s very kind, but I wouldn’t wish to intrude.”
“Not at all. It’s a small group, but a few more won’t make any difference. Perhaps your cousin would join us? Annabel, isn’t it?”
Meredith smiled. “Yes. I’m certain she’d be delighted. And of course, we must seek permission from my aunt. Thank you for including us.”
As they explained their plan to Annabel, she happily agreed and sought Aunt’s permission. The party broke up as guests said goodbyes. Meredith, next to Annabel, followed her aunt and uncle outside.
A male voice, smoother than chocolate, called, “Miss Brown.”
Meredith turned. Mr. Partridge strode to her. Her breath stilled. How could she stay strong against him? Not only his handsome face, but his seemingly sincere words tugged at the loose threads of her resolve. One day, it may unravel fully, and she would be once more vulnerable to heartache. Twice was enough; she dared not risk a third.
“May I call upon you tomorrow?” That dimple appeared.
Fortunately, she had the perfect excuse to avoid spending time with forbidden fruit. “I have plans with friends tomorrow.”
His gaze darted to Miss Harris and then back to her. “Tarrington’s private art collection?”
She managed an articulate, “Er . . .”
“The very outing to which I had hoped to persuade you to join me.” Again, that tempting dimple shone like a lighthouse guiding her to his mouth. How would those lips feel against hers? Ahem! Really, she ought to control her
thoughts.
She glanced at Annabel, who smiled. No help from that quarter.
Mr. Partridge took a step nearer. “My friend Michael Cavenleigh and I would be delighted to offer you both a ride in my carriage.” His glance included Annabel before he looked to Aunt Paulette. “With your permission, Mrs. Stafford. It’s a landau—open and very proper.”
Her traitorous aunt, insensitive to Meredith’s concerns about Mr. Partridge, nodded with a kindly smile. “Of course you may escort them. I trust you’ll take good care of my girls.”
“You may count on me, madam.” He bowed. “Until tomorrow, then.”
No amount of pleading to be let out of tomorrow’s outing with Mr. Partridge’s tantalizing company succeeded in excusing Meredith from the trip to the private art gallery. Aunt Paulette and even Annabel held firm. Finally, Meredith mutinied the only way she knew how—wearing her oldest frock and pelisse and a plain, unadorned straw hat. Frowning, she descended the stairs, prepared to do battle with her aunt over her apparel, but Aunt Paulette only looked her over and gave her a knowing smile.
Mr. Partridge and Mr. Cavenleigh arrived. Mr. Cavenleigh, as usual, said little, though his expression remained pleasant. Mr. Partridge greeted them all with a wide smile. Did he know the power of his dimple?
As he offered Meredith his arm, he said, “What a pretty picture you make, Miss Brown. How refreshing to see such an elegantly simple ensemble.”
She looked down at her faded apricot frockcoat over her plainest cream morning gown. “You’re twitting me.”
“Not at all. It’s nice to see something so unadorned. Most ladies’ clothing is buried under mountains of lace and ruffles. Yours is tasteful and a breath of fresh air.”
Either he was a quick-thinking smooth talker or an unusual man with simple tastes. As the son of a duke, the likelihood of him being the former seemed great.
Under a gloomy, rain-laden sky, they stepped into the carriage. Mr. Partridge held Meredith steady as she stepped in. She clenched her teeth and put out of her mind the strength and gentleness in his hands. The seats sank under her, soft as a feather bed. Both gentlemen sat across from them, facing backward. Mr. Cavenleigh turned his focus to shops and buildings lining the road.
With a warm smile, Mr. Partridge locked his gaze with Meredith. “Thank you for accompanying us today on such short notice.”
“I couldn’t refuse.” Meredith shot a meaning look at Annabel, but it had no effect on the unrepentant gleam in her cousin’s eye.
“We’re happy to oblige,” Annabel chirped. “I have heard so much about the earl’s house and its astonishing art collection. Meredith has quite an eye for art.”
“Do you?” Mr. Partridge said, his eyes alight. “Have you a favorite artist?”
Meredith shot another warning look at her cousin, who seemed oblivious. Clearly, Meredith needed to work on her chilling glare. “Er, I’m not a true art aficionado, but I do enjoy Thomas Gainsborough landscapes. I also saw one by a living artist, Christian Amesbury, that caught my eye.”
“Ah, yes, Lord Tarrington’s youngest son. I’ve seen his work as well. It’s excellent. He did such a lifelike portrait of my mother that I always half expect it to turn its head.”
They chatted as they began the short distance to the London home of the Earl of Tarrington in Pall Mall near Green Park. The luxurious conveyance virtually glided over the cobbled streets. They turned a corner and met such heavy traffic that they could not proceed.
Mr. Partridge craned his neck. “I wonder what’s amiss.”
“It looks like an accident up ahead, sir,” the driver commented.
“It does, indeed.” Mr. Partridge stood. “Is that the Daubreys’ coach?”
Annabel caught her breath. “I do hope not.”
Mr. Partridge said, “I’m going to offer assistance.” As he stepped out, he shot a concerned look at Meredith. “Forgive me for abandoning you.”
Meredith stood. “I’ll help.”
She followed him down the sides of the street, stepping around groups who had gathered to watch.
He reached back and took her hand. “Stay close. I don’t want us to get separated.” His hand closed over hers, safe and reassuring. An illusion, surely.
With linked hands, they wound through vehicles, animals, and pedestrians until they reached the accident.
Mr. Partridge let out his breath. “It isn’t the Daubreys.” Still, he proceeded forward.
A town coach with a missing wheel tilted at a sharp angle nearly touching the ground. The other, a curricle, lay on one side, its axle shattered. Two sets of horses, still in their bridles, bits, and reins, pranced nervously nearby. Someone had thankfully unbuckled their harnesses from the damaged carriages. A coachman held the bridles of each teams’ lead horse, speaking in low, soothing tones, a contrast to the shouts of two men gesturing wildly at one another. Both teams danced and shook their heads trying to escape the hands that held them.
Mr. Partridge went to the two shouting men. With his voice turned away from her and the noises of the crowd, his words failed to reach Meredith, but both men instantly turned to him, raising their voices as if trying to plead their case to the newcomer.
Meredith approached the team dancing about most nervously. “There now,” she cooed to the lead horse. “All is well.”
As she stroked their noses and looked them over for injuries, they settled, their ears swiveling to hear her.
“They ain’t hurt,” the coachman said. “I checked ’em.”
Nodding, Meredith continued to speak to the horses as she rubbed their necks and noses. They ceased prancing and stood quietly, blowing out their breath in snorts.
“Are any of the riders injured?” she asked the driver.
“Nah. Jes angry. Blamed fool in the curricle careened around the corner. I couldn’t avoid ’em. Those young bucks with their fancy clothes got no sense a’tall.”
The men to whom Mr. Partridge spoke had ceased yelling. With Mr. Partridge as clear leader, gesturing and demonstrating, he and several bystanders lifted the two carriages. They half carried, half dragged them toward the nearest mews. How extraordinary that such a highborn gentleman would help perform a physically demanding task rather than leave it to the working class.
Meredith and the driver with the horses followed the ruined carriages as they limped under human power beneath an arch leading to the mews. They stopped in the mews courtyard. With the blockage cleared, traffic resumed streaming past the arch. Mr. Partridge continued to mediate until the men parted to see to their own carriage and teams.
He turned and smiled. “Forgive me for not attending to you.” He brushed the smudges off his tailcoat and cast a rueful glance at his no longer pristine attire. The disheveled appearance lent him a greater charm. That dimple didn’t help matters.
Almost against her will, she admitted, “You handled what might have been a dangerous situation.”
He shrugged. “I’m happy they didn’t come to blows. Shall we find Michael and your cousin?”
Humble too. Was he real? “Yes. I’m certain Annabel will be alarmed at my absence.”
“You’re close, aren’t you?” He held out his arm.
She took his elbow and fought the sense of safety accompanying his touch. “She’s a loyal friend.”
“Everyone needs such a friend.” With head high and walking at a sedate pace, he escorted her as if they were promenading at the park.
“She is not only a friend; I view her almost as a sister. I have none of my own.” Why she offered that personal information she could not imagine.
“I have one sister, and she’s so painfully shy that I wonder if she’ll ever be coaxed out of hiding.”
“Poor dear. I have never been shy. She must be lonely.”
He glanced at her. “You’re very astute. She has confessed to me of her loneliness, but she seems unable to speak when others are present and refuses to attend group gatherings where she might make friends.”
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br /> “Perhaps she will learn ways to cope. Is she very young?”
“She is not yet sixteen. My mother only managed to coax her to come to one small dinner party to announce that she is out, but has not succeeded to do so a second time. Still, you are probably right.”
He stepped in front of her, walking backward. “I know; I shall ask my mother to have a small dinner party and invite you and your family. She would probably like you. I know my sister would. Will you come?”
“To dinner with a duchess? Oh, no, I don’t think I could possibly—look out!” She gestured at the lamppost behind him, but her warning came too late.
He backed into the post and let out an oof. Frowning, he glanced over his shoulder at the lamppost. “Was that there a moment ago?”
His bewildered indignation tickled her funny bone. She tried to smother her laughter but only laughed harder.
He grinned and finally joined in. “Have I ever told you they called me ‘Mr. Suave’ when I was in school?”
“Oh, indeed?” she asked skeptically, still chuckling.
“No.” He made an exaggeratedly sad expression, which only sent her into peals of laughter.
“Good day, you two,” sang out Annabel.
The landau pulled up alongside. Again, Mr. Partridge held her steady, and again a sense of safety and comfort came with his touch. She should not, could not, would not allow herself to fall for him. Despite his growing list of admirable qualities, he had yet to prove he wasn’t after her virtue or dowry, despite her attempt to conceal the true amount. Why else would a duke’s son give the time of day to the daughter of a mill owner?
Chapter Seven
Phillip and his companions reached the impressive home of the Earl of Tarrington while a light rain spattered their clothes. He barely managed to keep his eyes off Miss Brown long enough to step out of the carriage. As a group, they proceeded between large columns to the main door, where they were admitted into the spacious entrance hall. The rest of the group gathered inside, their excited, hushed voices revealing their anticipation of touring the home of the Earl of Tarrington and his art collection.
