Coat snug about his frame, Harold faced the crisp air of the outdoors. Grey skies shrouded the estate. Guests milled about the lawn, anticipating the walk to the lake.
At the far end of the knot garden, he spied a small group of ladies, namely those his mother had invited for him to consider for a potential bride. They collectively twirled their parasols at the sight of him. Luck would not be on his side today for he knew he would have to row each out onto the lake. If he did not volunteer for the task, his mother would find the means to arrange it. For now, he could delay the inevitable. Patrick stood at the center of the garden, sharing a word with his father the Earl of Winthorp.
Hastening his steps before one or all of the ladies intercepted him, Harold approached the gentlemen duo.
After the earl excused himself, Harold jested, “May I use you as a shield?” He indicated the ladies with a discreet angle of his head.
“I have more need for a shield than you do. A pity you aren’t still intended for Miss Trethow—who I notice is conspicuously absent from festivities again. As is her friend Miss Plumb. Quite the pair, those two.”
Harold’s thoughts flashed to yesterday. “I believe her attention is engaged elsewhere.”
Patrick eyed him in question, but Harold refrained from sharing what he witnessed.
Instead, he turned the conversation. “Did your mother decline to come because her schedule overflowed with invitations or because she’s still angry you didn’t take to her nudges of marriage with Miss Snow?”
“Hardly nudges.” Patrick snorted a laugh. “She invited the poor girl to dine with us every night for a week and spoke of nothing but how much she wanted to arrange a wedding breakfast. Some of the more indelicate remarks included her description of how delicious we’d look side by side at said breakfast. Yes, she’s furious at me and sees this party as a wasted effort for her matchmaking.” With an expression that was partly sheepish and partly smug, he added, “I might have refused to attend the final supper with Miss Snow.”
Harold chuckled. He could readily imagine the Countess of Winthorp’s reaction.
“Don’t laugh. Her antics were mortifying! One of these days she’ll land me in real trouble.”
“Or,” Harold suggested, “you could pick one, marry, and be done with it. The heir must ensure the line and all that.”
“Do you think Mother would have an apoplexy if I brought home Lord Brooks?”
“Brooks? I thought you had better taste.”
Patrick cast a sly smile. “Then you’ve not heard his reputation.”
“About being Casanova in disguise?”
Patrick threw his head back and laughed but said no more on the subject. His attention turned to something or someone beyond Harold’s shoulder.
“Joy. Your admirer Miss Evans has brought a friend.”
Harold turned to find the ladies descending on them like vultures. With a practiced skill, Miss Evans directed her friend to take Patrick’s arm, then took the arm Harold had not yet offered, and nudged him to walk about the garden.
For whom he should feel more pity, he could not say. They would both need to find a bride at some point in life, but neither faced an easy task. Harold had expectations for his future wife that not many women of his acquaintance could meet. Meanwhile, Patrick would never find a woman who met his expectations since his desired partner could only be found among the sterner sex. And yet here they were, persuaded none-too-gently to walk Miss Evans and Miss Whateverhernamewas around the garden.
How much simpler life had been when he had known his bride would one day be Miss Trethow. As wealthy as her father, it would seem the man had not set aside a tempting enough dowry for Lord Collingwood, perhaps because he never thought he would need to with an alliance arranged between friends. Alas, it was for the best they were no longer paired by their parents. As attractive as Harold found her, they would never suit, and he would not soon forget her dalliance with Driffield.
Hazel peered out of the narrow casement window at the end of the upstairs hall. Unlatching it, she nudged the window open, hoping to catch a word or two from below. Mr. Hobbs was walking the garden with Miss Evans. A short distance from the pair Lord Kissinger and Miss Lytle strolled together.
With a wistful sigh, Hazel imagined she was walking the knot garden. Missing the boating would be the worst part. Ever since discovering there was a lake, she had longed to ride in one of the boats. Instead she was stuck indoors on a perfectly remarkable day.
Hazel sulked and slumped a shoulder against the wall.
Now, now, Hazel. Pouting does not become you. She scolded herself, pouting nevertheless. This was not about her; she tried to remember. There would be ample opportunities for her to find love. Agnes, however, was not so fortunate. Agnes was the priority.
Hazel’s only concern now was seeing to Agnes’s happiness, marital bliss, and security. Luckily, she had not had to do much work in securing clandestine meetings between Lord Driffield and Agnes, for the earl sent Agnes discreet invitations every so often to meet him somewhere private. Each time, Hazel escorted Agnes and stood sentry. Just as she had done yesterday in the woods. Just as she was doing now while the two conversed in an upstairs parlor. It would not be long before he made their betrothal known. It would not be long before he whisked her away to elope. Once married, Agnes would be free of her father. When seen from that perspective, wanting a boat ride on the lake seemed trivial. How childish of Hazel to pout in the hall when her friend’s future hung in the balance. How selfish.
And yet…
Hazel’s gaze flicked back and forth between Lord Kissinger and Mr. Hobbs, each time resting on Mr. Hobbs for longer stretches of time. Kissinger was undeniably handsome, arguably the handsomest guest. His look was not as fashionable as Driffield’s or Brooks’s, but he bore a confidence that surpassed their arrogant ennui, a genuine sort of confidence, as though he were the kind of man a lady would want by her side should a highwayman accost the carriage. As handsome as he was, Hazel’s eyes betrayed her. They found their way back to Mr. Hobbs every time.
Was it the fairy tale romance of the forest with the slants of light filtering through leaves in a diamond mosaic that had enchanted Hazel for the briefest of moments yesterday, or had she felt an inexplicable connection to Mr. Hobbs?
He was as contradictory as he had been at supper, if not more so. Prim and proper of dress, no frills but fine tailoring, all with a conflicting element of savagery about him. It was not the tan of his skin or the dishevelment of his hair this time—his hair, after all, had been styled and powdered—rather a certain something in his tawny brown eyes. He seemed, for all the world, like a man in his element, at home in the woods and outdoors, a man full of natural passion.
Hazel had tingled from head to toe. What if she heeded her father’s desire for an alliance with the family? What if she made herself agreeable to Mr. Hobbs? Was it possible that he could incite the sort of passion that—but no, how silly.
Thinking of passion and Mr. Hobbs in the same sentence was wholly ridiculous. He was stiff and polite, nothing more. Not even his appealing aroma of spices, coffee, and starched linen could convince her there was passion, not even the impishness in his eyes. If she set out to turn his head, she could be stuck forever with a lifeless, loveless marriage to a dried stick.
She watched him lean closer to Miss Evans to hear whatever the shameless flirt was saying. As Hazel admired his profile, she could not recall what it was she disliked about him.
“Allow me to show you…” said a trailing voice from the main stairwell in the hallway beyond.
There was a chattering of voices, a group in conversation, all audible above the creak of floorboards as they moved from the stairwell to the hall. Hazel cast a longing glance at the knot garden then readied her smile to greet the guests.
Guests.
People coming down the hallway
.
Good Lord!
It struck Hazel like a chamber pot to the head. She was supposed to be standing guard, the ever-mindful sentry, championing Agnes who met privately with her true love to arrange their wedding or elopement or whatever it was they would plan. So enraptured in her own selfishness Hazel had forgotten her purpose. Why were guests coming upstairs? They were all supposed to be heading to the lake!
This was a disaster.
But it need not be so. It had all been well planned. Follow the plan, Hazel. Follow the plan.
Hazel darted to the parlor door. Her heart galloped. Her hands shook. Her ears buzzed.
For the split second she had before the guests would round the corner into this hallway, she inhaled a lungful of air to calm herself. Cool, calm, collected. There was nothing improper about two young ladies sharing conversation with a gentleman in a parlor, each other acting as chaperone. She would make for the chair by the window, take a seat, and strike up the most mundane conversation. All as planned.
Lump lodged in throat, Hazel rapped smartly on the door, then stepped inside as casually as her trembling limbs allowed. She clicked the door shut behind her and surveyed the room.
She gasped.
Her hand covered her mouth to muffle the sound. So loud and so startling had been the gasp, it would be any wonder that the guests down the hall did not hear it.
On the couch was a tangle of limbs. A tangle of everything. A tangle of impropriety and sin and…passion. Driffield, coatless, leaned over a partially clothed Agnes. Her lips were swollen, her neck puckered in red, her dress unlaced and lowered about her shoulders. Before Hazel could determine if that was a bare shoulder, a bare knee, or a bare breast, a flutter of fabric flew about Agnes as she shrieked, leapt off the couch, and bolted for the adjoining door at the back of the parlor into what Hazel hoped was an anteroom and not another hallway full of guests.
What must have been mere seconds felt like hours. For at least two of those hours, Hazel could not move. She stood stunned. Appalled. Intrigued.
Then she panicked, although she aimed to affect calm. It would not do for anyone to see her panicking. This situation was still under her control. However, she could not very well follow through with the plan of taking a seat and starting conversation, neither could she leave by the door she had come since she would be seen leaving the parlor which now only Driffield occupied. Her only option was to follow Agnes.
From Driffield’s expression, he had not been made aware of what Hazel’s presence signified. He looked, briefly, sheepish, as though Hazel was the intruder who had caught them in a sordid embrace rather than the chaperone meant to save them from impropriety. But then, his expression changed. She did not fully understand the change. His eyes roamed over Hazel head to toe. Assessing her level of threat? Assessing her level of secrecy? Assessing…what?
Not caring if she ever found out, she gave a little curtsy then walked across the room, intent on dashing to the adjoining door as soon as she passed the couch.
Driffield met her halfway. “Am I to take it it’s your turn?”
Hazel blinked her confusion as she made to step around him.
He caught her waist in a severe grip. “Had my little colt not been so skittish, we could have enjoyed a ménage à trois.”
Before she could grasp his meaning, he pulled her against him and captured her mouth with his in a suffocating force of hard lips, abrasive teeth, and saliva.
Her first kiss, the one she had dreamt about for so long, happened in a startling moment of horror and disgust. Bile rose to her throat. Her lips clamped close against his probing tongue. Her body turned cold.
Recoiling, she pressed her hands against his chest and tried to angle her face away from him.
He released her more swiftly than she expected, his expression reflecting her own confusion and anger. She stumbled away from him just as the parlor door opened to a cacophony of voices.
Chapter 7
The silence was more accusing than words. Hazel stared wide eyed at the astonished faces of no less personages than her father, Lord and Lady Collingwood, and Mr. and Mrs. Butterbest.
Mortification flushed her face crimson as she realized how damaging the situation must look, her lips likely as red as Agnes’s had been, her skin as pink, never mind for far different reasons. Driffield reaching to don his coat did not improve the circumstance.
In all ways, Hazel’s life had been one of ease, her future bright with promise. Her father doted on her. Her brother admired her. Her mother, who she had no memory of since Mrs. Trethow died in childbed with Hazel’s brother Cuthbert Walter, was said to have adored her. Teghyiy Hall was as lucrative as a modestly sized estate could be. Never once had Hazel wanted for something. Although her father had made that childhood promise with Lord Collingwood to marry their children, it had not been much spoken about, Hazel understanding herself free to choose love if she wanted rather than an arrangement. Yes, her future had always been bright, full of possibilities, promises, and freedoms.
How curious that in a single second, life could shift irreversibly. Like a branch snapping. A cup shattering. She watched her life splinter as though she were removed from the situation, as though she were a spider perched in a far corner of the room, observing the scene from its web. Poor girl, said the spider. From champion to harlot.
Mr. Trethow spoke first, his cheery voice contrasting the gravity of his daughter’s having been compromised. “Are we to be the first to share in congratulations?”
Lady Collingwood spoke next, her words trilling with excitement. “How diverting! Tonight’s supper will feature a betrothal announcement!”
Plans escalated faster than Hazel could comprehend. One moment she was staring at a doorway full of shocked faces, and the next she was listening to plans for her wedding to Lord Driffield as she remained dazed and silent.
No! she shouted above the commotion, not realizing her mouth did not move and her voice did not sound. No! He’s Agnes’s love, not mine. And for all his charm, he fooled us. He’s a rogue; don’t you see?
“In the chapel, of course, the morning of the soiree,” Lord Collingwood was saying.
“No, I want to organize a wedding breakfast; we couldn’t possibly hold it the same day as the soiree,” Lady Collingwood was responding.
They all carried on saying and responding, Hazel hearing naught but a quarter of it.
“Ahem.” A throat cleared. Loudly. Pointedly.
A few voices died down.
“Ahem.” The throat cleared again. Louder. More pointedly.
Silence filled the room again.
Hazel’s eyes met Lord Driffield’s.
“I’m afraid,” Driffield began, “your plans are not to be.”
A pregnant pause.
“You see, I’m already betrothed.”
Hazel closed her eyes and exhaled. And so, it was all settled between him and Agnes. Hazel was one part relieved and one part distressed. How was she to tell Agnes the truth of his character? To do so would break her heart, and should Agnes cry off because of it, she would return to her father, a worse fate in Hazel’s estimation. She dared not ask the more pressing question—what would happen to herself?
After a collective gasp, Driffield said, “To Lady Felicia. We’ll be making the announcement at her mother’s opening ball this Season, followed by a wedding at St. George’s. I trust you all to keep my confidence until then.”
With that, his lordship gave a curt nod and took his leave of them.
For half an hour Hazel awaited her fate in the anteroom to the Trelowen study, staring sightlessly at animal décor and inhaling the stench of cigars. Her handkerchief dangled limp and sodden from her fingertips. She had cried until there were no more tears to shed.
It was not for herself she cried, although there was a great deal about her situation to mourn—he
r planned come-out in the spring, her trip to London, her chances at love, her relationship with her father; the list was long. Despite all, she cried for the repercussions her loved ones would face for her poor decision. Nothing would change the disappointment her father must feel. All the countless freedoms he entrusted to her had been slapped in his face with this situation, with what he thought she had been doing in the parlor. Her fault or not, she must face the consequences, the censure, the damage to her relationship with her father and how he viewed her. His own reputation would be damaged. Her brother’s reputation would be damaged. Lord and Lady Collingwood would face censure, as well, since this had happened under their roof.
Even if she explained the situation, it would make everything worse, for she would be confessing to aiding two unmarried people in a tryst. Not only would Agnes be dragged into this and ruined, but Hazel’s reputation would not be salvaged, for she was an accomplice to impropriety and caught in a compromising position with the very man she had supposedly set up to meet with Agnes. No, explaining the situation would make everything far worse.
Hazel could laugh. Of all the upset, what made her cry the hardest was her first kiss. It was beyond absurd to mourn that, but there it was, her handkerchief as evidence. The kiss she had longed to receive had been stolen. How could she ever rid herself of the memory? Of the taste? The cut on the inside of her bottom lip where tender flesh had met teeth would heal, but the memory would remain. May she never be kissed again. She washed her hands of the whole business of kissing.
So childish, she thought, wadding the soggy kerchief in her fist. So childish to be upset over a kiss. Hazel sniffled.
Her nose burned. Her eyelids ached when she blinked. She must look a fright.
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