She admired the art, her thoughts not on the shades but on Harold—his kiss, his compliments, his everything. Thinking more to the continued success of his courtship, she mouthed with a barely audible whisper, “Well done.”
Chapter 17
Patrick arrived on horseback the next day, eager to hear the tidings from London and also desirous of an escape from his parents who had invited to tea a young lady readily available for matrimony. Since he arrived not long after Harold, Hazel, and Miss Plumb sat down for their own tea in the drawing room, there was not an opportunity for Harold to speak privately to Patrick. A candid talk would have to wait. With the London trip on Harold’s mind and the discovery of the scandal’s truth, he was champing at the bit to confide in Patrick.
If he had any doubts about sharing Miss Plumb’s misfortune, her behavior at the viscount’s arrival sealed his decision. Miss Plumb fluttered her eyelashes at Patrick after the initial greeting.
At such blatant flirtation, Harold raised his brows to Hazel. Hazel gave a little shrug and passed him his tea. Obviously, Hazel had not shared with her friend the preferences of the viscount. If Miss Plumb thought to ingratiate herself to the man or entrap him as a way to save herself, she would have a rude awakening, for not only would Patrick see through her ploy, he would laugh her out of the room.
Thus far, Miss Plumb had failed to make a favorable impression on Harold. On more than one occasion in the past two days, she had attempted to monopolize Hazel’s time and invite herself into an invitation he had extended only to his wife. He knew she was a guest. He knew she was alone. He knew she did not mean to intrude. Those factors did not excuse her. If she were a traditional guest, she would be entertained by her hosts morning, noon, and night. As it was, she was not a traditional guest, but a destitute woman invited to stay in their home until further notice. If she were to live here, she could entertain herself. At the very least, she could be conscientious of their needs.
That did not seem unreasonable, did it? He was polite to her, but that was all. From his perspective, the girl owed more gratitude to Hazel than she could pay in a lifetime, yet he did not see evidence of her appreciativeness, only a dependency on Hazel’s goodwill. He hoped this perspective did not make him insensitive. His heart went out to her, truly. Foolish though she may have been, a young woman had little defense against a man like Lord Driffield and his ilk. Under different circumstances, it could have as easily been Hazel, not in rumor but in fact. That did not convince him to forgive Miss Plumb for trying to steal the attention of his wife. And now she was trying to ply Patrick with flirty glances. Devious.
Some minutes into the conversation, Hazel set down her teacup. “Is it too cold for the wilderness walk? I think a stroll along the lake sounds invigorating.”
It was too cold, Harold thought, but a walk would provide him the opportunity to separate Hazel from Miss Plumb. On second thought, perhaps he ought to rescue his friend. A glance to Hazel’s pink lips settled the matter. Patrick could hold his own.
Within a quarter of an hour, bundled for the biting wind, the troupe traipsed outside for the wilderness walk. The wind kept its promise. It nipped at exposed skin, sending shivers down Harold’s spine. The temperature, however, had warmed noticeably since yesterday, the determined sun high above. Cups of chocolate might not be necessary today.
As Harold stepped towards Hazel to offer his arm, Miss Plumb intercepted, tucking her hand under Hazel’s elbow to lock arms. He grumbled to himself but let her have this victory. Just this one.
Patrick smirked and offered his arm to Harold.
“Cheeky.” Harold clasped his hands behind his back and walked alongside his friend.
While it presented an opportunity to talk, it did not offer the privacy he would need to talk about the more sensitive topics he had in mind. Not that he could concentrate. With Hazel and Miss Plumb walking ahead of him, he had the fine view of Hazel’s shapely derriere. Granted, he could not actually see the shape of it or her figure past the winter cloak, but there was a noticeable jiggle where he thought her derriere ought to be. He leered, feeling like a prized jackanape. Next to Miss Plumb, Hazel’s figure showed to advantage, even with the figureless cloak blocking her assets. Miss Plumb was tall and slender, all boney angles. Perhaps some men found that attractive. Hazel, however, was of petite height with delectable curves. This was not the first time he had admired her physique, but now he did so with renewed appreciation, the appreciation of a husband. More to the point, the appreciation of a man wooing a young lady he hoped to seduce mind, body, and heart.
A handkerchief waved in front of him, blocking his view.
“For your drool,” Patrick said.
Harold cringed. “That obvious?”
“That obvious.”
Taking the proffered kerchief, Harold dabbed at his chin and wiped at his waistcoat before returning the linen.
“Now who’s cheeky?” Patrick tucked it back into his waistcoat pocket. “I called on your ladylove while you were in London, you’ll be envious to know.”
“So I’ve heard. A little birdy told me you sang my praises. Whatever you said made an impression.”
“How could it not? I told her you saved kittens from burning barns in your spare time.” Patrick winked. “I spoke only truths, my good man. From the way she keeps looking over her shoulder at you, the impression was more than favorable. She’s smitten.”
Coy would have been Harold’s choice of descriptor, but he would take smitten. He would also take beautiful. The wind had pinkened her cheeks most becomingly.
Slowing his pace just enough for the ladies to be out of hearing range, Harold said sotto voce, “I’ll call on you in a day or two. Much to discuss.”
Patrick cocked his head. “Intrigue. Suspense. In regards to?”
“London, investments, a certain earl.”
“Developments, I see. Speaking of a certain earl, a certain guest’s presence is curious. I’m all agog. Give me a hint or I’ll perish of anticipation.”
Harold slowed their pace a tad more since the ladies had slowed theirs, obviously hoping the gentlemen would catch up.
Not wanting to appear too obvious about holding back his friend for a private conversation, he said brusquely, “The earl prefers plums to hazelnuts,” then enlivened his steps to reach his wife and guest who had all but come to a complete stop.
Although Patrick’s forehead wrinkled in surprise, he did not respond. The ladies turned to face them at the fork in the path. Miss Plumb relinquished Hazel’s arm only when Patrick offered her his arm in its place. The man must be a saint. Harold did not give him a chance to change his mind. He linked arms with Hazel and drew her close to his side.
Beaming at him, Hazel said, “I’ve decided to host a supper party next week, with the help of Helena and Nana, of course.”
Harold replied, “To what do we owe this honor?”
“Not to what,” she said, “rather to whom. It’ll be my first endeavor to matchmake Agnes with an eligible bachelor.”
Miss Plumb turned red, and not from the wind chill. “Hazel!”
Hazel tittered. “I think a widower might do. Someone who is charmed by accomplished and stunningly beautiful ladies.” Looking to Patrick she said, “Harold won’t approve of me matchmaking, but once he sees how very good I am at it, he’ll have to admit I’m right. I aim to impress him, you know.”
Patrick laughed. “What makes you think Miss Plumb with all her stunning beauty and accomplishments needs your help finding a husband?”
“But it’s not about finding a husband, Lord Kissinger. It’s about finding the right match. Anyone can find a spouse, but not everyone can find their perfect love match. If you were to entrust me, I could do a bit of matchmaking for you, as well.”
This time it was Harold’s turn to exclaim, “Hazel!”
Patrick merely laughed more j
ovially. “You offer a fine character reference for your services, but I don’t believe you could invite anyone who would entice me, and certainly not tempt me to leave bachelorhood behind.”
With a twinkle in her eyes, she said, “That, my lord, is a challenge I accept with relish.”
Harold was practically growling as they turned towards the lake, but he was too amused by his wife to scold her. Instead, he tightened his hold on her arm to draw her flush against his side and guided her in the direction of the boathouse, still some distance away. As he had done with Patrick, he slowed their gait in hopes Miss Plumb and her escort would gain distance.
Hazel squeezed his arm. “Are you trying to get me alone, Mr. Harold Hobbs?”
He grinned but said nothing.
“This must be the start of stage three of wooing,” she said. “How many stages are there?”
“However many it takes for you to be so enamored with me that you lose count.”
They drew ever closer to his destination, a two-story, stone structure built by his grandfather. The bottom floor housed the boats and opened onto the lake. The floor above was empty but had a Juliet balcony to take in the views. At one time, the space might have served as lodging for a groundskeeper or domestic boatswain, or perhaps additional equipment.
Once Patrick and Miss Plumb walked past the boathouse, Harold asked, “Would you care to see where the boats are stored?”
Hazel stared askance. “Hmm. That doesn’t sound as appealing as a row on the lake or hot chocolate. Is there a reason you think I might enjoy seeing boats in storage?”
“There is.”
She slowed, eyeing him suspiciously. “And what might be that reason? You’ll have to do far more than this to induce me into a cold, wet building.”
Harold leaned down to whisper in her ear. “I’m hoping to kiss you again.”
Hazel snapped around to face him, nearly bumping noses with him. She made to speak, laughed instead, then side skipped, giving his arm a tug. He took that as a promising sign he was going to do more than hope.
Heedless of Patrick and Miss Plumb, Hazel screeched, “Catch me if you can!” and raced for the boathouse.
All Harold’s attempts at discretion failed as the duo ahead turned to watch Hazel skipping and laughing with Harold having no other course of action than to chase her, grinning like a boy on twelfth night. She reached the double doors first, unlatched them, and wrenched open one squeaky side before disappearing into the darkness beyond.
Had he thought to do so, Harold would have stopped to offer a brief apology to the members of their party, but his mind was focused on a singular beauty, her pink lips, and her jiggly derriere. In the stretch of a few feet, he had lost all semblance of a mature adult. His one thought, if it could be said that he had a thought outside of an alluring woman named Hazel, was that this had turned from being an attempt to make a potentially unpleasant union into a workable marriage to blossoming into a romance, a passionate and undeniable attraction between two people.
In short, he was confident Hazel liked him.
Following suit, Harold darted past the wooden door into the semi-darkness of the boathouse. He stopped just inside when he did not find her waiting for him. A vaulted opening at the opposite end invited light through the slats of the closed waterway doors, but the only light on his side of the room spilled in from the open entrance. His eyes tried to adjust. He listened for the rustle of her petticoat. Silence. The only sounds the echo of water lapping against the wind and the gentle howl of funneled air.
Just when he was about to call her name, a hand reached out from the alcove behind him and pulled him into the blackness.
Caught off guard, he pivoted and stumbled, landing with one hand braced against the cold wall, his body pinning Hazel to the stone. She gasped then giggled. Saucy bird! This had been intentional. Perhaps not exactly how she envisioned, but most decidedly intentional.
In the shadowed recesses of the alcove, he could make out her outline. Capturing her cheek in his palm, he combed his fingers into her scalp, disheveling her tightly curled rows. As he angled to find her lips, she shocked him to the tips of his powdered hair by standing on tiptoes, clasping his arms, and kissing him first. Their lips met, hers moist and parted. Any plans he had for a stolen kiss with puckered lips were lost to the bold invitation of his wife.
Harold slipped his tongue past the parted seam to tease and tantalize hers. He flicked, licked, and kneaded until they both moaned, her fingers digging into his upper arms and pulling him closer against her. Winter layers be dashed, he nestled himself firmly between her legs. She arched her back in greeting, rubbing against his erection.
He groaned then leaned back, kissing her cheeks, her eyelids, her forehead, back to her mouth, then her cheek again. A turning point in their relationship? Undeniably.
“I do believe,” she said, breathless, “you promised me a kiss.”
After a throaty laugh, he asked, “Then what do you call what we just shared?”
“No, no, no, that was me kissing you. It doesn’t count. You still owe me a kiss.”
With the steady pulse of fire flowing through his veins, he dared not tempt another, not here, not with their guests waiting outside.
“I’m afraid, Hazel love, it’ll remain a kiss owed.” He caressed her cheek with the backs of his fingers, enchanted by her. “Come, I need to pin your curls. Step out into the light so I don’t make more of a mess.”
His fingers trembled as he pinned the curls back into their tidy rows. How was he expected to carry on through the day after such intimacy? His body, his mind, his heart, they all thrummed with awareness. Hazel appeared similarly affected. Her cheeks and neck were flushed, her lips red and ever so slightly swollen, her eyes half-lidded with heavy lashes.
They stayed in the boathouse for several long minutes, embracing the cool air, taking in deep, slow breaths. Neither spoke. He wanted to ask if he could come to her tonight, but he had not the courage. Not yet. They had shared only two kisses. They had spoken truths only two days prior. He would wait until she invited him.
When they finally stepped out of the boathouse, it was to find they were alone. Neither Miss Plumb nor Patrick were anywhere in sight. How much trouble could a woman in the family way and a gentleman who preferred the sterner sex get into if left unchaperoned? With a shrug, he and Hazel headed back to the house.
Agnes turned her head this way and that, angling for a better look at her lady’s maid’s styling. “Don’t you think he’s handsome? I’m inclined to say he’s the handsomest man of my acquaintance.”
With a slow drawl, Hazel said, “Yeeees, he’s handsome.” She eyed her friend warily. “I don’t, however, think that’s an avenue you ought to consider.”
Agnes waved a dismissive hand. “He already told me he’s not the marrying kind, prefers the tall, dark, and handsome, he said, but I can still find him handsome, can’t I? One needn’t bed a man to find him handsome.”
“Agnes!” Hazel shrieked, appalled by such talk.
The two sat in Agnes’s dressing room, the latter still preparing for the rout Hazel was hosting that evening. Dressing had turned into a multi-hour affair. The dress Hazel had given Agnes had needed substantial adjustments to fit Agnes’s figure, the lady’s maid letting down the bottom hem and arms for length, taking in the waist, expanding the bust, and so much more. The dress was nearly unrecognizable. It would all be worth it to see Agnes safely wedded.
The rout had been prepared over the past several days with the help of both Helena and Nana, especially in selecting the guest list. Card tables and refreshments were the highlight of the evening, intended to provide opportunity for conversation that a supper party would not allow. Neither woman knew of Agnes’s circumstances, but both were excited about matchmaking plans. Since Hazel could not very well host a rout with only men for guests, unmarried men at t
hat, an equal ratio of ladies had been invited, including a few married couples, but Helena had selected with care the ladies to be invited—no one who would offer Agnes any great competition. Helena won favor with Hazel during one particular planning discussion by suggesting a few gentlemen who might turn Lord Kissinger’s head.
“A pity he’s not the marrying kind,” Agnes continued. “I’m already taken with him.”
Hazel shook her head. “Clearly he was warning you away.”
“No, it wasn’t like that. We spoke candidly, as friends, picking up where we left off from the hunting party. I even told him about my situation.”
“Agnes, no!”
“I know I shouldn’t have said anything, but it seemed natural. It’s as though we were separated at birth, he and I, destined to become the very best of friends. We disclosed secrets we never thought to share. I’m sure Mr. Hobbs will disapprove. He doesn’t like me, even if Lord Kissinger does.”
Hazel could not disagree on that point. While Harold had not spoken to her about Agnes, she could tell he was annoyed by her.
Instead of disagreeing, Hazel said, “You’ll both warm to each other after a time. It’s inevitable that my best friend and my husband should get along.”
Much to the consternation of the lady’s maid, Agnes turned to face Hazel. “I know you’ve forgiven me, but I shall never forgive myself for putting you in this position. Is it horrible? Is he horrible? He couldn’t be more of a stuffed tart if he tried, always so serious, a right bore. He’s nothing at all like the man I envisioned you marrying.”
“You’re quite wrong about him.” Hazel blushed and looked down at her hands. “He makes me laugh. And he’s kind, and romantic, and ruggedly good looking, and…” Her words trailed off as she tried to capture what her heart felt about a man she knew so little about. “He’s the kind of man I believe I could love.”
“But could he ever love you?”
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