“The persimmon is not normally grown here,” he observed, biting into the soft, fibrous fruit. “Indeed, I know of none grown beyond Asia — other than in the Valencia region of Spain. How came you by these?”
“You are a wonder, sir,” Harriet said, shaking her head in amazement. “Are you an expert on every manner of food?”
“You have not answered my question.”
“Nor you mine,” she said teasingly, surprised at the companionable air between them. “They are indeed from Spain. Horace bought them for me down by the Surrey Docks. He knows I am always in search of imports from the Continent.”
They ate at the long worktable, where the servants usually took their meals. Lord Westwood did not look out of place here, even in his elegant double-breasted corbeau coat and cream breeches, but Harriet felt awkward in her stiff ball gown, which rustled audibly whenever she shifted in her chair.
“Wine-roasted,” he observed, savoring the meat. “Madeira?”
Harriet smiled. “You have quite a talent, my lord.”
“I have a talent for clumsiness.”
His blunt comment startled her, but she did not have to wait long for him to clarify. “I did not know about Lady Forth’s connection to Freddy, or to his death,” he said. “Please forgive my behavior.”
Harriet did not want to talk about that. “Your apology is unnecessary,” she said stiffly. “I do not set myself up as judge of others’ behavior. Indeed, I am quite tolerant.”
“Excessively so, it seems.”
“You imply that tolerance is a flaw,” Harriet rejoined. “The truth is, there is far too much intolerance these days.”
Lord Westwood speared another piece of meat. “Handing over your husband — or your betrothed — to another woman is tolerance in the extreme, is it not?”
“I have never handed any man to Lady Forth,” she said indignantly. “It pleases her to take them.”
“Oh, I daresay that after tonight she might think twice,” he said. “I’ll warrant you never tossed a rubber tree at her and Freddy.”
“That was an accident. Why do you not believe me?”
“What I believe is that you are a woman of some complexity who is blissfully unaware of the contradictions in her nature.”
Harriet stared at him. “Whatever do you mean?”
“You profess tolerance,” he said, “yet in a jealous pique fling potted plants —”
“Such hubris! May I remind you, my lord, that we are nothing to one another? I have no cause to be jealous.”
He gave her a long look. “And yet, even you must acknowledge that for a moment tonight you lost control.”
“I have never in my life lost control,” she insisted.
“I imagine that is what makes it so difficult to own up to it.”
Harriet looked away, but she felt him watching her.
“Control is a worthy objective, to be sure,” he said. “I confess that for many years, my temper got the best of me. I cannot remember what provoked it — no, I do remember, of course. It was my father. Always. We disagreed on almost everything.”
Curious, Harriet turned to him.
“I was given to smashing things in my rage, generally making a fool of myself,” he continued. “I could put it off on youth, but that is no excuse.”
“And yet, I have seen no such excess from you, sir,” Harriet said.
“That is because in the military I learned that to give in to anger, to lose control, is to risk death,” he said. “Only cool heads prevail in war. And so I taught myself to control my temper. But that sometimes comes at a cost.”
“I see no cost to equanimity, my lord,” she said. “Indeed, it is a state to be sought above all.”
“In many endeavors,” he agreed. “Business decisions certainly must be made dispassionately. But it is perhaps no coincidence that I spend my days searching for the spices of life.” He regarded her steadily. “Without that passion, I suspect I would be royally bored.”
And then, suddenly, his mouth curved upward in a grin — dear Lord, there was a dimple, there in his left cheek.
Oh my, Harriet thought.
“The problem you face is somewhat different,” he said.
Harriet found herself staring at his mouth, remembering that fleeting kiss he had given her in her foyer the night of her salon, wondering what it would be like if he kissed her in earnest. “It is?” she said absently.
“Yes. I have given the matter some thought,” he said. “I recognized my anger, but channeled it into other passions. You, on the other hand, deny the very existence of yours. That is why you tolerate such blathering idiots in your house —”
“I beg your pardon?”
“— and why you smile so brightly as another woman tries to seduce your betrothed, and perhaps why you ceded your husband to her without so much as a struggle.”
“I did not — ”
“And, why you care so much about that bakery —”
“Stop!”
“— but fear any genuine passion for a member of the opposite sex.” He sat back in his chair, looking, Harriet thought, rather pleased with himself. “Perhaps one day you will come to feel that there are passions worth fighting for.”
Harriet was aware of an odd ringing in her ears; it eclipsed her annoyance at his hubris. Passions worth fighting for — she did not know what that meant. But his words catapulted her back to the early days of her marriage, when her love for Freddy had soared, only to fall to earth as his perfidy became apparent. Whatever passions she’d felt for him had evaporated. Instead, she found comfort in the routine she had set for herself, uncluttered by any craving for something as extreme and unattainable as a grand passion.
But perhaps she had not succeeded in expunging all sentiment. Had she felt anger at Freddy for the manner in which he had conducted their marriage and the ungraceful way he had departed this earth? But no, the man was who he was. The blame was hers, for expecting loyalty and affection that were foreign to Freddy’s nature and for not being an adequate wife. Or so she had told herself.
And yet, here was this odd ringing, perhaps the sound of a carefully constructed world unraveling. Here was this man who scarcely knew her challenging the very principles she had taken as truth.
“My lord, I fear I must ask you to leave,” she said in a constricted voice. “My head aches and —”
“Not yet,” he said. “As it happens, I have discovered that I am obliged to you. It is a debt I intend to satisfy.”
“I do not understand,” she said.
He reached across the table and took her hand, so suddenly that Harriet nearly jumped. “I had not realized that your dowry provided a significant portion of Freddy’s investment in Westwood Imports, particularly that which enabled the company to expand after your wedding.”
“Oh.” Neither her father nor Freddy had ever informed her about any matter involving finances. Her father thought such things unseemly for a woman’s ears, and Freddy never troubled himself to explain anything.
“You did not know?” he asked.
Harriet shook her head.
“No matter,” he said. “It is clear that Westwood Imports would not have thrived without those funds. That fact does not alleviate my desire to stop the erosion of its worth caused by your selling off shares and distributing the proceeds to benefit your neighbors. Nevertheless, I am obliged to offer you an arrangement by which you retain some ownership, provided you refrain from such sales in the future.”
Harriet stared at him. “I would not accept a restraint upon my use of the shares.”
He frowned. “You wish to keep to our original bargain?”
“Yes.” Harriet massaged her temples. “Forgive me, my lord. This night has posed too many challenges. I wish to retire.”
“Of course.” He studied her. “Perhaps I may be of service in another way.”
Harriet eyed him warily. “How?”
“Your life is filled with too many distractions.
’Tis a case of the tail wagging the dog. I can remedy that.”
Harriet rose abruptly. “Setting aside that unflattering comparison, I feel compelled to state that the only trying distraction I face at the moment is you, my lord. I believe your hat is in the foyer.”
She whisked his plate away, although he managed to snare a last piece of meat with admirable quickness. “Your life is in shambles, madam,” he continued. “It is my duty as your putative betrothed and as a man in your debt to set things aright.”
She glared at him. “What things?”
“The salons. They are unnecessarily agitating. Henceforth, I will review the guest list before the invitations are sent.”
Was it only a moment ago she’d been contemplating the curve of his mouth? Now, Harriet yearned to stuff a towel in it.
“Lord Westwood?”
“Yes?” He eyed her benignly.
“Please leave my house.”
***
The kitchen stood empty, silent, and dark.
Celestial emerged from behind the pantry door, where she had slipped when the voices of Lady Harriet and Lord Westwood had drifted toward the kitchen. Then Horace stepped out, rubbing his arms stiffly. He pulled a deck of cards from his pocket.
“I had a good hand,” he groused. “I don’t know why we had to hide like common criminals. For damned near three quarters of an hour, too. I’m so stiff I can hardly move.”
“We were in the way. They wished to be alone.”
“Hmmph! As if that’s going to accomplish anything. They were at each other’s throats.”
“Not the entire time,” Celestial put in.
“Time enough,” he retorted, straightening his collar and brushing off his sleeve. “Don’t see how they have a prayer of marrying. I give the betrothal three weeks.”
Celestial regarded him thoughtfully. “He is drawn to her.”
“Of course,” Horace replied impatiently. “Lady Harriet is a fine woman. Don’t mean they ought to marry.”
“I think Lady Harriet is drawn to him, too.” Celestial smiled. “Imagine! She threw a tree at him and Lady Forth.”
“Means nothing. Women want only what they can’t have.”
Celestial’s smile faded. “What makes you say such?”
“A lifetime of learning, that’s what. Women can’t be trusted.” Horace wiped some crumbs off the table.
“You think all women are like that?”
Horace shot her a wary gaze. “Not all, I suppose. You’re a right enough one. But we’ve known each other for a few years. And there ain’t no funny stuff between us.”
“No,” Celestial agreed.
During the silence that followed, Celestial studied him as he straightened the chairs. The man was a mystery. He had always held himself a bit apart from the others in the household and adhered to his particular ideas as to what was and was not proper behavior in the service ranks.
Sometimes, Celestial felt his eyes on her, watching her, and she wondered whether he was merely inspecting the way she did her work or whether his interest went beyond his purview as head of the staff.
“It was rather close behind the door all that time, wasn’t it?” she ventured.
Horace ran his finger around the inside of his collar. “Hardly enough room to breathe.”
“I am sorry you were uncomfortable,” she said.
Horace did not respond, merely picked up the cards again and sat down at the table. He tapped the deck on its edge so that it formed a neat, perfectly aligned rectangle.
“I did not mind it as much as you.” Celestial joined him at the table.
He tapped the deck again and began to deal out the cards. He did not look at her.
Celestial took a deep breath. “I find your presence comforting, Horace. Even...stimulating.”
A card fluttered to the floor. Quickly, Horace bent down to retrieve it.
But as he bent upright again, Celestial plucked it from his hand. As their fingers touched, Horace froze.
Celestial placed the card on the table.
Quickly, Horace rose. “’Tis late for another game. Past time to retire.” But his feet did not move.
“Do you think you could bring yourself to like me, Horace?” Celestial asked softly.
“What? Why, I like you well enough, I suppose,” he said. “Don’t know why you’d think otherwise.”
“That is not what I meant,” Celestial said. She stood as well, and now there was very little space between them. “Could you bring yourself to kiss me, Horace?”
Horace’s eyes widened. “That wouldn’t be proper. Why, we have never —”
“No, we haven’t,” she agreed. “Could you?”
“Could I what?”
“Kiss me.” She looked up at him. Her lips parted.
Horace swallowed hard. “Damn it, Celestial. Ain’t proper. I don’t think — ”
“That’s right, Horace.” She put her arms around his neck. “Don’t think.”
CHAPTER NINE
“Beggin’ your pardon, my lord, but you never did learn to tie a cravat properly.” Henry eyed the pile of rumpled muslin at Elias’s feet.
With a sound of disgust, Elias threw his latest effort on the floor. “Spare me the lecture, Henry. I grew tired of waiting.”
“I was only gone for a moment,” Henry grumped.
“A moment to press the coat, half an hour to gossip with the footmen. I ought to hire a housekeeper. She would get far more work out of those two. And you, for that matter.”
Henry drew himself up. “The day a female has free rein in this household —”
“Enough.” Elias waved a dismissive hand. “See if you can discipline this into something presentable.” He handed Henry another length of muslin and absently began to hum.
Casting Elias a speaking look, Henry proceeded to fashion the fabric into a proper emblem of his employer’s rank. Henry had been with him for so long that Elias did not know what he would do without the man — even though he occasionally put his nose where it did not belong.
Last night, for example, Henry had been very curious as to why Elias had returned early from Lady Symington’s ball, especially since the countess was known to set a very fine dinner table. Being Henry, he had not hesitated to remark upon the subject.
“Not like you to turn down a chance at lobster patties,” Henry had pointed out. “And she probably had Gunter’s prepare a special dessert —”
“I had a perfectly adequate meal.” Elias was not about to confess that he had taken cold gammon and fruit in Lady Harriet’s kitchen and considered it a meal beyond price.
Nor could he say why he felt like humming this morning, especially since she had all but thrown him out of her house last night.
He should have realized from the outset that hurt was at the bottom of Lady Harriet’s singular way of looking at things. After all, it was a subject with which he had more than passing familiarity, thanks to Zephyr. But whereas he had acknowledged his pain — if not to the world, at least to himself — Lady Harriet buried hers, denying its cost. Elias hoped Freddy was being charred to a crisp in some eternal fire for causing her such misery.
Interestingly, their “betrothal” had taken on a new light for Elias last night. Despite her denial, nothing less than jealousy and anger could have prompted her to roll that tree at them. He understood her lingering anger at Lady Forth, but why jealousy? As Lady Harriet had said, they were nothing to one another. That thought would bear exploring.
“I found this in your pocket, my lord.” Henry held out a paper.
Elias glanced at it. It was the list Winston Stevens had provided of the people to whom he’d sold Lady Harriet’s shares. “That is for Jeremy. I have charged him with buying back those shares in Westwood Imports. Shouldn’t be too difficult, since I will pay a good price. Except for that Hunt fellow. The man plays a deep game.”
“Oliver Hunt?” Henry brushed a speck from the back of Elias’s jacket. “I’ve seen him hold
ing forth in the park. Draws a crowd.”
“I cannot like his manner,” Elias said. “He is too familiar by half with Lady Harriet.”
“Found this, too,” Henry added, holding out a lace handkerchief. “Has some letters sewn on it. One’s an F, looks like.”
Elias frowned. He had not known that Lady Forth had slipped her handkerchief into his tailcoat pocket. “You may return it to Lady Forth,” he said. “No, on second thought, do not. She will only take that as an invitation.”
Henry knew of Lady Forth. All of London did. She’d been Lord Worthington’s mistress. Perhaps she was in the hunt for a new protector. If Lord Westwood was in some intrigue with Worthington’s former mistress, that might be all to the good. But Henry only nodded and put the handkerchief into his own pocket.
Elias eyed his batman’s handiwork. “No one will fault you for my appearance, Henry. The cravat is perfection.” With an uncharacteristic grin, Elias nodded at Henry and left.
Frowning, Henry stared after him. His lordship had been humming. That was a bad sign. Lord Westwood never hummed — except when there was a woman. An image of Miss Zephyr Payne sprang unbidden to Henry’s mind. Miss Payne had made Lord Westwood hum.
He ought to have taken his lordship’s betrothal to Lady Harriet more seriously. Henry had assumed it was part of his employer’s scheme to regain control of his business, for the earl was a practical man and would do what was necessary to achieve his goal. But humming was not good. Humming meant that Henry’s life might very well change, and not for the better.
He was not about to take the chance that this betrothal might turn into a wedding or that he, Henry Milton, would end up in a house ruled by a woman.
Action was called for.
***
“I have had a letter from Squire Gibbs,” Monica told her as they took tea in the drawing room. “Oh, Harriet, I wish I were back in Worthington. London is too busy. Eustace has not been home three nights in a row. What does he do with himself, I wonder?”
“What all young men his age do,” Harriet replied. “Do not worry. Eustace has more than his share of common sense. He has grown into a man.”
Monica sighed. “I shall have to accept that fact, I suppose, but it is hard. For years I have done nothing but fuss over Eustace. I do not know what I shall do now.”
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