Reforming Harriet

by Eileen Putman

  The batman glowered. “Oh, yes. No choice about anything, even what to think. An incessant meddler, always telling a man his business.”

  “A quality she shares with her sister.” Elias had little difficulty surmising the identity of the female giving Henry such fits. “Interesting eyes, though.”

  Henry stared at his employer. “Haven’t noticed the state of Miss Heavenly’s eyes, or anything else about her person.”

  “No? Perhaps I was mistaken.” Elias drained his glass and rose. “Do not stay up for me, Henry. I am going to my club, so as not to notice the state of my wife’s eyes, or anything else about her person.”

  Frowning, Henry watched his employer leave. Lord Westwood was clearly miserable. Lady Harriet was to blame, but Henry had decided not to hold that against her. The important thing was Lord Westwood’s happiness. And since he had not been successful winning his wife over, Henry would have to help things along.

  It would not be easy. Celestial’s ginseng scheme had been well-meaning but flawed, no match for the earl’s inestimable nose. His lordship was now wary of interference, so any plan would have to be brilliant.

  What Henry knew about females would not have filled Heavenly’s darning thimble. But he did know one aphrodisiac so powerful that poets had found in it the stuff of a thousand passions. Henry knew exactly how to make amends.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “What did you wish to serve tonight, ma’am?”

  Harriet looked up from her inspection of several tubs of sourdough culture. “I have given it no thought, Celestial. Prepare whatever you wish.”

  Celestial busied herself with the pantry. “Won’t be as good as when you set the menu.”

  Other than this less-than-subtle reminder that Harriet was not herself, Celestial had been remarkably restrained in her comments. Harriet was grateful for the distraction of the Egyptian sourdough culture, bubbling away in a state of happy ferment. She had used it to mix a new dough and hoped this time the bread would be perfect.

  But she was not really thinking about bread. All her thoughts were on Elias. He scarcely looked at her these days, whereas she found herself constantly staring at him, imagining his hands on her, caressing her.

  Why had Freddy never touched her like that? She had begun to believe it was not her fault that he had not. After all, Elias desired her.

  Did he still?

  Why had he not come to her since their wedding?

  In her room at night, Harriet stared at the door between their chambers, hearing him move around. She tried to imagine the precise moment in which he removed each piece of clothing. Did he wear a dressing gown, as Freddy had? Or did he sleep naked, stretching his long, muscled frame out on the bed like a lazy Greek god?

  Sometimes she pictured herself undressing him, removing his jacket, his waistcoat, his shirt, his breeches, pulling him into the bed so she could make love to him. He would teach her how.

  Now, at last, she knew the meaning of desire. She also knew she had never felt its like for Freddy. He had never sparked in her such feverish, uncontrollable passion. She wondered that Elias did not read the naked need on her face every time he looked at her.

  How little she had known when she had forced him into that pretend betrothal. She had thought to understand the source of masculine power, to arm herself against it. Instead, that very power had overwhelmed her. The closer she got to it, the more she realized it was unfathomable, frightening, delicious. She no longer wished to shun it. She wanted to experience it in full measure.

  What would happen if she went to Elias and confessed the truth — that she yearned for him but feared losing herself, the way she had lost herself with Freddy? Would he laugh in dismissal, as Freddy would have? Would he stare at her in puzzled disdain, the way her father had when she tried to tell him that she wanted more from life than their lonely existence in Cornwall? She was certain he would not. But neither could she imagine going to Elias and baring her soul in that way. No man had ever made her feel so vulnerable, so utterly at sea.

  What had he once told her? That it was best to give in to turbulence, to move with it. But she was beset by so many emotions and fears that she felt as unsettled as that bubbling sourdough culture. To give in to them would mean losing all control. What then?

  “A bracing cup of tea would be just the thing,” she said to Celestial. “I wish you had not run out of that new blend. Can you get more?”

  Celestial did not look up from the vegetables she was slicing. “The supplier is very unreliable.”

  Harriet dumped some flour onto her worktable. “Can you locate a new supplier? I thought it a very special blend.”

  Celestial put down her knife abruptly. “There is something about that tea you should know.”

  “Lord Westwood did not care for it, if that is what you mean,” Harriet said quickly, “but that is no reason to stop ordering it.” She did not really want to talk about the tea, but she could not stop herself. “A husband and wife may have different tastes. I am sure you and Horace do not agree on everything.”

  “No,” Celestial agreed. “We do not.”

  Harriet turned the dough out onto the worktable. She had always loved this stage, the pushing and kneading of the dough until it grew smooth and elastic and satisfying under her hands. But today the process did not give her the usual pleasure. Instead, she felt a sudden urge to cry. She bit her lip and gave the dough a particularly rough turn.

  “I have always believed in tolerating differences,” she said in a wobbly voice.

  Celestial eyed her warily.

  “I would not wish to impose my tastes on Lord Westwood,” Harriet continued. “Toleration is important in all things.” With that, she burst into tears.

  “Ma’am, what is wrong?” Celestial moved to her side.

  Blindly, Harriet reached for a cloth to wipe her eyes. She tried to smile. “What did you wish to tell me about the tea?”

  “Nothing.” Celestial gave her a hug so fierce it brought new tears to Harriet’s eyes.

  “Oh, Celestial!” she said tearfully. “I feel like the veriest fool.”

  “Now, now,” Celestial murmured. “You need to get out for a bit, that’s all. Horace is driving me to Kensington later to fetch Heavenly from Mrs. Thornton’s. Won’t you come with us? You might enjoy the drive. And Mrs. Thornton makes a delicious mutton pie.”

  “I….do not know.” In truth, Harriet wanted nothing more at this moment than to leave this house, which was heavy with the tension between her and Elias.

  “It’s settled then,” Celestial said firmly. “Now let’s get to this bread. We will take Mrs. Thornton a loaf or two. It will be just the thing.”

  Harriet eyed the round ball of dough sitting placidly on the table, unoffended by the rough treatment she had administered. Few things in life were more profound than the way dough was transformed by the blows sustained during its short existence. Without such a transformation, there would be no bread. The process of change was good.

  Unless one left the dough too long to its own devices. Then it would rise too much, and the loaf would lose its substance. Wiping away her tears, Harriet wondered whether her own nature had undergone a bit too much leavening.

  ***

  “What is it, Henry?” Deciding not to pass another empty evening at his club in a futile attempt to assuage his restlessness, Elias had immersed himself in the paperwork on his desk. He did not welcome the interruption.

  “There is a lady to see you,” the batman replied.

  Elias frowned. “I am not expecting anyone. Have Horace send the caller away.”

  “Horace and Celestial drove with Lady Harriet to Kensington to fetch Miss Heavenly.”

  Elias noted with mild interest Henry’s continuing preference for formal address in referring to Heavenly. He was either afraid of the woman, or — but it did not seem likely there was an “or.” His batman had a lifelong loathing of female relationships of any significance or duration. Elias returne
d his attention to the papers on his desk. “Then you must get rid of her,” he said dismissively.

  “What if I do not wish to leave?” purred a voice.

  Startled, Elias looked up. Lady Caroline Forth stood at the threshold of his study, eyeing him in frank anticipation.

  “Lady Forth.” Elias rose, wondering how the devil Freddy’s former mistress had found her way to his study. He turned to Henry, but the man had discreetly slipped away.

  Moving gracefully into the room, she removed her cloak, revealing an azure blue gown that had as its most noticeable feature a deep décolletage. Shimmering diamonds adorned what, it must be acknowledged, was a flawless neck.

  “I have been waiting for the opportunity to congratulate you on your marriage.” She gave him a knowing smile. “When I learned that you were alone tonight, I knew that the timing was perfect”

  Elias frowned. “How —”

  “Pity that Harriet has left you to your own devices,” she went on, pursing her lips in mock dismay. “Men must be carefully tended, especially in the early days of marriage when their needs are so...acute.”

  Slowly, she peeled off one white glove, then pointed delicately at the decanter on his desk. “May I?”

  With a growing unease, Elias reached for a glass and poured a splash of brandy. Instead of handing it to her, he merely left the glass on the edge of the desk for her to take.

  She eyed him in reproach. “You do not join me?”

  “I am working.”

  Choosing not to recognize the hint, Lady Forth took a delicate sip, shifting her shoulders slightly, with the result that her gown exposed rather more of the rise of her breasts than it had previously. To his consternation, she pulled a lacy handkerchief from her décolletage and laid it on his desk — as if it were a gauntlet. The amusement in her gaze barely veiled a deeper, predatory gleam. Indeed, she regarded him as if he were a well-seasoned pheasant she was about to bite into.

  Elias did not even try to suppress his displeasure. With Henry conspicuous by his absence, the task of getting rid of her would fall to him. Elias hoped he would not need to physically remove her. Then again, the woman had no talent for subtlety.

  “Let us not play games, my lord,” she said softly, moving to stand before him, so close that he could have plucked the brandy glass from her hand. “I have thought of you constantly since that night at Lady Symington’s. Before that unfortunate interruption, when —”

  “Harriet tossed that tree at us,” he finished. “Yes, I imagine you would remember that.”

  She smiled. “Harriet is a dear,” she murmured, setting her glass down, “but there are things she does not understand.”

  Elias could barely stifle an urge to wring the woman’s lovely neck. Harriet’s intellect easily surpassed anything rattling around in Lady Forth’s brainbox.

  “Harriet does not understand a man’s appetites,” she said in a velvety voice, oblivious to his mood. “Can you honestly say that you are happy, my lord?”

  To Elias’s utter amazement, she caught his hand and boldly brought it to her breast.

  “No,” he growled, swiftly reclaiming his hand and balling it into a fist at his side.

  “I thought not,” she purred. “You do not appear to be happy. I can remedy that.”

  She’d misunderstood, of course. He was emphatically not happy at the moment, but that had everything to do with her brazen appropriation of his study and — from the predatory look in her eye — soon, his person, if he did not quickly rid himself of her.

  She nodded sympathetically. “Freddy felt the same. It is fortunate that I am here, Elias. You do not mind that I call you Elias? I feel that we are…close.”

  He had the idle thought that Caroline Forth was just the sort of female to have appealed to him not so very long ago. But the time when he might have entered into a dalliance with her was long since passed. Only Harriet could assuage his unhappiness. Only Harriet could satisfy him.

  “Lady Forth,” he began, “I fear your visit is most inconvenient —”

  “Caroline,” she corrected in a husky voice and captured his hand once more. This time, she refused to grant him his freedom. Instead, she slid his hand down her torso to her hip, lowered her lashes, and reached up to kiss him full on the mouth.

  It was a kiss like those he had shared over the years with other women — flat, uninspiring, meaningless. Nothing like Harriet’s kisses.

  Now she pressed her body against his, intimately, and locked her arms around his neck. Elias reached behind him and wrenched her hands away. “Good God, woman,” he swore. “What the devil are you about?”

  “Now that, I think, is rather clear,” came the brittle voice of his wife.

  Over Lady Forth’s shoulder, Elias saw Harriet, silhouetted in the doorway like an avenging angel.

  In the next instant, she hurled something foul-smelling and sticky at them.

  Lady Forth, who had her back to Harriet, turned just in time to have her lovely face, daring azure gown, and heaving bodice covered in thick, stinking muck.

  ***

  “More effective than a rubber tree,” her husband observed, his gaze flicking from Harriet to Caroline and back again.

  Though the sourdough culture had spared him, Caroline was virtually covered in it. Harriet wished her aim had been better; she had intended to douse them both. Even now, with Caroline’s lovely features obscured by fermenting ooze, Harriet could not contain her rage. “How dare you?”

  “Are you addressing me or Lady Forth?” To her astonishment, his eyes held amusement.

  “Both of you,” Harriet said evenly. “How dare you make love to that woman in my house!”

  “Our house,” he corrected. “Have you forgotten our marriage?”

  “You seem to have forgotten it, sir. I should have known that you would be like...like —” Harriet found she could not continue.

  “Freddy?” he offered in a dangerous tone.

  “Yes!” Harriet’s voice broke. “A faithless, feckless frog of a husband!”

  A wail had begun to emerge from the figure whose lovely features were obscured by the thick white substance. The sound grew until at last it erupted in a loud, offended shriek. Harriet and Elias did not even look at her.

  “A frog,” he repeated. “Most unflattering.”

  “You had no right to bring her here!”

  He arched a brow. “Quite right. Doubtless I should have kept her out of sight in our, er, trysting place.”

  Lady Forth wiped her face with the sleeve of her gown. “I demand a towel — this instant!”

  “You had no right to a tryst,” Harriet said. “You are my husband!”

  “Do you not preach tolerance, madam?” he returned in an acid tone. “Indeed, I thought it a tenet of yours. That is how you buried your pain over Freddy’s infidelities, was it not?” He took a step toward her. “But the pain did not go away, did it? Instead, it festered into a wound that could not heal.”

  “A towel!” Lady Forth shrieked.

  “The only tenet I have at the moment is an abhorrence of unfaithful husbands,” Harriet retorted. “Please leave. And take your mistress with you.”

  His jaw hardened. “Lady Forth got herself here. She can see herself home.”

  Caroline glared at him. “But you sent your carriage for me.”

  “What?” For the first time, he turned to her.

  “Your note was so poetic,” she said indignantly. “And you returned the handkerchief I gave you at the ball — the message was clear. But I should have known that you were only trifling with my feelings.” Her wailing started anew. “I demand to be taken home!”

  Harriet regarded him coldly. “Yes, do take her home, Elias. In your carriage. The one that you sent for her. Pity that the seats will be ruined by the mess.” With that, she fled from the room.

  Shortly afterward, Harriet heard the sound of carriage wheels on the drive. Elias was driving her home. Doubtless he would stay for hours, helping
her cleanse her flawless body. Tears of hot anger spilled onto her cheeks. She could not block the image of what she had seen: his hands on Caroline’s person, her lips on his.

  Earlier, the drive to Kensington having improved her spirits immeasurably, Harriet had been delighted to learn from Henry that Elias was at home, instead of out at his club. She had thought about their marriage during the drive. He was right: She had burdened them with the legacy of her marriage to Freddy.

  Perhaps they could start over, with the barriers gone. Wasn’t that what he had said in Cornwall? That he wanted to start anew, with only honesty between them?

  They had made a start, she realized. By giving her half of his business, Elias had tried to teach her about trust. Already, she had trusted him with her passion; he’d made her feel treasured, as if her passion were a rare and precious gift. Harriet saw that she had wronged him. He was not like Freddy. Elias would not hurt her. Had she but realized it, he had created a place of safety for her — within his arms.

  Hopeful, even ebullient, Harriet had arrived at his study just in time to witness him caressing Caroline’s breast and confessing to marital unhappiness.

  Blind pain had driven her into the kitchen, where she had grabbed a tub of sourdough culture that had been bubbling away, unaware that it was fated to ruin the gown of one of the loveliest Cyprians in England.

  Even now, Harriet still trembled. She dared not let go of her fury for fear that despair would overtake her.

  An hour passed. Elias did not return. Not even Heavenly came to her, though the servants must have heard the commotion. She appreciated their discretion. She had no wish to face anyone. At midnight, Harriet heard Eustace come in and retire to his room.

  She knew she could not stay here, waiting in vain for the man who had betrayed her, as she had waited so many nights for Freddy. Sleep was useless. At last, Harriet gathered a few things from her wardrobe, then slipped down the hall to Eustace’s room. It took several knocks to rouse him, but finally he came to the door.

  “Lady Harriet?” He sounded groggy, but his gaze sharpened the moment he saw her face. “What is wrong?”