How to Treat a Lady

by Karen Hawkins

  Perhaps another night. Of course, that had left him wide-awake and with no amusement at hand. Chase had been forced to do something he rarely did—read. He decided that it was an embarrassment to the Ward family that one of their guests was so importuned, but there was nothing Chase could do about it. If reading was the only amusement available, then he’d see what books were at hand.

  After an aimless search, he chanced upon a tome describing the sailing ventures of a questionable gentleman in the late sixteenth century. While Chase was of the opinion great quantities of the story were fabricated, he thought some of the tale might come in handy in his rendition of Captain Frakenham. Thus the candle was low before he managed to sleep.

  “Rise, slugabed!” Stephen said, reminding Chase that late night or no, he was going to have to get up.

  Chase opened his eyes to find Stephen grinning above him. “Blast you to hell.”

  Stephen’s grin widened.

  Chase sighed and sat up, pushing the hair from his forehead. He hadn’t seen this side of the morning in years. Oh, he’d been awake at the crack of dawn. But he’d never been awoken at the crack of dawn. “All right, all right. I’m up.”

  “Excellent!” Stephen paused by the nightstand to light the candle with his own. “I shall await you in the breakfast room.”

  “Excellent!” Chase muttered in a mocking tone, as Stephen closed the door. Good God, who in their right minds would choose to get up at this hour?

  Chase sighed and stretched, then climbed out of bed, shivering a little in the predawn chill. Rubbing his arms, he crossed to the washstand to splash water on his face.

  Why couldn’t he have been saved by a family of lazy gypsies? Or some worthless ne’er-do-well drinkers? Anyone who might understand the importance of morning sleep.

  But no. Chase had to be kidnapped by a family of sheep farmers who took great delight in torturing him with their healthy, fresh ways. It was sickening.

  He made his way to the wardrobe and found his clothes, dressing in the semidark. His fingers seemed to still be asleep, and he fumbled with his cravat. Finally, too tired to care, he just knotted the blasted thing à la Belcher, a ridiculous fashion aspired to by the younger dandy set. Thank God he was buried in the country and no one he knew would see him.

  Mumbling to himself, he made his way downstairs where he could hear the family gathered in the dining room, talking with a great deal too much vivacity for so ungodly a time of the morning.

  He pushed open the door and was immediately assailed with the rich smells of a large breakfast. Situated on the large sideboard were platters of eggs, ham, bacon, pheasant, and toast. He blinked at the abundance of it, then turned to find himself looking down at Harriet.

  She was dressed in an old gown of faded blue cotton, the skirts a little shorter than was accepted so that the ankles of her boots plainly showed. Chase realized with a faint sense of astonishment that the plain gown she’d worn the previous day must have been one of her best.

  “Good morning,” she said pleasantly.

  Chase found his tired lips curving into a smile. She appeared fresh and bright, her brown hair braided and pinned about her head. She smiled, her teeth flashing white and even.

  “I hate to complain,” he said with a sigh, “but must you be so awake?”

  “What else would I be at this time of the day?”

  He glanced over her shoulder at the still-gray dawn that was just rising. “Day?”

  Her lips quivered. “Morning, then.” Her gaze drifted to his hair. “I see you had to comb your hair in the dark.”

  “I don’t like your hair, either,” he retorted easily. He didn’t. The too-plain style was far too severe for her face, which seemed all angles and eyes in the dim light.

  A faint color brushed her cheeks as she touched her braids, then caught herself. “A pity, that, because the sheep like my braids and I’m much more concerned with how they feel about it than you.”

  Sophia stood at the sideboard, a plate in her hand. “Harriet, don’t monopolize the conversation! Captain, what will you have? Some eggs? A pheasant? How about some ham? Baron Whitfield brought it to us just last week and it’s quite delicious.”

  “No, thank you.” Chase didn’t think he could face such a magnitude of food so early in the morning. “Perhaps later, at ten or so when I’m more awake.”

  “There won’t be any food left by then,” Harriet said matter-of-factly. “You’ll eat now or you won’t eat at all. We can’t afford to serve breakfast three times a day.”

  “Better eat now,” Ophelia said cheerily.

  “I would eat a lot if I were you,” Stephen said with unimpaired calm from where he sat, digging into a plate piled high with eggs and ham. “You won’t get another chance until noon or perhaps later. And trust me, you’ll be ravenous enough as it is.”

  Chase curled his lip. “I’ll wait. I cannot stand to eat at this time of the day.”

  Mrs. Ward tsked. “Stephen, please keep an eye on the captain. I don’t want him getting ill or overheated. The doctor would not be pleased if his patient was to suffer a relapse at our hands.”

  Derrick lifted his gaze from the book he had opened beside his plate. “What about me? You never tell Stephen to see to it that I don’t get overheated.”

  Mrs. Ward patted Derrick’s hand. “If you’d just risen from the sickbed with a knot on your head, I would indeed say the same thing of you.”

  “I doubt it,” Derrick mumbled, looking as apathetic about the whole venture as Chase felt. “I wish I could stay inside today. I am halfway through the Iliad.”

  Chase poured himself a cup of tea, strong and almost black, steam curling from the cup and into the air. He glanced resentfully at the unlit fireplace that graced the room. Surely the Wards could afford some firewood or a little coal.

  But apparently not. Perhaps his blood was thin; certainly none of them seemed affected by the chill morning air.

  He pulled a chair from the table and turned it sideways so he would be facing the only empty seat…the one Harriet would have to take.

  B’God, he’d get some amusement of this day, even if it killed him. The family wanted to pretend he was Harriet’s beau, and play it, he would.

  She came to take her seat, pausing when she saw him, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. “What are you doing?”

  “Drinking my tea and waiting for you.”

  “That is very romantic,” Sophia informed Ophelia with a great deal of satisfaction.

  Harriet didn’t move, her plate clasped in her hands, steam drifting from her eggs and ham. “I don’t want you there.”

  “Where else am I to sit? It’s the only empty chair.”

  “You plan on staring at me while I’m eating, don’t you?”

  Despite the early hour, a smile tickled his lips. There was something delightfully refreshing about this woman. “Yes, I do. I plan on watching you eat every single morsel. I shall even comment upon the amount you are able to consume and wonder aloud how you stay so trim.”

  Stephen chuckled. “I say, Captain, you’re in good spirits this morning!”

  “Only because Harriet is to sit with me at breakfast.”

  Harriet turned toward the wide door leading outside. “I believe I’ll eat on the terrace.”

  “You can’t do that!” Mrs. Ward said, blinking. “It’s too dark and far too damp.”

  Chase stood and took Harriet’s plate and set it on the table at her chair. “I promise to look away now and again. And I’ll have to get more tea eventually. You could possibly poke in a few bites at that time.”

  Her chin firmed.

  “Harri, sit down,” Stephen said. “The captain is just being attentive.”

  She sniffed and took her chair, almost flouncing into place. “I don’t like attentive men.”

  Chase raised his brows. “You’d wish me to be inattentive? How very, very odd. Most females would argue against such treatment.”

  Her gaze fixed on him
with cool triumph. “Really? How can you remember how most women would react to anything? You’ve no memory.”

  He curled his fingers about his cup, letting the warmth travel through him. “I know it the same way I know how to put on my boots or whether or not I like eggs. Some things just seem to come to me while others remain blank.”

  Mrs. Ward nodded. “It was the same way with my friend, Mrs. Billingsworth. Couldn’t remember that she had a sister, but knew word for word her recipe for calf’s-foot jelly.”

  Harriet grimaced. “Mother, pray do not keep bringing up Mrs. Billingsworth. I’m certain her case was nothing like the captain’s.”

  Harriet scooted in her chair a bit so that she faced away from Chase, then she picked up her fork and attacked her breakfast with an inordinate amount of relish. Chase was left smiling at her back, which was fine really. Her thin dress outlined her figure perfectly, drawing his eye to her narrow waist and rounded bottom.

  Chase barely had time to enjoy her proximity for a moment later, the door opened and the housekeeper appeared. “A letter for you, Mr. Stephen.”

  Stephen straightened, took the letter and glanced at it, his eyes suddenly ablaze. He unfolded a small, delicately colored note and began to read.

  “I wonder who it could be from?” Sophia said to Ophelia, both of them staring at the note.

  “I wager I know,” Ophelia answered. She buttered her toast, a smirk on her lips. “I wager it’s from Miss Str—”

  “Hush, you two,” Harriet said, frowning at Stephen.

  His expression had undergone a change. Within one moment, he went from excited to crestfallen, refolding the note with hands that trembled just the slightest bit. Chase watched, wondering what was happening.

  Stephen crumpled the note in his hand and stood, his face set and pale. “We had best get to work.”

  “As soon as you finish your breakfast,” Harriet said calmly. She eyed him as she cut her ham. “But first, there is one thing we must see to. The captain’s clothing is far too fine for the fields.”

  Stephen rubbed a hand over his brow, then abruptly sat. “Yes, yes. I can lend him some of mine.” His gaze flickered over Chase. “We’re of the same height.”

  “How nice of you, Stephen.” Sophia took a sip of her tea. “He’ll need boots, too.”

  Chase stretched his feet before him, his boots so shiny that he could see his own expression. “What’s wrong with these?”

  “Nothing,” Sophia said. “It’s just that they might get dirty.”

  “And scratched,” Derrick offered from the depths of his books.

  “Among other things.” Harriet held out her own feet. She wore half boots of an indiscriminate brown that had seen far more than their fair share of wear.

  Chase wrinkled his nose. “Those aren’t fit to wear.”

  “Neither will yours be if you try to stomp through the fields with them. They weren’t made for such wear. But never fear, we’ll get you booted and suited for the sheep.”

  For some reason, Chase found her words less than reassuring. He was right. Within ten minutes of breakfast’s being over, Chase found himself standing beside an old farm cart where two farmhands of dubious age and ability sat snoozing. They were dressed in faded and worn clothing, much like the ones Stephen had given to Chase.

  He looked down at his own clothes. He suspected that the shirt at one time had been blue but was now a murky gray. The pants were dyed an indiscriminate black and were a trifle short. Worst of all were the boots. Though of leather, they were so worn and old that they sagged about his ankles in a preposterous manner.

  He grimaced.

  How had he gotten himself into this mess? Had he known that helping the Wards would mean such a total loss of his self-respect, he would never have volunteered to stay and pretend to be Captain Frakenham. But it was too late now. Though Harriet might wish to pretend otherwise, it was obvious that things were desperate.

  He sighed and rubbed his neck. They were waiting on Stephen and Harriet, who had disappeared into the barn. Chase spent a few moments with his horse before coming out to the wagon. The black gelding was in fine fettle, but badly needed to stretch his legs. Perhaps this evening, before the sun set, Chase would take the animal for a quick gallop.

  A ponderous bark filled the air. Chase turned to see a huge dog lumbering across the yard in his direction. The dog…it was the same one that had saved him in the forest. Chase took a step forward; the dog saw him at the same time and came bounding across the yard.

  Chase was over six feet tall and no lightweight. But neither was the dog, who had the favor of momentum on his side. Chase landed on his rump, a wet tongue laving his mouth and chin, while two huge paws pressed down his chest and made it difficult to breathe. With a joint cry, Sophia and Ophelia came to his rescue, struggling to remove the dog who took their efforts as encouragement and licked Chase’s face all the more furiously.

  For an instant, Chase knew what it was to die of both compression and drowning. Derrick was finally roused enough to put down his book, climb off the wagon, grab the dog by his collar and pull him off Chase.

  Chase wiped his wet face on his sleeve and rolled to his feet. “What the hell is that?” he asked, eyeing the horse-dog and trying to swallow his irritation.

  “We don’t know exactly,” Ophelia said, pushing her spectacles back on the bridge of her nose. “But he does well with the sheep.”

  “Max is an excellent sheepherder,” Sophia agreed. She waited until Derrick had pulled the dog into the back of the wagon before she removed a huge straw hat from behind the seat and handed it to Chase. “You’ll need this since we’re to be in the sun today.”

  He took one look at the fanciful ribbons and faded silk flowers that decorated the brim and handed it back. “No thank you.”

  “You’ll sunburn.”

  “There are flowers on it.”

  “That’s because it’s Harriet’s. Stephen doesn’t have an extra hat, but Harriet said you could wear hers.”

  Somehow, Chase did not doubt that one bit. “I am not wearing this hat.”

  “Oh, no one will see. Just us. Besides, I just added the sprig of forget-me-nots last week. Do you know how long it took to get those on there?”

  Chase ground his teeth. He would not be caught dead in that blasted hat, come rain or snow. “I’m certain it must be too small for my head.”

  Ophelia shook her head, adjusting the ribbons of her own straw hat under her chin, then climbing into the back of the cart and making herself comfortable in the straw. She and Sophia were going to pick berries while the others gathered the sheep. “Harriet’s hats are all large because she always wears braids. I daresay it will fit you perfectly.”

  Chase sighed, glancing at the sun barely showing on the horizon. It was difficult to imagine that it would be warm, but Sophia was probably right.

  Sighing, he slapped the hat on his head, turned, and found Harriet’s gaze from across the yard. She was standing beside a solemn-faced Stephen, her hands resting on her hips. Even from here, he could tell that her eyes were alight with laughter.

  It took him a moment to realize the truth; she was laughing at him.

  “Damn it!” He yanked the hat off his head and threw it into the back of the cart, then climbed in himself and took his place on the seat beside Derrick, who was still buried in his book.

  Bloody hell, look at how far he’d sunk. But perhaps it was fate’s way of mocking him as well. Hadn’t he violated the St. John honor with his reckless behavior? Hadn’t he humiliated his family name? Perhaps this was retribution of some sort.

  He straightened his shoulders. Whatever life had in store for him, he’d face it. No more hiding. No more trying to drown his troubles. He was a St. John and no matter the circumstances, it was time he remembered it.

  His gaze roamed over the yard until he found Harriet. She placed her hand on her brother’s arm and spoke earnestly. Stephen must have disagreed with what she had to say, for
he shook his head violently and, when she continued to speak, finally pulled away, turned, and then went into the barn as fast as his crutches would allow. Harriet watched him go, a strangely hollow look to her face.

  Chase promptly forgot his own troubles. “What’s wrong with Stephen?” he asked Sophia.

  “He’s in love.”

  Ophelia nodded. “With Miss Strickton. But she won’t have anything to do with him.”

  “He’s young,” Chase said. “He’ll get over it.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Sophia said, tilting her head to one side. “He’s loved her for a long time. Since he was seven.”

  “Seven?”

  Ophelia nodded. “And she’s always been fond of him. Until this year, of course. Her father took her to London for the season and I think it quite turned her head.”

  Harriet joined them, her expression closed. Chase wanted to say something to ease her mind. But he couldn’t seem to find the words. What right did he have to offer comfort, anyway? She was surrounded by her family, her loved ones, all of whom looked up to her and admired her. What could he offer that she didn’t already have?

  The thought left him feeling alone and out of place. He forced himself to swallow the words of support he’d thought to utter. Instead, he turned away, unaware that as he did so, Harriet’s gaze followed him, her expression growing even sadder.

  “Time to get to work,” Harriet said. “Stephen will stay here and assist Mother.” She climbed into the back of the wagon and made a seat on a barrel. “Jem, we’re ready.”

  “Yes, Miss Ward.” The older of the two farmhands untied the reins. Soon they were jouncing along, the wheels squeaking down the rutted path.

  Chapter 15

  If I could have one wish, it would be to become fantastically wealthy. If I could have two wishes, it would be to become fantastically wealthy and stay that way.

  Viscount Rose to Mr. Giles Standish as the two glumly watch Viscount Rose’s prize bays go up for auction in a last-ditch attempt to settle his debts