How to Treat a Lady

by Karen Hawkins

  She opened her eyes and looked around her room. It looked the same…yet it didn’t. Something magical had happened. Something that had shaken her to the very core.

  Worse, every time she closed her eyes, she found herself wearing her sparkling shoes, waltzing in his arms once again, over and over, as if her heart couldn’t get enough of the sensation.

  She closed her eyes, remembering the feel of his arms about her, the warmth of his breath on her temple, the deep sound of his voice against her ear—

  “Harriet? I don’t hear you moving.”

  “I’m awake,” Harriet said, bouncing a little in the bed so that the rails would creak.

  “Good. I’m going to help Jane set out breakfast.”

  Harriet sighed. “I’ll be down as soon as I’m dressed.”

  “Very well, dear. I just didn’t want you to fall asleep again.” Mother’s footsteps faded down the hallway.

  Harriet turned onto her back, careful to keep the covers tucked beneath her chin to hold in the warmth, and wondered what made the captain so…fascinating.

  Oh, it was true that she’d never seen a more handsome man—the combination of black hair and piercing blue eyes was enough to make anyone take notice. But added to that was a sensual smile that could send a shiver down one’s spine, a set of hard-carved lips that seemed made for kissing, a rather lively sense of humor, and a definite streak of…reluctant chivalry, she supposed it was, for lack of a better phrase.

  But there were a few other things, as well. Broad shoulders, a tapered waist, and a very firm posterior.

  Not that she’d been looking at his posterior, mind you. Harriet was quite certain she wouldn’t have noticed anything about the captain at all if she hadn’t been forced to endure Ophelia’s and Sophia’s constant musing on the subject.

  Every day, they watched, commented, debated, and argued about which of the captain’s features they liked the best. Sophia was very fond of his blue eyes, shadowed as they were by coal black lashes so long that they curled just a bit at the ends. Ophelia rather thought she liked the way his muscles rippled beneath his shirt while he was working. The only thing the two were in complete agreement on was the captain’s rump. They both thought it was a thing of godlike beauty.

  To be honest, his posterior was rather impressive. Especially arrayed in Stephen’s slightly too-tight breeches. Harriet smiled. There were some advantages to working in the fields. Mainly, you had the opportunity to watch your more interesting companions for lengthy periods of time without their being aware of it. Until four days ago, Harriet hadn’t been aware of that particular benefit to field work.

  Not that any of it mattered. It was a complete waste of time to dream over a man who was bound to leave. Fortunately for her, Harriet had long since learned to waste neither her time nor her life dreaming about things one could never have.

  Father, of course, had believed differently. He had been a dreamer. She could remember him saying that their only chore was to enjoy life to the fullest and to let tomorrow take care of itself. But his determination to live in a manner he could ill afford had, on his death, left his family deeply in debt. Harriet had learned that the only time one could really enjoy tomorrow was after one had taken care of today.

  She thought about her brothers and sisters. About Stephen, who worked so hard that his hands were already callused and rough; about Sophia and Ophelia, who fetched and carried and cleaned; about Derrick, who’d lost the chance to attend Eton; and especially Mother, who worried about them all, more than she wanted anyone to know. Harriet had to force away a very real flare of anger at her father for his shortsightedness.

  A noise outside of Harriet’s door drew her attention to the clock. Piffle! If she didn’t get busy, she’d be late again. And all because she’d lain in bed too long.

  Harriet took a deep breath, pushed aside the mound of blankets and jumped to the floor, the cold chattering her teeth. Hugging herself, she ran across the room, threw open the door to the wardrobe, grabbed her clothing from a peg and ran back to bed.

  She tossed the clothes onto the bed and then dived under the covers, luxuriating in the cozy spot she’d just left. It was warmer in the house during the winter, when it was so cold they had to have the fires lit. But in the spring, when it was warm in the daytime, they made do without the fires, which left the mornings a bit frosty early in the season.

  Harriet snaked out a hand from beneath the covers and grabbed her gown. She then began the laborious process of putting it on while staying warm. Years of practice held her in good stead, and she soon had the gown in place and was ready to face the chill morning air.

  Harriet stood in her stocking-clad feet and fished her boots out from under her bed, yawning away the effects of too little sleep. What was she doing, losing sleep over a man who was destined to leave? She seemed to have no control over her thoughts of late.

  It seemed that as soon as her head hit her pillow, no matter how tired she might be, her mind immediately began to dwell on Captain Frakenham. There was something about him, about the way he smiled, about the flashes of sadness she saw in his eyes at unexpected moments, at the little acts of kindness that he committed when he thought no one was looking—like asking her to dance. Or the times he helped Ophelia or Sophia with a bucket that appeared too heavy. Or—oh—a dozen other kindnesses.

  She closed her eyes and for an instant, she was back in his arms, twirling across the bedroom floor, her magic shoes on her feet as they swooped and swirled until Harriet was quite sure she could fly.

  Her heart warmed at the memory, banishing the cold, and she held her arms out and danced a few steps in the empty room, her skirts swirling about her legs. As she turned, she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror over the washstand. Her eyes were shining, her lips curved into a bemused smile. She looked like a woman in lo—

  She dropped her hands to her side, her gaze widening. Blast it, that was no way to feel about a man who would soon leave, even if he did know how to dance. She would not be so silly as to allow herself to feel anything for him. She was not her father, ready to throw away her future and the future of those she loved for something she could never have.

  “Piffle,” she said aloud, to further stifle her unruly imagination. For the thousandth time, she wondered at the captain’s true identity. And why he’d elected to stay here, with them. Whatever it was, Harriet decided she had better find out. She hated a mystery almost as much as she hated empty, wasted dreaming.

  Firmly putting the waltz tune out of her mind and restoring her heart to its normal location in her chest, Harriet put on her boots and left her room.

  He was drowning in a sea of wool. Baaing sheep surrounded him on all sides, black-faced ones, and white-faced ones, and large spotted ones. They stood all around him as far as the eye could see, as deep as the ocean itself.

  Try as he might, he could not break free. All he could do was flounder helplessly as muffled waves of wool enclosed him, pressed upon him, dragged him under until he could not breathe. He struggled furiously, fighting madly, desperate for breath as he tried to break to the surface—

  Chase awoke with a start, facedown in his pillow. He yanked it away and gulped in the cold morning air, his body drenched in sweat. Bloody hell, what a nightmare.

  But it was no wonder—he was inundated with sheep. Chase tucked the pillow back under his head and rolled onto his back, blinked groggily into the darkness as he waited for his breathing to return to normal. He’d never worked so hard in his life, though to tell the truth, as more and more days passed, he found that he was beginning to enjoy it.

  Well, some of it. There was one particular ram who detested Chase on sight, a sentiment Chase found that he could return with his full compliments. Every opportunity the ram got, he would lower his head and attempt to knock Chase into the mud.

  In all truth, far worse than the work and the cantankerous ram, was the constant trail of visitors that had descended on Garrett Park. They came,
they saw, they gawked. Each night, Chase would drag himself in from the fields, take a quick gallop on his poor horse, who no doubt was feeling as cooped up as Chase himself, and then put on his London clothes and pretend he wasn’t nigh dead with exhaustion at dinner.

  That night promised to be the worst night of all, for Lady Cabot-Wells was reputed to be attending. Mrs. Ward had announced with some glee that the woman was the busiest gossip this side of Dorset.

  Chase rubbed his neck and stretched, wakening more each passing moment. The more he saw of the gossip chain that operated in Sticklye-By-The-River, the happier he was that he hadn’t blurted out his name when he’d first arrived.

  In one more week, all would be finished. The wool would be gathered, the bank paid, Garrett Park saved, and Chase St. John would be on his way. He rolled to his side and looked about his dark bedroom, wondering why the thought made him feel so bleak.

  Didn’t he want to protect his family from his own errors? Of course he did. And leaving was the best way. He was sure of it.

  Almost.

  What, he wondered, would Harriet do in his case? He saw her as she’d looked in his arms, dancing with such a joyous air.

  Of all the women Chase had known, Harriet Ward was the most honest, genuine of all. He liked how she faced life’s difficulties with her chin in the air, still able to laugh and enjoy a moment of frivolity without playing the martyr. He thought of her shoes and the joy she’d taken in wearing them.

  One day, when all this was over, he would order a dress for her, one that would match those shoes. One that would fulfill every daydream she’d ever had.

  The thought pleased him and he lay in the darkness, smiling.

  “Captain?” Stephen threw open the door. “It’s another day.”

  So it was. Chase kicked back his covers and sat up, stretching in the dark. The second the sheep were shorn and he was certain Garrett Park was saved, it would be time to leave. Time to resume his journey. But today was not that day.

  For some reason, that small thought soothed him and it was with a lift to his step that he dressed and went to breakfast.

  Harriet pushed her hat off her head and wiped her brow. These were the last of them. Beginning tomorrow, they would start the shearing.

  She leaned against the fence, her neck and back aching. Thank goodness for Max. He herded the sheep almost effortlessly, crisscrossing back and forth, nipping at a heel here, a rump there. The sheep, though nervous around him, seemed to understand he meant no harm and they jostled along in the general direction he provided.

  “Are we done?”

  Harriet glanced up at the captain. He leaned against the fence, his shirt undone at the neck, his sleeves rolled up. A wide-brimmed straw hat was settled on his black hair, shading his eyes from the sun. He’d not worn a hat the first day, and the bridge of his nose and the tips of his ears were a pleasant shade of pink.

  After seeing him glowing red at the end of the first day, Harriet had demanded that Stephen provide him one of his straw hats. The hat, old and frayed, wasn’t one of Stephen’s better ones, but on the captain, it seemed different somehow. Bolder. More…noble or something.

  The captain glanced down at her at that moment, his brows lifting. “What?”

  She looked away, irritated he’d caught her staring at him. “Nothing. I was just seeing if your sunburn was better.”

  “Oh I hardly feel it at all. Of course, that could be because the rest of me is so pained that I barely notice the sunburn, but…” He shrugged.

  Her lips twitched. “You know, I’m surprised you are sore at all. It’s almost as if you’d never done a day’s labor in your life. A strange thought, that. You’d think a sailor would be more used to hard work.”

  Chase glanced down at the wretch. She was teasing him, he was sure of it. Always dancing on the line of the fantasy she’d forced on him, while waiting for him to reveal himself.

  Well, he didn’t have to reveal a thing. And while it behooved him to pretend to be “Captain John,” he didn’t have to be nice about it. He owed this little slip of impudence a lesson or two. A lesson about toying with the minds of men far greater than she.

  He was a St. John, dammit. Perhaps the least of the St. Johns, but a St. John nonetheless. He turned, leaning his back against the fence so that he could more fully face her. “Strange that you should mention the sea. I wonder that I do not have any memory of that. Not even a little.”

  “No? I heard you tell Miss Stanhope all sorts of sea tales just the other day.”

  “I stole them out of a book from your library.”

  She appeared much struck. “Did you?”

  “Tales of a Foreign Born Sailor.”

  “I’m impressed that you’ve gone to such lengths.”

  “You should be,” he retorted. “I just find it strange that I don’t have any clear memories of being at sea. I remember other things, but not that.”

  “Other things? Like what?”

  “Like kissing. And touching. And—”

  “I see,” she said hastily, her color high. “You know, the doctor did say that it is not unusual for someone with an injury such as yours to remember the incidentals in life, but not the details.”

  “Yes, but…you’d think I’d remember something. Anything.” He looked at the sky, and knit his brow, trying his hardest to look bemused and sad. “I certainly wish I could.”

  “There, Captain.” She placed her hand on his arm and looked earnestly at him. “I’ve no doubt that one day your entire memory will pop right back into your head.”

  If he was a good actor, then she was a splendid actress. But he was up to the challenge. He placed one of his hands over hers and leaned down to gaze into her eyes. “What surprises me the most is that I do not, at least, remember you.”

  She tried to remove her hand, but he wouldn’t allow it.

  He further pinned his quarry with a smile. “Of all the things a man should never forget, the woman he loves is foremost. He would remember a number of things beyond her name. The curve of her cheek. The feel of her lips on his. The taste of her.”

  Her gaze dropped down to rest on the tips of her shoes. “Ah. Yes. Well.”

  Chase nodded as if thinking. “I wonder…” He waited.

  She lifted her gaze, her color still high. “What?”

  He stepped forward, closing the space between them. She stood before him, her head barely reaching his shoulder. She was a tiny thing, all bone and brown hair.

  But her eyes…they saved her from plainness and more. Wide and finely shaped, fringed with thick black lashes, they shone with intelligence, brimmed with irritation, and flashed with humor.

  In the brief time he’d known her, he’d seen all that and more.

  Chase glanced at the others, but they were on the opposite side of the field, fixing the fence. Smiling down at her, he lifted his hand and brushed it down her cheek. Her skin slid silky smooth beneath his, and a tingle of awareness shot through him like lightning across water.

  Chase almost pulled back his hand. He knew the feeling of attraction, of heated lust that precluded every chase. But this…this was something more.

  Suddenly, he no longer wished to kiss her just to tease her. The kiss would be for him, to put to rest this irritating attraction he felt. “Tell me something, Harriet. Tell me something about you.” He lingered over her name, tasting it thoroughly.

  From beneath the brim of her hat, her face flushed a shade darker. “What do you want to know?”

  “How intimate were we?”

  She swallowed, the line of her throat surprisingly graceful. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Captain. Indeed, I hope you aren’t—”

  “John. Strange that not even my name rings with any resonance.”

  Her gaze flickered, her brown eyes uncertain, though she spoke with authority. “You hit your head rather hard.”

  “Did I?” He rested his hand on the rail beside her, uncertain as to what emotion he felt
foremost…Irritation. Frustration. Amusement. He stopped. He was amused. This little wren had decided she needed him—Chase St. John, scion of one of the most powerful houses in England—for her plots and toils. And he’d willingly succumbed, wearing the mantle of sheep farmer and whatever else she required.

  Worse, he had the irritating suspicion that even if she knew who he was, she wouldn’t care. All she wanted was a man, any man available, to play the part her family had assigned.

  What truly amused him was that she stood before him, met his gaze as calmly as a statue, and lied through her teeth as if born to such low deeds when in fact she was so filled with goodness and purity that she almost shone with it.

  She slid a glance at him, then away. “Perhaps your memory is returning. You certainly remember how to waltz.”

  He smiled. “Yes I do.”

  She caught his gaze and, to his amazement, a smile quivered on her lips, then broke through like sunshine piercing a cloud on a rainy day.

  Chase was entranced. She had a beautiful mouth. White and even teeth, perfectly set off by a pair of plump, moist lips that were the fresh pink of a new rose. Strange how he’d never noticed that before. Perhaps the plain brown wren wasn’t a wren after all, but a juicy robin. “You know,” he said slowly, moving even closer, “I think I do remember this…”

  “What?” she said, her low voice suddenly breathless.

  He slid his fingertips across her cheek. “I remember touching you.”

  “How could—you never—we never—”

  “But we must have. I think…no, I’m certain that I remember it well.”

  She eyed him suspiciously. Chase had to hide a sudden inclination to grin. She was all fire and brimstone, starch and oversewn ruffles.

  “You cannot remember any of that,” she finally said. “It did not happen.”

  “Didn’t it?” He leaned forward, his breath fanning her cheek, sending a ripple of heat down her spine. “I remember this…and more.”

  Harriet swallowed. Dear God, he was going to kiss her, she could see it in his eyes, feel the rapid thud of her own heart. “You are mistaken if you think you remember kissing me.”