by Turano, Jen
She suddenly felt a little light-headed. “Don’t tell me you own your very own yacht?”
“Are you going to call me a snob again if I admit I do?”
“Probably.”
“Fair enough, as long as you don’t start stomping on my feet again, but yes, I do have my own yacht. She’s a beauty.”
“But you rarely get to go out on her, even though you enjoy it?”
“I enjoy making money.”
“There are other things in life besides making money.”
“Not from what I’ve seen.”
She considered him for a moment. “No, I imagine you haven’t noticed other things, but . . . speaking of money, I need to give you back the money you gave me yesterday since you put all those purchases on your account.” She reached for her reticule.
“Keep it. You can consider it a bonus for having to deal with Miss Birmingham and all of her nastiness.”
“I most certainly will not. You’ll hardly manage to obtain your goal of collecting obscene wealth if you continue handing out money in such a cavalier fashion.”
“Are you trying to lecture me?”
“Someone has to be the voice of reason here.”
Oliver leaned closer and stared at her as if he didn’t quite know what to make of her. For one of the first times since she’d met him, Harriet felt completely in accord with the gentleman, because she didn’t know what to make of him either.
He was a snob, but there was something more to him . . . something she didn’t think even he’d figured out.
Time seemed to stop as the crowd around them faded away and the only thing in the world for Harriet at that moment was Oliver’s face.
It was an interesting face, one she knew full well could turn intimidating in a split second, but it wasn’t intimidating right now, it was . . . confused and compelling all at the same time, and . . . He was one of the most sought-after gentlemen in the country, and yet he was nothing like what she’d expected.
He was kind, in a blustery and peculiar way, and he was overly generous—something that seemed to take him by surprise—and he was all too attractive, even in an ill-fitting jacket with almost all the buttons missing, and . . .
“Harriet, yoo-hoo. Harriet Peabody, over here.”
Switching her attention from Oliver to the two women waving madly at her from the other side of the street, Harriet smiled as she lifted a hand and waved back. “It’s Ginger and Tawny. Why I haven’t—” Her words came to an abrupt end when Oliver suddenly stood up, took her by the arm, and began pulling her down the sidewalk in the opposite direction of the women who were calling out to her.
She shook out of his hold. “Have you lost your mind? Those are friends of mine, and I certainly don’t like being handled in such a way.”
“You have no business having friends like that, and since they’re now running our way, we need to get to the carriage immediately.”
Ignoring him, Harriet turned and discovered that Ginger and Tawny were, indeed, running toward her, their speed causing the feathery scarfs wrapped around their throats to flutter behind them.
“Do not even think about talking to them again,” Oliver growled.
Stiffening, she lifted her chin and spun around, knowing full well as she headed toward Ginger and Tawny that her time with Oliver was about to come to a rapid end.
10
Lurching to the left when the carriage jostled over a rut, Oliver pushed himself upright and resumed the business of watching Harriet.
She was sitting on the seat opposite him, looking out the window, her usually expressive face devoid of emotion. She hadn’t spoken a single word since she’d parted ways with the two ladies, not even when he’d practically dragged her back to his waiting carriage and hustled her inside it. They were now heading for Harriet’s home, and disappointment warred with anger the longer Oliver contemplated the situation he’d recently witnessed in the middle of the street.
What could she have been thinking?
People had been told she was his fiancée, and those people, as in the staff at Arnold Constable & Company, were probably even now spreading the word. Because of that, Harriet should have been aware that there was expected behavior she needed to display in public at all times. She certainly should have known it was beyond unacceptable to acknowledge undesirable women who called to her in the middle of the Ladies’ Mile.
It was obvious the ladies were of the demimonde—which begged the question of how Harriet had come to be acquainted with them.
Seeing her chat so easily with the ladies had shaken him to his very core. It had also caused him to realize that he’d made one of the biggest mistakes of his life, greater even than that of forming an alliance with Miss Birmingham.
It wasn’t like him in the least to behave so irresponsibly, and now . . . well, he was going to have to rectify the problem once and for all—before his reputation suffered irreparable harm.
His family was known throughout the city as Knickerbockers, or Old New York as they preferred to consider themselves, even though Oliver found the Knickerbocker title somewhat amusing. They were the elite of the elite, their ancestors having gained great social status through birth, accumulated wealth and land, and from being some of the first people to colonize New York, back when it had been called New Amsterdam. He and his family were included as members of the New York Four Hundred, a mysterious list Mr. Ward McAllister, one of the social arbiters of the day, had come up with, even though that particular list had never been formally published. But, published or not, he certainly wasn’t anxious to be the one in his family to get them kicked off that illustrious list.
Clearing his throat, he felt his head begin to throb when Harriet refused to look his way.
“We need to discuss what happened,” he began, frowning when Harriet, instead of turning her head to face him, lifted a gloved hand and began drawing a circle through the film of mist that coated the window.
“You could have caused me all sorts of unpleasant embarrassment if any of my friends had gotten a glimpse of you speaking with those women and then seen you with me.”
Harriet’s finger stilled for just a second, but then she continued with her tracing, adding a half circle inside the larger circle.
“You do realize you should have ignored them, don’t you?”
She leaned toward the glass and breathed against it, right before she resumed her tracing, this time adding what appeared to be two eyes.
“Those ladies were, at best, members of the demimonde.”
Her tracing stopped, but she remained stubbornly silent.
Irritation began to trickle through him. “Exactly how did you come to be acquainted, let alone friends, with ladies of ill-repute?”
Harriet turned her head ever so slowly and pinned him with a stare bright with fury. “I’d like to get out of the carriage now.”
“We haven’t finished our discussion.”
“I’m fairly sure we have.” Harriet reached for the door handle, and then, before he had the presence of mind to stop her, jumped out and disappeared from sight.
“Harriet!” he bellowed as he launched himself after her, grunting when he slipped and hit the hard stone street with his shoulder and then rolled to the right, narrowly missing the wheel of his own carriage. His hand slid through something squishy before he pushed himself to his feet. Panic seized him as he tried to locate Harriet, expecting to discover her lifeless body under one of the many wheels trundling around him. To his relief—and concern—there was no sign of the lady, mangled or whole.
“She went that way, Mr. Addleshaw,” Darren called, gesturing up ahead before he pulled on the reins and steered the horses to the side of the street.
Oliver nodded and dodged a carriage that was heading his way, waving an apologetic hand at the driver, who was screaming at him. He took off for the sidewalk and darted through the crowd, disgruntlement replacing the panic as he ran.
How had Harriet, a lady—and
one wearing a dress, no less—managed to land on her feet, while he, a gentleman in fine form, had barely managed to escape his plunge from the carriage with nothing more than a ruined jacket and bruised shoulder and backside?
She truly was a confounding sort, but . . . No, he couldn’t allow himself to start thinking about things like that, especially since he knew the prudent step to take, once he caught up with the exasperating lady, was to end matters quickly, before disaster had a chance to fall. But . . . why was he even bothering to chase her? She’d made it clear by leaping out of his carriage that she wanted nothing further to do with him, and yet, here he was, sweat beginning to dribble into his eyes, charging after a lady who was doing her very best to escape him.
It was enough to boggle a gentleman’s mind and did have his feet slowing, until he glanced around and noticed he was in a less than respectable part of the city. The very idea of Harriet left to her own devices in such a derelict atmosphere had him picking up his pace. Angling around a gathering of elderly gentlemen, he raised his hand to tip his hat at some careworn-looking ladies staring at him with open mouths, but realized that somewhere along the way he’d lost his hat, most likely when he’d jumped from the carriage.
His head began throbbing harder than ever.
He’d liked that hat—it’d been one of his favorites—and now, because of Harriet and her impetuous nature, he’d have to buy another.
A burst of bright color captured his attention, and he realized the color came from Harriet’s hat, a hat she’d been able to retain in her mad leap from the carriage. He broke into a run but then slowed to a mere stalk when Harriet stopped in her tracks and stood on the edge of the sidewalk while people jostled around her, her attention fixed on something he couldn’t see. She spun on her heel and headed back in his direction, stopping yet again when she caught sight of him.
She muttered something he couldn’t hear because of the distance that separated them and then plowed forward, waving a dainty hand in his direction as she sailed past him.
“Go away.”
He caught up with her easily. “I promised to see you home, so see you home I shall.”
“I wouldn’t want you to get embarrassed if someone you know happens to see you in my company.”
“I never said I was embarrassed to be seen with you.”
An unladylike snort escaped her even as her pace increased.
“Harriet, please, we need to speak frankly.”
She began walking faster, causing Oliver to break into a near run.
“Well, go on, then,” she said with a slight pant lacing her words. “I’m listening.”
“Can’t you slow down?”
Harriet looked up and, to his surprise, stopped rather abruptly. Her eyes widened, and she spun around yet again and began heading back in the direction they’d just come.
He paused for just a moment, his gaze traveling over two large gentlemen striding his way, their attention seemingly on Harriet’s rapidly retreating back. Oliver took off after Harriet and grabbed hold of her arm. “Are you in some type of trouble?”
“Why would you assume that?”
“What do those men want with you?”
“What men?”
“If I’m going to be able to help you, you have to tell me what’s wrong.”
“Who said anything’s wrong?”
Oliver ran his hand through hair he knew had to be standing on end. What he really needed to do, instead of dealing with the madness of his life, was plan a nice, long holiday, well away from ladies and well away from drama.
“Do you remember when you told me you don’t care for lies?” he finally asked.
“It wasn’t that long ago, Oliver. Of course I remember.”
“And you want me to believe you’re telling the truth about not noticing those men following you?”
Harriet stumbled, righted herself, and continued forward. “Fine, maybe you’re right. Maybe since I’ve made your acquaintance I’ve taken to lying on a regular basis, because agreeing to this ridiculous plan of yours is nothing but a lie, even though I keep trying to convince myself otherwise. It’s become clear that we’ve made a huge mistake, and I, for one, believe God is surely punishing me, given the fact that . . .” Her voice trailed off as she came to another sudden stop, her attention riveted on a fancy carriage parked in front of a shabby four-storied building.
“I was hoping that would be gone by now,” she muttered. She glanced over her shoulder, bit her lip, glanced to the fancy carriage, and then edged to the right—leaving Oliver no choice but to believe she was about to take off running down a rubbish-strewn alley.
“Harriet, you’re going to have to tell me . . .”
“Miss Peabody, ah, there you are at last.”
Harriet froze as a well-dressed and rather formidable-looking older lady suddenly appeared from behind the carriage and began marching their way.
Recognition set in, followed immediately by confusion.
“How do you know Mrs. Hart, and what do you think she’s doing here?” he asked.
“I’ve never seen that lady before in my life.”
“Then why is she calling you by name and heading our way?”
“I’m sure I have no idea.”
Mrs. Charles Hart, one of the wealthiest yet most reclusive society matrons in all of New York, came to a stop directly in front of Harriet. Then, without a by your leave, she snatched Harriet into her arms, gave her a good hard squeeze, and then released her, stepping back with a huge smile on her wrinkled face. “It is so fortunate you returned home at such an opportune time, my dear. Why, I’d almost given up hope of seeing you today. I fear I kept those delightful young ladies, Miss Longfellow and Miss Plum, at my mercy for quite some time as they were forced to entertain me while I awaited your return.”
“I beg your pardon?” Harriet asked.
“Well, there’s no need for that, my dear. It was hardly as if you were aware I planned to visit you today, so there’s no reason to beg my pardon. I assure you, your friends kept me well amused, and the conversations we shared were downright riveting.”
She patted Harriet’s cheek, which had Harriet looking more confused than ever, but Mrs. Hart didn’t appear to notice as she turned her attention to him. “Mr. Addleshaw, this is an unexpected, yet fortuitous, surprise. I was not aware you were to escort Harriet about today—which, I must add, was completely inappropriate—but . . . good heavens, what has happened to you? You have the smell of the barns about you, and the look as well, if I might be so bold to add, and . . .” Her gaze traveled down his length. “Are you aware you’re missing almost all of your buttons?”
“I fear they fell off when I was, er, running.”
“Ah, I see, well, not really, but I’m not surprised your buttons popped off. That jacket is ill-fitted. Do remind me before I take my leave to give you the direction of my late-husband’s tailor. That man fits a gentleman’s clothing to perfection, and I don’t ever recall a time when my darling Charles ever lost his buttons.”
Oliver blinked, his mind churning to come up with an appropriate response to that declaration, but he was spared any response at all when Mrs. Hart let out a tsk and shook her head. “Could it be possible you’ve done something to incur the displeasure of your tailor?”
“I don’t believe so . . . but . . .”
“You might want to ask him, dear. A gentleman of your status certainly shouldn’t traverse the city in anything less than the finest of clothing. That jacket you’re currently sporting, even without the muck attached to it, does nothing to assure people you’re a leader of the business world.”
Mrs. Hart suddenly craned her neck and peered over his shoulder. “Oh look, I think that young man is bringing you back your hat.”
Oliver turned and discovered Darren running up to join them, the remains of what used to be Oliver’s favorite hat held somewhat gingerly between two of Darren’s fingers.
“I’m not sure you’re still goi
ng to want this, Mr. Addleshaw, but I rescued it from a puddle on the street, just in case you did,” Darren said, holding out the hat. Oliver reluctantly took it, swallowing a sigh as its dismal state became apparent and another glob of slime oozed through his fingers.
“Thank you, Darren. Your thoughtfulness is much appreciated.”
“Miss Peabody,” another voice called, causing Oliver to switch his attention from Darren and settle it on an older lady who was scurrying off the stoop of the peeling brown house and hurrying toward them.
He wasn’t certain, but he thought he heard Harriet release a groan right before a rather forced-looking smile tugged her lips. “Hello, Mrs. Palmer.”
“My goodness but this is exciting!” Mrs. Palmer exclaimed, coming to a stop right in front of Harriet and looking everyone over with a sharp and speculative eye. “Why, here’s the young man who brought you home just yesterday, and would you look at that? Not one but two fine carriages parked in front of my house.” She raised expectant eyes to Harriet, whose smile dimmed ever so slightly.
“Yes, it is exciting, isn’t it, and somewhat unexpected.” Harriet drew in a breath and gestured to Darren, who stepped forward and presented Mrs. Palmer with a short bow. “Allow me to present to you Darren . . . ?”
“Thompson, Miss Peabody. I’m Darren Thompson.”
“Thank you, Mr. Thompson,” Harriet said, turning back to Mrs. Palmer. “This is Mr. Thompson, Mrs. Palmer, the young man who did indeed see me home yesterday.”
Mrs. Palmer narrowed her eyes. “But you told me that he was not your suitor.”
“Well, no, he’s not, but he is standing nearest to you, so I thought I’d start the introductions with him first.”
“In the future, dear,” Mrs. Hart whispered in a voice that still carried, “it is best if you introduce the person who holds the highest social standing, which, in this case, would be me.”
Harriet’s pale cheeks flushed with color, and Oliver was about to intercede, knowing all too well that Mrs. Hart could be somewhat daunting, but Harriet lifted her chin and sent a surprisingly cool glance to Mrs. Hart. “Of course, how silly of me, and I’ll be happy to introduce you just as soon as I figure out exactly who you are and what you want with me.”
