How to Play the Game of Love (Ladies of Passion)

by Harmony Williams

  He nudged open a door with his foot. The moment he strode inside, a woman cried, “Oh dear.” The telltale crumple of her body hitting the ground dominated the silence.

  An unladylike snort rent the room. “Oh please. Get up. She looks hurt.”

  The stranger dropped me onto a soft, horizontal surface. My head spun as the world righted itself. Powder-pink walls, the cloying stench of too much perfume, and a young lady hunched over a form on the ground, waving smelling salts beneath an older woman’s pronounced nose. I was in the ladies’ withdrawing room.

  My so-called savior didn’t even pause to attend my injury. He turned to the pair of women and said in a jovial voice, “I’m afraid Miss Wellesley has turned her ankle. Would you kindly inform our hostess and send a footman?”

  My breath caught. How did he know my name? Something about the set of his eyes was familiar. Had we met? No—I recalled every man near my height or taller; not many men of the ton met that description. In the strong withdrawing room light, I noted the expensive cut of his waistcoat. The newest fashion. He had to be a guest, not a local.

  As the young lady guided her mother, still nursing a fit of vapors, from the room, the stranger also stepped back. A smile teased the corners of his mouth. “I’ll leave you, as well.”

  Good riddance. Sitting up, I speared him with a glare as he retreated. My muscles tensed as he wrapped his hand around the door and drew it shut behind him. The second the latch clicked into place, I jumped to my feet.

  A second snick echoed throughout the small room. My stomach shriveled to the size of a raisin. I bolted to the door and yanked on the handle. Locked.

  “Damnation.” I slapped my palm against the wood. It stung. “You dastardly, flea-bitten knave. Come back this instant.”

  A low male chuckle drifted through the barrier. It swiftly dissolved into silence.

  “Rose.” Francine snatched my arm, tugging me away from the door. “What’s gotten into you?”

  I shook her off. Tears stung my eyes, not all induced by the fetid flowery scent clinging to every inch of this room. I turned and rested my back against the door. “He’s locked us in.”

  There must be another way out. The moment I turned, my gaze lit upon the shuttered window. A smile chased away the frustration seething in my belly.

  Noticing my expression, Francine twisted to peer over her shoulder. Upon spotting the window, she shook her head vigorously. “No. Absolutely not. I am not climbing out a window. I will wait.”

  “At least help me up.”

  The window, shuttered and latched, rested above the basin women used to wash up. The chamber pot, tucked behind a screen, rested in the opposite corner of the room. I crossed to the window. When I tugged the rickety table out of the way, the basin tottered. It nearly tipped over and sloshed water over my dress, but Francine leaped to help. She grunted as we maneuvered both pieces out of the way. I smiled with gratitude. “Thank you.”

  She wore a dubious expression. She didn’t answer.

  With a clear reach, I stood on my tiptoes and fumbled with the latch to the window. My fingers fumbled and slipped, my arm aching from the strain. Relief trembled through my arm as I dropped it to my side once more. “Help would be nice.”

  She raised her eyebrows as she crossed her arms. “How do you think I’ll be able to help? I’m half your height.”

  I studied the window. It didn’t lie too far out of my reach. With a boost, I’d be free of this room in minutes. “Lift me up.”

  No rustle of movement hailed her compliance. I glanced over my shoulder to find her in exactly the same spot. She locked her gaze with mine. Did she think she could out-stubborn me? I had sisters. I stared her down.

  A minute passed. She dropped her gaze. With a gusty sigh, she stepped forward.

  “What would you like me to do?”

  “Drop to your hands and knees, please. I’ll use you as a stool.”

  She grumbled as she lowered herself to the ground. “Wouldn’t you rather use, I don’t know, an actual stool?”

  “Do you see one here? I don’t.” The only piece of furniture, aside from the screen hiding the chamber pot and the basin on its rickety stand, was the divan. “I could be the stool and you could unlatch the window, if you think you can reach.”

  “You know I can’t.” She muttered obscenities under her breath. Who said botanists didn’t know any colorful words?

  She grunted as I stepped onto her back.

  “Hurry up. You’re no fleet-footed fairy.”

  I scowled. “I’m going as fast as I can.”

  With the added height, I unlatched the window within seconds. The sill jutted out at the level of my chin. How was I supposed to climb up? Although I scoured the walls, I found no other hand- or footholds than the windowsill itself. I hooked my fingers onto the frame. They trembled, collapsing from the strain before I settled a fraction of my weight on them.

  “Um…Francine, I think we have a problem.”

  “If the problem is that you’re currently standing on my back, I have a stellar solution for you.”

  “Not funny, Francine.” Wind whipped by the open window, tugging at my hair and howling my defeat. Frederick didn’t magically appear, offering to rescue me if only I let down my golden hair. He could be anywhere.

  I would have to liberate myself on my own.

  Below me, Francine grunted, “I’d appreciate it if you concocted your next brilliant idea while not standing on my back.”

  I stepped down so quickly, I tripped over my feet. I stumbled to the side. My friend righted herself. She crawled to the wall and rested her back against it.

  After a moment, she opened her eyes a slit to glare at me. “How can you weigh so much? You’re as slim as a birch tree.”

  I ignored her. “I need to escape out that window.” Every second we dallied Frederick took one step closer to proposing to Miss Johnstone. My stomach churned. Me. He should be strolling with me.

  I tugged Francine to her feet.

  “We’ll have to move something for you to stand on. Something,” she added with a venomous glare, “that is not me.”

  Ignoring the barb, I suggested, “The table?”

  Her gaze narrowed on the basin and its frail stand. “Unlikely. I don’t know how it supports the basin, let alone your considerable weight.”

  I bit my lip. “We’ll have use the divan, then.”

  Francine groaned. “Still better than me, I suppose. If we position it with the arm under the window, it should lift you high enough to climb out.”

  The divan weighed more than its delicate length and spindly legs suggested. We heaved with difficulty. Every inch was a victory. I half-expected our hostess to barge in and witness us rearranging her furniture, but my luck held. With both our combined weights, Francine and I shoved the settee the last foot toward the window.

  It rested in an ungraceful position. At an angle, its arm touched the wall at one corner. The other end ate up the length of the withdrawing room. The oriental rug wadded underneath one leg. It looked hideous.

  Francine would have a lot of explaining to do, when someone finally appeared to unlock her from the room. I met her gaze. “Are you sure you won’t come with me?”

  She pursed her lips. “And climb out a window? No.”

  I refused to squander another moment. Bunching my skirts above my knees, I leaped onto the divan. In two steps, I reached the end touching the wall. The settee teetered. The far end lifted toward the ceiling. I yelped.

  Francine tackled the end rising into the air. It dropped to the ground with a thump. “Go,” she urged.

  I stepped onto the high arm, grasped the window frame, and straddled the sill.

  My skirts clumped around my thighs, exposing the long length of my stocking-clad legs. I yanked the fabric even higher to ease the tightness around my hips. I gripped the window frame for balance as I threaded my other leg through the opening.

  “What do you see?” Francine called from
behind me.

  I carefully squeezed my head and torso into the open air. My arms clutched the windowsill to keep me from pitching forward onto my face. The lamplight inside left spots on my vision. I squinted.

  “I see a bush below me. The leaves should cushion my fall.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure,” my friend answered in a voice overflowing with trepidation. “The most common species of bush around these parts is prunus spinosa.”

  “So?” I asked, listening with only half an ear to Francine’s dissection of the plant. I squirmed, aiming for the plump middle of the bush.

  “So, while blackthorn is disgustingly common and rampant, it is also notorious for its—”

  I jumped off the windowsill and into the plant. I screeched with impact. Small, sharp pinpricks of pain bombarded me from all sides, especially the tender skin on my legs where my stockings left my skin bare.

  “—thorns,” Francine completed. She paused for a beat then called, “I tried to warn you.”

  I didn’t give her the satisfaction of an answer.

  Tears stampeded to my eyes. I didn’t move a muscle, not even to breathe. My skin throbbed all over—my back, my rump, and most especially my poor legs. I tested my range of movement, wincing at the pull of thorns. A rip scarred the air—my dress.

  “Blast.”

  Even that obscenity couldn’t adequately convey my frustration.

  “Are you all right?” Francine called from inside.

  “Just peachy. Didn’t you know having thorns in one’s hair is the latest fashion?”

  Silence stretched as I tugged one hand free with concentrated effort. A gust of wind chilled me. It brought the strong, heavy scent of rain.

  “Thorns are the rage? You should have told me,” Francine said, her voice muffled. “I have a bevy of plants with thorns at home.”

  Apparently, sarcasm didn’t carry through walls.

  With my free hand, I meticulously removed the other barbs from my clothes and hair. By the time I waded free, my stockings were shredded into ribbons.

  Cuts on my arms and legs throbbed. My backside stung, too. But I was free. That had to count for something, right? The night wore thin, but I had time to find and secure Frederick’s affections. With the cloying darkness, he might not notice the shabby state of my attire. Or else, find my dishevelment becoming.

  And the sky would rain shillings. I snorted at my overly optimistic thoughts.

  My stomach lurched as a man’s voice cut through the air.

  Chapter Four

  “Would you look at that? It’s a miracle.”

  I jumped at the deep male baritone and lost my balance, teetering over the bushes once more. Strong arms plucked me from the danger. They pulled me against an unyielding male body, one taller than myself.

  I groaned. Not him again.

  My eyes still hadn’t fully adjusted to the night air. I hadn’t noticed him approach.

  The moment I regained my balance, he released me. Thank Zeus. I’d feared he would toss me over his shoulder again. I shivered at the absence of his warmth, but drew my arms around my torso like a blanket.

  “Miss Wellesley walks again,” the man said, his voice dripping with contempt.

  I returned the sentiment tenfold. Lifting my chin, I said primly, “It looks as though I wasn’t as injured as I thought. Finding oneself locked in a room with no explanation does wonders to spur one to good health.”

  “I’m sure.”

  Goodness, he and Francine were matched for sarcasm. I should lock them in a room together.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way.”

  He blocked my path. “What sort of cad would I be if I let a woman wander alone in the dark?”

  “The tolerable kind.”

  He offered his arm. “Alas, it’s not in my nature.”

  “To be tolerable?”

  He ignored the quip. When I didn’t take his arm, he squirreled me away from the manor. “I can’t let a well-bred young miss wander alone in the gardens.”

  “I’m not in the gardens. In fact, I’m barely out of the manor.”

  “Nevertheless, it is my duty to see you safely inside once more.” He caught my hand and pinned it into the crook of his arm.

  I tugged, but his grip weighed like an anchor. He herded me toward the terrace and makeshift ballroom. I balked. If anyone saw me with him in this tattered state of attire, I would be ruined.

  I dug in my heels and hauled him toward the looming hedges, the shadowed forms smelling green, like pine. Francine would know their exact species. I didn’t care. If the stranger refused to release me, then he’d help me locate Frederick. The man halted. He held firm.

  “I…think I lost my fan in the garden.”

  “You can find it tomorrow, when it is light.”

  “By then it will be ruined—”

  The man’s clamp was unyielding. He tightened it farther. “Leave my cousin and Captain Paine to their walk uninterrupted.”

  All trace of joviality was gone from his voice. His commanding and chilling tone stilled me in place. I reeled as I processed his words. His cousin? They looked nothing alike.

  This time, he let me break free of his grasp. I did not mistake the move for a triumph. His looming presence left no doubt he could recapture me with little effort.

  “Mr. Johnstone—”

  “Lord.”

  “I beg your pardon.” I shook my head. “You must take me for a dimwit. There is no Lord Johnstone in the peerage.”

  “No, but there is a Lord Hartfell.”

  That’s how I recognize him! With his scruffy sideburns, square jaw, and broad-shouldered figure, he didn’t much resemble his dear old mum. How had such a sweet woman given birth to a savage such as him? She and my mother were friends, the same as his father and mine had been friends…at least, until the late Lord Hartfell’s death before I was out of swaddling clothes.

  With my sweetest smile, I pointed out, “If you’re Miss Johnstone’s cousin, shouldn’t you protect her virtue by discouraging her from spending time alone with gentlemen?”

  Hartfell crossed his arms. Immovable.

  “You make it sound as though she’s entertaining a harem. She’s walking with one man, and an honorable one as near as I can tell.” The shadows obscured his face, but his voice was thick with a scowl.

  This seemed to be a sore spot to him so, naturally, I prodded him further. With a shrug, I said, “By all means, if you’d like to take the chance, stay here with me. But how well do you know the captain, really?”

  I would spend a fortune to be able to see his expression right about now.

  “I would be keeping a much closer eye, if not for your shamelessness.”

  He said it in such a dark, glowering, murderous tone, I had to laugh.

  He made a noise reminiscent of a growl, like an animal. “You don’t even have the modesty to be ashamed.”

  “I believe that is the very definition of shameless.”

  He loomed closer. His body, coiled with tension, surrounded me with heat. From his hostile stance, he wanted to wring my neck. I should have been afraid, but I wasn’t. Somehow, I knew he wouldn’t hurt me. Or perhaps I simply didn’t care. It was another facet of the appeal of riling him.

  An ominous roll of thunder rumbled, as though to punctuate the danger.

  It was so alluring, I didn’t know when to stop. Smiling broadly even though he couldn’t see, I added, “Being meek never got anyone what they wanted.”

  He wrapped his hands around my upper arms. I didn’t know whether he meant to pull me closer or push me away.

  And then the sky fell open, pummeling us with icy sheets of rain.

  I recoiled, intending to run for cover beneath the eaves of the manor or the nearest tree, but he held firm. Another peal of thunder shook the sky, followed by a sheet of lightning that lit up the heavens. It illuminated Hartfell’s face. He stared at me, intent, as though he held me in the open as punishment for proddin
g him.

  The lightning quickly faded, leaving me in the dark and wet.

  “Do you want us both to catch our deaths?”

  That stirred him into action. He released one arm. His cold glove slid along the length of my other arm to my wrist. He used the hold to tug me behind him. I stumbled as I kept pace. Lightning illuminated our path in ragged spurts.

  We reached the manor. The eaves did little to quell the downpour, and droplets of rain slithered down my back. Because of the wind, the front of my dress conformed to my skin. Hartfell groped along the wall, presumably searching for any door or window that wasn’t locked.

  He yanked open the first unlocked door and drew me inside. He shut the door so forcefully, the delicate windowpanes in the French door rattled.

  “Where are we?” We hadn’t entered by way of the kitchen this time.

  A bolt of lightning illuminated the room: the shadow of a desk, tall, overreaching shelves, and a fireplace with dry logs in the grate. The image faded with the streak of light.

  I shivered in my soaked clothes. “We should light a fire,” I said, pulling away my hand and tucking my arms around my middle for extra warmth. “There are logs in the grate.”

  Hartfell grunted in agreement, but made no move to perform the task himself.

  Fine. I didn’t need a man to light a fire. I’d seen it done before. I’d do it myself.

  I stomped with purpose in the direction of the fireplace. A sharp corner stabbed me in the thigh. I hissed in pain and doubled over, rubbing the tender spot.

  “Miss Wellesley?”

  If I didn’t know better, I would have sworn Hartfell sounded concerned.

  “I’m fine,” I said between gritted teeth. I tested my weight on the leg. No harm done, but Good Lord, did it throb. “I walked into the desk. It’s nothing.”

  This time, I groped along the length of the wood. It was cool and glossy to the touch. As I reached the end, a blaze of lightning granted enough illumination to gauge the distance to the mantle and discern no other obstacles to cause me injury. The bolt, followed by a deafening peal of thunder, left a purplish imprint of the room on my eyes. I stumbled forward, blind, and released a breath when my questing fingers brushed against the mantle. I dropped to my knees, searching for the tinderbox.