Hattie Wilkinson Meets Her Match

by Michelle Styles

  ‘I would suggest, young lady, that you hold your tongue about this adventure.’ Kit gave a cold nod. Mrs Wilkinson had lost. He knew it and, more importantly, she knew it. She would yield to his suggestion.

  Miss Parteger blinked rapidly. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because if you don’t, it will reveal you were somewhere where you shouldn’t have been and your trip to London might become a distant dream,’ Mrs Wilkinson replied without missing a beat. The colour drained from her niece’s face. ‘And, yes, Sir Christopher, I will dance with you, but it must be the next dance. I want this fanciful forfeit finished and this entire episode an unwelcome memory as soon as possible.’

  Kit resisted the temptation to crow. There was no point in grinding one’s opponent into the floor like his father used to. Kit didn’t require abject humiliation, just total surrender.

  Kit held out his arm and smiled at the overly confident Mrs Wilkinson. A waltz in this backwater would be too much to hope for. A simple quadrille which would allow him to put his hands on her waist was all he desired. Mrs Wilkinson needed this. She would thank him for it...later. ‘Our dance awaits.’

  * * *

  As Hattie set foot in the ballroom, flanked by Livvy and Sir Christopher, the music ceased and the mass of humanity seethed around the dance floor as people exchanged greetings and partners.

  Hattie breathed deeply and released Sir Christopher’s arm. Tonight’s adventure was finished. A solitary quadrille with Sir Christopher to prove her point, and she’d be finished. The dance would prove useful if Livvy was unable to resist confiding her adventure. She would merely claim that Sir Christopher had requested a dance and she’d agreed. No one needed to know the precise circumstances.

  ‘Shall we?’ She gestured with her fan towards the middle of the dance floor, well away from the chandelier and its dripping wax.

  ‘This dance? Don’t you want to know which one it is?’

  ‘Why wait? Or are you a coward?’ she called out. ‘I wish to get this forfeit over.’

  She was halfway across the dance floor when the master of ceremonies announced that the next dance would a German waltz. Hattie halted. A waltz? The next dance couldn’t be a waltz. They never waltzed at Summerfield. A waltz would mean being in Sir Christopher’s arms, looking up into his dark grey eyes. Impossible!

  ‘It would appear I was wrong. It isn’t a quadrille, but a waltz.’ Hattie shrugged a shoulder and attempted to ignore the ice-cold pit opening in her stomach. ‘Fancy that.’

  ‘Is a waltz problematic?’ he asked, lifting a quizzical brow, but his eyes gleamed with hidden lights.

  ‘Such a shame. We agreed to a quadrille.’ Hattie gave a falsely contrite smile. Escape. All she needed to do was to escape. He wouldn’t come after her. He wouldn’t create a scene. ‘It has been a pleasure, Sir Christopher.’

  She dropped a quick curtsy and prepared to move towards where Stephanie sat, surrounded by the other matrons, surveying the dance floor.

  Sir Christopher reached out and grasped her elbow, pulling her close to his hard frame. ‘Not so fast. We have an altogether different agreement.’

  She tugged slightly, but he failed to release her.

  ‘Have you gone mad? What in the name of everything holy are you doing?’ she said in a furious undertone. ‘All I wanted to do was to rescue Livvy from your godson. Nothing more.’

  ‘You promised me the next dance, Mrs Wilkinson. A German waltz is the next dance.’ He tightened his grip, sliding it down her arm until her hand was captured. He raised it to his lips. ‘I hope you are the sort of woman who keeps her promises.’

  Hattie hated the way his velvet voice slid over her skin, tempting her to flirt with him. Her traitorous body wanted to be held in his arms. But that would lead to heartbreak. She’d sworn off such men for ever. She concentrated on all the gossip about him—the women, the duels and the gaming—but her body stubbornly remained aware of him and the way his fingers held her wrist.

  ‘I implied, rather than specifically promised. There is a difference,’ she said, looking him directly in the eyes. ‘You of all people should know the difference.’

  ‘An implied promise remains a promise.’ His full lips turned upwards. ‘Consider what might have been, Mrs Wilkinson, before you reject me entirely.’

  Hattie studied the wooden floor, scuffed with the marks of a hundred dancing slippers, and concentrated on breathing steadily. Her entire being longed to say yes. Charm, that’s all it was, just as it had been with Charles. Once she allowed herself to be swayed, she’d lose everything.

  ‘I suspect you say that to everyone.’ She gave a light laugh and her pulse started beating normally again. ‘You’ve never seen me waltz.’

  ‘Ah, you don’t know how to waltz. You should have said rather than stooping to subterfuge.’

  ‘Waltzing reached Northumberland several years ago.’ Hattie put her hand on her hip. Talk about assumptions. Did she really look like a frumpy wallflower? When had that happened? ‘I can and do waltz when the occasion demands. I simply prefer not to waltz right now.’

  ‘Unfortunately, we can’t always get what we want, Mrs Wilkinson. Here all I had intended to do was to dance with you. However, if you insist, we shall have a flirtation in the garden. My late uncle always said that northern women were bold, but until I met you, I had no idea.’

  ‘Do such remarks cause the ladies in London to swoon at your feet? Up here, you are more likely to get a slapped face.’

  ‘It is one of my more endearing traits. Impossible, but with a modicum of wit,’ he said, giving her a hooded look. ‘But will the lady waltz? Or is she a coward with two left feet?’

  ‘I’ll waltz with you, if only to prove you wrong about my dancing ability,’ Hattie ground out.

  ‘Hand on my shoulder now and we shall begin.’ His tone became rich velvet which slid over her skin. ‘I promise you a dance to remember.’

  ‘Are you a dancing master now? Is there no end to your many talents?’

  ‘I endeavour to give satisfaction, particularly to the ladies.’

  ‘Proprieties will be observed, Sir Christopher.’

  ‘Did I suggest otherwise?’ Kit stopped. The instant his hand had encountered hers, he’d felt an unexpected and searing tug of attraction. For over a year, he hadn’t felt any attraction and suddenly this. Why her? Why this widow with an over-developed sense of propriety and hideous hairstyle? He had made it a policy not to be attracted to respectable women ever since Brighton.

  ‘I’m pleased we hold the same view.’

  ‘What can I ever have done to result in your censure?’ he murmured, slightly adjusting his hand so it fit more snugly on her slender waist. Kit gave an inward smile as they circled the room. Mrs Wilkinson’s lesson was proving more enjoyable than he first considered. He inched his hand lower. She gave him a freezing look and he returned to the proper hold.

  ‘Your reputation preceded you, Sir Christopher.’

  Kit could easily imagine what the village gossips were saying about him and his wicked past. There had been a time when he hadn’t cared or appreciated what life could offer. He had gambled and whored with the best of them. He fought bad men with his bare hands. All that had ended a year ago when his best friend gave up his life for him and he’d become one of the walking dead.

  ‘You have been listening to common tittle-tattle. That should be beneath you,’ he said.

  She tilted her head to one side and gave an unrepentant smile. ‘When someone as notorious as you comes from London, his antecedents are discussed. It is the way of the world. Mr Hook is your protégé. He follows your methods, but fortunately for my niece, I happened along rather than one of the Tyne Valley gossips. Olivia will not suffer the fate of so many of your women.’

  A blaze of anger went through Kit. She’d judged not only him, but also Rupert, on the basis of a few pieces of tittle-tattle. He renewed his determination to ensure that a full and complete flirtation happened. ‘I’m no saint, Mrs Wil
kinson, but neither am I a black-hearted villain. I have never ruined a débutante or indeed participated in the ruining of a débutante. Neither have I ever seduced a woman from her children or her husband. It is against my creed.’

  ‘But they said...I’m sure...the stories...’

  ‘Yes, I know the stories, but more importantly I know the truth. Do you? Have you ever been misjudged?’

  She dipped her head, showing her intricately braided hair. Only the smallest curl dared escape. ‘Perhaps I have been over-hasty in my judgement. I will accept your word that you would have said something if I had failed to come into the card room. And I’m wrong to punish you for another’s actions.’

  ‘Apology accepted. Shall we start again and endeavour to enjoy the dance?’

  He pulled her waist closer to his body so that her skirt brushed his legs. Her hand tightened about his. His breath caressed the delicate curve of her shell-like ear. Her shoulder trembled under his fingers. He smiled inwardly. A little romance always brightened everyone’s life. He looked forward to discovering Mrs Wilkinson’s hidden depths.

  ‘Will you give me a chance to prove the gossips wrong?’ Kit asked quietly. ‘Will you dance with me again or, better still, take a turn about the garden where I can plead my case?’

  He waited for her breathless agreement.

  ‘This is where the dance ends,’ she said in a voice that left no room for dissent. She gave a small curtsy. ‘We would hardly wish to cause a scandal. We are only strangers after all.’

  ‘I must become a friend and discover what sort of scandal you have in mind,’ Kit murmured. ‘Be reckless. Further our acquaintance. You intrigue me.’

  ‘One dance will have to satisfy you, Sir Christopher.’ She stepped out of his arms. ‘I bid you goodnight.’

  She strode away, her hips agreeably swaying and her back twitching. Kit frowned. He had nearly begged for her favour. He never begged. His skills were rusty.

  He patted his pocket where he’d placed the gloves. Their little romance was not over until he decided. Mrs Wilkinson had a lesson to learn and she would learn it...thoroughly. ‘Until the next time, Mrs Wilkinson. Sweet dreams.’

  Mrs Wilkinson paused, half-turned, then, appearing to think better of a retort, she resumed her march in double-quick time as if the devil himself was after her.

  Chapter Two

  ‘You left Sir Christopher Foxton standing on the dance floor even though the dance hadn’t finished!’ Mrs Reynaud said with a stifled gasp as Hattie reached the end of her highly edited tale the next morning. The sunlit parlour with its dimity lace curtains and artfully arranged ornaments was a world away from last night’s splendours of the ballroom.

  ‘It was the right thing to do.’ Hattie reached for her teacup. There was little point in telling Mrs Reynaud about how her legs had trembled and how close she’d been to agreeing to his outlandish suggestion of a turn about the garden. She knew what he was, why she couldn’t take a chance with him and still the temptation to give in to his charm had been there. Even after all she’d been through with Charles and his unreliability, a part of her had wanted to believe in romance and she refused to allow it to happen.

  ‘Do you know you were the only lady he danced with all night?’

  Hattie set the cup down with an unsteady hand. She could hardly confess to have been aware of Sir Christopher in that fashion. ‘How do you know that on dit?’

  ‘My maid had the news from the butcher’s boy this morning,’ the elderly woman said. ‘Your waltz is the talk of the village. I’ve been in a quiver of anticipation. Thank you for telling me what truly happened, my dear. It makes my mind rest easier.’

  Hattie kept her gaze focused on the way her papillon dog, Moth, was delicately finishing her biscuit, rather than meeting Mrs Reynaud’s interested gaze. The whole point of the story was to enlist Mrs

  Reynaud’s advice about Livvy’s behaviour and how best to approach the talk she knew she’d have to give, rather than discuss her near-flirtation with the village’s current most notorious resident.

  Why was it that women lost their minds as soon as Sir Christopher’s name was mentioned? Her sister had gone fluttery when Hattie returned from the dance floor, demanding to know how Hattie was acquainted with Sir Christopher. Hattie glossed over the card-room incident and Stephanie appeared satisfied.

  ‘It was a waltz, nothing more,’ Hattie said finally, seeking to close the matter. ‘We had a brief verbal-sparring match. He dislikes being bested, but the game has ended. Honours to me.’

  ‘Do you know how long Sir Christopher will be in the neighbourhood?’ Mrs Reynaud handed Moth another biscuit. The little brown-and-white dog tilted her head to one side, waiting, but after Hattie nodded gobbled the biscuit up.

  ‘He failed to confide his intentions.’ Hattie stroked Moth’s silky ears. Moth had come into her life just after Charles’s death and for many months was the only bright spot. ‘It has taken him over a year to visit his inheritance. Our paths won’t cross again.’

  ‘Predicting the future is always fraught with danger, my dear.’ Mrs Reynaud brushed the crumbs into a pile for Moth. ‘It does my heart good to hear news of him after such a long time, even if it’s only for a short while.’

  ‘Are you acquainted with him, then?’ Hattie stared at the woman.

  ‘I knew the family years ago. His late uncle arranged for me to have the lease on this house.’

  ‘Perhaps he will call on you once he realises you are here.’

  The colour faded from Mrs Reynaud’s face, making the pockmarks stand out even more. ‘My dear, I...I have changed a great deal since we last encountered each other.’

  Instantly Hattie regretted her words. Over the last two years since Mrs Reynaud had taken up residency in the tiny cottage, she’d become accustomed to Mrs Reynaud’s ruined features. ‘An old friend never looks at faces. They are pleased to renew the friendship.’

  ‘I doubt that he will remember me, whatever the state of his manners,’ Mrs Reynaud said, raising a handkerchief to her face. ‘Pray do not bother him with an old woman’s remembrance of a past acquaintance. I was wrong to mention it. Ever so wrong.’

  ‘Very well, I won’t insist.’ Hattie buried her face in Moth’s fur. What was she doing, clutching at straws, searching for a way to encounter Sir Christopher again? Had her experience with Charles taught her nothing? A few minutes waltzing with a confirmed rake and she behaved worse than Livvy. ‘It is a moot point as our paths are unlikely to cross.’

  ‘Are you that ignorant of men? He forced a forfeit and waltzed with you and only you.’

  ‘He did that for...for his own purposes,’ Hattie explained. ‘They say his mistresses are the most beautiful women London can offer. Why would he be interested in someone like me and my few charms?’

  ‘You underestimate yourself, my dear, and that borders on foolishness.’ Mrs Reynaud held out her hand. ‘I merely wanted to point out that having done your duty to your fallen hero and mourned him properly, you can start to live again. But if your heart is for ever buried with your husband and you are one of the walking dead, then so be it. A pity with you being so young.’

  Hattie swirled the remains of her coffee. Living again. She thanked God that Mrs Reynaud didn’t know what her husband was truly like. The extent of his perfidy and hypocrisy had only emerged after his death.

  Before then she had considered that she had a blissful marriage with someone utterly reliable and steadfast. She’d had no idea about his other family or the debts he’d run up. Thankfully, the woman in question had been discreet and she’d managed to scrape together the required amount. But no one else knew. She had her pride.

  Sometimes she felt as if she was still living a lie, but she couldn’t confess the full horror. Not now, not ever. It remained her problem and she didn’t want false sympathy.

  She opted for a bland, ‘I hardly know what to say.’

  ‘A light-hearted flirtation never did anyone any harm. Allo
w a little romance into your life. You’re a handsome woman and should be aware of your power! You should celebrate being alive, rather than running from it.’

  Hattie focused on the tips of Moth’s ears as Moth snuffled crumbs. Flirtations could harm people, if they believed in romance. That lesson was etched on her heart. ‘I’ll bear that in mind, should ever the question arise.’

  ‘Oh dear, I fear I’ve shocked you. It’s what comes from living abroad for such a long period.’ The corners of Mrs Reynaud’s mouth quirked upwards. ‘You’ll get over it in time and forgive me, I hope. I do so look forward to your visits. They are always the highlight of my day.’

  ‘I should go to Highfield and see how Livvy fares before I go back home,’ Hattie said, plopping Moth into the now-empty basket. Moth gave a sharp bark and placed her paws on the rim.

  Although she loved her sister and nieces and nephews, Hattie maintained her own establishment—the Highfield Dower House at the edge of the Highfield estate. Her old nurse Mrs Hampstead served as her housekeeper. Close enough to be on hand if there was a crisis, but far enough to maintain her own life.

  She had come to Northumberland shortly after Charles’s death was confirmed. Her mother had died of a fever a few months before and her father of a broken heart, a week before Charles’s things arrived.

  She’d always been grateful neither of them knew of Charles’s perfidy. She couldn’t have hidden the truth from her mother.

  When Stephanie’s plea for help came, Hattie had considered it better than staying in London with her brother, the new viscount, and his wife. She had discovered a peace in Northumberland that she hadn’t considered possible.

  ‘You spend far too much time running around after your sister and her brood. She uses you as an unpaid lackey.’

  ‘There may be flowers or notes,’ Hattie said at Mrs Reynaud’s look. ‘And don’t worry, I will tell you everything about Livvy’s progress when I next visit. I think you are right, a quiet word and then tales about the wonders of a London Season should suffice.’