‘I welcome your assistance,’ she whispered and held out her hand.
‘You have it. To confounding the matchmakers, my intelligent friend.’ His fingers curled around hers. Strong and firm. She swayed toward him, lips parting.
Somewhere in the bowels of the house, a clock chimed the quarter-hour. She let go abruptly, aware that she had held his fingers for a breath too long. She forced her mouth to turn up. He thought her intelligent, but unappealing. It reminded her of Charles’s journal. My new wife is a sensible choice, but far too intelligent for my taste. Just once she wanted to be thought of as fascinating. A tiny piece of her had wanted Mrs Reynaud’s scandalous suggestion to be true and that he’d pull her towards him and kiss her thoroughly.
She had entirely misread the situation earlier. A small shudder ran down her spine. She had nearly kissed him under the cedar. And now again here—just after she had proudly proclaimed no interest in marrying again! When had she become forward? And what if he thought she was an advocate for free love?
How embarrassing would that have been! Poor silly deluded Hattie. Always gets it wrong. Another of Charles’s entries in his journal. She knew what she wanted from life and being one out of many women was not for her. ‘I thank you for the compliment.’
‘And you will come on the picnic with me? As a friend?’
He leant close and his breath laced with hers, doing strange things to her insides. He smelt of sandalwood and the faint tang of wood smoke. All she had to do was to lift her mouth a few inches. A slight tilting of her head was all it would take, except he wasn’t interested in her, not in that way. Hattie concentrated on breathing, slowly and steadily, controlling her desire.
‘I’d like that, Sir Christopher. True friendship is beyond price.’
‘Kit. We are friends and intimates, Hattie.’ His voice rolled her name.
‘Very well, Kit.’ Even saying his first name seemed intimate and wicked as if she was slowly but inexorably sliding towards the sort of woman who did indulge in serious flirtations. ‘It took me three months before I dared think of my husband by his first name, let alone call him by it.’
‘Then it is just as well that I’m not your husband.’
‘Until tomorrow.’ Hattie hated the way her blood leapt. She could stop any time she wanted. Going on a picnic did not mean she was going to become his mistress. It took more than a solitary picnic to ruin a reputation.
* * *
Kit made certain that he gave the appearance of relaxing back against an oak tree as he finished his share of the picnic, but his entire body was intensely focused on where Hattie Wilkinson sat, blithely eating strawberries. Her hair today was in a loose crown of braids with a few tendrils kissing the back of her neck.
The picnic had been far more pleasant than he’d anticipated. The conversation with Mrs Wilkinson had ranged from a mutual admiration of Handel and loathing of sopranos who added trills to arias to the games of chess and cricket. Mrs Wilkinson, he discovered, was a keen bowler and took pride in her ability to take wickets.
Having concluded the debate about the correct way to bowl off-side, Mrs Wilkinson reached for the few remaining strawberries in the dish.
‘How did you guess I adored strawberries? Normally Livvy or Portia eat their fill before I get a chance to have more than one.’
‘Another reason to be pleased you came without them.’ Kit pushed the dish towards her. He’d nearly accomplished his mission. Mrs Wilkinson had blossomed. Perhaps it was as simple as her needing to understand that life went on without her husband. He hoped the man had deserved her devotion. He wondered how any woman could be so devoted? He doubted if any woman would shed real tears for him. Crocodile tears because he was no longer picking up the bills, but not real ones that came from deep within.
‘One more, then.’
‘You mustn’t be shy. Take as many as you want. They are begging to be eaten.’
‘When you put it that way, how can I refuse?’ She gave a quick laugh and brought a berry to her mouth. Her teeth bit into it and the juice dribbled, turning her lips bright red. Kit silently handed her a handkerchief and indicated towards her chin.
She hastily scrubbed her face. ‘Honestly, you would think after all these years I’d learn. How long has it been that way?’
‘Long enough. You look delightful.’ He leant back against the tree, put his hands behind his head and savoured the moment. ‘This picnic is supposed to be about enjoyment.’
‘And you think eating strawberries in the sunshine is a suitable pastime?’
‘None better.’ He shifted so his legs were stretched and struggled to remember the last time he had felt so content. There again, he found it difficult to remember the last time he had taken a woman on a picnic. The women in his life were far more inclined towards intimate late-night suppers, silken sheets and expensive presents. He had rarely wanted to talk to any of them about matters beyond the bedroom.
With Hattie Wilkinson, he wanted to hear her views. He enjoyed debating with her and disconcerting her in order to win.
A tiny frown appeared between her brows. ‘I would have thought a man with your sort of reputation...’
‘Simple pleasures are the best ones.’ He reached across and popped the last strawberry into her mouth.
She half-closed her eyes and a look of supreme pleasure crossed her face. ‘Those are exceptionally good strawberries. Don’t you agree, Mr Hook?’
Full of more than his fair share of cold game pie, watercress sandwiches, fruit cake and elderflower cordial, Rupert sat with his head in a book about newts, mumbling about amphibians and their feeding habits and ignoring Hattie’s attempts to bring him into the conversation. Mrs Hampstead, Hattie’s housekeeper, likewise ignored the conversation and knitted.
It would be easy to do this every day.
Kit inwardly smiled at the thought—the great bon vivant Sir Christopher Foxton indulging in rustic pleasures. He could imagine the caustic remarks. He should end the flirtation now, before he was tempted to enjoy it or, worse still, repeat it and start to count on it. Counting on women for anything beyond the basics was a bad idea. He’d learnt that bitter lesson long ago. His mother had turned her elegant back on him and never attempted to make contact with him after she left.
Kit struggled to his feet. His mother, her lack of care and her penchant for scandalous behaviour were far from suitable topics for conversation or thought on this glorious day.
‘Is there something wrong?’ Hattie asked at his sudden movement. The light in her eyes flickered and died.
‘Shall we explore the area to work off some of the lunch? You may have eaten the strawberries, but I had game pie,’ Kit said, gesturing towards where the busy coaching inn stood.
Physical activity was what was required. It would keep his mind from wandering down unwanted paths. After today, there would be no more picnics with
Hattie Wilkinson. This was about a lesson in short flirtation rather than a prolonged friendship.
‘There is nothing much here,’ Rupert said unhelpfully, looking up from his book. ‘Just some empty fields.’
‘When you see the two crossroads, there is little mystery as to why the fair is held here,’ Kit continued, giving Rupert a meaningful glare. ‘Do you know how long the fair has been going on, Hattie?’
‘Since time immemorial,’ Mrs Wilkinson replied, dusting her fingers with a white handkerchief.
She leant back and the bodice of her gown tightened across her breasts. In other women, he’d suspect that it was done deliberately, but with Hattie, he was sure it was unconscious. All too often recently, his life had been filled with women who knew what they were on about and sought to accentuate their sexuality, leaving him cold.
‘There are some Roman remains just to the north of the inn. We could walk there.’ Her long lashes fluttered down, hiding her expressive eyes. ‘It is possible they had a fair. I’ve never really considered it.’
The tension went out of K
it’s shoulders. Virtue radiated from every pore. He could end the flirtation there. Something simple and it would be over. It was better to be done now, than to risk liking Mrs Wilkinson. They had no future. She’d never agree to an affair and he had no wish to become respectable.
The thought sent a pang of unaccustomed melancholy through him.
‘The perfect destination for an afternoon stroll.’ He made a bow. ‘If you are up for exploration and exercise...’
Mrs Wilkinson stood up and shook her skirts. Her carefully arranged crown of braids slipped to one side. With a laugh she brushed the grass stains from her skirt.
He considered his last three mistresses, all high-stepping courtesans, and if they would have reacted so favourably to a picnic or to eating strawberries or, worse, having any of their immaculate clothes soiled. The thought of the hysteria, shrieks and sulks which would have ensued made him shudder.
‘Shall we all go and explore? Mrs Hampstead and I will take the rearguard while you and Rupert...’
‘I do believe Mr Hook can stay with me,’ Mrs Hampstead said, looking up from her knitting.
‘But why?’ Hattie tapped her fingers together. ‘I can remember you always proclaiming about the virtues of a walk.’
‘I wish to find out about newts and I have seen enough stone to last me a lifetime. Why a bunch of old stones provides such amusement I’ll never know. But I know all about you and your walking, Miss Hattie. You were never able to sit still as a girl and you’ve never changed,’ Mrs Hampstead said with a placid smile. ‘Walk off your energy with Sir Christopher. You are a grown woman, not an impetuous girl of sixteen. I trust your judgement, even if you don’t.’
Rupert turned a dull purple and swallowed rapidly. ‘I’m sure you will find the subject quite dull, Mrs Hampstead. That is to say—a walk will do everyone some good.’
‘Not at all. It will do my bones no good to go clambering over rocks and stones.’ Mrs Hampstead patted a place beside her. It amused Kit that so many people in Mrs Wilkinson’s life seemed to think a bit of romance would do her good. ‘I have an enquiring mind and Miss Parteger came over yesterday to specifically ask about the subject. She assures me that you are a great authority. You are going to give a lecture in Corbridge and she plans to sit in the front row listening.’
‘Miss Parteger said that? She plans to?’ Rupert dropped the book and the page flopped open to lesser spotted newts and their habits. He hurriedly shut it and his face grew even redder. ‘Of course the lecture was pure speculation on her mother’s part... I mean, if called upon, I will be delighted to lecture. I believe I can give a convincing lecture...on newts.’
‘It is good to see that you are willing to rise to the challenge, Rupert,’ Kit said, looking at his protégé. Rupert was learning to honour his commitments and hopefully to think carefully before laying claim to any prowess again. He would repay his debt to Rupert’s father.
Rupert ducked his head. ‘I would endeavour to do my best.’
‘Practice always makes perfect.’ Mrs Hampstead fluffed out her skirts. ‘Mr Hook, I’ve waited a long time to hear about such things and I trust you will oblige me.’
‘You will have to imagine the illustrations.’
‘I have an adequate imagination.’ Mrs Hampstead reached for another ball of wool. ‘I told Dr Hornby that last year when he did his lecture on battles in the Bible. My imagination is more than adequate for the task required. What are you two waiting for? Go and enjoy yourselves.’
Kit exchanged an amused glance with Mrs Wilkinson. She gave a little shrug as if to say she knew about the stratagem.
‘Shall we leave Mrs Hampstead and Rupert to their discussion? I fear I don’t find newts as fascinating as Rupert currently does.’
‘I’m sure Moth would enjoy the exercise,’ Mrs Wilkinson said, snapping her fingers towards where Moth lounged in the sun.
‘I believe Moth would like to stay as well. The summer sun is a bit hot for her.’ Mrs Hampstead gave
Hattie a significant glance. ‘You can tell us all about the ruins when you return. Take your time, my dear. We will be here when you return.’
Hattie concentrated on smiling sweetly rather than screaming. The disease of matchmaking appeared to be highly contagious. First her sister, and now Mrs Hampstead felt she should be encouraging Kit with a view towards matrimony. She shook her head. The man had dodged more marriage traps than most. Besides, he was a person to be enjoyed, rather than to lose one’s heart to.
A walk alone with Kit—the very prospect was enough to set her nerves jangling like some young débutante’s.
There again, sitting in the blanket, gazing at his regular features and listening to his voice rumble over her had done nothing towards eliminating the attraction she felt for him. Familiarity was supposed to breed contempt...when in this case all it bred was the desire to be kissed. She clenched her fists.
She refused to start believing in romance again. It led straight to heartache.
Hattie picked up her parasol and hoped that Kit would not see her heightened colour and attribute it to the wrong reason. ‘A walk will be just the thing.’
* * *
‘You obviously haven’t informed your housekeeper about our arrangement,’ Kit observed when they reached the small pile of stones which marked the remains of Portgate.
Hattie stumbled over a stone. They had covered the ground between the picnic and the ruins in silence. She’d kept thinking up topics for conversation and rejecting them as unsuitable. She’d finally settled on the weather when, without warning, he mentioned the very topic she wished to avoid—the blatant attempts at matchmaking.
‘What sort of arrangement do you mean?’ she asked, attempting to stay upright.
‘Our friendship. Or is everyone chronically addicted to matchmaking in Northumberland?’
‘In my defence, I tried to warn you.’
‘Surely you confided in someone about this? Women always confide in their female friends.’
She glanced upwards to see how he felt about it, but the planes of his face gave no clue. Her heart sank. Of course, he could scent matchmaking wiles. Such men always could.
Her grip on the parasol tightened.
‘Mrs Hampstead used to be Stephanie’s nurse as well as mine. They remain close. If I want to fool my sister, I can hardly confess to Mrs Hampstead. You do understand my reasoning, don’t you?’
‘Perfectly.’
Hattie shook her head. Even the thought made her blood run cold—confiding in Mrs Hampstead. The fewer people who knew about her arrangement with Kit, the better.
‘All I can do is to apologise.’
His eyes widened. ‘Why apologise? None of it was your doing. And I do think I am old enough to see through a simple matchmaking stratagem. I’d have hardly remained single for this long if I didn’t. It amused me to see it happen. Do you think she will tell your sister?’
‘Yes, of course.’ The words tasted like ash in her mouth. Hattie pulled her bonnet forwards. She hadn’t asked for Livvy to list her shortcomings this morning—passable figure, too long of a nose and far too inclined towards sarcasm. And she failed to smile enough.
‘All we are doing is going for a walk, Hattie. Relax and enjoy the moment. Nothing untoward will happen. Nothing to cause adverse comment.’
Hattie hated the butterflies which had started beating in her stomach and the way her jaw hurt from trying to keep a smile. This going for a walk alone was a poor idea.
If anything it emphasised that she wanted to be with him as more than a friend. She liked thinking of herself as independent and not needing a man, but right now all she could think about was how alone she was and how his arms felt when they waltzed.
‘It was sweet of Livvy to ask Mrs Hampstead about newts,’ she said, attempting to keep the subject away from the matchmaking scheme.
‘Rupert is learning a valuable lesson in the folly of trying to please people.’
‘Please people?’ Hatti
e stopped beside a large pile of stones. ‘It certainly backfired on him. Livvy still likes his well-turned calf muscles, but if his object was to impress her mother, he singularly failed. He is about to endure a baptism of fire. They still speak about the great Hollingbrooke disaster from ’98 when Mr Hollingbrooke tried to give a lecture on the history of lime kilns and people began to throw rotten fruit.’
He reached out and caught her elbow. ‘Hattie.’
‘We have exhausted the subject, yes, I know.’ Hattie
gulped air. She babbled when she was nervous and today was no exception. ‘You have no interest in the great Hollingbrooke disaster and it was wrong of me to bring it up.’
‘Hattie,’ he said again. He stood looking at her with his top hat pushed back, giving him a rakish look. ‘I didn’t go on this picnic to discuss my godson or his prospects. I came because—’
‘We don’t need to discuss why,’ Hattie broke in before he could finish. The last thing she wanted to hear was his proposal for confounding the matchmakers. She needed to end this now, before she started to enjoy his company. She refused to go back to that naïve girl whom Charles had taken advantage of. ‘When we return to the picnic, it will appear that we had a quarrel. The nature of said quarrel will be highly trivial, but on an important point of principle. I will inform my sister that we will have fallen out of civility with each other. After that we become civil but distant acquaintances. The only thing I need from you is to decide how long we stay out here. I’m sorry if my words are blunt, but there you have it.’
She waited for him to agree. Or to at least comment on her rudeness. The solution had come to her in the middle of the night, when she had awoken from a dream about his mouth against hers.
‘Hattie.’ He took a step closer. She became aware of his elusive scent and the way his stock was intricately tied. It was one thing to make plans to counter a dream Kit and another to be confronted with the living and breathing man.
Hattie Wilkinson Meets Her Match Page 6
