really. He recalled a scent of night jasmine, but nothing real and substantial.
A great part of him wanted to know the truth. He deserved to know what his uncle wanted hidden. Had his uncle defied his father?
Silently he willed her to look up and acknowledge him. Take it out of his hands. He’d go down if she so much as waved.
The woman stretched and went back into the house without looking towards him.
Kit curled his hands about the reins. Did he truly want to know who the woman was? How would he cope if it really was his mother?
She knew where he was. He refused to beg. He was not going back to that little boy on the stairs, silently pleading with his mother to turn around and stay, not to leave him. He had left the past behind him.
To hell with his rules. He needed Hattie. He needed her to make the past vanish. His life was about the here and now and the past was kept in a little place marked Do Not Open.
Kit spurred his horse towards the Dower House and Hattie. Solace.
* * *
Hattie put her hands on her back and stretched. The scent of strawberries perfumed the still room. There was something supremely satisfying about making jams and preserves. And the entire process kept her mind off Kit and the fact that neither had arranged for the next meeting.
She carefully poured a bit of the bubbling liquid onto a cool plate.
‘Mrs Hampstead said I would find you out here, but she neglected to say how delightful you’d look in your apron and mob cap.’
Hattie jumped and the plate crashed down on to the flagstones. ‘Kit!’
She spun around and there he stood, dressed in riding gear. His highly polished black boots contrasted with the tight-fitting tan breeches. His top hat was rakishly tilted on his head. His grey eyes sparkled.
‘I came to see if you’d like to go for a ride with me, but if you are busy...’
‘I am making strawberry jam. It won’t take long, but it has restored my mood. Stephanie was here earlier...’ Hattie found she couldn’t frame the words. To explain about her disappointment would mean having to explain why and that she had started to make castles in the clouds. She clenched her fist around the spoon. When she next saw him, she had wanted to be properly dressed, not in her oldest gown with a voluminous apron tied about her waist and the awful mob cap. How could he think she looked delightful? She looked a fright.
‘I’ve never seen anyone make jam before.’ He stepped into the small room, filling it. ‘It is fascinating. You have a bit of jam on your cheek.’
Hattie gave a light laugh and scrubbed with her hand. ‘All gone now. I’m a messy cook.’
‘Is jam-making a messy occupation?’
He was exaggerating. How could anyone not have seen jam being made before? The preservation of food happened in all sorts of houses and it was the responsibility of the lady of the house. It was criminal to allow produce to go to waste. Stephanie might not enjoy the process, but she did lend a hand when called upon, particularly when it was the wines or other types of alcohol. ‘You must have had a deprived childhood.’
His mouth turned down and the light faded from his eyes. ‘An unusual one.’
‘Surely your mother...’
‘My mother was not part of my life after my fourth birthday.’ His tone indicated the subject was closed.
‘An aunt or another relative, then?’ She gave a little shrug and moved the steaming pan off the stove to show she wasn’t hurt by his refusal to talk about his childhood. Was his mother dead or had she just left? Hattie hastily bit back the question. Some day she’d question Mrs Reynaud, who knew of the family and their history if he never confided in her, as she was curious. But not now as that would be like spying. Silently she willed him to tell her.
‘No, no one like that. My father’s taste ran to other sorts of women.’
‘A pity.’
With a practised eye, she began to pour the gleaming red liquid into the jars. Over the years she’d discovered Livvy and Portia were more likely to tell her secrets if she appeared to be doing something else.
‘My father disliked having women in the house.’
That simple statement combined with the jumping-jack explained so much. Her heart bled for the little boy who was never scooped up or petted or given treats. ‘How awkward.’
He gave a short laugh. ‘My father enjoyed being awkward and contrary. It was his favourite sport. He liked it even better than the horses.’
‘And you are nothing like that,’ she teased. ‘You never force anyone to anything they wish to avoid like waltzing.’
‘Waltzing with you was an unexpected pleasure.’ The grey in his eyes deepened. ‘I’ve discovered many pleasures with you.’
‘Very charmingly put.’
‘I try my best to be charming. I learnt from his example that it is easier to get your way when you are.’
‘I shall remember that.’ Hattie concentrated on the liquid. He hadn’t liked his father and his mother had gone from the household by the time he was four. He would have used the word—dead. She wasn’t sure why that was important, but she knew it was. She had to wonder if Mrs Reynaud knew anything or indeed
if she would be willing to confide. All Hattie knew was she had to try. She wanted to unlock his secrets, but she also knew that if she pressed too hard, he’d turn away from her.
‘Did it take you long to learn how to make jam?’
‘Preserving is easy to do once you know how,’ she said, allowing him to change the subject. ‘There is something satisfying about seeing rows of jars and bottles. I can’t cook, but I can preserve.’
‘Why do you do it?’
‘And not leave it to the servants?’ Hattie leant back against the small wooden table. He appeared genuinely interested. ‘I like to do it. I find it leaves me free to think as I work.’
‘Are you finished?’
‘For now.’ She tilted her head to one side, assessing him.
His body was perfectly still, but coiled like a spring. She wanted to go to him and see if what they had experienced yesterday afternoon remained or if it had burnt out after one joining.
Her stomach knotted. She had imagined that he’d stride over to her and kiss her as they were alone, but he just stood there. She balled her fist, wishing she knew more about how one actually conducted an affair. And there was no one she could ask! Stephanie would collapse in a fit of vapours even if she so much as hinted at having an affair.
To break the tension, she attempted a light laugh. ‘You should have a taste. Dip your finger into the pot. It is one of the perks for knowing the cook.’
He stood watching her without moving. ‘You do it. First.’
‘Do what?’
‘Stick your finger in the jam. Show me how it is done.’
‘Don’t tell you never have...’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Didn’t you used to go and sneak biscuits from the cook?’
His face became shuttered. ‘No, I never did. My father had simple tastes.’
Hattie ground her teeth. She hated to think of the lonely little boy he must have been. She stuck her finger in the cooling jam and held it out. ‘There, see. It is simple.’
He captured her wrist and brought the finger to his mouth, suckling. The faint tugging at her finger made her insides skitter. He withdrew and wiped his hand over his mouth. ‘I see what you mean. Thoroughly enjoyable.’
‘That, Kit, was beneath you.’ Her cheeks flamed. She was such a novice at things like flirting with one’s lover. Even the thought felt wicked.
‘But hugely enjoyable. Strawberry-flavoured Harriet. Definitely a good taste.’
She attempted to remain calm. They were alone and no one had seen. ‘I’m pleased I have broadened your education, but you acted like you knew what you were doing.’
‘Once you have the mechanics down, the rest falls into place.’ He leant forwards so their foreheads touched. ‘Your skin smells of strawberries.’
‘That is hardly a revela
tion.’ She tried for a sophisticated laugh. This meeting in the still room was not how their next encounter was supposed to go. ‘Your charm is slipping, Kit.’
He softly kissed her temple. ‘I have a confession. I was going to wait for you to contact me, but decided not to. Will you come out on a ride with me now?’
‘You decided not to wait.’ She leant back against his arms, staring up into his face. She wanted to believe that she was the only one he’d ever behaved like that with. That she was the only one he pursued.
She had been prepared not to hear from him again, except for a polite note and some little token of false esteem. The fact was he was here with such an eager expression, asking her to go horseback riding with him, looking like he desired her.
She was acutely aware that her hair curled in damp tendrils about her face and her apron was hopelessly stained. Not quite the picture of effortless perfection he required from his women. She gave a wry smile. ‘A pleasant thought but...’
‘You do ride?’ he tilted his head and looked at her with his deep-grey eyes.
‘I am a passable rider. I used to be better and take all the jumps, but someone needed to look after my nieces and so I feel my skills are rusty.’
‘We shall have to make you a better one. All you are lacking is practice.’
‘I suspect you are the sort of person who attempts the largest jumps and thinks about the consequences afterwards.’
His face became carved out of stone. ‘I always think about the consequences. I know the price of failure.’
‘Your father...’
‘My father insisted I learn.’ Kit frowned. ‘He disliked it if I showed fear. The fear of his temper was far worse than my fear of heights. He left me up a tree once overnight until I developed the courage to climb down.’
‘How old were you?
‘Five.’
Righteous indignation filled Hattie. How could anyone have been that cruel and unfeeling? She wished the man was still alive so she could give him a piece of her mind. One simply did not do things like that. ‘It was wrong of your father.’
‘It helped me to learn. He worried that I would be weak, that I had bad blood like my mother.’ He gave a self-deprecating smile. ‘There are some who say that Eton is a hard place. When my uncle took me there, I found it a paradise beyond my wildest imaginings and never wanted to leave. That suited my father.’
Hattie shook her head in astonishment. When she had been sent to school as a young girl, she had been homesick for weeks, even though Stephanie had been in her final year there. She had lived for going home at the holidays. But Kit was right. He had been better off at school.
Hattie put her hand on his arm. He shrugged it off.
‘What your father did was inexcusable, but it can’t rule your life,’ she whispered.
His face instantly fell and then he covered it up again with a bland mask and she knew she had overstepped the mark. ‘It doesn’t. I live my life with style.’
‘You are certainly proving a worthy mentor to Mr Hook.’
‘I had little choice in the matter.’ His mouth twisted with self-loathing.
Hattie reached out and covered his hand with hers. ‘People die when they are meant to. You did not fire that bullet. And I suspect you would have taken it if you could have, but you didn’t. You have no idea what attracted the marksman to your friend. You can’t torture yourself with “what ifs”.’
‘I will attempt to remember that when I wake up in a cold sweat, knowing that I begged him to change places with me.’
She stared at him for a long time, suddenly understanding. He blamed himself. ‘Do you expect me to turn away with loathing? Is that why you failed to say anything earlier? I won’t. I do know something of war. My husband fell in battle.’
‘It wasn’t any of your business.’
‘I’m pleased you lack any ounce of self-pity.’
‘Irony is not one of your strong points, Harriet.’ He gave a sardonic laugh.
‘And you are doing a decent job with Mr Hook,’ Hattie continued relentlessly onward, not allowing herself to become discouraged. He had to see the good that he was doing and that he wasn’t like his father. ‘I’m impressed at how he has immersed himself in the study of newts. Even Portia is won over. He does know more than she does.’
He stared at her for a long moment. ‘Shall we go for this ride or do I find another companion? Surely in the country, you can ride without a groom?’
‘I would be delighted to go with you. Or rather to meet you. It is best if we happen to meet rather than ride out together. I have no wish to raise suspicions.’
‘You can be overly correct at times, Harriet.’
‘You don’t have to contend with Stephanie.’ Hattie
wiped her hands on a towel. Her heat thumped loudly in her ears. She was going to go riding without a groom. She was going to escape from the Dower House and her responsibilities. One ride and that was all. She could stop any time she wanted to.
‘Let me find my riding habit. And my horse is a bit slow, but she gets there in the end.’
He touched her cheek. ‘That’s all I can ask.’
Chapter Eleven
The horse auction was out near Yarridge and the Hexham race course hummed with activity. While Tatterstalls would have been Kit’s first choice for purchasing a horse for Hattie, he doubted if she would consent to a journey down to London. He refused to think about how much time they could spend together away from the watchful eye of her sister and housekeeper if she had a mount of her own. Even getting her to come here had been a trial. Mrs Hampstead had shared her carriage, but thankfully had decided to stay at the refreshment tent, rather than look around at the horses. A groom trailed at a respectful distance.
Yarridge and its selection would have to suffice...for now.
Kit ran a practised eye over the stock available for auction, picking out several which might do for Hattie.
‘Be careful where you step,’ he said, catching
Hattie’s elbow and helping her around the pile of manure. A pulse of heat went through him.
‘I am well aware of what a stockyard is like. Have you spotted which horse I should bid on? Or am I allowed the privilege of deciding that?’
‘I am here in an advisory capacity only. Far be it from me to trample on your ideas.’
After their first ride, he had decided she needed something better so she could keep up with Onyx. He offered to get her a horse, but to his surprise and annoyance she refused, insisting that it was to be her horse. Gifts were not permitted. He wanted to spoil her, but she wouldn’t let him. Normally he liked to keep the women he was seeing out of his daily life, but he found himself thinking about her at odd times of the day and storing up little stories so that he could relate them to her on their rides, particularly about Rupert’s attempts to master newts and his sudden liking for the circulating library, a place Kit had never known him to visit before.
‘There are more horses than I had considered there would be.’ She clutched her reticule to her chest and skirted around a cart. ‘I want a horse which can ride, looks good and has a reasonable temperament but where do I start? Who can I trust?’
‘You can trust me.’ Kit tucked her hand in his arm. ‘Accept my verdict. Despite his many faults, my father did have good eye for horse flesh and he made sure I learnt. The patience he had with horses was amazing.’
Hattie merely raised an eyebrow at his words, but her face took on a fierce aspect. Kit shook his head. She looked like she wanted to do battle for the boy he’d once been.
‘I’m far too independent now to allow someone free rein.’ Her laugh sounded forced. ‘You tell me what to look for and I will see if the horse has it. What is wrong with that bay?’
She pointed towards a showy bay which was prancing about, definitely changing the subject away from his past. Kit frowned. Normally it was his choice to keep his past separate. He had wanted to share, but she refused.
&nbs
p; He always said that he preferred independent women, but Hattie carried her independence that bit too far.
‘Can’t you see me on that horse? We would practically fly over the walls.’
‘You and how many other people? The owner means for that horse to be seen. It is the sort of horse that people buy for its beauty.’
‘I like beautiful things.’ Hattie developed a stubborn set to her jaw.
The horse reared up and pawed the air. All Kit could see was Hattie being crushed under the hooves. He shuddered and pushed the thought away. He turned, expecting to see Hattie cowering.
Hattie’s eyes shone with admiration.
‘That is a magnificent animal!’
‘You like untamed animals.’
A mischievous smile lit her face. ‘They have their uses. More than I thought.’
‘You need a decent mount, Harriet,’ he said, leading her away from the mayhem. ‘Something reliable, but with a bit of spirit. The horse you have been riding plods, but that one would throw you as soon as look at you.’
‘I’m amazed you can tell that with just one glance. High spirited, but I’m sure I can ride it with a bit of practice.’
Kit clenched his jaw. Not if he had anything to do with it. There was a balance to be struck—a horse who could keep up with Onyx, but not one which would harm Hattie.
‘See how she throws her head about? She hasn’t been schooled properly. Breaking your neck isn’t part of this exercise. A novice rider and an unschooled horse are a disaster waiting to happen.’
‘I doubt that will happen.’
In desperation Kit gestured towards the growing throng of people. ‘See how many people are interested in her? Do you really want to compete against them?’
She withdrew her hand from his arm. ‘I’ve no wish to pay over the odds for a horse. I want a horse with spirit, but not one that everyone else is competing for and therefore will cost me dearly.’
‘Practicality in all things.’
‘I learnt how to budget after my husband died.’ She lifted her chin with a proud tilt. ‘How can I tell the difference between a good horse and a bad one?’
Hattie Wilkinson Meets Her Match Page 16
