by Brenda Hiatt
Xena wondered whether she should discourage the girl from weaving such fancies, but just then the carriage drew to a halt before a handsome double-fronted town house.
“‘Cor! Is this where we’ll be staying, mum?” Gretchen exclaimed as the coachman opened the door and let down the steps.
Lord Peter had described the house as “not overly large,” leading Xena to expect a far more modest dwelling. She should have known a duke’s son would have rather higher standards than her own. Before she could give in to a sudden urge to have the coachman return her to Mrs. Henderson’s, the front door opened.
“Welcome!” Lord Peter exclaimed, hurrying forward. “Come, let me introduce you to the principal staff.” So saying, he put a firm hand to Xena’s elbow and guided her up the front steps.
Several servants were lined up just inside. Completely out of her element, Xena nearly panicked again—then spotted Harry lurking in the shadows at the rear of the foyer. Courage—or perhaps it was pride—came to her rescue. Lifting her chin, she returned his wary gaze with a cool nod. Yes, she could do this.
* * *
Harry hid a smile. Despite Peter’s assurances, Xena had looked ready to bolt before the courageous spirit he’d always admired reasserted itself. Now, standing suddenly straighter, she defiantly met his eye. No, his Xena had never been one to run from a challenge.
His Xena? Harry gave himself a mental shake. She was scarcely that anymore—assuming she ever had been.
Peter reclaimed her attention then. “This is Mrs. Walsh, the housekeeper.”
The woman nearest the front door stepped forward. “Welcome, Mrs. Thatcher. I hope you’ll be most comfortable here.”
“And this is George.” Peter indicated the young man next in line. “Though I suppose we must now call him Chambers, as he’s just been promoted from footman to butler.”
“Welcome to Grosvenor Street, ma’am.” George executed a smart bow, clearly eager to live up to his elevation in status.
Pete went on to introduce the cook, Mrs. McKay, and one or two others. “Your maid will undoubtedly need time to unpack your things,” he said then, “so why don’t I show you over the house?”
“Of…of course. Thank you.” Xena’s gaze followed the two footmen carrying her trunk upstairs to her bedchamber.
No. Xena’s bedchamber was not something Harry dared think about.
Not yet.
Though Harry was as well acquainted with this house as any in London, he accompanied Peter and Xena on their tour in hopes of gaining some clue as to what Xena might be thinking and feeling.
As for himself, he was far more aware of her—physically—than he liked. The gown she wore fitted her admirably, suggesting her charms—charms he recalled all too well—without flaunting them. Then there was the faint scent drifting back from her, carrying that remembered hint of sandalwood and rosewater that still had the power to inflame him.
Damnation. This was going to be even more difficult than he’d expected.
“Here’s the main dining chamber,” Peter was saying. “The table is currently set for eight but can be expanded to hold twenty, should you wish to entertain. The breakfast parlor is across the hall. Marcus and Quinn often choose to eat there when alone, since it’s rather cozier. Sarah and I, on the other hand, frequently had meals served in the library. Please don’t hesitate to let the staff know what your preference might be.”
At that, Mrs. MacKay, passing on her way back down to the kitchen, sent Harry a glance of barely-concealed delight. What the devil had Pete told the servants would be going on here?
After looking into each of the ground floor rooms, Peter led the way to the first story to see the library and formal drawing room, where guests were generally received. When he continued up to the second story, where the bedrooms were situated, Harry felt himself tensing.
“Here’s where you’ll be sleeping, for the time being.” Peter opened a door to reveal the lilac-and-cream room that had been Quinn’s—Marcus’s wife.
When Peter moved toward the next room along, Harry finally spoke up. “I’ll, ah, just use the same one I have in the past, across the hall.”
Turning, his friend attempted a rueful expression, though his eyes danced. “I’m sorry, Harry, I fear that room is being used for storage just now, as is my old one, adjoining.” He opened the door as proof.
Harry had forgotten this had become Sarah’s room, redone in pink and yellow. Now, however, the new decor was all but concealed by the jumble of old furniture and rolled-up carpets, no doubt hastily hauled down from the attics for this very purpose.
“At the moment, I fear the only other bedroom fit for sleeping is that one.” Peter nodded toward the chamber that connected to Xena’s by a dressing room. “No doubt Brewster will already have unpacked your things.”
Biting back an oath, Harry forced something like a smile to his lips. “I see. I suppose we can always rearrange things later.”
“Of course, of course! I merely thought—”
“I know what you thought.”
Peter’s expression was carefully bland, though amusement still lurked in his eyes.
Xena, apparently no more charmed by the arrangement than Harry was, asked, “What sort of changes am I authorized to make, my lord?”
“Any you wish.” Peter swept an expansive hand about. “M’mother will likely turn this into a Marland guest house eventually, as there are no more bachelors in my generation to make use of it. Meanwhile, do as you wish—redecorate, move furniture about, knock out walls…”
Xena raised an eyebrow. “I don’t anticipate anything quite so drastic, my lord, but thank you. ’Twill give me a way to pass the time.”
Biting his lip, Peter looked from Xena to Harry and back. “Yes. Well. I suppose I should leave you to accustom yourselves to your new, ah, situation. Give you good day, Mrs. Thatcher, Harry.”
With a bow for Xena and a nod to Harry, he decamped down the stairs without a backward glance, leaving them alone in the passage.
“So.” Harry thought it safest to keep things on a businesslike footing until he could gauge her feelings. “Here we are.”
“Indeed.” Though her chin was again raised defiantly, her eyes were wary. “Though our circumstances are…not precisely the same as when we last spoke, the same question applies. How are we to proceed?”
Caught off guard, Harry blinked. “How do you wish to proceed? What did you have in mind when you agreed to this scheme of Pete’s?”
Now it was Xena who hesitated, not quite meeting his eye. “He, ah, persuaded me that we owed it to ourselves to get to know each other—the people we have become, that is—before going our separate ways.”
“He said much the same to me. I, er, suppose he has a point.” In fact, Harry was increasingly curious to learn all he could about Xena and what she’d been doing for the past seven years. That had played a far greater role in his being here than the money Pete offered him.
“I suppose he does.” A slight frown formed between her dark brows. “Though we clearly cannot keep our, ah, status a secret, we earlier agreed not to broadcast it to the world. Is that still your preference?”
Harry opened his mouth, then shut it, not knowing what answer she wished to hear. Certainly, news of their marriage would be embarrassing to him in the extreme, as outspoken as he’d always been against matrimony. What sport everyone at his clubs would have at his expense! It seemed a cowardly reason to voice aloud, however.
“’Twould involve quite a lot of explanation, at the very least,” he admitted cautiously, watching her expression. Was that a trace of relief in her eyes?
“True. Especially now I’ve been introduced as ‘Miss Maxwell” to so many people, most of them no doubt acquaintances of yours. Have you given any thought to how we might prevent our marriage from becoming generally known while sharing a house in the heart of Mayfair for a month and more?”
He hadn’t. “I, ah, suppose we could avoid being seen toget
her in public. Refuse to receive visitors here. That sort of thing.”
“That would probably be best.” Now there was no mistaking her relief—which made Harry wonder why she’d agree to this trial at all. “We cannot count on word not getting about, however—the servants may talk, if nothing else—so we should decide what story we are to tell should we be questioned directly.”
“Er, yes. I suppose we should.”
Regarding her more closely, he now noticed that her jonquil day dress was not only flattering, it was also in the first stare of fashion, much like the blue one she’d worn that first night. Yet she claimed to be short of funds. A gentleman benefactor, perhaps?
Not that it should matter, as he’d by no means been celibate himself since their parting seven years ago. As lusty as Xena had been, he couldn’t imagine she would have remained so, either. So why did the idea disturb him so mightily?
“Why are you really here, Xena?” he blurted out, hoping for a less repugnant explanation for the gowns. “Did Peter offer you money as well?”
Her gray eyes widened. “What? Of course not. Do…do you mean to say he actually paid you to stay here with me?”
Damnation! He hadn’t meant to let her know that.
“How much?”
“Five hundred pounds,” he admitted. “But that wasn’t—”
“I believe I will help my abigail to unpack,” she interrupted, her voice tight. Without another word she disappeared into her bedchamber, leaving Harry to wonder how he could have made such a botch of things already.
* * *
Xena felt like a fool.
She’d actually allowed herself to believe Harry was here because he wished to be. Really, she should have known—so why did learning the truth hurt so? Leaning against the closed bedroom door, Xena took several deep breaths. She would not cry, of course. She never cried.
“Mum?” Gretchen emerged from the dressing room. “Whatever is the matter?”
With an effort, Xena straightened, stepping away from the door. “I am a bit tired, that is all. I…I believe I should like to lie down for a while. Why don’t you go downstairs, Gretchen, get to know the other servants and the layout of the house. In an hour or two, you may help me dress for dinner.”
Though she still looked concerned, even alarmed, the girl nodded. “Aye, mum. Ring if you need anything.” She gestured toward the bell-pull near the bed.
“I will. Thank you.”
The moment Gretchen was gone, Xena took the precaution of locking the dressing room door before going to sit in the dainty lilac chair near the window to stare out at the mist still visible in the deepening twilight.
Why had she been so shocked by Harry’s admission? He’d made it quite clear during their prior conversation that he had no more desire to be inconvenienced by marriage than she did. She could scarcely blame him for his reluctance when it had taken blackmail, virtually holding her son hostage, to induce her own cooperation. She should be grateful he still wished to keep their marriage private. Were it to become common knowledge, Theo might well learn of it.
All things considered, she had no reason whatever to be upset. Instead, she should be positively relieved to know Harry had not, in fact, come here in hopes of rekindling whatever they’d once enjoyed in the distant past.
Xena, who never, ever cried, put her face in her hands and sobbed.
By the time Gretchen returned an hour later, Xena had completely composed herself again. Though she would never admit to a soul that moment of weakness, the cry had done her good. After finally releasing those emotions kept in check since learning Harry was alive, it would surely be easier to discover all she could about his lifestyle and finances without any silly sentiment getting in the way.
“Did you have a nice nap, mum?” Gretchen asked cheerfully on entering. “I’ll just finish your unpacking, then get you outfitted for dinner. Mrs. MacKay says it’s normally served at seven, though when the young gentlemen lived here alone as they used, they more often than not ate at their gentlemen’s clubs.” She was clearly proud of knowing such worldly details.
“I’ve already finished putting everything away,” Xena replied, “but if you could have water brought up, I’d like to wash my face before changing.” Not for the world would she have Harry suspect she’d been crying…over him.
The moment Gretchen left to comply, Xena unlocked and opened the dressing room door so it would look as it had earlier, chiding herself for her earlier cowardice. She’d never been the least bit afraid of Harry seven years ago and had no reason to be so now, particularly given his undisguised aversion to being so near her bedchamber.
When Gretchen returned with a full pitcher and ewer, she was again in a chatty mood. “I finally got a good look at your Mr. Thatcher as I come up from the kitchens. Handsome as the devil he is!”
Xena couldn’t disagree.
“A shame about his poor arm, though. Did he lose it in the wars?”
Nodding, Xena began splashing her face, enjoying the feel of cool water on her warm cheeks. “In the same battle where he was so badly injured that he was reported dead, leading me to believe myself a widow all this time.” She saw no need to mention that her claim of widowhood had predated Harry’s supposed demise by some three years.
Gretchen sighed happily. “And he thought you lost forever that whole time, too! This dinner tonight will be a special one, eh, mum? Your first together since finding each other after all those years.”
“I, ah, suppose so.” Before she could think how to disabuse Gretchen of her romantical notions, the girl switched topics abruptly.
“Such a fine house this is, mum! I’d heard tell of what servants’ halls are like below stairs in London, but never quite believed it. True it is, though! Polly and Millie say Mrs. Walsh runs a tight household, but a fair one. They like her well enough, and Mrs. MacKay, too. A couple of the footmen are quite nice looking, too.” She giggled.
Though she knew she should admonish Gretchen to mind her tongue, Xena had no desire for her to return to her previous topic, so let her run on about the house and other servants while helping her mistress prepare for dinner. Once Xena was arrayed in a satin gown of lilac split over a silvery gray petticoat, however, the maid returned to her fancies.
“Pretty as a picture you look, mum, and that’s no lie. If you’re worried about winning back your Mr. Thatcher’s affections, you needn’t. One look and he’ll be as smitten as he was when he asked you to marry him.”
“Thank you, Gretchen. That will do.”
Picking up her gloves, Xena quitted her chamber—though not without a quiver in her midsection. Sternly, she reminded herself that Harry had never asked her to marry him. Nor did she want him “smitten” with her.
Did she?
CHAPTER 11
JUST AS he’d doubted Xena would arrive at the house this afternoon, Harry now half expected her to request a tray in her room rather than join him for dinner. Again, he was wrong. On the very stroke of seven she appeared in the dining room doorway, resplendent in a lavender confection that seemed to make her very skin glow. Swallowing, he sketched her a bow.
“Give you good evening, ma’am.” He extended his right arm to escort her to a chair. “That’s a most fetching gown you’re wearing tonight.” And likely as expensive as the one she’d worn to Wellington’s do.
Xena regarded him warily. “Thank you. You’re quite nicely turned out yourself.”
Though Harry had taken rather more pains with his appearance than usual when dressing for dinner, he hadn’t expected her to notice. “Er, thanks. Don’t often get compliments from ladies.”
“Oh? I was given to understand you have quite the reputation there.” She removed her fingertips from his arm to seat herself at one end of the long table.
“It’s not— That is— Very well, I suppose I have had.” There was little point denying it, after what she’d heard at Wellington’s. “Though men often, er, exaggerate about such things, you know.”
He stopped before he could make things worse. He’d hoped to make amends for his clumsy admission that afternoon, not dig himself yet deeper into her bad graces. Moving the length of the table to take the chair opposite her, he attempted to look contrite.
“I’d like to, ah, clarify what I said earlier. Peter didn’t actually pay me to come here. He simply offered to offset my probable losses at the tables while, ah, making this attempt at domesticity.”
Far from appearing pacified, Xena frowned. “Then you’ve primarily made your living by gambling these past few years?”
Harry shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Wouldn’t say primarily, but it’s come in handy as a supplement to my allowance and army cheques.”
“I see.”
Those two little words brought home to Harry the uselessness of his recent existence in a way nothing else had. Not that it was useless now, of course. His work as the Saint of Seven Dials surely counted for something. Not a defense he could use to Xena, however.
“Anyway, I’m sorry if I upset you earlier,” he offered instead.
“Pray give it no mind.” She spoke airily but did not look at him, instead adjusting her left glove where it touched her elbow. “It was no more than I had assumed, for you made it clear when we first spoke that a course such as this was never your wish.”
A footman came in to fill the wine glasses and serve the soup course just then, so Harry delayed answering by taking several sips of his wine. “You made it perfectly clear it wasn’t your wish, either,” he pointed out once they were again alone. “Yet you haven’t said what means Peter used to persuade you.”
Xena took two spoonfuls of soup before answering—a surprisingly seductive act, though she clearly did not intend it so. “As you yourself pointed out, London is a more pleasant place to spend a winter than Yorkshire, though substantially more expensive. By offering this residence, Lord Peter gave me the means to stay despite my reduced circumstances.”
