by Mary Balogh
But the viscount, the earl’s nephew and heir, had not been there for six years. He had been busy with his own estate and other responsibilities. And with his own life too. And so he felt a little embarrassed coming now, in June, without an official invitation. He felt like a vulture. Primrose Park was unentailed, unlike the earl’s other estates. He could leave it to whomever he chose after his death. And the earl was dying, if the strange, apologetic, secretive letter sent the viscount by his aunt was to be believed. Probably it was. His uncle must be close to eighty years old. He was certainly years older than any other member of the family.
And so the viscount was coming at his aunt’s request, though she had advised him in her letter with lengthy apologies for the presumption not to divulge the fact that she had written. He was supposed to arrive just as if he had taken it suddenly into his head after six years to call upon his uncle. Or just as if he had been passing through Gloucestershire by some chance and had decided to call to pay his respects.
But it would look, the viscount thought, as if he were coming to gloat over all that would soon be his and as if he were perhaps trying to ensure that Primrose Park would be his too.
He was coming because it was the dutiful thing to do. He was, after all, the earl’s heir and if it was true that the old man was dying, then he should pay his last respects to his uncle. And of course it would be as well for him to be on hand afterward to deal with all the business of the funeral and the will. There would be many things to be done and Aunt Millie had never been a competent manager.
He had come out of duty, he thought, peering out of the window as the carriage turned onto the terrace and slowed before the marble horseshoe steps leading up to the front doors. But he could think of other things he would rather he doing. He would rather be back in London, though this was the first year he had gone there for the Season for many years. He had gone to begin to look about him for a wife since he was at that awkward age of twenty-nine and his mother’s hints were becoming persistent.
And surprisingly he had found Blanche, a grave, sweet, and pretty eighteen-year-old, who suited him very nicely indeed despite her youth. The courtship was proceeding slowly but promisingly. He chafed at the delay this visit to his uncle was creating. And perhaps it would be a prolonged delay. Perhaps, he thought, he should have acted with less than his customary caution and made his offer to Blanche’s father before leaving town. But he had not done so and it was too late now.
There was a woman standing on the steps leading down to the formal gardens. Aunt Millie? But he realized the ridiculousness of the thought as soon as his eyes focused properly on her. She was too young a woman. She was rather lovely, too, by Jove. She was not wearing a bonnet. The breeze was blowing her short dark curls back from her face. It was also blowing her light muslin dress against a very pleasing figure indeed. Shapely but not too voluptuous. Just very—feminine.
Good Lord, he thought, leaning forward suddenly. Good Lord, it was Julia. She had been little more than a child the last time he saw her. But of course that had been six years before. His lips thinned as he remembered all his former disapproval of the girl. Hoyden, daredevil, show-off, pest. And of course, Uncle's great favorite. The apple of his eye despite the fact that she was no direct relation but the daughter of an irresponsible adventurer.
Well, perhaps she had changed. He had not seen her for six years. By the time the carriage had come to a stop and the steps had been lowered and he had got out, she was standing on the lowest of the horseshoe steps, looking at him. Her eyes were almost on a level with his.
“Good afternoon, Julia," he said, touching his hat and inclining his head to her. “How are you?"
She was looking rather flushed, perhaps by the wind. “Hello, Daniel," she said. “How did you find out?”
Her manner was faintly hostile, he thought. And definitely aggressive. Her bonnetless state and the absence of a shawl that might have prevented the wind from doing such revealing things to her muslin dress—both details that had dazzled him before he realized who she was—suddenly seemed offensive to him. Typical of Julia. Typically immodest. He raised his eyebrows and made his tone deliberately frosty. “I beg your pardon?”
“How did you find out?” she asked again.
“Find out what?” he said, raising his eyebrows. “I was in the area. I decided to call to see how my uncle is. Is he well?”
“In the area!” she said scornfully. “What a ridiculous bouncer. And you know very well how Grandpapa is. It was Aunt Millie, was it not? She wrote to you.”
“I did receive a letter from my aunt last week,” he said. “Are you going to keep me on the steps for the rest of the afternoon, Julia, or am I to be permitted to go inside?” He let his eyes roam over her to make her aware of the impropriety of her appearance. But it was useless to try to embarrass Julia, of course.
“You had better turn around and go home again,” she said. “He does not want to see you. He wants to be left in peace. He gave strict instructions that no one was to write to you. Or any other member of the family.”
“Did he?” He was beginning to feel irritated. “Clearly my aunt felt the need of the support of another member of the family, though, Julia. You will excuse me?” He set one foot on the bottom step.
“You are not going to upset him,” she said. “I will not allow it.”
He disdained to argue further with her. He walked around her and up the steps. “Thank you for your warm welcome,” he said. “It was graciously done, Julia.”
“There is no need for the sarcasm,” she said, trotting up at his side when it became apparent that she had lost her audience at the bottom of the steps. “He is very ill, Daniel. He is d-dying. I don’t want him upset.”
He is d-dying. It was a little too carefully done. He realized the truth immediately, of course. She had been quite clever. She had thought to have his uncle all to herself until his death. She had probably persuaded him that no one else cared to come to visit him when he was so ill. She had probably persuaded him to leave her something of a fortune in his will. Doubtless she had succeeded. She had always been the favorite anyway. Now she did not want him coming along and threatening to upset her plans.
He stepped into the tiled hall and nodded to the butler, who was hurrying toward him from the back stairs. The man recognized him even after six years and called him by name.
“How do you do, Bragge?” the viscount said. “You will see about having a room made up for me and having my bags sent up? I would like to pay my respects to my uncle without delay. Is he up?”
“No, he is not up,” Julia said indignantly from behind him. “He has not been up for a month.”
The viscount ignored her. “Is he awake, Bragge?” he asked. “Perhaps you will go up and see. I will follow you. You may announce me if he is.”
“Grandpapa is resting,” Julia said. “I shall go up, Bragge, and peep in on him. If by chance he is awake, I shall tell him of Lord Yorke’s unexpected arrival. Perhaps tomorrow he will be feeling strong enough for a brief courtesy call before his lordship continues on his way to wherever he is going.”
It seemed, the viscount thought, that they had got themselves into the ridiculous situation of communicating through a third party. “Thank you, Bragge,” he said. “Miss Maynard will conduct me upstairs.” He turned to her and indicated with one imperious hand that she was to precede him to the staircase. She glared at him for a moment and then turned abruptly and strode away. Oh, Lord, she strode. Was it any wonder that she was still unmarried? She must be—oh, twenty at the very least.
He followed her up the stairs, his eyes on the angry sway of her hips, and along the corridor to the master bedchamber. She turned to him and glared again and spoke in a pointed whisper.
“He will be sleeping,” she said. “I will not have him woken up. Do you understand me? He was very tired when I left him half an hour ago.”
“What do you think 1 am planning to do, Julia?” he asked, disdainin
g to whisper. “Invite him to waltz with me?”
She was not amused. But then neither was he. She whisked herself around and proceeded to open the door very slowly and without any perceptible sound. She opened it a little, stepped inside, and half closed it behind her back. He heard a deep, gruff voice and then hers. He set a hand flat against the door and pushed it open against the pressure of her hand on the other side. She glared at him yet again.
“Here is Daniel come to see you, Grandpapa,” she said, and she hurried across the room to bend over the bed and fuss with the bedclothes. “He was in Gloucestershire and thought he would come to call on you.”
“Actually,” the viscount said quietly, stepping forward, his hands clasped behind his back, “I heard that you were poorly, sir, and came down without delay. I thought I might be of some use.”
“Don’t exert yourself, Grandpapa,” Julia said, smoothing a hand over the sparse white hair on his head.
“Millie, I suppose,” the earl said. “Dratted woman. There was no need for you to drag yourself away from the pleasures of the Season, Dan. Dying can be done just as well alone.”
“But it is probably done a little more comfortably when there are family members close by,” the viscount said. “1 don't spend much time in town, sir. Usually I give the Season a miss altogether. It is no great hardship to be away from there.” He thought of Blanche with a pang of regret.
“Hm,” the earl said. “Well, I’ll try not to keep you here long, Dan.” He attempted a chuckle and coughed instead. “A few days ought to do it nicely, I think.”
“Grandpapa.” Julia dropped a kiss and a tear on his forehead. A nicely affecting scene, the viscount thought. “Don’t talk so. Don’t talk at all in fact. Didn’t you sleep?”
“I’ll be sleeping long enough, Jule,” the earl said, “I have been thinking. I want to see Prudholm. Tomorrow. No later than tomorrow. Is he at the house?”
“He is staying in the village,” Julia said. “Leave it for a while, Grandpapa. You need more rest.”
“When a man is close to the greatest event of his life,” the earl said, “he has more need of his solicitor than his rest, Jule. Tomorrow. In the morning?”
“Prudholm is your solicitor?” the viscount asked. “I shall see that he is here, sir, bright and early. Now if you will excuse me, I would like to wash and change and pay my respects to my aunt. 1 shall look in on you tomorrow if you are strong enough.”
“If I am alive, you mean,” the earl said, chuckling. “You may be an earl by tomorrow, Daniel. You will like that well enough, I daresay, eh?”
Julia was glaring at him again, the viscount saw before he turned to leave the room. Doubtless she thought he had come merely to gloat over the imminence of a new and grander tide. Doubtless she was terrified that the summoning of the solicitor was a sign that the old man was going to change his will. Was she so confident that it was in her favor now?
“I shall see you at dinner, Julia,” he said with exaggerated courtesy. “What time is it served?”
“Six o’clock,” she said. “We keep country hours here.”
He bowed and left the room.
The Earl of Beaconswood spent almost an hour alone the next morning with his solicitor, keeping his doctor waiting downstairs for all of half an hour. The doctor was with him only ten minutes before reporting to Julia and to the Viscount Yorke that his lordship was comfortable and free of pain provided he was given his medication regularly, but that he was weakening.
It was the same report as he had given daily for the past month.
The earl was civil to his nephew when the latter called upon him for ten minutes after luncheon. He barked at his sister and made her cry when she bumped against his bed while shaking pillows that he had protested did not need shaking. And he lay awake for an hour listening to Julia read the opening of A Pilgrim’s Progress. It was a damned sight more entertaining than that Gulliver drivel, he gave as his opinion, though Julia had the impression that he had not been listening at all. He stared at her broodingly and she waited for him to start talking about Sir Albert Dickson again. But he did not do so.
The earl ate a little dinner when Julia coaxed him with some of his favorite delicacies, and he bade a civil good night to her and to the viscount and his sister. He even added that Millie had a good heart after growling at her again when it looked as if she was approaching his pillows. He took his medicine obediently before Julia left.
But he did his dying alone as he had wished to do, without either noise or fuss. His valet, who had dozed the night away in his master’s dressing room, the door wide open so that he would hear the slightest noise, found his master dead in the morning when he tiptoed into the room to check on him in the early dawn light.
It looked for all the world, the valet explained to everyone belowstairs later in the morning, as if the old earl was merely sleeping peacefully. Everyone else agreed, even Aunt Millie, who had to be carried away by a stout footman when she had the vapors although she had insisted on viewing the body, and Julia, who wept soundlessly until Lord Yorke quietly directed the housekeeper to take her back to her room and call her maid to stay with her there.
It was the viscount—or rather the new Earl of Beaconswood—who, after consulting his uncle’s solicitor, wrote to all his relatives to summon them to Primrose Park for the funeral if at all possible, but certainly for the reading of the will. It was the new earl who set in motion arrangements for the funeral.
Julia was left alone to grieve.
Tempting Harriet
Chapter 1
“Harriet. My dear.” Lady Forbes clasped her hands to her bosom and gazed admiringly at her younger friend. “You look quite delectable. You will be all the rage before the evening is out. Does she not, Clive? And will she not?”
Sir Clive Forbes turned from the sideboard at which he was pouring drinks and looked at the lady who had just entered his drawing room and was blushing rosily. “You look very handsome, Harriet,” he said, smiling kindly and crossing the room toward her in order to hand her a glass. “But then I do not remember a time when you did not.”
“Thank you.” Harriet, Lady Wingham, laughed a little nervously and took the offered glass. “It still seems strange to be wearing light colors again after a year in black. It feels even stranger to be wearing something so—sparse.” She glanced down at her almost bare bosom and arms. “But I was assured that this design is all the crack.”
“If it were not,” Sir Clive said gallantly, “then you would soon make it so, Harriet.”
“You must trust me,” Lady Forbes said. “Did I not promise when you were finally persuaded to come to town for the Season that I would bring you into fashion, my dear? Not that I was taking on an onerous task. You are still as lovely as a girl, even though you must be—?”
“Eight-and-twenty,” Harriet said. She grimaced. “A ludicrous age at which to be making my entrée into polite society.”
“But still beautiful,” Lady Forbes said. “And widows are always intriguing. Especially young and lovely ones.”
“And wealthy ones,” Sir Clive added with a twinkle in his eye.
“It helps,” Lady Forbes said. “Do sit down, dear. We are early. But Robin will be here soon. You will like him as an escort. He quite understands that you are new to London and to the Season and that you have come to meet gentlemen.”
“Oh, I have not—” Harriet protested.
“It is as well to call a spade a spade,” her friend said, holding up a staying hand. “Of course you have, my dear. You are young and have been widowed for well over a year. And Godfrey, rest his soul, was neither a young nor a robust man.”
“I loved him,” Harriet said quietly, seating herself carefully so as not to crease the delicate lace and satin of her ball gown.
“That was obvious,” Sir Clive said kindly. “You were unfailingly good to him, Harriet. But he is gone. He would be the first to want you to go on enjoying life.”
“Ye
s, he would,” Harriet said. “But I am not desperately searching for his successor. I have Susan, after all.”
“But daughters do not quite make up for the lack of a husband,” Lady Forbes said. “Besides, Susan needs a father.”
“There is someone at the door,” Sir Clive said. “It will be Robin. Harriet my dear, I can see we have been alarming you. You arrived in town only a week ago and are about to attend your first London ball and already we are talking about your finding a husband. What we should be advising you to do is enjoy yourself. But without a doubt you will do that. You will certainly not lack for partners.”
The butler entered the drawing room at that moment to announce the arrival of Mr. Robin Hammond. Harriet rose and curtsied when he was presented to her. She had not met him before. He was an auburn-haired, fresh-faced gentleman of about her own age. His elegantly clad figure showed signs of portliness to come. He was a cousin of Amanda’s and had kindly agreed to escort Harriet to Lady Avingleigh’s ball. He bowed and gazed admiringly at the pale blue confection of a ball dress that had been made for the occasion.
“You see, Robin?” Lady Forbes said bluntly as her husband handed him a drink. “I told you she was a beauty, did I not?”
“You did indeed, Amanda,” Mr. Hammond agreed, flushing.
Fifteen minutes later the four of them were in Sir Clive's carriage on the way to the Earl of Avingleigh’s home on Berkeley Square. Harriet shivered beneath her wrap, partly from the slight chill of the evening air and partly from nervous apprehension. It was still hard to believe that her four-year marriage to Godfrey gave her entrance to ton events. They had lived so simply and so quietly in Bath that she had scarcely been aware of the significance of the fact that he was a baron. And until his death fifteen months before, she had been quite ignorant of the fact that he was a very wealthy man. Though of course he had always been generous to her. He had always insisted that she have pretty and fashionable clothes. He had left a generous portion to their daughter. Everything else he had left to Harriet.
