Compromised Miss

by O'Brien, Anne

  And whatever happened, he would make sure Miss Harriette Lydyard did not suffer for her compliance.

  Would Harriette Lydyard enjoy being a countess? Somehow he doubted it. He would wager she would rather face a gale-force wind in the Lydyard’s Ghost than a dress ball. But she wanted freedom from family restrictions; he saw the value of a fast ship to France. Both had an eye to a main chance, as she had observed in those cool tones of disdain, pure self-interest for both of them.

  And what did he think of a girl who wore breeches and boots, evaded the law and ran the gauntlet of the Revenue men without any hint of fear? He ought to be outraged. Luke smiled wryly. Somehow he could not summon that emotion in his dealings with Miss Harriette Lydyard. He ought to be thoroughly outraged, condemning her morals and her sense of propriety. Even now, their final exchange in the library remained to echo uncomfortably in his mind.

  As he was about to open the door, Harriette had stopped him. ‘If I am to wed you, does this mean that you would prefer me to give up smuggling?’

  ‘Yes,’ he had replied in some surprise, without hesitation. ‘How could I wish my wife to be involved in criminal activities? Ah!—that’s to say…’

  ‘I suppose you think it’s a vicious, damnable trade.’ She must have seen him searching for a tactful response. ‘Most people do, you know, even though it puts food into the mouths of poor women and children in fishing villages, who might otherwise starve.’ She raised her hand when he might have replied. ‘I understand—you don’t have to hide your condemnation of it, or me. I will just say this, my lord. I will consider retiring from the Trade, because it is your preference.’

  And that was as much as she would promise. Now he must live with the consequences. Was it possible to build a future on a fleeting and wholly inexplicable admiration for Miss Lydyard, simply because she had rescued him and saved his life? An admiration because she had faced him and flung his offer of wealth and consequence at his feet as so much dross?

  One memory remained with him. That, smuggler or no, she had been eminently kissable. He had tasted her lips and found them as soft and sweet as any he might dream of. Lucius had been astonished at the response of his body, even in its weakened state. Lured into kissing her a second time, a surge of desire had taken him aback; his loins had tightened in powerful arousal when her lips parted beneath the pressure of his mouth. Her slender, competent hands pressed against his chest had lit a curl of heat in his belly at the same time as a purely masculine urge to protect her from the dangerous life she was living. He wanted her! Even now, at the memory of her slender form held in his arms, he experienced the same physical urgency to do exactly what her despicable brother had accused him of doing.

  It’s only a strong dose of lust, he informed himself sternly. A woman and a smuggler—a scandalous situation that has piqued your imagination—nothing more.

  Luke frowned at his logical assessment. Perhaps. And yet—those pretty lips might speak sharp words, but they could lure a man’s soul from his body if he did not take care. And being a man of sense, with other demands on his time and his emotions, he would do just that.

  Chapter Four

  ‘A countess, indeed!’

  ‘Unless I imagined it all.’ Sitting in her bedchamber in Whitescar Hall, Sir Wallace’s stuffily respectable home, it seemed far beyond Harriette’s comprehension.

  ‘There’ll be no speaking to you with such consequence!’ Meggie’s eyes twinkled, then grew flat, anxious. ‘Do you suppose he means it?’

  ‘I think he would rather not!’ Harriette replied with disconcerting candour. ‘He only did so at Wallace’s insistence that my reputation would be compromised beyond redemption if he did not. Which just goes to show you can’t trust Wallace. For years he’s been lecturing me that, because of my hard-headedness in consorting with the Gentlemen of the Free Trade, I have no reputation to speak of.’

  ‘Of course you have. You should have been married years ago, and would have if your brother would put himself out for you and spend a little money on you. But her ladyship has you in mind as unpaid governess of her spoilt brats as soon as they leave the nursery, you mark my words.’

  Which Harriette knew very well. She imagined, dismally, the prospect of teaching her two nephews to mind her and their manners, when their doting mother did nothing but give in to their imperious demands. Unless she snatched at this opportunity with both hands. She looked down at her hands, turning them over, then over again, as if she could still see the imprint of his fingers where they had held her. As if she could still feel his sheer strength of will as he had worn down her resolve not to allow him to be a martyr to her brother’s vile machinations. And he had kissed her—twice—so it could not have been an unpleasant experience for him. For a moment it was as if the Earl stood beside her, a bold, commanding figure, so that her heart jolted and the nerves in her belly skittered like mice behind the skirting boards. Until, aware of Meggie asking a question, she looked up.

  ‘Forgive me, Meggie. I was daydreaming…’

  ‘I asked what you would wear for your wedding.’

  ‘I have no idea.’ She shrugged, pretending indifference. ‘I have nothing that was made any time within the last decade.’

  ‘No, you haven’t. And you’re not likely to get anything new from her ladyship. Is that why you wouldn’t go to London for the ceremony?’

  ‘Of course not!’ But, uncomfortable under Meggie’s cynicism, Harriette sighed. ‘Then, yes. Do you blame me?’ To present herself in St George’s in Hanover Square, to be gawped at and gossiped over, every inch of her open to ridicule and disparagement—she would die of embarrassment. But there was another reason, as well. After all his kindness, how could she open the Earl to that same sharpedged contempt? If she was to be his wife, she would not make the burden even more heavy. She owned it to him not to create more scandal than would inevitably occur with such a hasty and unworthy match.

  So a wedding at Old Wincomlee with no one but the rector and the necessary witnesses would serve them very well. ‘And I will wear nothing of Augusta’s choosing,’ she declared. ‘She has no taste and would have me clad in puce or green, both of which I detest. And feathers!’ Harriette managed the smallest smile as she caught Meggie’s scowl. ‘Enough of this, Meggie. It’s foolish talk. Shall I be honest between the two of us? I doubt I’ll see the Earl of Venmore ever again. If he has any sense, he’ll bolt for London and not come near Old Wincomlee. What man of sense would tie himself into a relationship with Wallace and Augusta? And without doubt, I am no catch!’

  ‘Miss Harriette! Have I taught you to be so untrusting of the male sex?’

  ‘No, but Wallace doesn’t inspire me to trust, and you can hardly blame the Earl, can you, if he banishes me from his thoughts?’

  ‘I suppose you pointed out to his lordship all the unappealing consequences of a marriage to you.’

  Harriette held Meggie’s fierce expression. ‘Of course I did. I could hardly accept his offer when the choice was not his.’

  ‘You’re too honest for your own good, miss. Anyone would think you didn’t want him.’ Meggie stood foursquare, hands on hips. ‘Now listen to me, miss. It seems to me the Earl’s a man with his own mind of how to go on. He’ll not be pushed and bullied against his will by such as Sir Wallace. If he says he wants to wed you, then wed you he will. Don’t you want him?’

  ‘Do I want him?’

  If Harriette closed her eyes, she could bring Lucius Hallaston’s face to mind without difficulty. She could hear his voice, supremely confident, and his specific words as if they were engraved on her heart. He had commended her shining honesty. That was better than nothing, wasn’t it? His formal kiss on her fingers. It probably meant nothing to him other than good manners, but to her it was a revelation. And then his mouth on hers, first light and unthreatening, but entirely masculine, and then boldly demanding. The sensation of his body pressed dominantly against hers. She knew every inch of that body, did she not? Sleek-mu
scled, smooth-skinned, impressively male. Harriette could not repress a shiver along the skin of her arms. Did she want him? Yes. Oh, yes, she did, even if he did not want her, even if he found the Ghost of higher value than her own person.

  What had he said? You belong to me now. Harriette shivered again.

  ‘Yes, Meggie,’ she admitted, ‘I do.’

  ‘Then that’s settled. And if he asked you to wed him, then I swear, it’ll happen. Otherwise he would’ve told Sir Wallace to go to the Devil and good riddance, reputation or no reputation. He’ll be back here before you know it.’

  ‘He might.’ A wry twist of her lips. ‘It depends on how much he wants the Ghost. And what he wants to use it for.’

  ‘What possible use would he have for a smuggling cutter?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ It hurt to think about it. ‘I suspect that was the attraction rather than my hand in marriage!’

  Meggie clicked her tongue. ‘Never mind that. Come with me.’

  Harriette followed Meggie up a mean, ill-lit rear staircase to the top floor of Whitescar Hall that housed the servants and the nursery where Harriette was intended to live out her days as unpaid governess. She marched past that closed door to the end of the corridor where Meggie entered a room that was unused. An iron bedstead, a chair, a nightstand with bowl and ewer, all draped in Holland covers.

  ‘Help me, miss.’ Flicking aside an old velvet curtain that served as a dustsheet, they began to manoeuvre one of two large chests from beside the wall. Snapping open the hasps, Meggie lifted the lid.

  ‘Goodness. What’s this?’

  The pungent scent of lavender rose from the interior to make Harriette sneeze. Inside were layers of linen wrappings, with glimpses of delicate materials.

  ‘Your mother’s clothes. What I could get my hands on, anyway.’

  ‘My mother’s?’ Astonishment stilled Harriette’s hands on the edge of the chest. ‘I thought my father had rid himself of all her things…And that Wallace finished off what my father had missed.’

  ‘Well, I kept these,’ stated Meggie grimly. ‘It was wrong to rob you of all your memories of her, to destroy her name as if she’d never existed, just because she was a French lady and we took to war against the bloody revolutionaries. Doesn’t seem sense to me. A kinder, more gentle lady…So I locked these away from prying fingers. For you, Miss Harriette, if you should ever need them. Though sadly old fashioned they are now…’

  Harriette’s astonishment grew. Meggie, one of the least sentimental of women, yet here she had kept her mother’s memory alive.

  ‘They would have been destroyed, or Lady Augusta would have taken them,’ Meggie continued with thinned lips. ‘Can’t have that, can we?’

  ‘I have nothing of hers.’ Dismayed to feel the burn of tears, Harriette swallowed hard, staring down into the chest as if she could conjure her mother’s image from the contents.

  ‘Well, now you do. Not fashionable, but better than anything you own. They’ll fit you, too. The colours are still good.’

  With little more than a vague recollection of her mother, Harriette had been brought up on Meggie’s tales of a romantic but sad figure. Chantelle Marie-Louise D’Aspre. Even her name was romantic. Wooed by her father on a visit to Paris in the days of the old King, he had swept her off her feet, married her and brought her back to Whitescar Hall. Had Chantelle felt as hemmed in as her daughter? Perhaps she had not lived here long enough, dying from some unexplained fever before her baby daughter was six years old.

  ‘All very stylish when she was a young girl,’ Meggie reminisced. ‘Nigh on thirty years ago now, of course, when she came to Whitescar Hall. So lovely and full of life, she was. She deserved better than your father, God rest him!’

  Together, they lifted out the layers, exclaiming at the sumptuous magnificence of their discoveries. French fashions with fitted bodices and full skirts, hand embroidered, quantities of silver lace, the glorious materials sliding and drifting through their fingers. Nothing like the prevailing mode for high waists and narrow skirts, but the quality was of the best and, even if said with deliberate waspishness by Meggie, it was not difficult to find something better than anything Harriette owned.

  ‘There, Miss Harriette.’ Meggie lifted a quantity of silk, soft cream, embroidered with tiny flowers, from the bottom. ‘If I’m not mistaken, you have your wedding gown here.’

  Harriette flushed with pleasure. If the Earl did return—not that she had any great hope, of course—what would he think if he saw her clad in this glory of silk and lace?

  Luke’s journey to Brighton was uncomfortable, excruciatingly painful when the gig discovered every hole and rut in the road, but surprisingly illuminating on the subject of his reluctant betrothed. Sam Babbercombe of the Silver Boat sent a young lad with him to drive the gig and return it to its rightful owner. From this enterprising youth who saw himself as a budding whip, Luke learnt a lot about Captain Harry. Clearly the lad admired him—her—his pronouns tended to be mixed—and he was pleased to be voluble, passing on a range of opinion and fact. Nothing that would recommend the lady as a suitable countess, but it said much of her life in Old Wincomlee.

  Luke listened, gaining a sense of his bride’s loneliness and isolation, and of her improper lifestyle. The Captain was a good sailor. Never seasick and always pulled his—her—weight. Brave as a lion, she was. Could use a pistol, too. She once fired at a Revenue man who was threatening to club Gabriel Gadie on the head, not to kill him, but winged him pretty well so he dropped the club.

  She made a rare Captain, not like that brother of hers who was a disgrace to the name Lydyard. Sir Wallace—he’d never set foot in a boat, much less led a midnight run to the French coast. Enjoyed the brandy well enough, but the Lydyard blood had run thin with that one. Now Mr Alexander Ellerdine—Miss Harriette’s cousin—he was a good man. But Captain Harry? She didn’t turn a hair when faced with injury or blood. Good hands she had, with man or beast, as his lordship would know. Had she not patched his wounds…?

  Luke let the boy ramble on, taken by the notion that if Captain Harry had doctored his wounds, as she clearly had, then she had seen him stripped and naked. Had touched him, bathed and cared for him. He had no recollection of it, except perhaps for a hazy memory of waking in pain, with cool water on his face and chest, cool hands on his skin. He could imagine those grey eyes taking in every inch of his exposed body. His muscles tightened, an uncomfortable jolt of primitive desire through his belly, at the fleeting memory of her most intimate attentions. But Captain Harry—or Miss Lydyard—had taken on the task without comment, with no sign of embarrassment.

  He turned back to his loquacious coachman. Captain Harry sailed the cutter whilst Mr Alexander was happy to take the organisation on the land from Captain Harry’s shoulders. Good friends, they were, too. Brought up together. Wouldn’t be a surprise to anyone if a match wasn’t made between the pair of them. Captain Harry could do much worse and Mr Alexander had a warm spot for his cousin….

  Luke’s ears pricked up. A cousin and a good friend. Had Miss Lydyard not admitted the same? But a match between them—she had said nothing of that, not even when he had asked her if she had affection for another man. Any other emotion was immediately dispelled from his mind by a bolt of intense jealousy. Unwarrantable, illogical jealousy, clawing at his skin, as remorseless as the ache from the bullet wound in his arm. She was his bride. She would be his wife.

  How can you be protective of her, when you have only just met her, when you have no claim on her affections? Cold realism raised its head to replace the heat of possession. This is a marriage of pure necessity, not of love, made on the back of a cold, bloodless business agreement. A man can only experience jealousy over a woman who owns his heart. Miss Lydyard intrigues you, nothing more.

  Before he could consider his reaction to this uncomfortable advice, they were into the lanes and streets of Brighton and Luke directed the lad to the Castle Inn where he had left his curricle at the start
of his escapade, which effectively directed his thoughts away from Harriette and back to Jean-Jacques Noir, the man with whom he had dealings in Port St Martin. A rogue who had robbed him and left him with a bullet wound as a brutal warning. Never again, Luke vowed. No Hallaston of Venmore would ever again be at the mercy of the French ruffian. He would not be set on and fleeced next time. He would set the terms. And if Noir wanted guineas from him, then he would have to dance to Luke’s tune. Particularly since he now held a new card in his hand—a neat little cutter with a well-trained crew. How he might make use of this advantage was at the moment beyond his comprehension, but the chance might arise…

  But as he ordered a tankard of ale and waited whilst his horses were harnessed, the looming problem of Jean- Jacques Noir, one that had ruled his whole life for the past two months, was once again thrust from his mind. A challenging figure in water-stained boots and breeches, windtangled hair curling onto her shoulders, silver eyes glinting, Harriette Lydyard stole his attention.

  And what thoughts would be running through Harriette Lydyard’s mind at this moment, he wondered, lines of cynicism hard around his mouth? Probably entertaining as much doubt about the whole affair, he acknowledged, as his own.

  Restless and moody, Harriette was forced to undergo a week of intense boredom. Under orders to remain at Whitescar Hall and not set foot within the doors of Lydyard’s Pride or on the deck of Lydyard’s Ghost, she was finally contemplating disobedience as she idly flicked though the pages of the Lady’s Gazette in one of the parlours. If Venmore was gone for good, what was the purpose in her sitting here waiting for him? She might as well resume her old life and launch the Ghost. For the first time in her memory, it did not appeal—why was her life so unattractive, so lacking in colour and excitement, after Venmore’s cataclysmic arrival in her cutter? She cast the magazine aside as a tap on the French windows from the terrace startled her. The window opened.