‘Hush!’ Alexander warned, closing it quickly behind him, shutting out the spaniel that would have followed on his heels. ‘I’ve no wish to attract Augusta’s attention.’ He entered with flourish of fresh air and energy and mud on his boots that brought a smile to Harriette’s lips.
‘Zan.’ Harriette stood and held out her hands in greeting. ‘Come and talk to me. I’m paralysed by boredom. Let Toby in if you wish. He doesn’t bother me.’
She could not remember her life without Alexander, a few years older than Harriette, at its centre. Son of her father’s sister, her own strong-willed Aunt Dorcas, and James Ellerdine, a local and entirely ineffectual landowner, Alexander had been a wilful child and had grown into a man driven by a love of outwitting the authorities. A love of money, too, Harriette suspected. They had been friends for ever, from the days when they had run wild on the beach, Harriette escaping from her governess, Alexander from a father who would have turned him into a farmer and a dull lord of the manor. Mr James Ellerdine had no inkling that his son had taken up with the Free Traders and would have disapproved if he had. Nor did Harriette know of it until the day when Alexander took her on her first smuggling run, revealing for her the heady thrill of it all, a remedy against soul-crushing boredom, against the terrible drag on her spirits of seemly respectability, as imposed by Lady Augusta.
And when they were in danger of being discovered, it was Alexander who sprang to her aid, providing her with a ready defence against Wallace’s disapproval. Harriette had thus spent many fictional nights at Ellerdine Manor when Aunt Dorcas was still alive, whereas in reality she had been perfecting her skills as a member of the brotherhood of Free Traders. Alexander had always been her true friend.
An attractive man with the dark hair and deep blue eyes of his father, a lithe and athletic build, no none could have blamed Harriette if she had set her cap at him. But she never had, had never felt the inclination. Why she did not respond to him as a grown woman to a handsome man she had no idea, but Alexander was her cousin, no more, no less than that.
Now he stood before her, his mouth stern. ‘You can’t do it, Harry.’
‘I have to. Augusta says I must mend my ways, at least until the wedding…’
‘I don’t mean not leave the house!’ His tone was sharper than usual. ‘You can’t marry him!’
‘Oh, that.’ She laughed softly. ‘I can, you know. And I will. How did you know about it? I thought it was all to be secret until the fateful day and the knot tied! Just in case the Earl makes a run for it and we never see him again.’
‘Servants’ gossip,’ he snapped. ‘I thought you might have told me. How can you even consider it, Harriette? All that nonsense about your honour being compromised. Typical Wallace, of course. You shouldn’t have let yourself get pushed into it. Listen to me, Harry! Tell Wallace you’ve changed your mind.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Why can’t you?’
‘Wallace says I need a husband.’
‘Then tell him that you’ll wed me instead.’
Momentarily Harriette was lost for words. Perhaps her cousin was merely funning—although she could not think him guilty of such insensitivity—but obviously he did not mean it, or why had he never given any sign of a desire for marriage before? She replied in as light a mode as she could, ‘I won’t, dear Zan—because you haven’t asked me. Nor do you have to. It’s not necessary to rescue me, you know.’ She squeezed his hands, grateful for his thoughtfulness. ‘I’m quite resigned to it. I might even enjoy it and find a taste for fashionable life.’
‘No. Never. I’m asking you now, Harriette.’ Such urgency drove him that Harriette felt Alexander’s fingers tighten uncomfortably around hers. ‘Wed me. I can give you a good life, all the comfort you could wish for, even if not the luxury at Venmore’s disposal. We’ll live at Lydyard’s Pride. Isn’t that what you want?’
‘But you don’t love me.’
‘Neither does he.’ Alexander released her hands and took an impatient turn around the room, treading mud as he went. ‘But at least I know you, and you know me. You know I’ll never beat you or neglect you or give you cause for jealousy. Besides—how do you know I don’t love you?’
‘Because you’ve never mentioned it until now. I don’t expect Venmore will do any of those things, either,’ she replied, unsure whether to be startled or mildly amused at her cousin’s venom. ‘I can’t marry you, Zan. I have agreed to wed the Earl. You should be grateful to me for refusing you. You will when you meet a girl who takes your heart.’
Completing another circuit, Alexander grasped her hands again, his eyes fierce. ‘Do you want me to make lover-like assurances? I can do that. I have always had an affection for you, Harry. We’ll deal well together. You can have the sort of life you want, away from Wallace and Whitescar Hall.’
‘You are very kind, and I know you mean well, but—’
‘Do you want his money, his consequence?’ A scowl descended on Alexander’s attractive features. Harriette had never known him so impatient or unjust, except when a run was threatened through bad weather or a patrolling body of Preventive men. Yet here he was attacking her, accusing her of an arrogance she could not recognise in herself. ‘I would not have believed it of you, that you would rather tie yourself to him than to me for the sake of a title.’
‘But that’s not true, and you know it,’ she replied in brittle denial. ‘I have no ambition to be a countess. How can you say that after all the years we have known each other?’
‘It seems like that to me.’
‘Then you have misunderstood me.’ Now Harriette allowed a spurt of temper to break through her disbelief—an unexpected rift threatened, emerging from nowhere. Surely Zan knew her too well to attack her with such intolerance? ‘Don’t frown at me, Zan. There’s enough unhappiness without us being at odds.’
But Alexander was not to be won over. ‘He’ll want you to stop smuggling.’
‘Yes, he does.’
‘And will you? Will you obey him—a dutiful little wife?’
She might wince at the jibe, but Harriette lifted her chin. ‘He has not ordered me to do so. But it is what he wants. I owe him that, and it’s not for you to discuss.’
‘Venmore will demand you give up the Free Trade, see if he doesn’t.’
‘No, you are wrong. He has not demanded it. Don’t let us quarrel over it, Zan.’
Alexander looked as if he might ignore her plea, then it seemed to Harriette that he took a step back from the brink. ‘I thought we could live at Lydyard’s Pride together,’ he replied more mildly. ‘Make it our home.’
‘No, we can’t. I know you love the house as much as I, and it was your own mother’s legacy that she willed to me, but it’s not possible.’
As if he could find no more words of persuasion, his eyes searched her face, fingers tight around her wrists, holding her hands palm to palm.
‘Zan?’ She pulled firmly away. ‘You don’t really want me as your wife, you know.’
And he relaxed, releasing her. Rubbed his hands over his face as he laughed lightly. ‘Forgive me, Harriette. You must think me a bully—as bad as your brother.’ He leaned forwards to kiss her cheek in cousinly affection. ‘Very well. Have what you will and I’ll not stand against you. I’ll wish you all happiness for your future. And remember that I will always be your friend.’
There, it was gone. The shadow, the displeasure, the determination to get his own way. Harriette, too, relaxed with a wistful smile at her cousin. She had been mistaken. He only wanted to rescue her after all.
Alexander headed back towards the window where the spaniel waited patiently. The smile he cast her over his shoulder was as sharp as the wind that stirred the dried leaves in the beech hedging beside the terrace. ‘All he can offer is a title and a bottomless purse.’
‘Is he as wealthy as that?’
‘Of course. Didn’t you know? The Hallastons are as proud as the devil and could purchase Lydyard’s Pride t
wenty times over with the change in their pockets and not notice the loss.’
’I didn’t know.
‘I wager Wallace did! Or why the urgency to snap Venmore up? Never mind, Harriette—’ as she felt colour drain from her face ‘—I doubt Venmore will blame you for his predicament. Just don’t lose your heart to him, will you?’
‘Of course not! I wouldn’t do anything so ill judged.’
But she feared—she knew—that somewhere between his landing in a bloody puddle in her boat and his unemotional statement that she now belonged to him, she had done just that. Even the thought of marriage to Lucius Hallaston, however unlikely it might be, of being kissed by him, owned by him, fluttered the nerves in her belly and drove bright colour to her cheeks.
Alexander smiled. ‘Then all I can do is to wish you every happiness, cousin.’
Perhaps she had imagined the lack of enthusiasm in his reply. As for Alexander’s rescuing her—why, in the core of her heart, she had no desire to be rescued at all.
Chapter Five
The Earl of Venmore waited outside the little church of St Mary the Virgin in Old Wincomlee, contemplating whether Miss Harriette Lydyard would put in an appearance for her marriage or whether, in his absence she had turned in revolt against her brother and had changed her mind. He consulted his watch—a new purchase. She was late. Above the stand of elms to the left of the church he could make out the wings and chimney stacks of Whitescar Hall, the Lydyard residence. Should he go and hammer on the door and ask for the lady?
Probably to be told that Captain Harry was somewhere in the Channel, escaping to France, battling against the waves in the Lydyard’s Ghost!
She was late.
Frustration—or was it actually fear that she would leave him standing at the altar?—shortened his temper. Luke found himself at a loss. In truth, he had never met such resistance in a lady, and to his sardonic amusement, it did not sit well with him. Unaware, he placed his palm over his breast pocket, over the letter he had received to his surprise the previous week. An unusual letter from a bride to her prospective bridegroom.
My lord,
I shall understand if you decide that marriage to me is not what you want and that you do not wish to be coerced into it. No one can pretend that I am suitable material for a countess. Nevertheless, I shall be at the church at the time and date specified. If I do not see you then, I would thank you for your attempts to deflect my brother’s wrath from my shoulders.
It would after all be an easy matter for you to buy a fast cutter to get you to France.
I wish you well for the future and hope that you revise your need, whatever it might be, to work with Monsieur Noir.
Harriette Lydyard
Quaint. Merciless in its summing up of the situation. Appallingly direct. Perhaps it would be better all round if Miss Lydyard did decide to cry off, better for both of them. And since no one outside this village knew of the match, it would be no harm done.
And yet, Luke discovered, that was not what he wanted at all. Miss Lydyard was more of an attraction than her cutter. He was considering this strange whim when George Gadie rounded the west buttress, hove to beside him and saluted him with a grin.
‘She’s on her way, y’r honour. A slight disagreement, do y’see, about whether to get out the coach…Miss Lydyard wouldn’t.’
And there she was, walking briskly towards him.
Luke felt an easing of the constriction in his chest.
She had got her own way and walked, approaching along the path from the side gardens of the Hall to the Church, Sir Wallace and Lady Augusta following at some distance. Miss Lydyard covered the ground swiftly, creating a charming picture to take his eye. Dappled summer sunshine illuminated her through the soft green of the elm leaves and the frisky breeze ruffled her skirts and ribbons as she strode towards him, as if conscious of her lateness, with fluid and vibrant elegance.
But this vision of Miss Lydyard was not what he had expected. Not at all. He had seen her in breeches and boots. He had seen her in a dowdy, unappealing gown that did not flatter and had seen better days. Now this lady…! Even if she did stride towards him as if she were about to board Lydyard’s Ghost. The Earl of Venmore cast an experienced eye over his betrothed, soon-to-be bride.
French style and gloss, was his first thought, from the days before the Revolution, before fashions began to move in the direction of austerity. It was a dress of spring, of romance, cream silk embroidered with sprigs of flowers in softest palest green and yellow. Full skirts caught back with cream ribbons from a plain satin petticoat embroidered and rouched round the hem. Elbow-length sleeves allowed a fall of fine lace. A fitted bodice emphasised her waist, quite different from any garment a connoisseur of London fashions would have designed for the Countess of Venmore. A lace-edged scarf in finest linen crossed over the bosom to tie behind. Altogether remarkably pretty, both feminine and frivolous. And someone had tamed her hair to catch it up on the crown of her head in cream ribbons, to fall in luxuriant curls to her shoulder. The débutantes of the haut ton would never have worn such a gown, but Harriette Lydyard did so with style.
Which realisation struck Luke as solidly as a punch to his well-muscled stomach. So that was it—and he had never even given it a thought. An obvious reason for Miss Lydyard, if she had any pride, not to want a society wedding. She had nothing fashionable to wear and her brother, now that the groom was caught and at the altar, was not going to waste more money than he need on the bride.
He should have thought of it. The fact that he had not given it even the slightest consideration caused him a momentary brush of shame. Of late he had acquired an ingrained selfishness, not a desirable quality in a man of his breeding, he admitted with a grimace. He should have provided her with something suitable—an easy enough task to send a dress as a wedding gift. But there again, he thought, she might have too much pride to accept such a gift from him. For her it would have hammered home once again the vast distance between them as she had so coolly listed for him. The problem, he mused as Miss Lydyard came to a halt in front of him, was that he did not know her. All had to be achieved through guesswork and careful manoeuvring if he did not wish to ride roughshod over her sensibilities. And as yet he did not know what those sensibilities were.
But now she was here, standing before him, cheeks flushed becomingly from the speed of her approach, eyes sparkling, lips curved in a delicious smile. How could he have ever considered reneging on his promise to wed her? And, taken aback by this fragile vision in silk and lace, by a need to sweep her up and protect her from the cruel jibes of high society, the Earl of Venmore could do nothing but take his smuggler’s hand in his and kiss the tips of her fingers. They fluttered in his hold.
‘Miss Lydyard. I swear, a man never met so elegant a bride at the church door,’ he said gallantly.
‘Pretty words,’ she replied with a tilt of her head. ‘The bride is not as elegant as her bridegroom. I wasn’t sure you’d come.’
‘Am I not a man of my word?’
‘I don’t know,’ she replied with devastating frankness. ‘Perhaps it depends on how much you need the use of my cutter. You never did tell me what you were doing in France!’
‘Miss Lydyard, you do me an injustice.’ Luke felt the sting of irritation. No, he was not completely altruistic in his motives, and his forthright bride had unerringly homed in on it. Now was not the time to dwell on it. With solemn gallantry, he tucked her hand beneath his arm. ‘Whatever doubts you may have, you may be certain that I need to fulfil my promise to you!’
Her smile lit her eyes, transforming her face with sudden beauty. ‘Good. Then let us do it before we both change our minds! Then we can escape Wallace’s prosing on the sad state of my reputation!’
‘Well, my lady, the deed is done.’
‘Yes.’
Harriette was astonished. Her marriage to the Earl of Venmore was completed, over and done within the time it took to launch Lydyard’s Ghost, the gol
d ring with its circle of sapphires, a Hallaston heirloom, securely on her finger. Wallace had hidden his triumph. Augusta did not try. Alexander stood in dour but silent acceptance. Meggie looked apprehensive. As for the groom, he spoke the required words with solemn composure that soothed her nerves and allowed her breathing to settle. The only time she had felt any reaction from him was when her name was read by the Reverend Dance—Harriette Marie-Louise d’Aspre Lydyard. A sharp acknowledgment in the tautness of his arm beneath her fingers. He had not known of her French blood, of course, and she had not thought to tell him. Would he object? But then why should he? Though he might, of course, consider a smuggler with French blood too much for a man to accept in the present political climate.
Otherwise Harriette could not fault him, the epitome of fashion and elegance, as far from the dishevelled spy as she could imagine, his good looks enhanced by the understated quality of the striped silk waistcoat, deep blue coat, the impeccably ruffled shirt and the exact arrangement of his cravat. And to his credit the Earl had not decided to overawe them with a fashionable entourage, nor had he brought any members of his family with him. A relief, yet Harriette struggled with the conflict it set up within her own mind. Perhaps he was ashamed of her after all; perhaps he appreciated the value of a wedding far from critical eyes even more than she.
Would anything ever be straightforward again?
This was no good! Harriette had made her vows clearly, with no maidenly modesty, almost in a challenge. All she could do was to be herself. The Earl had agreed to wed her and must take her on trust. They must both make the best of a dubious bargain.
Compromised Miss Page 8
