A Wicked Pursuit

by Isabella Bradford

  Finally she smiled, more brilliant than all the diamonds in her hand, and enough to make his heart lurch with joy.

  “Yes, we will, Harry,” she said. “Together we will.”

  “Look at the crush of carriages, Harry,” Gus said, pressing as close to their own carriage window as she could without disturbing her hair. “Who would have guessed there were so many in London?”

  Harry smiled, and Gus could not help but smile back. He was gloriously handsome across from her, dressed in a dark blue suit thick with embroidered gold thread, his eyes a sunny blue and his dark hair powdered fashionably gray. Best of all, his entire self had changed, as completely as night into day. Celia had been entirely right about how he needed to feel he was protecting her, though Gus herself was mystified by how conveniently that particular cruel item had appeared in the magazine today. Who would have guessed that The London Observer would, combined with love, bring Harry back?

  “All the fine folk and their carriages come out from hiding for a drawing room at the palace,” he said. “Cast the bread crumbs on the pond, and all the goldfish rise gobbling to the surface.”

  Gus looked back over her shoulder at Harry. “That’s a silly comparison,” she said. “No sensible goldfish would ever dress like this in the middle of the day. I’m terrified I’ll bend too far when I curtsey and lose my plumes.”

  “You won’t,” he assured her. “I saw the armaments that hairdresser employed to secure the plumes to the tiara and the tiara to your hair. That rig may never come out.”

  “Don’t say that,” Gus scolded, touching her head lightly once again for good measure. She might not be a slippery goldfish but, dressed as she was, she did feel like a fancy wooden doll, too stiff to move. She’d never worn such elaborate and formal clothing, or any that was so uncomfortable, either.

  Beneath her glittering gown, she wore an extra two petticoats as well as her hoops to make her skirts suitably wide for court, and additional lace flounces pinned to her sleeves to give grace to her gestures. Her gown now occupied so much space that she was forced to sit across from Harry, alone on her seat in solitary splendor so her skirts would not be crushed. The diamond necklace and bracelets were heavy around her throat and wrists, and the coronet and the pins that held it pressed into her head.

  Most challenging of all, however, were the plumes pinned into the front of her coronet, three white ostrich feathers that signified she was now a married woman, and that towered, nodding, nearly two feet above her head. As foolish and awkward as the plumes were, every woman of rank was required to wear them to court. Even now Gus had to sit leaning slightly forward so that the plumes wouldn’t break against the roof of the carriage.

  “You look exactly as you should, sweetheart,” Harry said.

  She wrinkled her nose. “Meaning that I do not look exactly good.”

  “No,” Harry admitted. “No lady looks good with her hair powdered gray and feathers on her head, and you already know my feelings in regard to the hoops. But I am glad you held firm against the paint.”

  She grinned. “I shocked the hairdresser by refusing it.”

  “You’ll likely shock a good many more people besides him,” Harry said. “But because I love you, I have always loved your freckles, and I will happily present them with the rest of you before the queen. Besides, it’s always disconcerting to see a lady’s painted cheeks crackle when she smiles. Here we are, our turn at last.”

  Amid a flurry of footmen around their carriage, Harry stepped out first, then turned to help Gus. They were better at it now, the choreography becoming more automatic between them, even as Gus had to turn sideways like a crab to maneuver both her hoops and her plumes through the carriage door.

  Her heart was racing, and she’d only a moment to spare to look up at the front of St. James’s Palace. She’d heard the complaints about how St. James’s was an inconvenient, old-fashioned pile, but it seemed very grand to her, and filled with richly dressed gentlemen and ladies. As they slowly made their way through the door, down the long hall, and into the last antechamber before the drawing room itself, she felt the too-familiar nervousness and doubts begin to settle in.

  Harry squeezed her hand. “You’ll do fine, sweetheart,” he said, sensing her anxiety. “In my eyes, not one lady in this entire place can hold a candle to you.”

  She smiled tentatively at him. “But I’m to be presented to Her Majesty, Harry. The queen.”

  “She’ll be delighted with you, Gus,” he said. “All you must do when your name is called is curtsey as low as you can, kiss her hand, and retreat. Most likely the queen won’t say a word, and neither will you. Remember, too, that she’s not some fearsome creature, but a lady not so much older than yourself.”

  “Not daunting?” Gus said, though deep down she did not believe it.

  “Not at all,” Harry said, and winked at her.

  But she’d noticed something else. “You’re walking on both legs, Harry.”

  “Three legs,” he said wryly, “one being wooden, if you count the crutch.”

  She knew the effort this cost him. He’d only just begun to walk like this, and it was still an awkward, halting lurch of a walk. But the most difficult part for him must have been the attention he was drawing, from curious glances to out-and-out stares. Others pointedly—and rudely, she thought—had walked around them, as if Harry’s slower pace was intolerable. The fact that he could make a jest of it all now showed how hard he was trying, and she wished she could have made those others simply treat him as they had before.

  “I’d say two legs, not three,” she said. “You’re doing so well, Harry.”

  “I wish it were better for your sake, Gus,” he said. “I want everyone to look at you, not me, and thus I have vowed to do my best to be as unobtrusive as possible.”

  That made her grin despite her nervousness. The thought of her tall, smiling, wickedly handsome husband in his gold-laced suit ever being unobtrusive, crutch or not, was preposterous. And yet Harry had put aside his own worries to ease hers, which only made her love him all the more.

  “I am serious, my love,” he said, leaning close so only she could hear him in the crowded hall. “You inspire me.”

  She shook her head, the plumes wafting over her brow.

  “No, Harry, it’s the other way around,” she said, choosing her words with care. “You worry that you’re not worthy of me because of your leg, that somehow you’ve failed me, when instead you’ve done everything for me, Harry, absolutely everything, and oh, I can’t begin to tell you how much!”

  He smiled crookedly. “It’s a deuced odd time for you to tell me any of it, sweetheart.”

  “I can’t help myself, Harry.” He was right: it was a deuced odd time. They were surrounded by strangers, an Austrian ambassador in the line ahead of them and a merchant’s wife and her daughters behind them. It was crowded and stuffy and noisy, the narrow hallway filled with the scent of smokey candles and too much scent trying—and failing—to cover the nervousness of too many overdressed people.

  But now that Gus had started to tell Harry her true feelings, she wasn’t going to stop. She couldn’t, and in a rush all the words she’d been keeping bottled up within her spilled out.

  “Whenever I’m shy or anxious or unsure,” she said, “you’ve been there to reassure me, and take care that I don’t make a complete ninny of myself. With your father, and at the inn in Mendenhall, and at the playhouse when Lady Tolliver came to our box—you were always there beside me, Harry, as strong and as sure as any husband could be, and not once—not once—did it have anything to do with your leg.”

  She gulped, with emotion and with the need for a deep breath. She hadn’t dared to say all that before, fearing she’d only upset Harry more, but now that she finally had spoken, she felt almost light-headed with relief.

  But he hadn’t answered, not a word. Instead he was simply staring at her, his brows drawn together. At least he didn’t look angry. He looked thoughtful, whic
h was much more encouraging.

  “It’s because I love you, Gus,” he said, as if it all were obvious. “I didn’t want to see you hurt. I wanted things to be right for you. It doesn’t have anything to do with my leg.”

  “Not at all,” she said. “Your leg doesn’t matter to me, not a bit. I don’t care if you never dance with me. You’ll always be perfect to me, Harry, because I love you, and you love me, and that’s perfect, too.”

  “No, Gus,” he said slowly, pausing just long enough for her to feel a little lurch of uncertainty. “It’s you who’s perfect. You understand me better than I do myself. I needed you to show me what was truly important, Gus, because I was clearly too thick-witted and stubborn to see it for myself. I could break my other leg and both my arms as well—”

  “Hush, don’t say such things!” she exclaimed anxiously. “Don’t tempt Fate!”

  “Why shouldn’t I, when Fate has already dealt me the best hand of cards ever given to a man?” He raised her hand, kissing the back of it lightly, his gaze never leaving her face. “Fate put me on that infernal horse, and threw me from it as well, but Fate also brought me you. And that’s what matters most. You, Gus.”

  She was speechless, but in the best possible way, because it meant that there was, for once, nothing left to say. He’d said everything. She longed to kiss him, there in the line of other peers waiting for admission, and she’d already arched up toward him with her lips parted when she thought better of it. He did not, and kissed her anyway.

  “There,” he said. “That’s for luck. Not that my wife requires it, but just in case.”

  She laughed softly and blushed, aware of the disapproval of others waiting around them. She didn’t care. Harry was her husband and her love, and there could never be anything wrong with kissing him.

  Yet as they reached the doorway to the drawing room, her bravado faded. The room was large and very warm, with the summer sun streaming in through the tall windows, hung in red, along one wall. Throngs of courtiers lined the walls, watching the presentations, and somewhere among them would be Brecon and Celia and the rest of Harry’s large family. At the far end, beneath a small red canopy, sat Her Majesty in an elaborate armchair, her attendants clustered around her.

  “It’s much farther than I thought it would be,” Gus whispered with trepidation as their turn came closer.

  “Be brave,” he whispered back, and though he smiled, she saw he was anxious, too. Of course he’d be: this walk would be far more of a trial for him than it ever would for her.

  She smiled back, as warmly as she could. “You be brave, too.”

  “Together,” he said. “We’ll be brave together.”

  She nodded and took a step apart from him, letting him hold her left hand slightly raised, the way that was required. Then, at last, they began to walk toward the queen.

  Gus held her head high, mindful of her plumes, and stared straight ahead. She tried not to think of the dozens of important people watching her, or of the queen waiting at the other end of the room, and she tried, too, not to clutch too tightly to Harry’s hand. She measured her steps to match his, something that came naturally to her now, as it should.

  “I’m sorry, Gus,” he said softly, startling her.

  She glanced at him sharply. He was still looking straight ahead as they were supposed to, reminder enough to jerk her eyes back forward as well.

  “That’s the rest of what I needed to say,” he continued, so softly that no one else would guess that he’d spoken at all. “I’m sorry for everything I’ve done or said to hurt you. Forgive me, if you can.”

  They were nearly to the queen, close enough that she must answer him now, or not at all.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “Always.”

  She wanted to say more, much more, to tell him how much she loved him in a thousand different ways, but the queen was directly before her, looking up at her expectantly.

  “The Countess of Hargreave,” announced a slightly bored male voice.

  Harry’s fingers tightened briefly around hers and then released her. She was on her own now, and as gracefully as she could, she curtseyed deeply, her hoops and stays creaking and her skirts crumpling around her on the floor. With her head bowed, she saw the queen’s hand, plump and white and not unlike her own, before her. She bent and briefly kissed the back of it, and then rose, her head still bowed. Now all she must do was retreat backward to rejoin Harry, and relief swept over her. She hadn’t fallen. Her tiara hadn’t tumbled from her head. She hadn’t embarrassed herself or Harry. She’d survived, and she was done.

  Her Majesty, however, had other ideas.

  “You are the new country bride of Lord Hargreave, yes?” she asked in heavily accented English.

  Startled, Gus looked up. Harry had assured her there’d be no conversation, and here the queen was speaking to her.

  “Ye-yes, Your Majesty,” she stammered.

  The queen smiled. She wasn’t very pretty, with a broad face and flaring nostrils, but to Gus she looked kind.

  “We have heard the story of your courtship,” she said. “We are pleased by your devotion to Lord Hargreave whilst he was ill. You are improved, Lord Hargreave?”

  “Yes, thank you, Your Majesty,” Harry said behind her. “Because of my wife, I am.”

  “We are glad of it,” the queen said. “Such love and devotion are to be praised. We trust we will see more of you both at court.”

  She nodded, dismissing Gus, who was at last free to retreat as the next name was called. Harry took her hand, and solemnly they backed away the required number of paces, before, at last, they could slip among the bystanders. She was vaguely aware of people praising and congratulating her for doing so well and receiving the queen’s favor, but all that mattered to her was Harry. He pulled her to the back of the crowd, into an alcove by a window.

  “You did it, Gus,” he said. “You were perfect.”

  “We did it,” she said breathlessly. “We showed them, didn’t we? We showed them all, and—and—oh, Harry, I love you so much!”

  He pulled her close and kissed her, heedless of how many people were watching or her plumes or his crutch or anything else, because nothing mattered except that they were together.

  Together.

  EPILOGUE

  Vauxhall Gardens, Kennington, near London

  June 1769

  The evening was warm for June, with countless stars in the cloudless night sky reflected in the silvery surface of the Thames. But for the Londoners who’d been rowed across the river that night, the stars and moon couldn’t begin to compare with the excitement they found at the pleasure garden at Vauxhall. Whether in the gaily-painted supper boxes or simply strolling the wide paths beneath the trees, the throngs of merry-makers laughed and flirted and drank and danced, every one of them enthused to be able to enjoy themselves in so delightful a spot.

  Harry and Gus were among them. They had come to Vauxhall with his father the duke, Celia, and several other members of the family, claiming the very best supper-box: close enough to the orchestra pavilion to enjoy the music, but not so close as to make conversation impossible. Their supper was long done and cleared away, and the rest of their party had gone to stroll through the gardens’ walks, leaving Harry and Gus alone together on a cushioned bench in the box.

  “Was there ever so lovely a night, Harry?” asked Gus, her head pillowed against his shoulder. “I do not know which shines more brightly: the stars in the sky, or the fairy-lights in the trees. I do love the fairy-lights.”

  “An excellent guess, sweetheart,” Harry said. “But fairy-lights in the trees are not my surprise.”

  “Oh, you and your confounded surprise!” Gus sighed and turned around to face him. “Honestly, Harry, I have heard so much tonight of this great surprise that when it actually occurs, I shall be so weary of the subject I will take no notice.”

  In Gus’s mind, there could be no better way to pass the summer evening than lying lazily against her husb
and’s chest as the music drifted around them, tucked back into the shadowy corners of the supper-box. A surprise seemed entirely unnecessary.

  “I thought you liked surprises,” Harry said, curling his arm protectively around her waist, or where her waist once had been. She was five months’ gone with their first child, and the soft swell of her growing belly had begun to show beneath her silk skirts. “I thought they amused you.”

  “They do,” she said, running her fingers lightly along his jaw. “If they didn’t, I would never have survived being married to you, Harry.”

  He chuckled. “But you must admit you are never bored.”

  “Not at all,” she said, “nor do I wish you to change, not ever. Which is why I find your insistence on the significance of this particular surprise particularly vexing.”

  He sighed dramatically. “Clearly you have waited long enough,” he said. “Come, on your feet. Time for your surprise.”

  Reluctantly she rose, and he stood beside her, linking his hand fondly into hers to lead her down from the box, leaning on the ebony cane that had finally replaced the crutches. They slowly made their way through the crowd toward the music, a footman in their livery walking respectfully behind them. After nearly a year of being the Countess of Hargreave, Gus was now accustomed to the attention that followed her and Harry wherever they went. They’d become a popular couple in London society, and the love they shared was so obvious that they made even strangers smile.

  “So what is this surprise, Harry?” Gus asked. She was curious now; she wouldn’t deny it. “Is it a musical surprise?”

  “In part,” he said. “Here, this way, toward the front.”

  She hung back, watching the two rows of dancers skipping and hopping through a raucous country dance. “Wait until they’re done, Harry,” she said. “I’ve no wish to be trod upon.”