by M C Beaton
Harriet was determined to dance. She had never danced the waltz before. Aunt Rebecca, lumbering and hopping like an elephant around the drawing room at Pringle House, had taught her the steps of various reels and country dances. Harriet had only heard of the waltz, that daring and shocking dance where the man actually put his hand on your waist. She had a brief moment’s panic as the Marquess of Arden led her onto the floor. But then he put his hand on her waist and her feet seemed to float over the polished floor.
The marquess looked down at her with a disturbed expression in his eyes. He seemed to be looking at several Harriets. There was Harriet, naked under the pump; Harriet, with her hair spilling about her shoulders as she sat at the spinet; Harriet, sooty and dazed, clasped in his embrace above the roaring crowd; and now this Harriet, fresh, beautiful, and achingly vulnerable. He was aware of the malice in Cordelia’s eyes, the awakened interest in Bertram’s, and all the nodding, gossiping painted faces. He wanted to protect her, to make sure she never suffered a day’s harm or hurt again.
He was alarmed at the intensity of his feelings. She was only a woman, after all. If anyone had ever told the marquess that he despised women, he would have been most surprised. But the sad fact was, the only time a woman had not bored him in the past was when she had been flat on her back in his bed. Courted for his title and fortune, toadied to and flattered since the day he was out of short coats, he regarded all of the fair sex with a cynical eye. Romance was for milksops and poets. And yet there had been magic in Harriet’s kiss.
“You are looking very beautiful tonight. Miss Harriet,” he said.
“Thank you,” said Harriet, her eyes very bright with pleasure at the compliment.
“In fact, you are so beautiful I have a great desire to kiss you again.”
Harriet stumbled. “You should not speak of that,” she said breathlessly. “It was excusable then because of the unnatural circumstances, but it is not the manner of a gentleman to remind me of something I would much rather forget.”
The marquess felt a stab of pain somewhere in the region of his heart. “Was it so distasteful?” he asked.
“Well, no … that is … surely all unconventional behavior must be distasteful?”
“An attraction between the sexes is very normal. You will no doubt marry some fine gentleman before the end of the Season and live happily ever afterward.”
“Perhaps,” said Harriet, and again he felt that odd stab of pain. “No one else seems to marry for love,” she said, half to herself, “so there cannot be anything wrong in hoping for a home and security.”
“But it is possible to have love and security.”
“Beggars cannot be choosers. Since I must take care of Aunt Rebecca, I will forget about love and concentrate on security.”
“I had not thought to find you mercenary.”
“Why not? Everyone else is. ‘Tis money that makes the ton go ‘round.”
He looked at her. speculatively, wondering whether she was in fact more like Cordelia than he had thought. Some of what he was thinking must have shown in his eyes, for Harriet once again stumbled and said sharply, “Do not look at me like that, my lord.”
“I do not know what you mean,” he said. “You must not read things into my expression that do not exist.” His voice was sharp. The magic of the waltz faded. Harriet forgot her steps and stumbled miserably through the remainder of the dance.
Her hand was eagerly claimed for the next dance by Bertram Hudson. Once more he saw Harriet as the glorious heroine of his Gothic dreams. He chattered away during the country dance in a bewildering way, since he would start a sentence and continue where he left off some five minutes later when the figure of the dance brought them together again.
Cordelia had never been outshone in the ballroom before. To watch her despised little sister being whirled from partner to partner while the Marquess of Arden leaned against a pillar and watched her with a strange, brooding expression on his hard, handsome face was a bitter experience. She was furious that Harriet should defy her. Back to the country that little minx would go.
The marquess was in fact so absorbed in watching Harriet and in trying to analyze his own confused feelings that he forgot to keep an eye on his young cousin and therefore failed to notice that Bertram was drinking much more than was good for him.
At length the marquess tore his gaze away from Harriet to speak to his friend, Tommy Gresham. When he turned back, there was no sign of her.
Harriet had disappeared into the garden with Bertram.
Flushed with wine and romance, Bertram had decided to propose to her. He asked her whether she would like to step out onto the terrace at the back for a breath of fresh air.
Harriet agreed, since the windows were open and anyone standing on the terrace would still be in full view of the dancers.
The night was very dark and still.
“Would you care to walk down into the garden just a little way, Miss Harriet?” pleaded Bertram. “I have something of importance to say to you.”
Harriet looked at him wonderingly. “I will return and fetch Aunt Rebecca,” she said. “We must be chaperoned.”
“It will only take a minute,” he urged.
“Just to the foot of the steps,” said Harriet cautiously.
Together they walked down the shallow, mossy steps that led into the small square of garden at the back. The moon came out from behind a cloud and bleached the flowers of a lilac bush silver white.
Harriet turned to face him. “What is it, Mr. Hudson?” she asked.
He gave a sort of groan and gathered her in his arms. Harriet knew he was about to kiss her, and the only reason she let him do so was because she was sure she would experience that same heady sweetness she had felt when the marquess had held her in his arms. But the young lips against her own were soft and hot and suffocating. She jerked her head back and cried out, “Don’t, I beg you.”
“Yes, don’t, Bertram,” said a quiet voice above their heads.
The Marquess of Arden was standing at the top of the steps, looking down at them.
“Miss Harriet …” began Bertram desperately.
“Please go,” whispered Harriet. “You must forgive me, Mr. Hudson. That I should let you behave so!”
“It was just a kiss.”
“Please go.”
“I am waiting, Bertram,” came the marquess’s steely voice.
Bertram looked wildly from one to the other. Harriet was standing with her face averted. The marquess’s hands were clenched so tightly on the balustrade that his knuckles showed white in the moonlight.
And yet, to Bertram, there was such a strong atmosphere between them it was as if they stood clasped in each other’s arms.
He gave an inarticulate gasp and turned and strode from the garden.
Harriet stayed very still. She thought the marquess had left with Bertram. Her cheeks flamed. How could she have behaved so wantonly? The Marquess of Arden would think she was the same as her sister.
A light breeze whispered among the bushes, and from a house nearby came the stumbling chords of a piano as some amateur murdered Vivaldi.
She jumped nervously when she heard a light step on the grass beside her.
“It will not answer, Miss Harriet,” came the marquess’s cold voice. “You may have your pick of the gentlemen here to gratify your craving for security, but you will not play fast and loose with the affections of my young cousin.”
“I was taken by surprise,” said Harriet. “He said he had something of importance to say to me.”
“Then it was as well I appeared on the scene before the young fool had proposed and you—you had accepted him.”
“I have no intention of marrying your cousin,” said Harriet wearily.
“Then why did you let him kiss you?”
“I do not know. You kissed me yourself.”
“That was different.”
“In what way?”
“Dammit, in this way,”
he said savagely, jerking her into his arms.
Outrage, fear that he took her for a lady of easy virtue, should have caused her to push him away, but that magic came flooding back immediately and she seemed to be turning and turning in the circle of his arms, turning in a spinning world of pain and pleasure, aching longings and unfulfilled desires. They stayed locked together while the wind sighed through the leaves and the faint noises of dancing feet and laughter came from the ballroom. His kiss grew deeper and more intense, and his strong fingers covered one of Harriet’s small breasts.
She wrenched herself out of his arms, her eyes wild with fright. She turned and ran up the steps as if all the demons in hell were after her.
“Damn,” said the Marquess of Arden softly. “Damn, damn, damn.”
Harriet was quickly surrounded by a laughing group of young men, demanding to know where she had been and clamoring for the next dance.
Harriet dizzily accepted the invitation of the nearest gentleman and allowed herself to be led into a set that was forming for a Scotch reel.
She felt ashamed and dirty. This was what came from having a trollop of a sister, she thought fiercely. No words of love, only savage kisses and that intimate hand on her breast.
It is my own fault, she eventually thought gloomily. It is of no use to blame Cordelia. If I had not behaved like a trollop myself by letting his cousin kiss me, then he would not have been led to believe that I would favor his advances. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears as her partner led her in to supper.
Aunt Rebecca was well content. Harriet had never been in such looks before. Why, her eyes were sparkling like diamonds! They would need to leave for the country as soon as possible. Cordelia would never, ever forgive Harriet her success. But at least they would be leaving with all flags flying.
Aunt Rebecca nodded and murmured some vague reply as Agnes and Mr Prenderbury asked her if she would like a little more to eat. Her attention had become riveted on the Marquess of Arden. He had entered the supper room with several of his friends, but his eyes raked over the room until they finally came to rest on where Harriet sat next to a young officer. As if aware of his gaze, Harriet turned her head, saw him, and blushed.
All may not be lost, thought Aunt Rebecca. Now, I wonder….
Cordelia’s temper had been steadily mounting all evening. The Marquess of Arden had not asked her to dance even once. It was all Harriet’s fault.
She barely managed to control herself until they were all indoors at Hill Street, and then, with a rosy dawn filtering through the curtains, Cordelia let out all her pent-up rage and jealousy.
She flew at Harriet and tore the flowers from her hair and scratched her face. Harriet, too dazed to defend herself, reeled back. Agnes flew to Harriet’s aid and got her face well and truly slapped for her pains.
“Slut!” screamed Cordelia, panting. “Jade! How dare you disobey my orders? You have given Arden such a disgust of this family that he will not come nigh. Well, you can leave, and take Auntie Frumpie with you.”
Aunt Rebecca burst into tears. Harriet drew back her fist and punched Cordelia in the eye. Cordelia screamed so loudly, her servants came running.
“I order you to take them away,” screamed Cordelia, encompassing Aunt Rebecca, Harriet, and Agnes with a sweep of her hand. “Get them out of my sight. You, Findlater, book two places on the coach for Lower Maxton and get these people out of my house. As for you, Agnes, you typical old ape-leader, cringing and fawning over that fool Prenderbury. Be mindful of your duties in future. You will keep to your room until I decide what to do with you.”
The servants stood, irresolute.
Cordelia picked up a vase and hurled it at her butler’s head. He dodged it, and it struck the door and burst into a hundred fragments of red and gold and blue china.
“Control yourself,” said Harriet coldly. “Do not worry. We are going. I never want to see you again, Cordelia. You disgust me.”
Crying with rage, Cordelia seized the poker. With one horrified look at her sister, Harriet put an arm around Aunt Rebecca’s shaking shoulders and hustled her from the room.
To Harriet’s relief, Aunt Rebecca did not indulge in hysterics once they were in their private sitting room. She dried her eyes and looked at Harriet. “Do not worry, my dear,” she said firmly. “Everything will be all right. We will sit by the fire while you tell me all about the ball.”
“I think I would really rather go to bed, Aunt,” said Harriet, the scratch Cordelia had inflicted on her showing up dramatically against the white of her face.
“No, please indulge me, my dear. You see, I would sleep better and feel easier in my conscience if I knew you had enjoyed your one ball. I will ring for some wine to fortify my poor nerves.”
Harriet gave her a watery smile. I do not think the servants will answer your call.”
“Nonsense. They still consider you a heroine. Cordelia will be taking her spite out on her poor lady’s maid, and the other servants will still be too shocked at the rumpus to go to sleep.” Aunt Rebecca rang the bell.
A footman answered promptly, his eyes sparkling with curiosity. He politely told Aunt Rebecca that he would fetch a bottle of the best burgundy and then retreated gleefully to tell Findlater that the ladies were set on getting drunk and he didn’t blame ‘em neither.
Fortified with glasses of wine, Aunt Rebecca and Harriet sat on either side of the fire. At first. Harriet talked about how wonderful it was that she had known how to dance and how good Aunt Rebecca’s tuition had proved to be.
And then, as fatigue and wine combined with the reaction to Cordelia’s dreadful scene loosened her tongue, she falteringly told of the scene in the garden. “And it was so very dreadful, Aunt,” she ended. “Lord Arden put his hand here,” and her own little hand wavered over her left bosom.
“How very shocking!” said Aunt Rebecca. “But gentlemen, I have heard, will do the strangest and boldest things when their passions are aroused.”
“I do not think his passions were aroused,” said Harriet wearily. “I think he had decided I was like Cordelia—his for the taking. It is a wonder he did not offer me carte blanche.”
“You are tired,” said Aunt Rebecca. “Go to sleep, my child. At least we will both be happy to return to our life of hardship at Pringle House. There, at least, we are not subject to Cordelia’s whims.”
Aunt Rebecca insisted on sitting beside the bed until Harriet fell asleep.
She lumbered to her feet and softly closed the shutters against the rising sun and drew the curtains. Then she went to her room and changed out of her black silk into an old wool walking dress and covered it up with her usual assortment of scarves and shawls.
The streets were almost deserted. As she reached the corner of Piccadilly, a crossing sweeper gaye her a toothless grin and doffed his cap, but Aunt Rebecca had no money with which to pay him, and, raising her skirts, she picked her way across to the Green Park side through the mud.
She hesitated at St. James’s Street and then walked boldly down it. Ladies were not supposed to be even seen on St. James’s Street, but Aunt Rebecca was confident that no one would pay any attention to an old lady like her. She turned left at Pall Mall and looked up at the clock on the Tudor tower of St. James’s Palace. Half-past six. Along Pall Mall she went, quickening her step, and turned off up into St. James’s Square.
She stood at the corner of the square and studied the Marquess of Arden’s town house. A lazy footman was yawning on the step, conversing with a milkmaid.
Taking a deep breath, Aunt Rebecca walked forward.
The last of his guests having left, the marquess was just about to climb into bed when his valet entered, followed by a footman, and murmured that a Miss Clifton was waiting below to see him.
“At this hour!” exclaimed the marquess. “Very well. Tell Miss Clifton to wait in my study and I will be with her as soon as I have dressed.”
Convinced that Harriet was his caller, the marquess experienc
ed an odd feeling of triumph.
Come to throw herself on his mercy, had she? Cordelia must have behaved like a hell cat. Well, he would see. He admitted he found her attractive—very attractive. Then he frowned. He could not possibly offer to set up a respectable young lady as his mistress. Pity. He sighed, then shrugged himself into his morning coat.
The look of shock on his face when he surveyed Aunt Rebecca almost made that good lady lose what little courage she had been able to muster.
“Miss Clifton,” said the marquess, pulling himself together and making his best bow. “Allow me to offer you some refreshment.”
“No, no,” protested Aunt Rebecca feebly. “Nothing for me. I am too nervous. My nerves were always delicate.” She relapsed into a heavy silence.
The marquess pulled a chair forward and sat facing her.
He looked very handsome, elegant, and remote. His hair was as black and glossy as Harriet’s and his eyes looked like agates in the morning light.
A log shifted in the fire, the clocks ticked, and outside the watch called the hour in a hoarse voice.
“What is the reason for your visit, Miss Clifton?” prompted the marquess. “All is well with Miss Harriet, I trust?”
Aunt Rebecca slowly shook her head. “She is unwell? An accident? Speak, for heaven’s sake.”
“We are to return to the country today,” said Aunt Rebecca lugubriously.
“But Miss Harriet is not sick?”
“She is asleep at the moment.”
“Does she know of your visit?”
Again Aunt Rebecca shook her head and again a long silence fell between them.
“I would normally be quite happy to entertain you,” said the marquess at last, “but I have not been to bed and neither have you. I do not wish to seem abrupt, but I must ask you to state your business.”
The marquess waited impatiently while Aunt Rebecca sighed and tugged at a loose thread on one of her shawls.
“I wish to propose marriage,” she said suddenly.
Mad as a hatter, thought the marquess compassionately. He longed for his bed.
