Chapter 8 

“Interesting letters, dear?” Lady Forbes asked at the breakfast table.

Harriet’s head snapped up. “Oh, I do beg your pardon, Amanda,” she said. “Am I being unpardonably rude? I shall leave the other one until later.”

“No, no.” Lady Forbes waved a careless hand. “I have told you repeatedly, Harriet, that you must not stand on ceremony here. You must treat our house as if it were your own.”

“Thank you.” Harriet smiled gratefully. “Clara and Mr. Sullivan are at Ebury Court with the children. They will not come to town this Season, she says, as they consider the baby still too young to be taken from the country. And, of course, they will not leave him behind.”

“I still cannot believe the transformation of Freddie Sullivan,” Lady Forbes said. “It seems that what they say about reformed rakes must have some truth in it, if you will forgive me for using such an indelicate word, my dear.”

“Well, he was one,” Harriet said. “I was dreadfully dismayed when Clara decided to marry him even though she knew very well that all he wanted was her fortune. Their marriage has turned out marvelously well.” She sighed and returned her attention to her plate.

“You may open your other letter too without regard for me,” Lady Forbes said.

“Very well, then.” Harriet smiled at her again and picked it up. “Clara wants me to go there, you know. Either for a few days during the Season or for a lengthier stay during the summer. Or both.”

“I do hope you will not leave us before the Season is out,” Lady Forbes said in some alarm. “Not when I have such high hopes for you, dear. Mr. Hardinge must be on the very brink of a declaration, surely. And such a very proper and pleasant young man.”

“No.” Harriet colored. “I don’t believe I will be able to drag myself away before the Season is out. But I think I will go to Ebury Court during the summer. I will enjoy seeing Clara again, and it will be lovely for Susan to have the countryside to run and play in and Clara’s boys to play with.” She looked down at her other letter.

“Perhaps by that time,” Lady Forbes said coyly, “you will have a wedding to plan, dear. And Mr. Hardinge has a small country estate, as you must know.”

“Oh,” Harriet said. “Lady Sophia Davenport is in town. With her sister-in-law. What an amazing lady she is. She never makes a secret of the fact that she is eighty-six years old. And yet she has traveled from home. She is inviting us to call on her this afternoon, Amanda.”

Lady Forbes pulled a face. “I am afraid I make a point of avoiding her as much as I can when we are in Bath,” she said. “It is very unkind of me, but I hate having to say everything twice, once loudly and the second time in a shout. I believe Clive and I will definitely be attending the Smith garden party this afternoon that I have been dithering over. In fact, we are under some obligation to go. And you too, my dear. ”

“I think I should go to see Lady Sophia,” Harriet said.

Lady Forbes grimaced. “You put me to shame, Harriet,” she said. “It was that saintliness and that kindness to the elderly that Godfrey always adored in you and that made Clive and me come to love you when we had been prepared to dislike you intensely. There, I have never told you that have I?”

“Well,” Harriet said, “I was a penniless nobody. And I did marry Godfrey for the security he could offer me.”

“And made his last four years heaven on earth,” Lady Forbes said briskly, pushing back her chair and getting to her feet. “Are you coming to Bond Street with me this morning? I feel the urge to purchase a new bonnet though I need one about as much as I need a headache.”

“But there is a garden party this afternoon to wear a new bonnet for,” Harriet said with a smile. “No, I plan to spend the morning with Susan. Sometimes I feel guilty about spending so little time with her.”

Lady Forbes raised her eyes to the ceiling. “My dear,” she said, “many children are fortunate if they see their mothers for two minutes after breakfast and for one at bedtime.” She went off about her business while Harriet finished her breakfast.

Harriet looked down at Lady Sophia Davenport’s letter and smiled ruefully. It was rather difficult to be in company with her, especially if there were several people in the room and more than one conversation in progress. But then the lady could not help the fact that she had grown old and lost most of her hearing any more than Godfrey had been able to help having a weak heart and being unable to walk fast or dance or do a number of other things that his wife had had energy for. Age and physical infirmity did not make a person less human and did not excuse the impatience and even contempt with which they were so often treated. Harriet—and her husband—had always visited Lady Sophia more often than anyone else in Bath.

The house to which she had been invited was on St. James’s Square. Very grand. Lady Sophia was a duke’s daughter and a marquess’s widow, Harriet remembered. The sister-in-law must be the wife of the present duke or the sister of the marquess if her home was on St. James’s Square. It was Wednesday and Harriet’s afternoon was free. It was a good thing the letter had not come one day later. She would have had to send an excuse.

Tomorrow. Harriet went into a dream while her finger unconsciously traced a pattern on the letter. She knew she would go—again. There was no point in trying to persuade herself that she would think about it and come to a decision later. She longed for him. Three days seemed an eternity. It did not matter that she hated the lies she had to tell and felt that she was abusing the hospitality of Sir Clive and Lady Forbes. It did not matter that she felt unclean, unworthy of Mr. Hardinge or any of the other gentlemen who still crowded about her wherever she appeared in public. It did not even matter that she sometimes had the feeling she would contaminate Susan.

For the desires of the flesh were more powerful to her than conscience at the moment. And more powerful than pride. She knew what she was to him, and there was humiliation in the knowledge if she allowed herself to dwell on it. But she would not allow any such thing. He had spoken with her and Mr. Selway for a few minutes the evening before at a ball. His manner had been formal and correct, even haughty. His eyes, when they had rested on her for a moment, had been expressionless. But she remembered his saying that the four days before their last meeting had been endless. Tomorrow—oh, tomorrow.

Harriet gave herself a mental shake and got to her feet, folding and picking up her letters as she did so. Susan would be waiting for her and she would not deprive either of them of a single minute of the rest of the morning.

“Five o’clock in the afternoon,” the Duchess of Tenby yelled.

“Eh? What about it?” Lady Sophia Davenport asked, looking impatiently toward the windows of the salon in which they sat and the sunlight streaming through them.

The duchess set aside her embroidery with a sigh. It was quite impossible to try to concentrate on her stitches and converse with her sister-in-law at the same time. “It is the correct time to drive in the park, Sophie,” she said. “Any earlier and there will be no one there worth seeing. Don’t fret. Tenby will return in plenty of time to escort us there.”

“Dear Archibald,” Lady Sophia said loudly.

“Besides,” the duchess reminded her, “you are expecting the ladies from Bath for tea before then.”

“Eh?” Lady Sophia asked. But she comprehended the words before the duchess had to yell them once more. “From Bath? Ah, yes. Dear little Lady Wingham. Not one of your sneering, pert misses, Sadie. A very proper-behaved little girl. Too bad Wingham failed to wake up one morning. He was a mere boy.”

“You told me he was sixty,” the duchess yelled. “You show your age by calling him a boy, Sophie.”

Lady Sophia sighed. “A mere boy,” she said again, proving to her sister-in-law that she had not heard a word. “I don’t like that Forbes woman. She does not appreciate a good conversation. But what could I do? I had to invite her too.”

“Of course you did,” the duchess said, “since Lady Wingham is staying with her and you have an acquaintance with her and Sir Clive. I do believe they must have arrived. I must admit it will be pleasant to have company.” 

“Archibald will not forget?” Lady Sophia asked, anxiously as the duchess got to her feet.

“Of course he will not forget,” the duchess said firmly. “There is no more dutiful grandson—or nephew—than Tenby, Sophie.”

The butler entered the room at that moment to announce the arrival of Lady Wingham. She followed close behind him, a dainty, remarkably pretty girl with her pale green muslin dress and a flower-trimmed straw bonnet on her golden-blond hair. The duchess had distrusted her sister-in-law’s description of her as a girl. She had expected someone considerably older. Lady Wingham curtsied deeply and blushed. A very charming little girl, the duchess decided.

“Lady Wingham.” Lady Sophia’s voice boomed across the room. “I cannot get up, gel, unless you have half an hour to spare. Come and hug me.”

The duchess raised her eyebrows and looked at her sister-in-law in some surprise. But there she sat, arms outstretched, her face beaming, and the little creature tripped across the room on light feet, smiling as if she was feeling nothing but delight. She bent and allowed the old arms to come about her and even kissed the withered cheek.

“Lady Sophia,” she said, lifting her head so that the old lady could see her face, “how lovely to see you. A little piece of home has come and found me here.”

She did not speak loudly, the duchess noticed in some surprise, and yet Sophie appeared to hear her every word. She reached up to tap one of the girl’s cheeks. She herself had known Sophie from girlhood on and had always had a close friendship with her. Sophie had been a beauty and a high-spirited young woman. But the duchess knew that very few people could now remember what she had been like. Most people avoided her because of her deafness.

“Meet my sister-in-law, the duchess,” Lady Sophia boomed. “My dear little Lady Wingham, Sadie.”

Lady Wingham turned and curtsied deeply again. “Your grace,” she said. “I hope you do not mind that I have come alone. Lady Forbes sends her apologies, but she and Sir Clive had an obligation to attend Mrs. Smith’s garden party this afternoon.”

“Eh?” Lady Sophia said.

Lady Wingham turned back with a smile and repeated what she had said without any sign of impatience.

“Come here, child,” Lady Sophia said gruffly, “and sit on this pouf at my feet. How is that young daughter of yours, eh?”

“Sophie!” the duchess said, rather shocked. “Do take a more comfortable chair, Lady Wingham, I beg you. I shall have tea brought in without further delay.”

“If you will forgive me, your grace,” Lady Wingham said, “I will be happier sitting here. It is easier to converse with her ladyship when I sit close and she can see my lips.” 

Bless the child, the duchess thought, and noticed how Sophie took her hand and patted and held it, just as if she really were a child. And the girl turned her face upward, a face bright with affection, and told Sophie about her four-year-old daughter and their various excursions since coming to town. And then when Sophie asked, she told about the balls and parties she had attended and about the newest styles in dresses and gowns and bonnets. It was a treat, the duchess decided, feeling disloyal at the thought, to be able to rest her own vocal cords for a while and allow someone else to entertain Sophie. The girl spoke in a soft voice yet was forced to repeat almost nothing.

“There. You must come and see me again, my pet,” Lady Sophia said when half an hour had passed and tea had been drunk and the cakes eaten. “Frequently. You do my heart good.”

The duchess’s eyebrows rose again as the girl got to her feet and leaned over her sister-in-law to kiss her cheek once more. “It will be my pleasure,” she said.

But before she could turn to make her curtsy to the duchess and take her leave, the salon door opened abruptly to admit the duchess’s grandson.

“Ah, so this is where my favorite ladies are hiding,” he said, and then stopped abruptly when he saw that they had a visitor. His eyes fixed themselves on Lady Wingham for several silent, ill-mannered moments, the duchess noticed. But then she was a very pretty child and Tenby had ever had an eye for beauty. The child’s eyes had grown enormous and her cheeks were flooded with color, the duchess saw at a glance. How very ill-bred of her grandson so to embarrass her.

“I do beg your pardon, Grandmama,” he said, his voice stiff and haughty—just like his grandpapa’s. “I did not realize you and Aunt Sophie were entertaining. I suppose I should have asked Knowles.”

“Dear Archibald,” Lady Sophia boomed.

“Allow me to present my grandson, the Duke of Tenby, to you,” the duchess said, smiling at her visitor. “Lady Wingham, Tenby. Or perhaps you have met before?”

Her grandson bowed stiffly and Lady Wingham sank into a curtsy. “Ma’am?” he said. “I met Lady Wingham in Bath, Grandmama, at Freddie Sullivan’s wedding, and have made my bow to her on one or two occasions this spring.”

“Eh?” Lady Sophia said.

He repeated loudly and distinctly what he had said.

“Have you come to take us driving, Archibald?” his aunt asked.

“It was my intention, Aunt Sophie,” he yelled. “If you and Grandmama feel up to it, that is. The sun is quite warm and there is scarcely any breeze.”

“I do not blow away easily in the wind, lad,” Lady Sophia said with a rumble that her sister-in-law recognized as a laugh. “You shall come with us too, my pet.”

“I?” Lady Wingham flushed to the roots of her hair. “Oh, no, indeed, ma’am, I was about to take my leave. The carriage will be waiting for me. I—”

“We will not take no for an answer, will we, Sadie?” Lady Sophia said. “You shall sit on the seat opposite me, child, and tell me who everyone is. I can hear you far better than I can hear dear Archibald, for all that he shouts very loudly. And you are too young and too pretty not to ride in the park for all the young sparks to see. Can you give me one good reason why you should not come?”

“I must go home to my d—” The girl bit her lip. “I really should go home, ma’am.”

Sophie had embarrassed her, poor child. “If you have no pressing reason to return home, you really must favor us with your company, Lady Wingham,” the duchess said graciously. “It will please Sophie so. And me too. Do say yes, dear. Tenby shall have your carriage sent home and we shall let you down at Sir Clive Forbes’s door when we are on the way home.”

The girl did not want to accept, the duchess could tell. Doubtless she felt somewhat beyond her depth. The duchess smiled kindly at her.

“Thank you, your grace,” she said quietly.

It would be amusing, the duchess thought, to have a pretty little girl with them when they drove in the park. And Sophie would indeed be pleased. But it was not something that should be encouraged again. The girl was altogether too pretty and charming. Tenby appeared to have been struck dumb by her beauty, though he claimed already to be acquainted with her. And she, of course, was far from indifferent to him. She had not stopped blushing since his entry into the room. It was not uncommon for women to blush in Tenby’s presence, of course. He had his looks all from his mother’s side of the family, the dear boy, his father and his grandfather not having been renowned for handsome features.

It would not do, the duchess decided. Lady Wingham was a charming girl but hardly an eligible connection for Tenby. Now that he seemed to have fixed his interest on Lady Phyllis Reeder—eminently eligible—he must not be distracted. Not that he was likely to be turned entirely from his purpose. He had been a good and dutiful boy ever since his grandfather had taken him in hand. Her husband had been strict with the boy and had turned him into an obedient grandson. He would not disgrace the Vinney name or his ducal title either.

“We will sit here while you have the barouche brought around, then, Tenby,” she said, seating herself and motioning Lady Wingham back to her pouf. He bowed and left the room without another word.

He handed her into the barouche after his grandmother and his aunt—she kept her eyes lowered and did not grip his hand at all—and then climbed in after her. He was forced to sit beside her since his aunt had asked her to sit opposite so that she could hear her. His aunt apparently listened to her lips since Harriet did not speak above her usual soft volume. And his grandmother had settled herself beside Aunt Sophie, facing the horses. His sleeve brushed Harriet’s arm as he seated himself, and both of them edged slightly to the outsides of the seat.

To say he was furious was to understate the case quite drastically. If he just had her alone, he was convinced that he would do what he had never done to any woman and had never thought to do. He would bend her over his knee and wallop her until she cried for mercy. Until she could not sit down. Perhaps that was how he would begin proceedings tomorrow afternoon, be thought grimly.

How dared she! How dared she set foot beneath his roof? And wangle an introduction to his grandmother, using what was doubtless a fleeting acquaintance with his aunt in Bath as an excuse. When he had told her that his grandmother and his aunt were coming to town, she must have realized immediately who the aunt was. Obviously she had her spies who had informed her that they had arrived the afternoon before, and had wasted no time at all in coming to pay her respects. And she had used her sweet charm to such effect that she had drawn this invitation.

Good Lord. His hands felt clammy with sweat for a moment. His mistress had arrived at his own home and been presented to his grandmother, the Duchess of Tenby, and his aunt, the Dowager Marchioness of Davenport. And now he was seated beside her and opposite them for a drive in the park. For all the world to see.

Tomorrow she would explain herself. And if she was not quick about it, he would encourage her with the flat of his hand. He just wished he really could. He wished he could bring himself to use violence on her. She had asked for it.

She was leaning forward in her seat, pointing out to his aunt various landmarks on their way to the park, landmarks that Aunt Sophie claimed to have forgotten. His grandmother was looking steadily at him. He smiled at her and launched into a discussion of the weather before he remembered that Harriet beside him would hear and perhaps be amused.

Let her show amusement at her peril. Good Lord! He had fleeting and graphic memories of Monday afternoon and smiled harder and talked more determinedly.

Harriet was wonderful with his aunt. He admitted that grudgingly to himself over the next hour. She talked to her constantly, relieving him and his grandmother of the rather tedious necessity of yelling out everything they said and often having to repeat themselves even then. And she somehow succeeded in both looking and sounding as if it were no trouble at all, as if she actually enjoyed talking with the old girl.

And of course she looked quite remarkably pretty and made his aunt’s references to her as a child and a pet seem not as nonsensical as they should have seemed considering the fact that she must be close to thirty years of age.

They certainly did not lack for attention in the park. Several older people recognized his grandmother and drew close to pay their respects and be presented to his aunt. A few people who were familiar with Bath society came to greet her. Some of his acquaintances touched their hats to his relatives and a few drew near to chat. And of course Harriet attracted her usual court. It seemed to be growing with time. He wondered which one of them she would marry when the Season was over. It seemed reasonable to believe that she would not wait longer. He knew from personal experience that she was a passionate woman who must feel the need of a man. She would not have him to serve that need beyond July. He glanced self-consciously at his grandmother just as if she might have read his thoughts, but she was too busy looking about her.

They must present a strange picture, he reflected, intercepting more than a few curious glances from the members of the ton who were riding or walking in the park. His grandmother, his aunt, and himself—with Lady Wingham. But he could console himself that the glances could be no more than curious. He had avoided being alone with Harriet for even a single minute in public since she had become his mistress. It was bad enough that Bruce seemed to have guessed. He certainly did not want any other speculation along those lines. The tiniest whisper of gossip had a nasty habit of becoming a great thundering in no time at all—especially in London during the Season.

But today he did not have to worry. Even the most evil mind would not dream that he could possibly have the audacity to drive his mistress with his grandmother and his aunt. His fury returned.

“I knew the young bucks would be swarming all over you, my pet,” his aunt said with embarrassing loudness. “Do you have one of them singled out, eh?”

The duke and duchess exchanged glances.

“I do not,” Harriet said with perfect amiability, though a glance in her direction revealed to him the expected blush—which unexpectedly had the usual effect on his stomach. “I loved Godfrey, ma’am, as you know. I am quite content to enjoy every moment of the Season as it arrives.”

“Yes, you were good to him, child,” his aunt said. “But he was too old for you. You need someone more sprightly. Someone who does not have a weak heart. A man with a weak heart cannot give a gel what she needs and wants. Can he, Archibald? You would know, I wager. If I were only fifty years younger and you were not my nephew...” She rumbled, a sound the duke was beginning to recognize as a laugh.

“Sophie!” His grandmother was quite outraged. ‘‘You have quite put poor Lady Wingham to the blush. Not to mention Tenby and myself.”

“Eh?” his aunt said, but she appeared to have heard. She rumbled again. “I was ever outspoken, Sadie. Many is the young buck I put to the blush in my time, my dear Lady Wingham.”

“If you were fifty years younger, Aunt Sophie,” the duke said, desperate to release them all from the embarrassment of the moment, “I should set my glass to my eye, favor you with my most haughty stare, and deliver a blistering set-down. After which I would doubtless flirt quite outrageously with you.”

The rambling occupied all of the next thirty seconds.

“Saucy boy!” his aunt said.

The duke gave his coachman the signal to leave the park and take the direction to Sir Clive Forbes’s home.

“This has been very pleasant, Lady Wingham,” his grandmother said with all the grandeur she had acquired in her many years as a duchess. “I do thank you for postponing your return home in order to accompany us on our drive.”

“It has been my pleasure, your grace,” Harriet said.

“Eh?” Lady Sophia demanded.

The duchess repeated what she had said.

“You will come to see me again, my pet,” Lady Sophia said to Harriet. “I missed you sorely after you left Bath. You bring sunshine into my life.”

Harriet smiled at her.

The duke jumped down from the barouche when it stopped outside Sir Clive’s door and handed her down to the pavement. He bowed over her hand and raised it to his lips. His aunt was bellowing something at his grandmother, something about Harriet being a very prettily behaved gel.

“Doubtless,” he said very quietly, and was almost distracted when her eyelashes came sweeping up and her green eyes looked directly into his, “you will have an explanation for this tomorrow, ma’am.”

Her eyes widened slightly but she said nothing. She turned and hurried through the door that a servant was already holding open for her.

His aunt appeared to fall into a doze. His grandmother regarded him steadily for a while in silence.

“When will I meet Lord Barthorpe and his wife and Lady Phyllis?” she asked. “We will have them to tea, Tenby?”

“Will that not be rather pointed?” he asked. “Perhaps a dinner would be better, Grandmama, and a larger number of guests.”

“You do not wish it to be pointed?” she asked. “You have an objection to the girl?”

“None,” he said. “She appears to have all the qualities I could look for in a duchess. She is even pretty.”

“Yet you have not declared yourself,” she said.

“Give me time, Grandmama.” He smiled at her. “I have until September before I am in danger of breaking my promise. I will not break it.”

She was quiet for a while, but he could feel her eyes on him. “Tenby,” she said at last, “you will not look lower. You will remember who you are and what you owe your position. And the bloodlines you owe your heir.”

The damned woman, he thought irreverently. She always saw far more than he was ever aware of revealing. “I have never thought of looking lower, Grandmama,” he lied, “and never will dream of doing so. I know too what I owe you and my memories of Grandpapa. And Mother too.”

She looked at him a little longer and then nodded, satisfied.