Chapter 10
Harriet stared out her window, the image blurry from a hard rain. Even though only a skeletal staff remained at the house, she knew it would draw suspicion if she ventured out in such a storm without a good reason. The under butler, who had remained behind, had taken his responsibilities more seriously than Harriet had thought he would, and she found herself reporting her whereabouts to him on nearly a daily basis.
“Yes, Mr. Barkley, I thought I’d take a stroll in the cold, icy rain. Good for the constitution, you know.” No, that would never do.
Half wishing Augustus would send a carriage, she looked down the road and was surprised to see a black conveyance heading up their drive. A mixture of panic and joy ran through her as she thought perhaps Lord Berkley had sent a carriage for her. She prayed not—for how on earth could she explain such a thing?–but she also found herself praying it was his carriage. What could she possibly say to Mr. Barkley should he take note of the crest on the vehicle? Other than their meeting at the disastrous luncheon, she wasn’t even supposed to know the earl, never mind having him send a carriage for her.
The carriage went to the front of the house and out of her view, so she ran to her mother’s parlor, which overlooked the drive. By the time she got there, though, whoever was in the carriage had already departed, for she got a quick glimpse of some person just as he or she was going up the shallow steps. Harriet hurried back to her room and waited, wringing her hands and pacing, for one of the servants to come fetch her. In a matter of minutes, Mr. Barkley was tapping on her door.
“The seamstress, Miss Anderson.”
Seamstress? Furrowing her brow, she said hesitantly, “I was not expecting the seamstress today.” Or any day. But she remained cool, thinking that perhaps Lord Berkley had sent someone as a ruse, who would sweep her away to Costille House and into his arms. “I’ll be down directly.”
Mr. Barkley gave a quick bow, then disappeared, leaving Harriet behind, wondering who was actually visiting her. She quickly looked in the mirror and grimaced. There was no hope for her, not with Jeanine away in London with her sister. She donned her shoes and hurried down to where Mr. Barkley had put the “seamstress,” only to find the room filled with four women she had never seen before in her life, bustling about as if they owned the place.
The oldest of the women stepped forward. She was tiny, coming up only as far as Harriet’s chin, and was wearing a smart suit of hunter green velvet with black trim. “My name is Mrs. Statler, Miss Anderson, and I am here to measure you for your ball gown.”
Harriet looked from her to the other three women, who were busy setting out fabrics and all the accoutrements needed for creating a gown, flitting back and forth from two large trunks to the settee where they were placing everything.
“I am sorry, Mrs. Statler, but I believe there has been a misunderstanding. I have not sent for a seamstress. Perhaps you are looking for a Miss Clara Anderson, my sister?”
Mrs. Statler stepped closer, went on her tip-toes, and whispered, “Lord Berkley sent me, miss. He was quite adamant that I should not leave until you were dressed in the finest gown in all of England. ‘A gown fit for a princess,’ he said.”
Wearing her hair in a simple bun and her worst gown—she hadn’t expected to be seen by anyone but servants this day—Harriet did not feel very princess-like, and it was clear from the way Mrs. Statler’s eyes swept over her form that she was not very impressed with her either. “I am sorry to waste your time, Mrs. Statler, but I cannot possibly accept this…gift from Lord Berkley. I pray you will kindly explain to him that…” And that’s when one of the seamstress’s helpers came forward with the most beautiful satin material Harriet had ever seen in her life. She couldn’t help but reach out and touch it, and nearly moaned aloud at how luxurious the fabric felt beneath her hand. It was as beautiful as it was expensive, Harriet suspected, and it was the color of St. Ives Bay in July. The girl held the material up by her face, and Mrs. Statler nodded in appreciation.
“Perfect,” she pronounced. “His lordship himself picked out the color. He was quite insistent, you see, even though I tried to convince him that it might not be suitable. Not everyone can successfully wear this color blue. But I see he was correct. It will be extraordinary on you.”
Harriet bit her lip, torn between propriety and avarice. And as it seemed to go of late, she erred on the side of avarice and said a little prayer for her soul.
Mrs. Statler smiled, sensing she had a customer after all. Stepping back, she looked at Harriet more thoroughly, until Harriet felt like the woman could see right through her dress to the woman beneath. She tsked a few times, shaking her head—rather demoralizing, that—then clapped her hands and demanded some book from one of her assistants. Flipping through the pages quickly, she stopped abruptly and pointed to a picture. “Voilà,” she said.
Harriet leaned over to look at the fashion plate and her panic grew. The dress was magnificent and she feared she would look silly in such a beautiful piece, a plain girl desperate to look beautiful. Perhaps most enticing of all, it was a modern dress, not a cast-off from two or three years earlier. “It’s lovely, but I don’t think—”
“Good. Do not think, miss. Leave this up to me. Lord Berkley hired me for a reason. I am the best dressmaker in England. I shall make you look like a princess. Claudette will dress your hair the night of the ball,” she said, nodding to a young girl who dipped a quick curtsy. “She doesn’t speak much English but what she can do with hair, c’est manifique. And that is the extent of my French.” She let out a laugh. “Lord Berkley had very specific instructions on your hair as well, and I can see that his lordship has excellent taste.”
Harriet couldn’t help but smile. While all this was a bit overwhelming, it was rather exciting to think that Lord Berkley had planned all this, had thought enough of her to realize she likely did not own a gown that would be appropriate for such an event. The temptation was terrible. It was so wrong to accept such an intimate and expensive gift from a man, and if anyone found out where the dress had come from, her reputation would be ruined.
As if reading her mind, Mrs. Statler said, “We will be exceedingly discreet, Miss Anderson. It is in our best interest.”
Harriet put her cool hands on her flushed cheeks, mortified that Mrs. Statler might know the nature of her relationship with the earl. “I should not,” Harriet said.
“Lord Berkley explained all about your parents’ dilemma, that they are only able to afford to give one daughter a season. He is all that is kindness to take your family under his wing.”
“Oh.” Relief flooded her. “Yes, he is. Very kind.”
“So you will allow us to make you look like a princess?”
The girl with the material stepped forward again, and Harriet lost her battle with her morals. “I will,” she said.
Two days later, Harriet stood in front of a full-length mirror and stared at a stranger. Behind her, the seamstress’s claps mingled with the sound of the rain hitting the windows. As if Lord Berkley had somehow controlled the weather, it had rained each day, allowing Mrs. Statler and her assistants time to fit and sew the gown. They would depart each evening to stay at a nearby inn, and return the next day, cheerful despite the cold rain.
“Rain is better than snow,” Mrs. Statler would say each time she stepped through the threshold, closing her black umbrella with a sharp snap.
Harriet had been skeptical that she would do the gown justice, but when it was finally on her, when the last stitch had been sewn and the last button buttoned, Harriet could only stare. Her eyes filled with tears and she looked at Mrs. Statler, who beamed as if she had not only created the dress but the girl inside it as well. And perhaps she had. Perhaps Mrs. Statler had somehow created from nothing Princess Catalina.
“It’s beautiful,” Harriet breathed, staring in wonder at the hundreds of seed pearls that had been sewn into the bodice and down the skirt, an intricate design of swirls that seemed impossible to have accomplished in the span of three days. It fit her beautifully, accenting her slim frame and making it appear as if her bosom was far larger than it was—all without exposing too much. The rich blue opened to a cream underskirt with more seed pearls. The gown was heavy and rich and Harriet loved it. “You are a magician,” Harriet said, laughing.
“I knew there was a lovely girl beneath that hideous dress you were wearing,” Mrs. Statler said. “My work here is fini. Ah, another French word. Claudette will return in a week’s time to do your hair up nicely.” She turned to Claudette. “You will work with her curls, Claudette. No iron, oui?”
“No iron, madame,” Claudette said, taking one of Harriet’s curls and letting it spring back into place.
As quickly as they had come, Mrs. Statler and her entourage left, and Harriet felt a small twinge. It had been lovely having them all in her home for three days. They had become rather friendly in that time, sharing meals and stories and dreams. For the briefest of moments, Harriet wondered if she could go with them, back to London, and work in their shop. How wonderful to live independently, traveling throughout England and making women look lovely. The problem, Harriet realized fairly quickly, was that she could hardly darn a sock, never mind create the intricate designs these women had. She simply had no patience for sewing, which likely meant making a living as a seamstress was not a practical idea.
She closed the door and laughed at her folly. In no time at all, she would have ten thousand pounds in her accounts and would start looking for her little cottage.
Alone.
“You are such a spoiled ninny,” she said aloud. Instead of dreading saying good-bye to Lord Berkley, she should instead enjoy the present. Tomorrow would be sunny, she just knew it, and she would run all the way to Costille House and when they were alone she would throw herself into his arms and he would lift her and kiss her until she grew tired of being kissed.
* * * *
He missed her, damn it. Even though he knew Mrs. Statler was making good use of the rain—he knew because he’d had supper with her last evening—he’d barely stopped himself from readying the carriage and visiting her. That first day, he’d actually donned his coat and gloves before realizing the implications of showing up on her doorstep. What possible excuse could he make for a visit? And when informed that the Andersons were in London, what could he say? “I’ve actually come to kiss the youngest Miss Anderson silly. And did you know that we were scheduled to make passionate love all afternoon and the bloody rain ruined my plans?”
News of his luncheon at the Andersons’ seemed to have to reached every resident of St. Ives, no doubt fueled by those who had come up to him while he was waiting for Henderson in the pub. For months, few people dared to interrupt his solitude, and he’d thought it was because of lingering doubt about how his wife had died. One visit to a local family had apparently opened the floodgates.
That morning, his quiet morning tea at Teague’s Tea Shop had been interrupted at least three times by someone politely inquiring whether he’d had a pleasant time at the Andersons’. Neither cold stares nor intense concentration on his morning newspaper were enough to deter the townsfolk from saying a drawn out good morning. And, as he’d dreaded, one older woman had hinted that his sole reason for the visit was to show his interest in one particular Miss Anderson. Just to be contrary, he’d said, “You mean Miss Harriet Anderson?” It bothered him quite a lot that the woman had looked at him oddly, as if the idea of him going to see Harriet was absurd.
“Not our Harriet. Clara, the pretty one.”
“I find them both quite pretty,” he’d said blandly. “I actually cannot tell them apart.”
He could, though. He could tell them apart if he were blindfolded. In fact, the idea of exploring Harriet whilst blindfolded was a rather nice thought.
At any rate, showing up at their door when the family was not in was impossible. So Augustus had to settle for speaking with someone who had seen her that day, which explained his ready acceptance of a dinner invitation by Mrs. Statler. He was pleased to find out that though Harriet had initially rejected the idea of the ball gown, she’d quickly come around.
“You are all that is kind to help that young lady,” Mrs. Statler said. “I cannot imagine a family high-tailing it off to London with only one marriageable daughter and leaving the other behind. And in that dress.” She shook her head sadly. “To be perfectly honest with you, my lord, it does not appear from what I saw of the house that the Andersons are as strapped as you believe.”
“Oh?”
“They live in opulence, my lord.” She shook her head again and tsked. “I’ve seen such cases, as you might imagine. The favored child. Why, a certain duchess I shall not name—oh, very well, the Duchess of Belmont—so favored her younger daughter that the older one became quite melancholy and took to her bed. Eventually, she died, just withered away. A terrible thing, to be certain. Do you think that is what is happening here?”
“It is possible, though I do not believe it will come to that,” he’d said.
“Goodness no,” Mrs. Statler said, putting a hand over her heart.
“The important thing is that she be presentable for the ball. I should hate for anyone to think less of her simply because she was not as well-adorned as her sister.”
Mrs. Statler sighed, obviously impressed with his generosity and putting him firmly in the category of hero, and Augustus smiled and wondered what the fine Mrs. Statler would say if she knew shy Miss Anderson was his lover. That bit of news would toss him from the pedestal she’d happily put him on. “I’ll make Miss Anderson the most beautiful dress at the ball,” she said. “The blue satin you chose is perfect and will look exquisite. She’s such a delightful girl, I’m more than happy to put in the extra hours to have the dress ready in time, my lord.”
She should be quite happy, for he had paid an exorbitant amount of money for the gown. Not that he cared, but if he was going to spend the money for expedited service, he wanted it done by his deadline. The ball was in one week and his grandmother would arrive at Costille House in just four days, the rest of the guests soon after. That left only four days for Harriet and him to be together. As one of the local men burst into the inn shaking rain from his coat and hat, Augustus prayed for the sun to shine each day.
It wasn’t only that he missed her, the work at Costille House was slowing without her there to give directions. Though it was continuing as much as possible, there were a few things that would have to wait until Harriet was able to return. He’d toured the house with Mr. Billings and was relieved to see that most of the major construction was completed. They were simply waiting for Harriet to give instructions to the men on the small details. Costille House, not long ago in complete ruin, was now nearly back to her original state. He should have been elated, but all he could think of was ending his affair with Harriet. It could not continue, not with her parents soon returning.
And he selecting a bride.
It had been foolish to begin this affair thinking that when the renovation was finished, he would be miraculously done with her. He had a terrible feeling he would never be done with her, even though he told himself at least ten times each day that he must be done with her. It was what they’d agreed to. At the time, lust had fogged his thinking. Hell, it still fogged his thinking.
With other women, the minute he closed the door on their lovely derrières, they were out of his mind—until he had a particular need to see them again. With Harriet, it was entirely different. Certainly, he could hardly wait to bed her again. God, just thinking of sinking his flesh into her was enough to make him hard. Devil take it, she was on his mind all the time. And it wasn’t only visions of her naked that plagued him, but her laugh, her smile, the way she rolled her lovely eyes when he told her an awful joke. The way she bit her full lower lip when she was deep in concentration. He didn’t just miss her body, he missed her. And that, more than anything, was damned terrifying.
He’d never found himself in such a predicament before in his life. He caught himself thinking things he’d never thought before—whether she liked a particular flower or if she disliked fried liver as much as he did. On that third day when the rain came down and he knew she would not be coming to Costille House, he went to the cottage by himself and lay on the bed simply to breathe in her soft scent which lingered on the pillow. He knew he was being pathetic but he simply couldn’t stop himself. He missed her to the point of a physical ache. Perhaps he was coming down with some illness, one that made him completely addlepated.
What in hell was wrong with him? Perhaps that day in the mist when her hair came to life, she had bewitched him.
* * * *
Harriet entered her room that night to the sound of rain stinging her window. Frowning, she walked over and looked out, seeing nothing but the blurred outline of the distant trees. If it rained again tomorrow, she swore she would don her Mack and boots and walk to Costille House no matter what. Hugging herself, she wondered how it would be when she no longer had Augustus to look forward to. In such a short space of time, he’d become vital to her. She missed his scent, the deep timbre of his voice, the way he smiled crookedly when she said something that amused him. She missed his velvet skin, his hard muscles, the way his warm flesh felt against hers, the hard slabs of muscles on his chest and stomach.
She missed everything about him, as a woman deeply in love would, she supposed. This separation only made her realize all the more how much she loved him. And it had only been three days! Just thinking of saying good-bye, of never holding him again, of never sharing a quiet time in bed together, made her eyes burn with unshed tears.
How would she ever do it?
When she thought back on the other times she’d been convinced she was in love, she seemed like a silly girl who didn’t know the first thing about true love. If she had known how difficult it would be to protect her heart, she wasn’t certain she would have entered into this affair.
“Would I have?” she whispered, laying her palm against the cold window pane.
She thought about Alfred Tennyson’s poem In Memoriam A.H.H., part of a collection of poems Alice had given to her for her twenty-first birthday. She’d thought the poem rather boring and tedious, until she’d got to that one line that made her heart ache.
I hold it true, whate’er befall;
I feel it, when I sorrow most;
’Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.
At the time, she’d thought of Henderson when she’d read those heartbreaking lines. Now, she knew what real love was and those words were particularly poignant. She hated those words, because she did not believe in them. Already it hurt and she could not imagine how it would feel to stand in front of him, look into his dark blue eyes, and tell him good-bye.
But she must, because there really was no other way for them.
She turned away from the window and stared at her bed, picturing it in her little cottage, and tried to gather the joy that such a thought would have produced not one month earlier. What had been exciting now seemed interminably lonely. Taking a deep breath, she shook her head in an effort to rid herself of the self-pity that was threatening to ruin her evening.
“Do not dwell,” she said, walking with determination to her bed and pulling down the covers with a flourish. After blowing out her bedside lamp, she lay in bed listening to the sound of the rain hitting her window. Normally, it was a soothing sound, but this evening it was a small torture. “Dear Lord, I know I am committing a terrible sin by fornicating, and you have no business granting me a wish, but I would dearly love to wake up and see the sun shining. If you don’t mind. I’m sure I’m not the only person in Cornwall who would like the see the sun, so perhaps you can grant someone else’s wish.”
Harriet giggled at her foolishness, then turned her back to the window and put a pillow over her head to muffle the sound of the rain.
The next morning, the first thing Harriet became aware of was the trill of a cirl bunting in the garden below. And then, she opened her eyes and squinted against the sun, the wonderful, bright sun.
“Hooray!” Sitting up, she threw off the blankets and rushed to the window to see a lovely world, glittering from the remnants of last night’s rain. Her window faced the south, and looking to the east she could see the sun just above a dark line of clouds, the foul weather that had kept her inside for days. “Good riddance,” she said, then stuck out her tongue, before dancing away from the window.
In a matter of minutes, she had donned one of her work dresses, pausing only for a moment to consider wearing something prettier. Then, realizing she had lost four days of work, she put the simple gray dress on begrudgingly. Chances were, she would spend a long day working…and other things. Grinning, Harriet looked in the mirror and hardly recognized the girl looking back at her. This Harriet was impossibly happy, her eyes sparkling with excitement, cheeks flushed (she’d been thinking about what she and Augustus would likely be doing later that day), and hair a mass of curls surrounding her face. Pulling two strands from each side of her head back and securing them with a clasp, she managed to tame her curls a bit while leaving her hair down as Augustus had so many times told her he preferred. She found that she preferred it this way as well.
She headed down to the breakfast room only to find nothing had yet been prepared. Cook could hardly be blamed; for the last four days Harriet hadn’t managed to drag herself down the stairs until after ten in the morning. A quick look at a wall clock told her it was just past six o’clock. Instead of waiting, Harriet hurried down to the kitchen where she found the few remaining servants who hadn’t gone to London sitting at the table eating their own breakfast.
When she entered, they scrambled to stand but Harriet waved them down. “I just want something quick to eat,” she said, going to a counter where a plateful of scones sat. She grabbed one, then hastily slathered on a thick layer of strawberry jam. After taking a napkin, she walked out of the kitchen, calling, “It’s such a lovely day, I think I’ll spend most of it outdoors. I’ll see you this evening. No need to prepare lunch for me.”
Though the sun shone, the breeze was brisk and the temperature cool, so she donned her warm wool coat and a scarf for her head, and headed out the door, her heart singing. In a matter of minutes, she would be at Costille House and she would see him. How she would be able to school her features or stop herself from running into his arms, she did not know, but it was still imperative that the workmen did not suspect she and Augustus had been carrying on a torrid affair right beneath their noses.
Harriet couldn’t say why, but it was rather fun to be a bit naughty at last. Everyone she knew would be terribly shocked if they discovered what she’d been up to of late, how shamefully she’d been behaving. For some reason, Harriet could hardly bring herself to care. Perhaps she’d spent so many years being good, doing what was expected, living a completely boring existence, that this bit of rebellion had just been waiting to burst out of her. Then again, there were many girls who were quite content never doing anything unexpected. She found that, instead of being ashamed of her behavior, she was reveling in it.
And that was a terrible, wonderful thing she realized. She had become a fast woman and it was exciting—as long as no one found out.
By the time she headed down the long, tree-lined drive that led to Costille House, her boots were quite wet and muddy from all the rain. The trees obscured the house from sight, but Harriet could hear hammers banging, the men already hard at work, and she hurried her steps. Work usually did not begin until eight o’clock; Mr. Billings must feel a bit behind if they were starting so early.
As she approached, she could see several men in the courtyard installing the iron brackets that held the torches. Though the gas lamps were not original to the castle, Harriet had hated to see them go. She didn’t agree with all the changes the earl insisted on; removing the gas lamps and fixtures throughout the house was one of them. What harm did a few gas lamps make? Still, Harriet had to admit that tearing out all the modern renovations had been the right thing to do. It was almost as if the house were letting out a great sigh of relief to be restored back to its previous state.
Pushing open the heavy front door, she stepped into the house to find a beehive of activity. At first, the men didn’t notice her enter, but when they did, she was inundated with questions, seemingly called out from every direction. Mr. Billings shouted for them to quiet, then approached her, a grim look on his face.
“Lady Porter arrives tomorrow, Miss Anderson, and there is still much to do. I don’t know why Lord Berkley did not send a carriage for you these last few days, for we are considerably behind now.”
“I’m certain we will finish on time, Mr. Billings,” Harriet said with confidence she did not really feel. “Let’s make certain the public rooms are completed before moving on to the lesser rooms which likely will not be seen by the guests. Where do you need my help?”
“If you could go down to the barn and label the items that are left, the men can bring them to the ’ouse and place them in their proper places. I’ve got some tags for you I found at Chelsea’s yesterday that should work nicely.” Mr. Billings pulled a sack from his jacket pocket; inside were paper tags with bits of string attached.
“These are lovely, Mr. Billings. Do you have a pencil?” He grabbed the pencil that always rested behind his ear and handed it over with a grin. Harriet dropped the pencil inside the sack and looked about.
“Is there anything else, Miss Anderson?”
“No. Yes.” She took a small breath. “Is Lord Berkley about?”
Mr. Billings’ grin faded. “Haven’t seen his lordship yet this morning.”
“Please tell him I am here in case he needs to discuss something with me,” Harriet said. “I will look for you when I return so you can send the men to the barn.” It seemed for a moment that Mr. Billings was about to say more, but he tipped his cap and Harriet went on her way.
As she walked to the barn, Harriet hummed softly, a small smile on her face. It was a glorious day, a small bit of smoky fog hovering just above the grass, the sun shining through it creating an enchanting world where everything was muted and lovely. The birds seemed as happy to see the end of the rain as she was; their birdsong seemed unusually loud and cheerful. Or perhaps everything seems more beautiful when you are in love, she thought. At that moment, it didn’t matter that it would end, that they would say good-bye; she wanted to embrace this feeling of wonder and pure happiness and never wanted to forget what it felt like. Maybe it was better to have loved and lost after all, she mused.
Even sliding open the barn door made her smile, for it reminded her of that day when she and Augustus had gone to the barn to see his lions, the day when he’d wondered out loud what she would do if he kissed her. The pile that had once dominated the barn was now greatly diminished and all objects were carefully laid out and easy to identify. Taking out the pencil and her first tag, Harriet headed for a large urn that had once stood just outside Augustus’s study. She drew a crude picture of where it went with the words “outside Lord Berkley’s study,” then placed the tag propped up against the urn.
Harriet became absorbed in her work, moving from one object to the next, and so was unaware of time passing.
“Catalina.”
Harriet had been in the process of tying a tag on a large shield when she heard his voice behind her. She smiled, then attempted to school her features so he wouldn’t know just how very happy she was to hear his voice. She needn’t have bothered, for as soon as she turned, he swept her up into his arms and spun her about, laughing.
“God, I’ve missed you,” he said, then kissed her as only a man who truly misses a woman can. “Say you’ve missed me or my heart will break.”
Laughing, Harriet said, “It’s only been four days.” God, I’ve forgotten how handsome he is, she thought.
“A lifetime,” he said with a growl, then pretended to gnaw on her throat like some starving wolf, making Harriet dissolve into laughter. She wrapped her arms around his neck, loving the feel of him, his familiar warmth and solid strength against her.
“I’ve been here for hours,” she said, pretending to pout. “Where have you been?”
“No one told me you were here until I mentioned your absence to Mr. Billings. I got the idea that he didn’t want to tell me you were here, so I beat it out of him.”
“Beat him, did you. Poor Mr. Billings,” Harriet said, teasing him. “He’s only trying to protect me from a lecherous old earl.”
Augustus let out a laugh, a purely joyful sound. “I beg your pardon, Miss Anderson, but I am not old.”
Raising one eyebrow, Harriet said, “But you are a letch?”
“Absolutely,” he said seriously. “Especially when it comes to you. I was mad with missing you.” This time when he kissed her, it was long and slow and more wonderful than Harriet could have imagined. With a low groan, he deepened his kiss, and Harriet pressed her center against his hard manhood, not caring how shameless she was acting. It had been days and days since they’d been able to make love, and she suddenly felt as if her entire body was on fire for him. Losing all sense of propriety, Harriet whispered, “I want you. Now, please.”
He grinned down at her, his eyes dark with desire; then he grabbed her wrist and headed for the door. Harriet thought he was bringing her to the cottage, but instead, he pulled the door closed and pressed her against the wood. “I have thought of nothing but this for days,” he said, then kneeled before her.
Harriet let out a small sound of dismay as he lifted her skirts and dove beneath, chuckling at his own behavior. Before she knew what he was about, she felt him open her drawers and then, to her delighted shock, he kissed her at the apex of her thighs in the same manner he kissed her mouth. She felt his hands go around her buttocks and pull her close, and he let out a low humming sound of pure satisfaction that sent a wave of desire through her.
It was the strangest feeling, to have him there between her legs, to not see him but only feel what he was doing. And what he was doing could only be described as blissful. This was what he had thought about for days? Harriet began panting as the sensations grew, as her knees became weaker and weaker. He held her up with his hands as he made love to her with his tongue, driving her over the edge in only a matter of minutes. She came, her hips moving almost violently, but he held her against him as she pulsed her release.
When she was done, she sagged against the door, and he stood, looking like a man who was quite pleased with himself. “Worth the wait,” he said, then kissed her. In one fluid movement, he picked her up. “Wrap your legs around me,” he said, his voice low and strained. Harriet did as he asked, realizing what he intended, and feeling yet another thrill run through her entire body. He pushed up her skirts with one hand as the other held her easily in place and then entered her in one fluid, glorious, movement.
“Oh, God, Catalina, I knew it would feel like this,” he said, then moved against her, his face strained, his arms shaking. He thrust into her, again and again, holding her up, one arm protecting her from the hard door behind her, his face buried in the crook of her neck. She could feel his hot breath on her shoulder, feel his muscles bunch and contract with every thrust, feel the beginnings of another climax.
“Oh,” she said, when she realized it might happen again. She began moving against him in an almost desperate attempt to reach the pinnacle once more.
“Yes, my love,” he said, and she couldn’t help but smile at his gentle encouragement, as if she had anything to do with what was happening to her. And then she realized, she did. If she moved a certain way, if she pulled her legs tighter against him, the pleasure grew immeasurably.
“Oh,” she said again, this time long and drawn out, an involuntary sound.
He drove into her and brought her again to heaven. He groaned, pushed one final time, his breath harsh and heavy against her shoulder; then he collapsed to the ground, bringing her on top of him, laughing as he went.
* * * *
Augustus had never felt such pure happiness in his life. This girl, this laughing, wonderful girl who seemed to enjoy their lovemaking as much as he, who was somehow innocent and a siren all at once, was becoming far too important to him. He would think about that later. For now, he simply wanted to feel her against him, listen to her soft breathing. As uncomfortable as the hard wood floor was beneath him, he thought he could stay this way forever, with her lying atop him, a warm ragdoll completely spent.
“I very nearly went to get you,” he said. “But I could not think up a reason to drag you from your home in a rain storm. Mrs. Statler reported you made good use of the time away.”
She lifted herself up and propped her chin with both hands, resting her upper arms against his chest. “The dress is lovely. Thank you. I very nearly told Mrs. Statler to go away. It’s terribly improper of me to accept such a gift. It smacks quite a bit of what a gentleman would do for his mistress.”
“I couldn’t bear for you to wear that yellow gown again.”
“Neither could I, which was why when I saw the blue material, I agreed. Terribly shameful of me.”
“I adore shameful women,” he said, pulling her down for a quick kiss.
“Are you uncomfortable?”
“Severely.”
She laughed, a sound that did strange things to his heart. Then she rolled off him and deftly stood up before offering her hand as if to assist him. Giving her hand a skeptical look, he sat up and stood without her assistance. “How old do you think I am?”
She pretended to think. “Considerably older than I,” she said finally, then burst out laughing, unable to keep a straight face.
He grinned, realizing how much he was going to miss her teasing, the way her eyes crinkled when she laughed at something he said. A wave of depression caught him off guard. This would all end in a few days’ time. He would pay her and she would go off to find her cottage and he would find a suitable bride, one his grandmother approved of.
“My grandmother arrives tomorrow, you know. Today will likely be the last time we can be together like this.”
“Oh. I didn’t realize,” she said, looking as though it bothered her as much as it bothered him, though he wouldn’t let her see how distressing it was. To admit his feelings for her would only confuse things and cause more hurt in the end. He would honor his promise to his grandmother, even though it appeared she had recovered nicely from her “deathbed.” No matter what was happening in his life, she had always been there for him. When he was a lad, her home was the one place he experienced what it was like to be loved. After Lenore died, his grandmother had immediately come to Costille House to help arrange her funeral. She refused to listen to those who suspected he had killed her and had offered her unrelenting support. Marrying someone she approved of was the least he could do for the old gal. He only wished it hadn’t become such a bitter pill to swallow.
“You’ll get to meet her at the ball. I think you’ll like her. Just remember her bark is much worse than her bite.”
“Will you let her know who I truly am?”
She looked so worried, he brought her to him and kissed her forehead. “I think I’ll have to,” he said. “She’s the one who invented Lystengrad, after all.”
Letting out a laugh, Harriet said, “Good. I shouldn’t like lying to your grandmother. Do you think she’ll be awfully upset about our ruse?”
“Not at all. I suspect she’ll be excited to be part of discovering our murderer and will admire your plan for exposing him.”
“That’s good. I must confess I’m a bit nervous about the entire evening. I’ve never been to a ball with such a lofty guest list. I fear the moment I open my mouth I’ll be exposed as a fraud.”
He gave her a look of mock surprise. “Have you not been practicing your accent?”
Looking suddenly shy, she said, “I have. It’s a terrible German accent because I’ve only met one foreigner in my life. St. Ives isn’t what one would call a mecca for foreign visitors.”
“Let me hear.”
She took a deep breath and shook her shoulders a bit, as if casting off Harriet and putting on Princess Catalina. “Good evenink, Lord Berkley. It is such a plazur to be in this ball.” She grimaced, and Augustus laughed.
“Wonderful,” he said. “It is a terrible German accent, so everyone will believe you’re from some little country no one has ever heard of.”
“Except you and your grandmother.”
“Yes.” He kissed her, not able to stop himself, and when he deepened the kiss, Harriet pulled away, a smile on her face.
“Lord Berkley, Mr. Billings will certainly be wondering where I’ve been. Should he decide to come to the barn to check on my progress, I would not want to be discovered in a compromising position.” She lifted her chin pertly. “In fact, we should open the door.”
Augustus stared at her, trying to determine whether she was jesting or not, for he’d never seen this particular Harriet Anderson. “Oh?”
“Yes, indeed. And then we should walk over to the cottage.” She tried to keep her face stern, but failed miserably and dissolved into giggles.
“And what, pray tell, should we do once we get inside that lovely little cottage?”
Harriet shrugged. “I believe I shall be inspired once we are there.”
It was strange what happened next. He was standing there staring at her, smiling gently, and he felt very nearly like he might cry. What an odd thing. He looked away, baffled and slightly embarrassed by his unmanly behavior. Nearly brought to weeping by a slip of a girl who wanted to make love to him? Good God, what was happening to him?
“What is wrong, Gus? What did I say?”
He let out a small laugh. “I adore you,” he said, then held out his hand and led her to their cottage.
* * * *
Two hours later, Harriet, feeling quite happy and satisfied, left the cottage and headed to the barn to complete the work Augustus had so wonderfully interrupted. Though she would have loved to have stayed in the cottage all day, she knew Mr. Billings would worry about her, especially if he’d gone to the barn while they were in the cottage. Only a few items remained that she had not tagged, and she was quickly done. Before leaving, she closed the barn door, a blush tingeing her cheeks when she thought about what she and Lord Berkley had done against that very door.
Each time she thought about how she was behaving, she was struck by her own boldness, how different she was now from the girl who had met Lord Berkley at the John Knill ball. Had anyone told her that within six months she’d be swiving with the earl against a barn door, she would have either laughed or slapped the person in the face. Probably laughed.
It was still a pretty day, the sort that reminded one of summer despite the barren trees, and Harriet hummed as she walked toward the castle. As she entered the courtyard, she spied one of the younger workers. “Hello, Will, can you tell me where Mr. Billings is?”
“Of course, miss. I saw him in the great ’all not long ago putting up the brackets what ’olds the torches.”
“Thank you.” Harriet walked into the castle, surprised at how close they were to completing the job. She had, of course, seen the progress, but each time she was struck anew by all they had accomplished. It was precisely as it had been when she’d toured the place six years ago. The suit of armor, a fierce-looking fellow, was the same but for a small dent in his breast plate. That small dent was bothersome, but Harriet forced herself to look past it and followed the sound of Mr. Billings’ booming voice.
“I have all the items labeled, Mr. Billings,” Harriet called, ignoring the colorful language the older man was using as his men moved a large table that could seat more than twenty guests. While impressive, Harriet thought the table highly impractical and not at all the thing to use for a dinner party. It was so wide, one could not converse with the guest opposite, and so long, if one was sitting at one end, it was nearly impossible to see who sat at the opposite end. Still, the heavy wooden table bore the scars of centuries of diners and it was fun to imagine knights and ladies of old sitting beneath the massive, iron chandelier that hung above the table.
“Thank you, Miss Anderson. I hadn’t realized it would take so long to complete your task.”
Harriet looked around the room, satisfied with what she saw. Everything was precisely as it should be… Except for the portrait of Lady Greenwich, hanging nearly hidden in the shadows on the far wall. She walked over to the portrait and looked up at it, feeling slightly uneasy.
“Mr. Billings,” she called, “who put that portrait here?”
He joined her by the portrait, his cheeks slightly more ruddy than usual. “It was in the gallery and I thought it should hang somewhere in the public rooms. She was the lady here, after all.”
Harriet stared, not at the portrait, but at Mr. Billings, for something in his voice was disquieting. “I do not believe Lord Berkley would approve,” she said softly.
His jaw tightened imperceptibly, but he nodded, then lifted it from its hook. “I’ll return it to the attic.”
“I do think that would be best, Mr. Billings.”
Later, as she started her trek home, she thought about Augustus, how happy he’d seemed. Unlike her, he hadn’t tried to hide how much he’d missed her. He almost seemed like a man in love. There it was, that thought she’d tried to suppress for days now. What if Augustus did love her? What would that mean for them? Would they still say good-bye after the ball? Or was it possible, dared she hope that…
“Stop it, Harriet,” she said fiercely, angry at herself for even allowing that dream to enter her silly head. But what if… She couldn’t help but let out a happy little squeal. What if he did love her and what if he couldn’t live without her and what if he asked her to be his wife? What would she say?
“No,” she said, with a firm shake of her head, even though a tiny part of her—perhaps a larger than tiny part—knew she was lying to herself. Of course, he wouldn’t propose, and hoping he would was the height of foolishness, even if such dreams were entertaining. She didn’t truly believe there was even the slightest chance he would ask her to be his wife, but it was still great fun to think about. Yes, but with those great hopes came bigger disappointment. Why did she always allow herself to take such flights of fancy?
“I need to get such silly thoughts out of my head,” she said firmly. Her heart would ache and it might even break, but she needed to prepare herself for that, not allow herself to dream about things that would never happen.
A calm stole over her as she approached her house from the garden side. In the distance she could see their gardener, seemingly digging a hole, probably for some new plant Clara was planning to set in the ground when she returned. She waved to him and he straightened abruptly and waved back, one quick sweeping movement of his arm. It would make far more sense for a girl like her to set her cap for their old gardener than to set it for a young, handsome earl. Lord Berkley would never ask for her hand so she would never have to think such things. She mustn’t ever allow herself to fall into such dreams again, but it was so hard to, when all she’d ever had for years were her dreams.
Walking with her head down, morosely reviewing how miserable she would be when her little adventure was over, she didn’t see a carriage coming up the drive. The noise of the wheels on gravel finally drew her attention away from her own misery and she looked up as she walked around to the front of the house. Then stopped dead.
Her parents and Clara had returned.