Chapter 2
Harriet had never had a secret before in her life, at least not one of this magnitude. Alone in her room, when she had time to think about what she had promised—and what had been promised to her—she was tempted to write a letter to Lord Berkley reneging on her agreement. If her parents found out, she had no idea what they would do. Her mother, especially, cared more than most about appearances, about what was proper behavior for a young woman and what was not, and this was decidedly not.
It was improper in so many ways, but for some reason, this made Harriet’s resolve grow even stronger. The old resentment of being left behind, a small black seed she’d refused to allow to grow for so many years, was blooming to life inside her. If her parents had brought her along, she wouldn’t have gone to that luncheon, wouldn’t have played her memory game, wouldn’t have attracted the notice of Lord Berkley. She was twenty-two years old, not a child to be left behind. One could argue, given the fact her parents had left her alone, that anything that occurred in their absence could be blamed on them. That made her smile.
Then there was the money, that tantalizing idea of real freedom, for an unmarried woman without funds was at the mercy of friends and relatives. Her parents, as long as she was beneath their roof, would never allow her to do something as gauche as get a job. What was she to do, then? Leave home and live on the streets until she found a position?
They didn’t need to know, at least not until Harriet packed her bags and moved…somewhere. Somewhere far enough away so that her mother couldn’t come to visit without traveling a great distance—if she came at all. And that also made her smile.
Harriet sat at a small desk in her sitting room and propped her chin on a fist, blowing a stray curl from her forehead. Earning money was, perhaps, the least improper thing about this arrangement. Being alone with a single gentleman without a chaperone, now that was beyond the pale. She wondered if it could be considered sinful? How many commandments was she breaking by sneaking off to work for Lord Berkley?
She took out a piece of paper and dipped her pen in the inkwell, writing: Honor thy father and mother. She stared at those words, trying to think of the other nine commandments and decided none pertained to her willfully spending time alone with a man who was not her relative. Just the one, and it was, in Harriet’s opinion, the least important of all the commandments. Should she honor her mother and father when they did not honor her? When, at every turn, they made her feel small and ugly and stupid and worthless? Oh, that black seed of resentment was growing a bit larger, Harriet realized, mentally squashing it beneath her heel. It would do no good to go down that road to self-pity and bitterness.
It did make her wonder why Lord Berkley did not consider her reputation when he made his proposal. Would he have made the same offer to Alice, whose grandfather was a duke? She thought not. To him, she was a nobody, a tool he could use to restore his house. A tool apparently worth the staggering sum of ten thousand pounds—enough for her to live quite comfortably for the rest of her life as long as she didn’t live extravagantly.
She’d long since given up on the idea of marriage. Every man of eligible age in St. Ives knew her and none had thus far given her any notice. When she was sixteen years old, watching the men and women dancing at the John Knill ball, she had told her friends that she would meet her husband one day during that same ball. She’d believed that wholeheartedly, having not yet come out and experienced the humiliation of being referred to as “the homely Anderson girl,” a term used frequently to differentiate Harriet from Clara. At any rate, the John Knill celebration happened only once every five years, and this past year had come and gone without so much as a dance with a single gentleman. She’d spent the evening by her mother’s side, watching Clara dance again and again, with no one even noticing she’d not been asked. Not even by her own father.
Harriet placed her hand on her stomach, pushing back that black seed that once again was stirring inside her. “Stop, you ninny,” she said aloud to herself. If she had her own home, her own servants, her own little garden, she would be happy.
The following day, she wrote meticulous notes as she made the mental journey through Costille House, recalling its soaring ceilings, thick beams, white-washed walls that held a myriad of medieval objects. At the end of the day, she had several pages of meticulous notes, and she was exhausted but satisfied that the detail of her memory was extensive and true. Lord Berkley would be pleased.
* * * *
Augustus tapped on his thigh impatiently as he watched the progress of Miss Anderson down his drive. He leaned against the stone archway, his shoulder growing cold from the granite, studying her progress with ill-concealed irritation. It seemed every few feet something would catch her attention and off she would go to investigate. He realized, too late, that he should have sent a carriage for her; it was at least three miles from her home to Costille. She wore yet another gray dress, this one with black lace around the neck and sleeves, and sturdy boots on her feet that showed with every step she took. The grass was wet with dew, and though she was attempting to keep her hem dry by lifting up her skirts a few inches, her dress was darkened along the bottom edge. It was nine in the morning, a brisk October day, which no doubt accounted for Miss Anderson’s pink-tinged cheeks. The rest of her was unusually pale, even for a young English girl.
When she finally reached him, he did try to mask his annoyance but feared he failed.
“I’m sorry I am so late,” she said a bit breathlessly, as soon as she was close enough not to shout.
“Tomorrow I shall send a carriage.”
She looked startled by his suggestion. “I rather enjoy walking, sir. And it would be difficult to explain to my mother why the Earl of Berkley’s carriage was arriving daily to pick me up and drop me off. And this way I am telling the truth when I say I am going for a walk.”
“Very clever.” While he approved of her efforts not to lie to her parents, she was deceiving them, which didn’t sit entirely comfortably on his shoulders. What would her parents do, he wondered, should they discover what their daughter had been up to? A frisson of what could only be fear spiked up his spine at the thought of the Andersons demanding he make things right with their daughter. He would get married in his own good time, thank you very much. Now that his father was dead, marrying and begetting an heir had become even more important—and marriage to this little wren of a woman was entirely out of the question. She was far below his station—something he might be able to overlook had she had other interesting assets. Not a charitable thought, he realized, but an honest one.
When he’d first met Lenore, a month before their wedding, he’d been pleased. Lenore had been lovely, with shining black hair thickly piled upon her head, bright green eyes, and the kind of bosom a man could get lost in. His grandmother on his mother’s side had disapproved of the match, for though Lenore’s lineage was impressive, her father was a mere mister with little or no income to speak of. Lower than landed gentry, she’d said, her mouth turning downward in displeasure. Augustus hadn’t loved Lenore, but had resigned himself to the fate of having a wife he didn’t necessarily like, but would certainly enjoy bedding. On their wedding night, she had yielded to him stoically, not complaining when he touched her, kissed her full breasts, but not encouraging him either. She was like a warm, living doll, submitting silently, and if he hadn’t heard the catch in her breath that one time, he would have thought her completely unmoved by his caresses. When the act was complete, she finally found her voice and told him what she truly thought of him and his father. He’d left for America again two weeks later, unable to face a wife who loathed him and refused his touch.
No, the next time he married, if he married, it would be to a woman of his choice, someone with aristocratic blood, who would bear his children, and take her role as countess seriously. Love never entered his mind as a requirement.
As she reached the archway he said, “After some thought, I believe it is imperative that you be completely discreet, so I’m sorry to say you cannot share our arrangement with anyone, including your friends.”
“But that will completely ruin my plans to force you down the aisle, sir.” She said this with a straight face, without a bit of a hint that she was joking, and for just a moment, he thought she was serious. Her eyes crinkled after a moment, and he knew she was jesting. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man go so pale so quickly,” she said, clearly enjoying herself and surprising him with her wit. “You can rest assured, my lord, that I will be completely discreet. There is no room in my little cottage for any man, not even one as esteemed as you.”
Augustus chuckled. “Well said, Miss Anderson. Now, shall we proceed with the tour? Brace yourself.”
With that, he turned around and led her through the stone archway and into the courtyard. As soon as they cleared the arch, Miss Anderson stopped and let out a small sound.
“I see you’ve noticed the new gaslights,” he said dryly. “That is only the smallest change, I can assure you.”
Striding to the door, he found himself steeling himself for what was to come. He’d thought he’d get used to it, but the sight of what his wife had done to Costille seemed only to grow grimmer as time went by.
“The door,” she whispered, and he paused to look behind him at her solemn expression. She reached out a hand and laid it on the wood door, ornamented with a large, round door knocker etched with some sort of floral design that was repeated on the door knob. Gone were the heavy iron bars and hinges, the thick slabs of wood surrounded by intricate carving—including that squirrel Miss Anderson recalled.
With a flourish, he opened the door and was not surprised when the lady let out a gasp of dismay.
* * * *
Harriet closed her eyes and brought forth the image of what the grand entry hall used to look like; its soaring ceiling, the massive iron chandelier, the armor and shields, and intricate paintings on the ceiling and walls. She could not stop the gasp that erupted from her throat, and when she opened her eyes, it was to see Lord Berkley staring at her, his dark eyes emotionless. Most perplexing was that the room seemed somehow smaller, and she realized that walls had been erected, blocking the view of a large staircase that led to a balcony above. Windows had once let in light from the balcony, but now, with it closed off, the space felt dark and small. The chandelier hanging above her head was a modern gas fixture with hundreds of crystals that at the moment had little light to reflect. On the walls, etched glass sconces covered with a soft fuzz of dust had been installed every few feet.
“It is quite different, is it not?” she asked cautiously, then dug into her reticule and pulled out a thick sheaf of paper with her meticulous notes. “It is all here, my lord.” Then she smiled and she saw his face clear, as if he’d been fortifying himself for bad news. “That wall must come down, the ceiling must be removed. Oh, so much work and we haven’t even begun.”
She could not imagine what it had been like to come home to find what his wife had done. It wasn’t purely awful, simply very modern and extremely feminine, but she could understand why Lord Berkley was so horrified by it all. Gone was the sense of walking back in time, of entering a world of brave knights and their ladies. Effecting such changes to the home must have taken months, perhaps longer, which made Harriet curious about how Lady Greenwich could have possibly made such substantial changes with him none the wiser.
“I hope it takes less time to undo than it did to create,” he said dryly.
“How long did it take?”
He looked around the room, his gaze stopping with unveiled disgust at the chandelier, as if he could make it shatter with his piercing eyes. “I was gone a bit more than two years. I imagine she began the renovations shortly after I left.”
“Two years,” Harriet said softly. Lord Berkley chuckled at her expression, and she suddenly felt provincial and gauche. Perhaps in the world of the aristocracy, it was not unusual for a husband and wife to be separated for so long. “Shall we continue the tour?” she asked in her most business-like tone, and his smile grew. Harriet decided then and there that she did not care much for Lord Berkley; she never did like to feel the butt of a joke, and that was precisely how he was making her feel. Worse, she had no idea what the joke was.
He raised his arm, indicating that she should precede him into the next room. Turning smartly, Harriet moved to the left, where in her memory was the great hall, a massive space, whitewashed, adorned with the accoutrements of medieval days: spears, bows, suits of armor, shields. Thick beams stretched across the ceiling, and a high row of narrow windows illuminated the room and its massive fireplace. Harriet recalled thinking how awful it must be for the servants of the house, who would have to climb up ladders to wash the glass windows, one of the few concessions to modern times.
Pushing through the door, Harriet stopped abruptly and spun about, confused. She could have sworn this large door led to the great hall, but instead she’d found herself stepping into an intimate parlor, decorated almost exclusively in pink.
“This was, I believe, the greatest tragedy,” he said. “This and my study. She took great delight there.”
“She hated you,” Harriet blurted out.
“Immensely.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to ask why. How could one man incite such loathing? What had he done to her? Harriet suppressed a shudder. She did not know this man, had trusted him only because he was friends with Mr. Southwell, whom she liked and respected. No one knew where she was. The rumor when his wife died was that he’d thrown her from the highest tower on the night of a grand party, the very night Lord Berkley had returned home from America. They’d found her body the next morning, and Harriet had wondered why no one had missed her during the night. Harriet adored the macabre and remembered reading every detail in the newspaper at the time, thrilled by the idea that a lord had committed murder right in their little village. Of course, he was soon exonerated and her death ruled a suicide. But what if the constable was wrong? What if Berkley was a monster, what if he actually had murdered his wife?
Instead of questioning him, she stepped into the room, her back tingling, because she knew he was looking at her, likely smiling at her discomfort.
“You are not curious about my late wife?”
“Should I be?” she asked, sounding far more composed than she was. What she truly felt like doing was turning around and running from the house, never to return. “Is the entire hall now turned into small parlors?”
When he didn’t answer, she forced herself to turn and look at him. He stood, still on the threshold of the room, staring at her. Apparently, she amused him, for he still had that slight smile on his lips, one that made her feel uncomfortable. She suddenly felt sorry for his poor dead wife if she’d been subjected to his mockery and unsettling stares.
Harriet walked stiffly to a door on the far side of the parlor, grasping the crystal door knob—another nod to modern fashion—and bracing herself for what she would find on the other side of the door.
“Oh my goodness.”
The great hall was there, yes, but its roof was gone, replaced by glass, the entire space filled with the cloying smell of rotted plants and the odd blossoms that had somehow managed to survive obvious neglect. Her knees felt weak, and she sat quickly on a nearby bench.
“My father was an accumulator of information and a devotee of power. Some of that information could have sent my bride’s father to prison. Sir Robert Stanford was a good man who had done something very stupid, as desperate men sometimes do. He did what he could to save himself, but ended up in prison anyway. My wife blamed my father, and by association, me.”
“Did you know?”
He let out a bitter laugh. “I was, Miss Anderson, completely unaware of my father’s machinations. She, however, was not.” He waved his hand to encompass the destruction before them, evidence of his wife’s hatred.
“Did you love her?”
He gave her a quick look of disbelief. “Not at all. But it was my duty to marry and so I did. I was committed to my marriage.” He chuckled. “At least for the first six hours or so. As you know, she died two years ago and my father passed just this year. And that, Miss Anderson, is my sordid story.”
Normally, when someone mentioned a death, Harriet’s automatic response was to say she was sorry for the loss, but it was clear to her that such a sentiment would not be well-received by the earl. It might even gain her another mocking smile. “Why have you not begun restorations?”
“It seemed a futile effort, Miss Anderson, until you.”
Harriet was suddenly uncertain as to whether she wanted such a heavy responsibility. What if her memory were flawed? After all, it had been years since she’d toured the house. She’d been so confident the day prior when she’d written her detailed notes, but that was before she’d seen the drastic changes made to the home. Another chill swept over her even though the room was quite warm, and she wrapped her arms about herself, her eyes taking in the destruction of the once beautiful hall. This had been done maliciously, with terrible glee. She could almost imagine the lady ordering the roof taken down, the gleaming marble floor covered with gravel. Digging her toe into the gravel, she found the smooth hard stone floor beneath, soiled and scratched.
“It may still be a futile effort,” she said. “Have you anything else to show me?”
“My study.”
They walked back through the parlor, the entry, and down several long hallways, leaving Harriet overwhelmed by the amount of work that needed to be done. Along the way, they passed several servants, who curtsied or bowed, depending upon their gender, and Harriet found herself uncommonly relieved that should she scream, someone would hear her. It was a silly thought, she told herself. Lord Berkley was not a murderer nor had he given her any indication that he was interested in anything about her person—except for her remarkable memory.
She’s no more interesting than a piece of furniture.
Harriet grimaced as that memory sprang forth. Those words had been uttered by a young swain who’d been admiring Clara. Another lad had asked about “the other sister.” And that had been his reply. “She’s no more interesting than a piece of furniture.”
At the time, she’d been just seventeen and terribly hurt by those words. They’d stayed with her for long weeks, digging at her confidence like nothing her mother had ever said to her.
“This,” he said with a flourish, “was my wife’s chef-d’oeuvre.”
Harriet couldn’t help herself. She burst out laughing, then quickly covered her mouth with her hands. His study, once a masculine haven of stone and dark beams, was now an explosion of pink cabbage roses, intricate moldings with gold leaf accents, and an abundance of gaslight fixtures also in gold. The furnishings were delicate and decidedly feminine, the type a man as large as Lord Berkley would feel silly sitting upon.
“Oh, this is…this is…” She couldn’t get the word out past her laughter.
“Horrifying.”
“Spectacular,” she finally said, and he jerked his head back as if she’d struck him. Waving her hand as if to erase that word, Harriet tried to collect herself so she might explain. “It is horrifying. But I was just thinking about how much fun she must have had creating this monstrosity.”
“Apparently, the depths of her animosity had no end,” said Berkley. “It was my favorite room. How she knew this, I have no idea.”
“What was her name?” Harriet had no idea why, but she found herself liking Lady Greenwich. How angry she must have been, how brave, knowing that someday her husband would return and discover what she had done. Very brave or very foolish.
“Lenore.” There was no hint of softness in his voice, and Harriet found herself suppressing another chill.
“You must have been quite angry with her.”
He smiled grimly. “I was mad with anger, Miss Anderson.”
With that, he departed the room, leaving her alone to assess the damage done by his late wife.
* * * *
The little chit thought he’d murdered his wife. Augustus could see it in her eyes, the way she looked at him. Let her believe that, he thought. No one entered his home and saw what Lenore had done to it without believing him capable of throttling the life out of her.
When a footman had found Lenore that morning, lying pale and still, a large and sickening puddle of blood around her head, he’d known immediately he would come under suspicion. They had fought loudly and bitterly about what she had done to Costille House, within earshot of dozens of people. Perhaps most untenable was that even while he was livid, he couldn’t help but admire her, how lovely she was, how defiant. When he’d gone to bed that night, he’d actually chuckled, thinking that his wife might suit him after all. Lenore had barely topped five feet, and yet, by God, she’d stood up to him, flaunted what she’d done, let him know precisely why and how much she’d enjoyed destroying the only thing he loved.
He knew some people still believed him to be a murderer, that his title had given him license to do as he pleased. Lenore’s own words had exonerated him. Lenore had made it clear in her diary that she was so miserable, she could think of only one solution to her problems. If Augustus had realized she was so unhappy she would resort to suicide, he would have done what he could to make certain she did not follow through. He was not a monster; he was as much a pawn in his father’s power game as she had been.
When Augustus had nearly reached the door to the courtyard, he stopped, realizing Miss Anderson, even with her remarkable memory, might not be able to find her way back from his study. As he started to return to find her, he heard her light footsteps and soon after saw her slim form emerging from the shadows, her face pale, her stunning blue eyes wary.
“I promise not to murder you, Miss Anderson, so I would appreciate it if you would stop looking at me as if I plan to. I care not what you think or believe, only that you make every effort to do your job. But if it will make you feel any better, I did not kill my wife.”
Her hand shot to her mouth as if horrified that he should think that was what she believed. “I didn’t think you did. Not entirely at any rate.” She gave him a sheepish look. “And I also didn’t think you would murder me. Unless, of course, I fail in my duty to restore your house.” She looked around the entrance. “You must admit, you certainly had a strong motive.”
He let out a humorless laugh, somewhat impressed by her gumption. “That I did.” He walked briskly toward the door, assuming Miss Anderson would follow, and behind him he heard her hurried footsteps. “Workers arrive tomorrow. They will be instructed to follow your instructions to the word. I depart for London tomorrow afternoon and will return in a fortnight. If you need to reach me, please let my butler, Mr. Pearson, know.”
“I am to deal with the workers?”
He turned and she stopped short, again looking like she might flee. “Is that a problem, Miss Anderson?”
He watched with fascination as she thought through this new development. Uncertainty turned to resolve in a matter of seconds. “No, my lord, I see no problem. Where would you like the work to begin?”
“Everywhere at once. I want this done as quickly as possible, so I have hired a large contingent of laborers. I want her back, Miss Anderson, and the sooner the better.”
Her brows furrowed and she pressed those plush pink lips together in consternation. “Did you have a particular date in mind for the work to be completed?”
What was it about her mouth that so fascinated him? It was downright distracting. “Christmastide. I’m planning a ball.”
Her mouth dropped open. “That’s impossible.”
“I assure you I have planned balls in the past.”
It was difficult not to smile when her eyes narrowed. “I meant,” she said with barely concealed annoyance, “that having the renovations completed before Christmas would be impossible.”
“No, it is not. I have an army of men coming and the work will be completed in time for the ball.”
“You cannot possibly believe that it can be accomplished. Simply saying so, no matter how forcefully or arrogantly, will not make it so.”
Ah, there was some fire inside her. Perhaps Miss Anderson wasn’t the meek, pale milquetoast he thought she was. Arrogant, indeed. He smiled, and he knew from her expression, it was a rather frightening smile. “You will get it done, Miss Anderson. My future bride is on the guest list.”
* * * *
Oh, that insufferable, demanding, arrogant man! He’d offered to have his carriage bring her partly home, but she’d declined. She needed a long, bracing walk to rid herself of the anger boiling just beneath the surface. Worse, when she refused the offer of the ride, he’d given her one of his enigmatic smiles, as if he knew precisely how angry she was and enjoyed infuriating her.
Now she understood why he’d offered to pay her such an exorbitant amount—he was asking the impossible. Even if the work crew listened to everything she said, which she highly doubted would be the case, they would need an army of men, highly skilled, to bring the castle back to its former state. Had he not seen the long list she’d handed him? Such details could not be smashed into place, but must be delicately considered. She could only pray that whoever the foreman was, he was a man willing to take orders from a female.
All this for some nameless woman who most likely would prefer the castle the way it was currently decorated. Though Costille House had been an impressive monument to history, it certainly did not hold any warmth or even the smallest bit of feminine décor. Costille House deserved better than a hasty patch, hurriedly done simply so he could showcase it for a ball. She’d thought him thoughtful and level headed, but he was just as shallow as all the other members of the aristocracy she’d had the misfortune to meet. Except for Alice and her family, of course. All this work and all for a woman who wouldn’t give a fig.
By the time she reached her drive, Harriet’s ire had dissipated and turned to resolve. It seemed Lord Berkley had issued a challenge, and she’d decided in the three-mile walk that she would not only meet the challenge, but she would exceed it. Perhaps her family would be issued an invitation to the Christmas ball and she could revel in the admiring looks the guests gave the great hall. Such an invitation was highly unlikely, since the Andersons’ social status was far below Lord Berkley’s, but it was still pleasant to think about. She thought back on the John Knill ball and his lordship’s interest in Clara. Two months ago, Harriet would have been thrilled for her sister to find such a match. Now that she knew Lord Berkley a bit better, she would not wish the man on anyone, never mind her sweet sister.
Harriet’s steps slowed as she realized her parents had returned from their trip. She could see Clara in the garden, where she spent nearly all her free hours, fussing over her roses. Her mother, who studied such things like a scholar, had decided that creating a beautiful garden was a fine, ladylike pursuit. Harriet often wondered if one of the reasons Clara remained unmarried was because she didn’t want to leave her garden behind.
It was a glorious garden, carefully and meticulously planned by Clara and executed by their gardener, Mr. Emory. Harriet often wondered at the older man’s patience dealing with Clara. While her sister seemed a bit of a will ’o the wisp when it came to most things, she was quite the termagant when it came to her garden. Clara saw her and waved happily, then turned back to her roses.
Wanting to delay seeing her mother for as long as possible, Harriet headed directly to Clara. “Has everything survived your absence?”
Clara smiled softly. “Indeed, everything has thrived. It won’t be long before we’ll have to prune them for winter. Mr. Emory insists he did nothing, but someone has come out and removed all the dead blossoms.”
Harriet frowned, for she specifically recalled looking out her window and seeing Mr. Emory doing something in the garden, but she decided to remain silent. If the man didn’t want Clara to know he worked in the garden in her absence, she wouldn’t be the one to tell.
“Are you engaged to the baron?”
Clara wrinkled her nose. “Oh, Harriet, he was such an old curmudgeon, nearly as old as father and twice as fat. What can Mother have been thinking?”
“That he is a baron and if you married him, you would be a baroness.”
Clara bent over one bud and nipped off a small insect, squeezing it between her fingers ruthlessly. Clara, the kindest girl Harriet had ever known, would capture a fly and send it out the window. But if that fly should think to harm one of her blossoms, its very life was in danger. “I am beginning to find this whole husband search tedious,” she said. Harriet raised her brow in concern, for she’d never heard her sister complain.
“Was it that awful?”
Clara straightened. “I don’t understand why Mother won’t let things be. I’m perfectly content. And if I marry…”
“You’d have to leave?” Sudden tears filled Clara’s eyes as she nodded, and Harriet grew alarmed. Her sister was effervescent, cheerful, and acquiescent to a fault. “Did something happen, Clara?”
Clara swallowed. “No, nothing more than ever happens on one of these outings. Except…”
“Except?”
“Mother got cross with me. I suppose it was upsetting. She went on about how lucky I was to be able to attract men with titles and that I was spoiled and cruel to her.” Clara looked up, her dark blue eyes shining with tears. “Am I cruel to her?”
Harriet drew her sister in for an embrace. “No, darling. You? Cruel? You are the kindest girl in all of Cornwall. All of England. I just think perhaps Mother so wants you to be happy and settled that it’s upsetting to her when you don’t fall immediately in love with every man she parades in front of you.”
Clara bit her thumb nail distractedly. “Sometimes I think it’s not about me at all, but more about her. Is that a terrible thing to say?”
Holding her sister at arms’ length, Harriet found herself again surprised by her sister’s astuteness. All these years, all the men paraded in front of Clara, and Harriet had never once seen an inkling that Clara found the process tedious. “Mother has worked hard for what our family has achieved socially,” Harriet said carefully. “Perhaps she sees it as a personal failing that you are unmarried.”
“I told her I didn’t want to marry. Anyone. I want to remain here. Honestly, Harriet, the idea of marrying any of those men. . .” She suppressed a shudder. “Have you seen the suitors Mother has presented to me? Desperate old goats, every one of them.”
“What of Lord Berkley?”
Clara furrowed her brow. “I supposed he isn’t an old goat.” She suddenly grinned. “The gardens at Costille House are lovely.”
Harriet laughed. “You and your gardens. If you could marry them, you would.”
“I would,” Clara said, dissolving into giggles. “I really would.”
* * * *
“I ain’t taking orders from her.”
Harriet had known Mr. Billings for as long as she could remember. When her father had built stables on their property, Mr. Billings had been there. He was a tall, strapping man, with hands hardened by labor and a heart hardened by tragedy. Five winters past, he’d lost his wife and all five children to influenza. He was gruff, yes, but Harriet had seen him once pick a daisy for a little girl and hand it to her.
“Mr. Billings, I don’t wish to give you orders,” she said sensibly, before Lord Berkley could speak. “I find it vastly unfortunate that I am the one who has been cursed with a memory that allows me to be of assistance to his lordship. If someone else can be found who knows Costille House as well as I do, I am happy to step aside and allow them to issue orders.”
He folded his great, beefy arms over his chest and mulled that over for a few seconds before he nodded. “Aye, I’ll listen to ya.”
Mr. Billings turned to the mass of men milling silently behind him, and told them that they were to listen to Harriet and if they did not, they would have to answer to him. There was some general grumbling, mostly for effect and to make certain they staked their manly claim on misogyny, but no one formally objected.
“There. I see you have things well in hand. I’ll return in a fortnight anticipating great changes.” Harriet nodded but remained silent, which apparently irked his lordship. “I wonder, Miss Anderson, do you also find the payment of ten thousand pounds unfortunate?” he asked in a low voice that was meant for her ears only.
Harriet could feel her cheeks heat. “I do not. What I find unfortunate is your unrealistic expectations. I shall do my best to accommodate them, however.”
“See that you do.” His voice was cold, his smile gone, and Harriet wondered if she’d sounded churlish. It was rather disconcerting not to see him smile at her with that half tilt of his lips, his eyes narrowed in humor. She realized, with a start, that he needn’t charm her anymore, that it had all been an act to get her to do his bidding. He’d played the part of a charming man, and she’d fallen into his charm like a mouse into a trap. With painful clarity, she realized he was her employer, and that she’d very nearly been insubordinate. And for some reason she couldn’t explain, it bothered her, that cold dismissal, the same type of dismissal one would give to a blundering footman.
Stupid and silly that she could feel pressure behind her eyes, as if he had hurt her.
She watched him walk away with sure strong steps, feeling foolish. Turning back to the men, she strode up to Mr. Billings, trying to gather courage she didn’t feel. “Let me show you what needs to be done, Mr. Billings. Lord Berkley is looking for a miracle, and I suppose he’s picked the right man to make that happen.”
Mr. Billings mumbled something and frowned, but Harriet had a feeling he was far more bark than bite. If she got him on her side, the rest of the men would follow. She hoped.
* * * *
Unfortunate. She called herself unfortunate to have a memory that could help him. It stung, those words, coming from that meek little mouse of a woman. Why it should be so, Augustus did not care to examine too closely. Worse, after she’d gone home following yesterday’s tour, he’d found his thoughts drifting to her again and again. It was inexplicable. Perhaps it was the way her unusual eyes narrowed when she was in thought, the way she pressed those memorable lips together when she was trying to hide her ire. He found himself wondering what was beneath that shapeless dress she wore, then laughed aloud when he realized where his thoughts had gone. Wondering what was beneath a woman’s gown was a perfectly natural occupation for a man who hadn’t been with a woman in far too long, but why on earth was he thinking about what was beneath her gown? Perhaps when he was in London he would find himself a mistress. If he had a willing woman at his beck and call, he certainly would not be giving more than a single thought to Miss Anderson of the straw-like hair. And stubborn chin. And fascinating mouth.
Damn. He didn’t like meek women. He wasn’t attracted to shapeless females. All he wanted was a warm, curvy, soft, willing woman in his bed whenever he liked. A mistress now. A wife later. When his father died, Augustus had felt little emotion other than, perhaps, stark fear that he would be expected to fill his father’s shoes. In the months since the old earl’s death, the things he’d discovered about his father had only served to build his resolve to be nothing like the old man. But his death had also done something else; it made him more aware of his own legacy, of how fragile life was. He needed a wife and, more importantly, an heir.
Duty had not been something he’d thought much about when he’d been younger. Now, it loomed large. He had a duty to restore Costille House, a duty to marry, a duty to sire children.
As he stalked away from Miss Anderson, he was glad he had put her firmly in her place. One did not think about employees the way he’d been thinking about her. Not that he’d been thinking of her overmuch, but still, he ought not think of her at all. He needed only to complete his business, find a willing woman, and return to a house that would no doubt be in shambles when he returned.
As he climbed into his carriage, he gave Miss Anderson one more fleeting thought, wondering if she could, indeed, get the surly Mr. Billings to do her bidding. These two weeks would be a test, and he wondered if she would pass or fail.