Chapter 6
The day after her confession to Alice, Harriet approached Costille House with a bit more spring in her step. She’d left her parents and sister all in a twitter about something—she hadn’t any idea what. Prior to leaving for Costille House, she’d found her mother in their dining room making certain their best silver was being properly polished.
“I’m going for a walk, Mother, and I believe I shall be gone for much of the afternoon.”
Hedra had looked up and pursed her lips. “Very well. Walks are excellent for the constitution.”
Harriet had left the room just as her father was coming down the stairs. “Do you know where your mother is?”
“In the dining room,” she’d said, giving her father a curious glance. He had the same look on his face he was prone to getting when her mother wanted to spend an ungodly amount of money or attend some social event. Her father was not nearly as social as her mother, and indeed nearly became ill at the thought of attending a function. Likely they two were going to discuss the little season and what Clara should wear and how they could garner invitations to some of the more exclusive balls. Or any ball. A beautiful girl with no connections and a large dowry only attracted a certain sort of titled gentleman—poor and desperate. To date, no one with a title had been quite poor enough or desperate enough to offer for Clara’s hand. And yet her mother persisted in her fantasy that someday Clara would be Lady Something.
Neither Clara nor Harriet could convince their mother otherwise, though to be fair, neither had pressed the point too hard. When they even hinted at such a thing, their mother would get a look in her eyes that could freeze lava. Time was running out for Clara, and Harriet had a feeling that any well-positioned gentleman would do, title or not. Even Hedra could not be so blind that she did not see Clara was getting, at least by society’s rules, a bit long in the tooth, and Harriet could sense a growing panic in her mother at the prospect that Clara actually might never marry.
Clara outwardly appeared completely indifferent to the idea of marrying at all, never mind to a title. She cheerfully went along with her mother’s plans, rarely uttering a word of protest. Harriet suspected Clara knew arguing would do no good and would only take time away from what she truly loved—her garden.
Harriet walked beneath a canopy of trees, most without their foliage now that it was approaching mid-November, and enjoyed the sound of the leaves beneath her feet. It was a lovely day, unseasonably warm, and the sun shone brightly, bathing the distant tower in its golden light. She had grown to love Costille House, with its small, private nooks and cavernous rooms. Her favorite spot was a whitewashed hall with a Gothic window set deep in the wall that allowed the sun to shine on the old, weathered wood floor. It was easy to imagine the knights and ladies who had tread on the floor before, who had perhaps smiled at the sharp square edges of sun on the wooden boards.
During her two tours of the place, she’d been part of a group of perhaps twenty tourists, who wandered over the grounds and in the public parts of the castle. Like so many old estates in England, Costille House was a bit like walking through time, depending upon which part of the house one stood in. The private quarters, built late in the last century, were quite modern. But the glory of the estate was the part built in the sixteenth century, those massive towers with the crenellates and narrow arrow slits for archers. Harriet recalled vividly standing in the great room’s massive fireplace and looking up at the dark soot that stained the stone, realizing with a bit of thrill that fires had been burning there for three hundred years. It didn’t take much imagination to conjure a grand gathering with a full stag cooking over the fire.
Now, wrapped up in her memories of Costille House were recent, thrilling events. It was more than the sun shining and the warm air that made her mood so light. It was, she knew, that she would see Lord Berkley, that perhaps he might call her Catalina and touch her hair and perhaps ask her again what she would do if he kissed her. What would she do?
I will allow it.
Harriet let out a squeal, then picked up her skirts and ran with abandon for a bit, simply delighting in the day and how happy she felt. As she got closer, Harriet slowed her steps and waved to some of the workmen who were struggling with some timber for the scaffolding that was being constructed in the Great Hall. The flowered wallpaper needed to be removed from the walls and the entire room whitewashed before the artifacts, many of them made from heavy iron, could be replaced. More exciting, Lord Berkley’s lions were scheduled to be put back in place and she looked forward to seeing his lordship’s expression when he saw them.
Mr. Billings, a perpetual scowl on his face, hurried through the door just as she was about to walk up the shallow steps. “Thank goodness you’re here, miss, though I must say I’m surprised to see you today.” He took an audible huff of air. “I told the lads not to start hanging those paintings in the dining room until you arrived, but they went ahead and did it anyway. I fear some may not be in the correct spot and I know how important it is for Lord Berkley to have everything just so.”
“I’ll take a quick look, shall I, Mr. Billings?”
“Thank you,” he said with great relief. Poor Mr. Billings had been under a great deal of strain trying to get all the work done in time for the Christmas ball. Harriet would often hear him mumbling under his breath, and it wasn’t always kind words he was saying about the earl.
After giving him a look of commiseration, Harriet hurried through the door before turning. “The lions, Mr. Billings?”
“That’s where I be heading now, miss,” he said, hurrying down the steps. “It’s no small feat moving such large objects, as I well know.”
“I imagine not. The earl shall be so pleased, though, when he sees them. Speaking of the earl, do you know where I might find him?” she called, raising her voice, for Mr. Billings was now several yards away.
Mr. Billings stopped still and turned, the oddest expression on his face. It almost looked like pity. For one horrible moment, Harriet thought she had somehow in her tone revealed her growing feelings for the earl, and her cheeks burned. Mr. Billings, who just moments before seemed to be in a hurry to leave, now stood in the gravel drive shuffling his feet. “You don’t know where he is, miss?”
Harriet shook her head, baffled. “How on earth would I know?”
“Because he’s having luncheon with yer parents,” he said, though it was with clear reluctance.
“Oh. Oh, of course! Yes. Thank you, Mr. Billings. I’d quite forgotten.” She turned, mortified, and hurried into the house.
It shouldn’t hurt, this slight dealt by her parents, but it did. Terribly so. To think they’d issued an invitation to an earl and he’d accepted. No wonder her mother had seemed in such a tizzy today. Planning for such a lofty visitor would put even the calmest mama with a marriageable daughter into a state of panic. One marriageable daughter. Her mother had purposely excluded her. She’d said nothing to her earlier when she’d mentioned her walk, and now Harriet recalled that slight hesitation—as if she’d been considering telling Harriet about their visitor—but instead let her go on her way.
The buoyant feeling drained away, and Harriet found herself on the verge of tears. Lord Berkley would no doubt note her absence from her own family’s luncheon. What would he think of her, of her parents? She ought to return home at once and enjoy her mother’s face when she stepped into the dining room wearing her work clothes. Now that was…
…brilliant.
* * * *
Augustus sat uncomfortably in the Andersons’ opulent parlor, so cluttered with things it was difficult to navigate the room. Instead, he remained where they had placed him, in a delicate Queen Anne chair with a cushion so hard his bottom was beginning to ache. The walls appeared to be gilded, the floors were shining marble. Tapestries, no doubt purchased from some failing estate, hung from the walls in an incongruous and almost garish way, out of place and out of time. The daughter, Clara, wearing a gown more suited to a ball than a luncheon, looked like another bit of decoration.
He’d forgotten how lovely she was and had to admit she did stir his interest. She was lively and animated, her eyes sparkled with interest in whatever he said, but he couldn’t help thinking that it seemed more of a performance than genuine interest. Where that thought had come from, he had no idea. While his focus was seemingly on this Miss Anderson, he couldn’t help but wonder where the other Miss Anderson was.
A sound at the door drew his interest, but he was disappointed to see it was the butler there to announce that luncheon was ready. Where was she?
“I do hope you enjoy our modest fare,” Mrs. Anderson said, standing to lead the way into the dining room. She held a glass of wine in her hand, and Augustus suspected from her flushed cheeks that it was not her first. “I’m sure you’re used to much finer cuisine. I understand you have a French chef. Clara adores French food, don’t you, Clara?”
Clara brightened. “I do. I fear I like most foods and have a rather unladylike appetite. Especially for kidney pie, which is not French, I know, but I do love it.”
Augustus chuckled as he knew he was supposed to and said, “I must confess I also have a weakness for good kidney pie.”
“That’s not on the menu today,” Mrs. Anderson said with regret. “I do wish I had known, my lord.” He could almost see her making a mental note that her cook must make kidney pie if he should ever grace their home again.
“Nothing to worry about, Mrs. Anderson. I’m sure whatever your cook has prepared will be lovely. And the French chef is no longer at Costille House, I fear. He left in an uproar, something about my comment that his pot-au-feu not tasting as good as the fare at the local pub.”
Mrs. Anderson laughed uncertainly, and he guessed she had no idea what sort of dish pot-au-feu was.
“It’s a bit like our beef stew, Mother,” Clara said quietly, politely, and Mrs. Anderson flashed a quick look of irritation.
“Yes, I know, my dear. Please do sit at the head of the table, my lord, as our honored guest.”
The table, the word oddly emphasized as it came out of Mrs. Anderson’s mouth, was laden with heavy and brilliantly shining silver. It looked more like a silver shop than a dining table, and Augustus could only wonder what was the purpose of it all.
“I see you’re admiring our silver, my lord,” Mrs. Anderson said, her face beaming as she took her seat. “It’s La Mary.”
“Lamerie,” Clare said.
“As I said, La Mary. Very dear, but I simply could not help but add to our collection. And it does look so lovely on our Chippendale table, does it not? Mr. Anderson balked at the expense, but you must admit it is worth every penny. I could have nothing less for our home.”
“Very nice, Mrs. Anderson,” he said, and she smiled as if he’d paid her the most elaborate compliment. “I daresay your collection surpasses mine.”
Augustus sat at the head of the table as requested, and though Mr. Anderson looked slightly put out, he sat to the right of Augustus, with Mrs. Anderson sitting on his left. It felt damned awkward to be sitting at the head of the table in another man’s home, but Augustus remained silent as he suspected any protest on his part would only end with Mrs. Anderson insisting.
Once they were settled, Mrs. Anderson said, “Are you attending the little season, my lord? We shall and it would be wonderful to see a familiar face. We leave in just one week.”
“I have no plans to go to London, Mrs. Anderson. I fear renovations to my home are keeping me in St. Ives for the foreseeable future.” He made a show of looking around the room. “Do you not have another daughter?”
Mrs. Anderson’s face immediately turned red. “She’s…she’s…”
“Here I am, Mother! So sorry to be late. My deepest apologies, my lord.” Harriet entered the room as if blown in by the wind, then gave a quick curtsy, one his grandmother would have deemed almost insulting given his stature, though for some reason it made him want to smile. Indeed, he could smell the outdoors on her, and her hair was pulled back in an untidy bun that allowed a great many of her glorious curls to spring about her head. “Goodness, Mother, have you put out every piece of silver we own?”
Unlike her sister, who was dressed in an expensive gown of blue silk, Harriet wore the plain brown dress that told him she’d likely been at his home, working. His heart picked up a beat at the sight of her, much to his bafflement, but he supposed it couldn’t be helped when she breezed in with her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkling in mischief. If his suspicions were correct, Harriet had been completely unaware of this luncheon and had likely found out from one of the staff at Costille House. A look at her mother, who appeared unhappily surprised to see her younger daughter, confirmed this, and Augustus had to take a slow breath to stem the quick anger that shot through him at the thought of their slight. What sort of parent would invite an earl to luncheon and not tell one of her daughters?
Augustus immediately stood and sketched a quick bow in Harriet’s direction. “I’m so pleased you could join us, Miss Anderson,” he said.
“’arriet, you look like you’ve been on a stank, you do, and just look what you’re gettin’ on the planken,” Mrs. Anderson said, clearly vexed with her daughter.
Augustus was taken aback by Mrs. Anderson’s sudden and rather drastic slip into a strong Cornish dialect. As if realizing what she’d just said, the older woman stiffened. “I do apologize, my lord, but Harriet is in no condition to entertain a man of your stature. Harriet doesn’t seem to understand the niceties of society as Clara does. Go upstairs immediately, Harriet.” Mrs. Anderson wrinkled her nose. “What is that smell?”
“Horse manure,” Harriet said cheerfully and succinctly. Rather too cheerfully, now that he thought about it. There was a bit of a frenetic nature to her merriment, and Augustus gave her a careful look. Was she angry or hurt that her parents had neglected to tell her about the luncheon? And why not invite her? Did they fear she would distract him from Clara?
“Leave at once,” Hedra said, then smiled falsely at Augustus. “Again, my apologies.”
“Please, I insist Miss Harriet stay. In fact, I would be offended if she left,” he said silkily. He could tell Hedra wanted to argue, but she pressed her lips together and acquiesced to him.
Harriet gave her sister a wink and a grin, and sat down next to her mother across from Clara. It wasn’t until the first course of soup was served that Augustus noticed Harriet was trembling, whether from anger or from fear, he did not know. The urge to comfort her, to put her parents in their place, was just as disquieting. How dare these people treat their own daughter so shabbily?
“Miss Anderson,” Augustus said, looking at Harriet, “have we met before? You look quite familiar.”
Harriet stilled so quickly, it was as if someone had turned her to stone, and Augustus had to suppress a laugh. She looked, in one word, terrified to be the subject of conversation, and he knew she feared he would reveal her secret forays to his house. To her credit, she quickly recovered, perhaps before anyone else at the table noticed.
“I believe we met at that John Knill ball,” she said sedately. “Mr. Southwell introduced us.”
He pretended to search his memory. “Did he.”
“Indeed, yes, my lord.”
“That is the evening you also met Clara,” Mrs. Anderson said, and Augustus couldn’t help but notice the younger Miss Anderson seemed to shrink in her seat, as if she wished to disappear completely. All her bravado and cheerfulness dissolved before his eyes as she dipped her head to stare blankly at her soup. “What a wonderful night,” Hedra continued. “Clara was wearing her pink gown. You remember, Clara, the one from Paris from Mr. Worth. That was a right pretty ‘un, wasn’t it?” Turning to Augustus, she said, “He’s a very sought after dressmaker. I wouldn’t think of dressing Clara in anything but the best, even though it was very dear. Very dear.”
“Mother,” Clara said, clearly mortified that her mother would discuss money in front of guests and especially one so prominent as Lord Berkley.
“I am familiar with Mr. Worth,” Augustus said blandly, racking his brain for what Harriet had been wearing. Hell, he couldn’t recall even meeting her, never mind what she was wearing. “And what were you wearing, Miss Anderson?” Again, he directed his question to Harriet.
Harriet pressed her lovely lips together, drawing his eyes there to their soft, pink pillow, clearly trying not to smile. “I believe I was wearing the gown I have on now.”
“For goodness sakes, ’arriet, you did not wear that ugly gown to a ball,” Mrs. Anderson said. “Why on earth would you say such a thing? Tis ’ardly on.”
“To be amusing?” Harriet said, and Augustus thanked God her eyes twinkled with mirth. There she was, his Princess Catalina. “I am sorry, Mother. I was wearing one of Clara’s old gowns. It was yellow, I believe, a color that makes me look jaundiced.”
Clara burst out laughing. “It does,” she said, and the two sisters shared a fond look.
“You should wear blue to match your remarkable eyes,” Augustus said. Everyone looked at him as if he were daft, something he was actually beginning to wonder himself. Why would he say such a thing? Why would he even think such a thing?
“Harriet does have pretty eyes,” Mr. Anderson said gruffly.
The devil in him tempted Augustus to say more, but he remained silent. He did not believe Harriet’s parents would appreciate his waxing poetic about her pretty mouth, her magical curls, or her soft, full breasts. At least he imagined they were soft and full; it was difficult to tell what was underneath that ugly dress.
“What were we talking about?” Hedra asked no one in particular. “Ah, yes. The little season. Baron Longley has hinted he will sponsor dear Clara and we are so excited to have such an esteemed man take our daughter under his wing. St. Ives in the fall is such a dreary thing, don’t you agree, Lord Berkley?”
“Not at all, madam. I find St. Ives in any season more agreeable than London.”
“Oh, I agree,” she gushed, and Clara and Harriet shared a look between them that spoke volumes. “I suppose, then, the rumors are correct.”
“Rumors, madam?” he asked.
“Of a Christmas ball at Costille ’ouse,” Hedra said. The lady gave her older daughter a pointed look. “Is it true?”
Oh, hell. Augustus did not enjoy being put in an awkward position, and that was where he found himself. Clearly, Mrs. Anderson was looking for an invitation—one that would not be issued. “Indeed, I am holding a ball,” he said. “I fear it will not be nearly the crush that was the John Knill ball nor nearly as exciting as any entertainment in London. Just a small crowd of old family friends.” He prayed the woman would get the hint.
“It sounds lovely, doesn’t it, Clara?”
“Yes, Mother.”
“I understand the ball is being held in order for you to find a new bride?”
Clara and Harriet gave a collective gasp, almost as if they were bracing themselves for a blow. Really, the woman had absolutely no idea how forward she was being.
“Mother,” Clara said softly, “I do believe when Lord Berkley said the ball was for old family friends, he did not mean to include anyone from St. Ives. Except, perhaps, Lord Hubbard.”
Hedra made a great show of being taken aback. “I do apologize, Lord Berkley. I had no idea. Clara—”
“Mother, do stop,” Clara said rather sharply, then added a smile to lessen the impact of her tone.
“I was simply inquiring about an entertainment, Clara, one that we will regretfully not be able to attend as we will be in London,” Mrs. Anderson said with a sniff. “Otherwise, I would be happy to accept Lord Berkley’s invitation.” The older woman gave him a coy look, but Augustus could only smile blandly. He would not invite this woman, even had she been the daughter of the queen herself. Not after what she’d done to Harriet.
“Yes, unfortunate indeed. As far as my guest list, it is the fault of my grandmother, you see,” Augustus said, deciding to save the daughters from the older woman. “She is rather old fashioned and has devised the invitation list herself. I fear if I deviate from it at all, I will never hear the last of it.”
This seemed to placate the woman. “Of course. I’m sure it will be an invitation list right out of Debrett’s. How pleasant for you, I’m sure. I cannot even imagine how exciting it will be to have such lofty persons in our little town.”
* * * *
Harriet listened to her mother prattle on, mortified for herself, embarrassed for poor Clara. Her mother worked so very hard on her diction, but when she had one or two glasses of wine, more and more of her Cornish dialect crept in. It did not happen often, only when she was particularly nervous as she must be with Lord Berkley visiting, but when it did, Harriet found herself pitying her poor mother, who pretended so hard not to be who she was. The dialect was bad enough, but she prayed Lord Berkley didn’t hear the waspish undertones in her mother’s voice as she speculated about who would be on the invitation list and who would not.
“Certainly not Baron Longley. He’s sponsoring dear Clara for the little season, you know.”
“Yes, you mentioned him.”
“A mere baron would never be invited, I imagine. A pity. He’s a wonderful man, you know. Quite respected.”
Harriet dared a look at Lord Berkley and winced before studying her plate again. The man looked as if he was in pain and trying not to let on. Would her mother never be quiet?
“I’m certain he is. I have no idea who is on my grandmother’s list, other than, of course, Princess Catalina.”
Harriet lifted her head so quickly, it could hardly go unnoticed by her mother.
“You know who Princess Catalina is, ’arriet?” she asked.
“No, Mother. It is only that having a princess in St. Ives will be rather exciting, don’t you think?”
“Princess Catalina of Lystengrad. I have never met her myself, but my grandmother says she is all that is kind and has the face of an angel.”
Harriet stared at Lord Berkley and saw his lips twitch upward. “What does an angel look like?” she asked.
He slowly turned his head to study her and Harriet felt her entire body heat in such an unexpected way, she nearly let out a small sound. She shifted in her seat, unused to the oddly pleasant feeling that flooded her.
“I imagine she would have lush, pink lips and golden hair and eyes the color of St. Ives Bay on a summer’s day.”
“Then like Clara,” her mother said loudly. “Just like my Clara.”
Harriet, whose cheeks had burned in desire a moment ago, now burned with humiliation. Could her mother never say one kind thing to her?
“Yes, of course,” Lord Berkley said dismissively. “But as I said, I’ve never seen the girl—if she is even a girl. She could be an old cow for all I know.”
“But such a lovely name for a cow,” Harriet’s father said, producing laughter from everyone.
And Harriet couldn’t help think that she was more cow than princess at the moment in her drab, brown dress with her hair a frizzed mess. But on the night of the ball, she would be that woman Lord Berkley described, that kind girl with the face of an angel. Princess Catalina.
The next day, Harriet entered the gallery on a mission to place the paintings in their proper place, and paused. A large painting of a lovely woman with snapping green eyes and a Mona Lisa smile was set apart from the others. Curious, she walked to the painting to examine the brass plate attached to the ornate frame and let out a small gasp. Lady Greenwich. So, this was what she looked like. It was difficult to believe such a pretty, vibrant-looking woman was dead. Harriet stared for a long moment at her, feeling an odd affinity with her. She bit her lip, wondering whether his lordship would want the painting hung; it had not been one of the original pieces of artwork that had been in the gallery. With a small shrug, she left the painting alone and turned her attention to the other artwork that had been placed haphazardly on the walls and tried to recall where each one went. Lord Berkley entered the room, whistling a tune she’d never before heard.
“What song is that?”
“It’s an American song. ‘Camptown Races.’” He walked toward her with a decided bounce in his step, then stopped suddenly, his eyes riveted on the portrait of his late wife. “What is that doing in here?” He stared at the painting, his eyes filled with a mix of anger and despair.
“It was in here when I arrived,” Harriet said, going over to the painting and turning it toward the wall. She should have done so immediately, she realized. “I’m not really certain why it was put with the rest of the paintings.”
“It was in the attic. I put it there myself,” he said.
“Of course. I had one of the workers look to see if anything had been stored there. I couldn’t find an urn that I recalled stood by the fireplace and thought it might be there as it was not in the barn. He must have seen it and brought it down.” Harriet worried her hands together and looked cautiously at Lord Berkley, hoping she hadn’t angered him.
“It’s of no consequence,” he said with a smile that seemed forced. “I would simply rather not have her portrait hanging in a gallery of hunting scenes.”
The portrait summarily forgotten, he stood beside her and stared at the wall where the other paintings would hang. Though he stood a few feet from her, Harriet was painfully aware of him, almost as if she could feel his warmth from where she stood. Which was entirely impossible. “I want to apologize.”
Surprised, she looked over at him. “Whatever for?”
“I’m not certain,” he said, with almost boyish hesitancy. “I somehow feel to blame for yesterday.”
“Oh, no, my lord. Please do not,” she said, stepping before him. “I should apologize to you. I knew my mother did not want me there and I suppose I had a bit of the devil in me when I found out you had been invited to luncheon and no one bothered to tell me.” For just a moment, she got lost in his dark blue eyes, in the heady way he was looking at her.
He gave her the oddest smile, right before he kissed her, softly, softly, a devastating meeting of their lips. Before she could react, could fully understand that Lord Berkley was kissing her, it was over. He stepped away, his arms clasped behind his back, his expression unreadable. “I am sorry,” he said, then quickly added, “Not for that. Not the kiss. I would never be sorry for that. But for what you went through yesterday, what you have gone through your entire life.”
Harriet was speechless. She stood there, close enough to touch him if she was so brave, and looked up at him mutely, all words escaping her. Lord Berkley kissed me. When he reached out one hand and laid a gentle finger on the cushion of her bottom lip, she stood, entranced, frozen, and wishing with all her being she had the courage to say something.
“I knew they would be that soft,” he said distractedly.
The idea that he’d thought about her lips at all was a wonder, and that he was touching her… He needed to stop. He needed to stop making her feel as if she were falling. His eyes on her bottom lip, he pressed his finger slightly, and she resisted the urge to taste him. What would he do if she did? Recoil? Or would his eyes flare with desire?
“Excuse me, my lord.” Mr. Billings stood in the doorway and seemed to be staring intently at the back of Lady Greenwich’s portrait, the oddest expression on his face.
But for the smallest flicker in his eyes, Lord Berkley did not react to having been discovered in such a compromising position with his hired help. The tip of his index finger still rested gently upon her lip.
“I think your lip did not sustain a great injury,” he said, withdrawing his finger finally.
“Oh. Oh, good.” Thinking to go along with the ruse, she licked her lower lip, and when she did, Lord Berkley let out a small, odd sound.
“Injured, were you?” Mr. Billings said with concern as he walked over to them.
“It is nothing to worry about. I was about to hang a painting in its proper place and somehow hit the frame against my mouth. There wasn’t even any blood,” she said, relieved beyond measure that Mr. Billings believed her. The very last thing she needed was for him to come to her defense, or worse, tell tales to the other men.
“If you need help, Miss Anderson, you need only ask,” Mr. Billings said with a hint of chastisement and another long look at the portrait, making Harriet wonder if he thought that was the painting she’d injured herself on. Perhaps Mr. Billings was a superstitious man.
“I know. Hanging pictures is simple enough. I was only being clumsy.” Harriet was beginning to feel a bit guilty about lying to this good man. For all his gruffness, Mr. Billings treated her with respect and insisted his men do the same.
“If it makes you feel any better, Mr. Billings, I will supervise Miss Anderson to make certain she does not injure herself again,” Lord Berkley said. “What was it that you came here to tell me?”
“The staircase, my lord. It is completed.”
“Now that is excellent news, sir. Excellent. Shall we go and take a look?” he asked, turning to her.
All three departed the room, but not before Lord Berkley turned and gave her a wink, the devil. How could Harriet ever be in a room alone with him now without thinking he might try to kiss her? She ought to make it clear that any more kissing was completely out of the question. She ought to, but she knew in her heart she would not. What sort of a woman did that make her? At that moment, Harriet could only think it made her a woman who rather liked to be kissed.
Or rather, who liked to be kissed by Lord Berkley.
On her instruction, Mr. Billings had covered the lions each day so that Lord Berkley would not see the work in progress until all was perfect. When they arrived at the staircase, the tarp was in place. With a flourish and a grin, Mr. Billings pulled the tarp from the lions and Lord Berkley let out a small cheer.
The lions who guarded the staircase were in their full glory, having been scrubbed clean by the workers. What marvelous fellows they were. The grand staircase was shaped in an upside-down Y with each side being guarded by one of the stately creatures. In the middle, on a raised marble platform, sat the largest of the three, his massive paw on a golden globe, polished to a sheen. It was lovely to see them back in their proper places rather than covered with refuse in an old barn. One could almost imagine the great roar they could let out.
“Well done, sir.” Lord Berkley leapt up onto the platform with surprising grace for a man of his height and patted the head of the center lion. “It’s good to have you back, old chap,” he said fondly, making Harriet laugh aloud. The earl looked around the entrance to his home and nodded. “She’s nearly back, Mr. Billings. Please tell your men to take the rest of the afternoon off. Well deserved.”
Mr. Billings grinned and dipped his head. “Yes sir. Thank you, sir.”
“But be back tomorrow, bright and early,” Harriet called to Mr. Billings’ departing back. “We still have much to do.”
When he was gone, Harriet stood at the base of the stairs awkwardly. “I shall go as well,” she said, and nearly winced when it came out as more of a question. She didn’t want to leave, she realized. Truly, she wanted to stare at Lord Berkley like some moonstruck girl. Warning bells in her head rang so loudly she could hardly hear.
“What about the paintings?” Lord Berkley said. Was it her imagination or did his voice sound gruffer than usual? I ought to leave. Now. Leave. Run and never come back.
“Of course. I nearly forgot.” She stood there, her foolish heart beating in her chest, as she looked up at Lord Berkley, standing on the platform and looking so completely…lordly. While she stood below him in her plain brown dress looking so completely common.
“I shall assist you,” he said easily, and jumped down, landing perhaps two feet from where she stood, close enough so she thought he must hear her heart beating madly in her chest.
“I’m certain I can manage,” she said with a sidelong glance.
“I won’t hear of it; some of those frames are quite heavy,” he said easily. “Why, what if you injure yourself again?”
It was on the tip of her tongue to remind him that she hadn’t been injured, that it had been a ruse, when she stopped. He was teasing her, she realized, and for some reason that made her heart beat even faster. Was he hinting that she might be “injured” again? Oh, she really should fetch her coat and run off home.
One thing stopped her—the thought that something like this would never happen again in her life. Indeed, she’d lived twenty-two years and had never been kissed. Chances were quite good that she would never be kissed again. Unless, that is, she allowed this magnificently handsome, completely inappropriate man do so.
Truly, she could hardly wait.
When they reached the gallery, Harriet made a great show of studying the paintings and then closed her eyes as if in deep concentration. For the first time in memory, the images that made it so easy to recall every small detail had vanished. In their place was the way Lord Berkley had looked just as he was about to kiss her, the way his firm mouth had felt against hers, the smoldering glance he gave her when he pulled away. The feel of his finger against the pillow of her bottom lip.
Paintings and where they should be placed were the farthest things from her mind.
“I think this goes here,” he said, and Harriet opened her eyes, deeply disappointed to see Lord Berkley several feet away holding a painting of a hunt in his hands. She’d thought he might have taken advantage of her closed eyes to perhaps sneak another kiss. It occurred to her that perhaps he truly only wanted to help with the paintings, that having assuaged his curiosity, he might never kiss her again. She ought to be relieved, but instead fought down a sharp stab of disappointment. As kisses went, she supposed, it hadn’t been a particularly passionate one and it was quite possible Lord Berkley had not been stirred in the least. Why should he?
“No,” Harriet said. “It goes one over to the right, and that painting should be placed there.”
He did as she directed, leaving one of the paintings askew, so Harriet stepped in to adjust it, only to find a large, steely arm wrapped around her waist until she was pressed against his hard body.
“Shall I let you go?” he asked, speaking close to her ear and making her entire body feel as though it were melting. She took a breath to answer, but he interrupted her. “Don’t answer. Don’t. Don’t be that country miss who wishes for something but runs when that very thing is presented to her.”
“Are you speaking from experience?” Harriet asked, stiffening slightly in his arms.
“Not at all. But I’ve read books where this sort of thing happens all the time.” He breathed in deeply. “You smell like sunshine.”
“Sunshine does not smell, as you know very well.” He chuckled, and she could feel the deep vibrations against her back. “I know I should be that country miss who runs away,” she said, trying to ignore how delicious it felt to be held in a man’s arms. Never in her life had she felt wicked and wanton, but at this moment, standing in the gallery with a strong male arm wrapped around her, she did. “But I am not that country miss. Not today, at any rate.”
“Mmmm,” he said, pressing his mouth against her neck. “Good.”
He sounded so pleased, alarm bells started ringing in her head, too loud to be ignored. “That does not mean, however, that I will allow you liberties beyond…” She stopped because she truly didn’t know what those liberties might be. As it was, the fact she was standing there, pressing her backside against his front, was more liberty than she would have thought she would have allowed only one hour ago. Something happened to her when she was with him, as if another woman entirely took over her body. She noticed things like the sharp line of his jaw, the way his beard stubble had flecks of red and gold hidden within the mahogany, how broad his shoulders were, the way he looked so handsome even from behind. These were the things that caused her entire body to heat, that made her wonder if she were far more common than she’d even believed herself to be. Money does not make one a member of the aristocracy; she knew that well. Apparently, even the best finishing schools could not remove her baser side.
“Beyond?” he prompted.
“Beyond this.”
He laughed again. “My dear, this is not even a liberty. Well, perhaps a small liberty. This,” he said, spinning her around in his arms so that she was facing him, “is a liberty.”
With that, he kissed her in a way she couldn’t have imagined. He moved his mouth as if tasting her, letting out a small masculine sound of satisfaction when she couldn’t help but respond. One large hand rested on her jawline, the other hand lay firmly on the small of her back, so firmly she became shockingly aware of an odd ridge of hardness just below the waist of his trousers.
Oh, she thought, his…man part. And then another thought, one that was perhaps even more shocking: he was aroused. By her. By plain Harriet of the straw-like hair. Except at that moment, molded against his hard body, tasting his lips against hers, she did not feel at all like plain Harriet. She felt like Catalina.
“Let me taste you,” he said, and he applied a gentle pressure near her mouth while pressing his tongue against the seam of her lips. A low moan escaped him when she did as he asked. He swept his tongue into her mouth in such a carnal way, Harriet’s knees buckled and his grip around her waist tightened just enough to keep her upright. Before she knew what was happening, he’d pressed her up against the wall, not ungently, and Harriet cried out.
“I’m sorry,” he said, pulling his head back to look at her, his eyes nearly black with passion.
“Sorry?” Harriet was so muddled, she had no idea what he was apologizing for. She was certain he was not apologizing for kissing her.
“For hurting you.”
“Oh.” Yes, she had cried out, but it was not from pain—it had been pure animal excitement and the thrill of knowing she had somehow incited such passion in him that he’d quite forgotten himself. “I was not hurt, just startled.” Just pleased. Her voice sounded oddly breathy.
“There is something about you. I do not make a habit of accosting women,” he said, sounding almost angry.
“I have been known to incite excitement in men.” It was a lie, and so blatant, she actually thought he might get the joke.
Instead, he let out a sound that could only be described as a growl. “What men?”
“Leagues of them.” She let out a giggle. “You silly man. This is the first time, I believe, a man has ever wanted to kiss me, never mind done the deed.”
“Your first kiss?” Something undefinable flickered in his eyes but was gone in an instant. “Silly, am I?”
She nodded, grinning widely, keenly aware that this sort of flirtation and banter was so foreign to her, she wondered if she were doing it right.
He placed his hands around her waist and leaned in toward her with his hips, pressing his manhood against the apex of her thighs. Harriet couldn’t begin to stifle her sharp intake of breath at the motion, at the sensations it brought.
“Am I frightening you?”
“I think I’m frightening myself,” she said with a small laugh.
Her response seemed to please him, for he bent his head and took her mouth in another long, searing kiss. Too much was happening for Harriet to process it all. Her breasts ached strangely and between her thighs was an entirely different ache, a need to be touched. A need for him to touch her. So very, very dangerous, these feelings he was evoking in her, but she couldn’t help letting out a sound of pure pleasure. The sound was still dying on her lips when he brought one hand up to cup a breast, kneading, running a strong thumb over its peak, and producing an almost unbearable sensation.
He dragged his mouth from hers and kissed her neck. All she could do was tilt her jaw so that he could proceed as he wished, as she wished. All the while, her hands were fisted by her sides, as if she were ready to strike him. In truth, she didn’t know what to do with her hands, whether she should wrap them around his neck or his waist. Finally, he brought his hands slowly down her arms and grasped her wrists, then brought her hands around his neck. A small groan came from deep in his throat as she unfurled her hands and buried her fingers in his thick, silky hair and she thought she heard him mutter, “Yes.”
Never in her life had she touched a man’s hair, reveled in its softness, felt a man’s arousal against her or even wondered what it might feel like. Now that she knew, she was ruined in so many ways that had nothing to do with her own abandoned morals. Had anyone asked her yesterday or even this morning if she would be allowing a man to kiss her, touch her breasts, press himself against her, she would have blushed and adamantly denied that she would do any such thing. The types of caresses he was giving her were meant for a wife.
Not an employee.
Not an innocent woman who had been brought up to strictly obey the mores of society. She wondered if he would have taken such liberties with the daughter of a peer. Or did he do so only because she was a nobody? Oh, God, what am I doing?
Harriet brought her hands to his shoulders and pressed him back, feeling absolutely no give, as if she were pushing against a large, warm boulder. “My lord,” she said, squeezing her eyes shut. “Please stop.”
Instantly, he removed his hot mouth from her neck, dropped his arms, and stepped back. And when he did, Harriet stumbled, unaware of how weak at the knees she’d become. “All right. I have stopped.” He looked at her with a mixture of curiosity and annoyance. Did he think she would have allowed him to continue his caresses? What sort of girl did he think she was? Of course, the answer was obvious to Harriet, much to her shame. He thought she was the sort of girl who behaved as she’d been acting. The sort who allowed a man to do what she’d allowed him to do.
“I fear I enjoyed your kisses too much,” she said with a small laugh. “And it is wrong, of both of us.”
“Wrong?”
She gave him a look of exasperation. “Yes, wrong, as you well know. I am your employee, sir. Nothing more.”
Lord Berkley seemed to chew on that for a bit, clenching and unclenching his jaw. “You are correct, of course.” He shook his head as if shaking his thoughts away, then stared at her with frightening intensity. “I suppose you would be insulted if I offered you a home.”
“A home?” she asked cautiously, for one crazy moment thinking he was proposing to her.
“A home where I might visit you. Daily.” Harriet might have been a sheltered girl, but even she knew what he was hinting at. He actually seemed to think she might consider such an arrangement, and for the tiniest space of time, she pictured herself there, in some house, waiting for him to visit her. That vision lasted perhaps the space of two breaths before she came to her senses.
Another woman might have slapped him in anger. Harriet laughed.
Her laughter apparently did not sit well with his lordship, and he seemed quite put out. “It’s not an unreasonable suggestion. You have no prospects and this way you would have your own home; you could have all the pretty gowns you wanted.”
“Don’t forget, I would have you,” Harriet said, trying—and failing—not to laugh again.
“And that amuses you?”
Pressing her hand against her mouth to keep her mirth inside, Harriet could only nod.
“I fail to see what is so amusing,” he said with no small amount of exasperation.
“I am not laughing at you, sir. I am laughing at myself.” To actually have thought Lord Berkley would propose to her was worse than her mother thinking they would gain entrance to exclusive balls during the little season. “I thought…I actually thought…” She couldn’t finish, for the laughter bubbled up again.
“That I was proposing?” he asked, with surprise.
Harriet should have been insulted by the look on his face that told her how very absurd it was to have believed he was asking for her hand in marriage. But even though Harriet was a hopeless romantic, she was aware how ridiculous it would be to think an earl—an earl—would propose to Harriet Anderson, daughter of a tin miner. Still, she had her pride. “Is it so horrifying, my lord?”
Lord Berkley carefully shuttered his expression, something Harriet had never seen him do before. It was a completely aristocratic look he was giving her at the moment, and that, more than anything, told Harriet where she stood.
“You will not kiss me again, my lord. Such advances from nobility have a way of giving simple commoners lofty ambitions.”
“There is nothing simple, nor common, about you, Miss Anderson,” he said, his tone tinged with an anger she did not understand. “I suppose you expect an apology for insulting you.”
Harriet shook her head, suddenly feeling hot tears press against her eyes. “Not at all, sir. Shall I apologize for giving you the wrong impression of me?”
That seemed to surprise him, and a sharp line formed between his brows. “Of course not,” he snapped. “I knew you were an innocent, at least I suspected it. Clearly you have no experience kissing—”
“Oh!”
“I meant no insult.” He swore beneath his breath. “You kiss damn well for a girl who had never been kissed. Damn well.” This last was said softly, as if he were recalling the kiss they’d just shared. His eyes went to her mouth, and just like that, Harriet felt herself being drawn to him as if he were some sort of siren.
“I should go, my lord,” she said, even as too large a part of her heart wanted him to ask her to stay. What was wrong with her?
“Yes, I suppose that is best. I fear where you are concerned, it is difficult for me to be honorable.”
Harriet couldn’t help but smile, for it was rather a grand compliment coming from a man as handsome and loftily positioned as the Earl of Berkley. She was grateful for this exchange. If nothing else, it drove all those silly, romantic notions that Lord Berkley would fall madly in love with her out of her head. She must set all her sights on that ten thousand pounds; that’s what her dreams should be, of her independent life, of her perfect little cottage.
“I will complete this work tomorrow. It will soon be dark.”
She walked past him, feeling awkward and unable to look in his direction. “Miss Anderson.” Just at the door, she stopped and turned. He was still facing the wall of paintings, standing still, as if he found the wall particularly interesting. “You will still be my Princess Catalina, will you not?”
Harriet smiled, even as her heart gave a small lurch. “Of course, my lord. Good night.”
* * * *
When he was certain Miss Anderson was gone, Augustus let out the foulest curse he could think of. What a royal ass he was on all counts. He never should have kissed her, and then, to make matters worse, he’d actually insulted one of the nicest women he’d ever met by suggesting she could become his mistress. What the devil was wrong with him?
He strode out of the room and into his study, heading directly to a crystal decanter of fine French brandy. Pouring a fingerful, he downed the drink in one swallow, then placed the snifter down with an audible clink. The liquor burned down his throat. Shame coursed through him, and it was an uncomfortable and foreign feeling. He had not thought he was the sort of man who would take advantage of an innocent girl, never mind a girl who was in his employ. It was the strangest thing, his attraction to her, and he couldn’t explain it. Yet every time he saw her, spoke with her, all he could think of was touching her.
Letting out a groan, he leaned against the side table, elbows locked, head down, and wondered how he could keep himself from lusting after her. Catalina. God, it was as if when he’d given her that moniker, she became the lovely, exotic creature of his imagination. In reality, she hadn’t changed a bit, other than allowed her glorious hair to curl. She was still the same skinny, shapeless, plain girl in an ugly dress who he’d met in the tea shop. Why was it, then, when he looked at her he saw something completely different? A girl who shone with a brilliance that was undefinable? A girl whose every smile and gaze made him want her?
Even now, long minutes after she’d departed his house, he ached for her.
“Sir, will you be eating in this evening?”
Augustus straightened to find his butler standing at the door pretending not to be concerned to see his master in such a despondent pose. “No, Mr. Pearson, I shall go into the village, I think.”
“Very well, sir.” His butler made to leave, then hesitated a moment before departing, perhaps sensing all was not well.
“I need a wife,” Augustus muttered.
“Indeed, sir,” Mr. Pearson said, before leaving the room.
Being alone every evening was making him do and think impossible things. He would have to apologize again to Miss Anderson, claim he’d gone temporarily insane. She seemed to be a forgiving sort. She hadn’t slapped him or stormed off as most women would have done.
She’d laughed.
Just thinking about that laughter, loud and unchecked, made him smile. Then he sobered, remembering precisely why she’d laughed—because she hadn’t realized he’d been asking her to be his mistress. She’d thought he’d been asking her to be his wife.