Anita Mills (5 page)

She released her claws, but rather than relinquishing her place, simply rolled over belly-up and stretched coquettishly, much as he’d seen more than one woman do in bed.

“Heloise, huh? You have about as much claim to beauty as a London urchin, you know.” But his hand inadvertently crept to touch the softness of her long, fluffy fur. “Just do not be forgetting that I dislike cats intensely. And do not be thinking you are going anywhere but the cellars at Richlands.”

To which Heloise responded by bathing his hand with an incredibly rough tongue.

It was almost two months before Richard wrote again, this time to tell Harriet that Two Harry’s progress was such that he was planning to begin the circuit at Newmarket, testing the colt in the overnight races before trying for the bigger purses. In the meantime, he was taking the opportunity of running against any and all of his Sussex neighbors foolish enough to bet against Two Harry. So far, he’d collected well over her thousand pounds in winnings, and would send her half wherever she wished, but he suspected her bank in London would be best. Would she advise if that were satisfactory? Oh, and if everything went as planned, he meant to bring the horse to Rowe’s Hill when he came to seek final settlement of his father’s estate from Sir John. It was, after all, not all that far from Newmarket itself, and he meant to come just before Opening Day. They could discuss further how she wished the accounting of future winnings then.

She had to suppress a smile, for it was obvious that he never truly considered that Two Harry could lose, while she was enough of a pragmatist to expect he would—at least some of the time. After all, their horse was still, for the most part, an untried two-year-old. In the chill March dampness of her chamber, she drew her coverlet about her, settled back against the pillows of her bed, and continued reading.

But it was obvious that the coming racing season was never far from his thoughts even in a letter. He’d finished by enclosing two pieces of rose and dark green satin, saying he hoped she approved their colors, and then had signed himself “Your affectionate cousin, Richard Standen.” A boldly scrawled postscript added, “And I take leave to tell you that not one of the creatures you have foisted on me is the least mouser.” The telltale smudge of a partial pawprint graced the outside of the envelope.

She laid the letter aside, sighing. While she was gratified that her cat and kittens were safely ensconced at Richlands, she nonetheless missed them terribly. And she wished—oh, how she wished—that she could see Two Harry. To her, Richard’s life seemed to be the epitome of all that was fashionable and exciting, whilst her own was exceedingly dull and empty.

A sharp rap at her chamber door brought her up from her self-pity, and she barely had time to retrieve Richard’s letter and slip it under her pillows before Hannah entered the room. For once, her stepmama was wearing a rare smile, but Harriet nonetheless was wary.

“So you have heard from that scapegrace nephew of mine again, have you?”

“Richard? Yes.” Then, fearing to be questioned at length as to the nature of the letter, Harriet hastened to add, “He did but write to tell me of the cats, after all. ’Twould seem he has some affection for them.”

“Nonsense. ’Tis a Banbury tale if he wrote it, for ’tis only you who are silly over the dirty little beasts. Ten to one, he has them in the barn and stables where they belong.” Hannah, about to launch once again into a tirade against what she considered her stepdaughter’s weakness, caught herself and managed to smile yet again. “Well, ’tis of no matter anyway, for they are gone from here. And I have news of far greater import, I am sure.” She paused, waiting for Harriet to respond. And when the younger woman did not, she announced in triumph, “ ’Tis all but settled between Mr. Thornton and your papa, my dear—a summer wedding, I believe—and I am taking you all the way to Norwich for the ordering of your brideclothes. I would not have it said we behaved shabbily to you on your marriage, after all, and—”

“I have no wish to wed Edwin Thornton,” Harriet cut in tiredly. “Indeed, I shall not.”

The curve of Hannah’s forced smile flattened as she drew her mouth into a thin, disapproving line. “Nonsense,” she dismissed simply.

“I will not.”

“It is your dear papa’s express wish to see you settled, after all, and—”

“And Edwin and I should not suit.”

“Nonetheless, you will accept his generous offer, Harriet,” Hannah stated coldly, all pleasantness now gone from her face. “He settles five hundred pounds on you, which is commendable, given that you are twenty-four years of age and past the bloom of your youth. And he is possessed of a large, commodious house, of which you shall be mistress.”

“But I dislike Edwin Thornton! He is naught that I would have for a husband—can you and Papa not see that?”

“We can see an undutiful daughter, miss!” Hannah retorted. “You will accept your papa’s choice for you, and that is that!”

A summer wedding. A summer wedding to a man she detested and could not love. Richard Standen’s words echoed in Harriet’s ears.
Harry, no matter what they do to you, do not let Aunt Hannah or Uncle John force you into a marriage with Thornton.
But despite her brave words to the contrary, she was by no means certain that she had the strength to defy them. Indeed, she had no illusions that her refusal would not be greeted by reprisals from the both of them. And Hannah Rowe could be calculatingly vicious when crossed.

Never. Never. She wanted to cry out that she’d never care for the likes of a man like Edwin Thornton, but the words would not come. Her mind groped for the means to refuse his suit without completely angering Hannah.

“Well, miss—is aught wrong with your tongue? Or have you been attending what I’ve said at all?” her stepmama demanded, her patience now at an end. “Answer me!”

“ ’Tis so sudden. I—”

“Sudden! Four years! Four years, missy—and you would deem it sudden? For four years Edwin Thornton has tried to fix his interest with you, and you’ve done naught but dissemble where he is concerned! Well, there’s an end to it, and ’tis now!”

Harriet’s worst fear had come to pass, cornering her. She felt suddenly sick, but her mind still sought the means of avoiding the marriage. Time. Time—that was it; she needed time to escape. And if she appeared to set her will against Hannah’s, there’d be no time. Indeed, she had not a doubt that if her stepmama had her way, she’d be wed by special license that very day. Her dark eyes brimming with welling tears, her chin quavering despite the fact that she bit her lip to maintain her composure, she somehow managed to nod.

“ ’Tis better, miss!” Hannah snapped. And then with the triumph came a slight softening, prompting her to reach a hand to Harriet’s shoulder. “Come, there will be a day when you will thank me for this—a day when you are mistress of your own home.” She gave the younger woman a brief, awkward pat before turning to leave. “You must make a list of what you will need.”

“When … when is the wedding?” Harriet choked out.

“As to that, I should expect the banns to be cried and a decent interval to pass so as to assure everyone that all is as it ought to be. A hasty marriage for one your age would be certain to cause undue comment.” Turning briefly back to her stepdaughter, Hannah added, “I should think it July or August even, but that is between your papa and Mr. Thornton.” And as she looked back at the bed, she caught sight of the two splashes of color spilling from beneath the coverlet. “What is that?” she demanded.

Harriet’s fingers closed over the swatches of satin, drawing them out. “Oh … d-did I not tell you? Sherborne has bought his racehorse, and he s-sends me samples of his colors. They are quite p-pretty, do you not think?”

“Humph! A racehorse! ’Tis as your papa says, I fear: within a twelvemonth, Sherborne will have run through the Standen fortune”—Hannah sniffed—”squandered in gaming and on his bits of fluff, I am sure. According to Mrs. March, when she was in London last, his pursuit of an opera dancer was the
on-dit
—not to mention the crim. con. about Lady Buckhampton!” She caught herself, sniffing again. “But I am sure that whatever he does cannot reflect on the Belfords, after all, but will be remarked to the Standen side of his nature.”

“Cousin Richard would not—”

“Shows what you would know of such things, missy! Even if he is my nephew, he is a Standen also—and they are as like as peas in a pod! And with his looks and now his fortune, you can be sure that all manner of opera dancers are casting out lures to him!”

With that emphatic pronouncement, Hannah left, closing the door behind her, leaving Harriet to sort out her unhappy thoughts. And while she did not entirely doubt what her stepmama had said about Richard, she found it difficult to reconcile her image of him with that of a heartless rake. But she had more pressing problems just now, she reminded herself severely. She could not, she would not wed Edwin Thornton—she’d rather be disgraced than married to such a pompous clod-pole.

Slowly a desperate plan evolved in her mind. She’d write to Plimly immediately, begging to come to her and her sister at Bath. She’d have to think of an excuse—an invitation to the wedding, perhaps —else she could not be certain that Hannah would allow a letter to be sent. The lowering thought that life with two quite elderly, dithery old women might prove tedious crossed her mind and was quickly replaced by the realization that nothing could be worse than her lot at Rowe’s Hill.

Her greatest fear outside of discovery was that perhaps something might have changed, that perhaps Plimly might no longer want her to come. And if that should be the case, she was in the basket indeed. In her mind’s eye she could see what life with Edwin would be. She’d never want for anything, ’twas true, but then, she’d never be allowed another thought of her own either. And while her knowledge of the intimacies required of the married state was sketchy at best, somehow she could not imagine allowing him to touch her person. A shudder of distaste traveled the length of her spine, sending a wave of nausea through her. No, Edwin Thornton was not what she wanted in a husband.

For a brief moment she looked down at the scraps of satin still in her hand and dared to dream. No, if she were to wed at all, she should like to have a man like Richard Standen. The image of the handsome viscount floated to mind, blotting out that of the stolid Mr. Thornton. Now, there was the man of girlish dreams, if ever there was one. His bright blue eyes sparkled with mischief and laughter, his dark hair curled boyishly, framing quite the best face of her memory, while his broad shoulders gave him a masculinity that Edwin somehow lacked despite a certain thickness there. But it was Richard himself rather than his looks that truly drew her to him. He might be all that Hannah said of him, but to her he’d always been kindness itself. From childhood, he’d teased gently, listened willingly, and acted as her friend. But Hannah’s words, recalled now, somehow stabbed at her heart.

With his looks and now his fortune, you can be sure that all manner of opera dancers are casting out lures to him!
And as the pain grew with the realization that it was probably true, Harriet admitted to herself for the first time why it hurt so much. She loved Richard Standen—and had since she’d been the little girl in the torn dress. She’d loved him from the moment he turned back that day, risking his own life and limbs to save her from her papa’s bull. She drew her legs up under the coverlet and hugged them, savoring the newness of discovered love. For a time she allowed herself the luxury of remembering the scrapes, the kindnesses offered a skinny little girl, the smiles, the shared amusements of fourteen years past.

But the discovery was soon followed by despair, and her spirits plummeted. If there were any certainty in this life, it was that Richard Standen did not share her regard—oh, he liked her well enough as a step-cousin, but as for his kindnesses to her, they were more in the nature of friendship, or perhaps even pity for her circumstances. And his ready smile was probably bestowed on everyone—indeed, it was much of his charm that he was not high in the instep in the least. No, while he liked her well enough, he cherished not the least passion for her. And she was certainly neither accomplished enough nor pretty enough to ever expect anything else.

But she could not marry Edwin Thornton. Reluctantly she turned her thoughts once again to the problem at hand. Throwing back the covers, she rose to fetch the small writing desk she’d received from the Misses March one Christmas, and sitting on the side of her bed, she composed a letter to Miss Plimly and her sister. They were, she sighed to herself, her best hope. She’d take her remaining thousand pounds and flee to them if all else failed. Actually, her fifteen hundred pounds, for she had Two Harry’s first winnings also.

As she finished writing, she could hear voices from downstairs. Her fingers blue from the cold, she chafed them over the candle used to heat the wax for the seal and listened as her papa bombastically informed the newly arrived Mr. Thornton that his daughter would be pleased to accept his offer. Let them think what they would, she muttered to herself. Let them discover that a reluctant betrothal was not a marriage. She ought to feel guilty for misleading Edwin Thornton, she supposed, but as she thought of his overweening conceit again, she felt justified in what she’d done. She’d bought herself several months of peace in which to plot her escape, and escape she would.

All too soon she heard her father call upstairs, bawling out to her, “Harriet! Harriet! Come down this instant, I tell you! You have a caller of import!”

With a sigh, she slid off the bed, and without bothering to smooth the wrinkles from her faded blue gown, she muttered under her breath, “I am coming, Papa.” Squaring her shoulders resolutely, she opened her door and stepped out into the hallway, hoping fervently that Edwin Thornton would not expect to kiss her.