How to Treat a Lady (17 page)

“Yes, but…you'd think I'd remember something. Anything.” He looked at the sky, and knit his brow, trying his hardest to look bemused and sad. “I certainly wish I could.”

“There, Captain.” She placed her hand on his arm and looked earnestly at him. “I've no doubt that one day your entire memory will pop right back into your head.”

If he was a good actor, then she was a splendid actress. But he was up to the challenge. He placed one of his hands over hers and leaned down to gaze into her eyes. “What surprises me the most is that I do not, at least, remember you.”

She tried to remove her hand, but he wouldn't allow it.

He further pinned his quarry with a smile. “Of all the things a man should never forget, the woman he
loves is foremost. He would remember a number of things beyond her name. The curve of her cheek. The feel of her lips on his. The taste of her.”

Her gaze dropped down to rest on the tips of her shoes. “Ah. Yes. Well.”

Chase nodded as if thinking. “I wonder…” He waited.

She lifted her gaze, her color still high. “What?”

He stepped forward, closing the space between them. She stood before him, her head barely reaching his shoulder. She was a tiny thing, all bone and brown hair.

But her eyes…they saved her from plainness and more. Wide and finely shaped, fringed with thick black lashes, they shone with intelligence, brimmed with irritation, and flashed with humor.

In the brief time he'd known her, he'd seen all that and more.

Chase glanced at the others, but they were on the opposite side of the field, fixing the fence. Smiling down at her, he lifted his hand and brushed it down her cheek. Her skin slid silky smooth beneath his, and a tingle of awareness shot through him like lightning across water.

Chase almost pulled back his hand. He knew the feeling of attraction, of heated lust that precluded every chase. But this…this was something more.

Suddenly, he no longer wished to kiss her just to tease her. The kiss would be for him, to put to rest this irritating attraction he felt. “Tell me something, Harriet. Tell me something about you.” He lingered over her name, tasting it thoroughly.

From beneath the brim of her hat, her face flushed a shade darker. “What do you want to know?”

“How intimate were we?”

She swallowed, the line of her throat surprisingly graceful. “I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Captain. Indeed, I hope you aren't—”

“John. Strange that not even my name rings with any resonance.”

Her gaze flickered, her brown eyes uncertain, though she spoke with authority. “You hit your head rather hard.”

“Did I?” He rested his hand on the rail beside her, uncertain as to what emotion he felt foremost…Irritation. Frustration. Amusement. He stopped. He
was
amused. This little wren had decided she needed him—Chase St. John, scion of one of the most powerful houses in England—for her plots and toils. And he'd willingly succumbed, wearing the mantle of sheep farmer and whatever else she required.

Worse, he had the irritating suspicion that even if she knew who he was, she wouldn't care. All she wanted was a man, any man available, to play the part her family had assigned.

What truly amused him was that she stood before him, met his gaze as calmly as a statue, and lied through her teeth as if born to such low deeds when in fact she was so filled with goodness and purity that she almost shone with it.

She slid a glance at him, then away. “Perhaps your memory is returning. You certainly remember how to waltz.”

He smiled. “Yes I do.”

She caught his gaze and, to his amazement, a smile quivered on her lips, then broke through like sunshine piercing a cloud on a rainy day.

Chase was entranced. She had a beautiful mouth. White and even teeth, perfectly set off by a pair of
plump, moist lips that were the fresh pink of a new rose. Strange how he'd never noticed that before. Perhaps the plain brown wren wasn't a wren after all, but a juicy robin. “You know,” he said slowly, moving even closer, “I think I do remember this…”

“What?” she said, her low voice suddenly breathless.

He slid his fingertips across her cheek. “I remember touching you.”

“How could—you never—we never—”

“But we must have. I think…no, I'm certain that I remember it well.”

She eyed him suspiciously. Chase had to hide a sudden inclination to grin. She was all fire and brimstone, starch and oversewn ruffles.

“You cannot remember any of that,” she finally said. “It did not happen.”

“Didn't it?” He leaned forward, his breath fanning her cheek, sending a ripple of heat down her spine. “I remember this…and more.”

Harriet swallowed. Dear God, he was going to kiss her, she could see it in his eyes, feel the rapid thud of her own heart. “You are mistaken if you think you remember kissing me.”

“I would never forget a woman like you.”

A pang of wistfulness hit Harriet squarely in the heart. Every woman wanted to hear those words. Every woman wanted to feel special, to be thought of as unique. It was a pity then, that common logic forced her to argue. “But you did forget me. And when you leave, you will forget me again.”

The words stung as she said them, but she refused to betray herself.

This was a most inappropriate conversation. They really shouldn't be talking about such things as
kisses even though the memory of their previous embrace still had the power to send an illicit shiver through her body.

Harriet blinked. Good heavens, what was wrong with her that she was thinking about kisses from a strange man? Well…not that strange. He was, in a way, her fiancé.

Wasn't he?

He lifted a finger to her cheek and brushed a line from her cheek to the corner of her mouth, his touch sending a fury of tremors through her. “I remember that your lips were my first contact with consciousness after I was wounded.”

Piffle. The man had a memory like a trap.

“But the circumstances of our other kisses…” He shook his head. “We can do better. Much, much better.”

Harriet was suddenly certain they could. She found herself unable to move when he stepped closer, placing his hand on the fence at her hip. He had her boxed in, trapped against the railing, his arms to either side, his hips even with hers.

She should protest, she supposed. But why? She rather enjoyed the feel of him surrounding her. She looked into his eyes and almost sighed. They were so blue that Harriet could only stare. It was sinful to see a man with such long lashes. She thought about her own brown lashes and had to repress a sigh of envy. Drat the man, making her feel as if she was inadequate in some way.

She shook herself mentally. “Look, Captain—”

“Call me John. I am your fiancé, after all.”

“Yes, but I—”

“I want to hear my name from your lips.” He
stood so close his knees brushed her skirts. “In fact, I demand it.”

“Demand?”

His eyes glinted. “Call. Me. John.”

She could see that he was going to be difficult. “Oh, very well. Have it your way. Though why it would matter—”

“Perhaps the sound of my name on your lips will refresh this damnable memory of mine.”

“You shouldn't curse.”

“Sorry. Must be my time at sea. I daresay I know quite a few more curse words, just by dint of being a sailor.”

She never thought she'd hate the word “logic,” but it was truly beginning to grate on her nerves. “Oh, very well,” she said, sighing. “Jo—”

Chase kissed her. He would never be sure afterward if it was her audacity in continuing the farce, his irritation in being so maneuvered, or simply the sight of her perfect lips making the most delicious “j” of his entire life. Whatever it was that sent him over the edge, he recklessly plunged forward, capturing her to him with a force that echoed his exploded control.

He wasn't sure what he expected. Resistance perhaps. Or outright anger. But what he got was something entirely different. She stiffened, but only for a second, and then something happened. She responded. Only not in a genteel, careful way as one would expect from such a starchy paragon of virtue, but in a hot, hands-clutching way that aroused Chase more thoroughly than any kiss he'd ever received.

Still, as heated as it was, it wasn't a particularly
good kiss. It was inept and strangely endearing. He pulled back and said in a low voice, “Easy, sweetheart. Not like that.”

She stiffened, her face flooding with color. “What do you mean ‘not like that'?”

“Apparently I've been remiss in my duties as your fiancé.”

“Duties? Kissing me is a duty?”

“Not at all. I enjoy kissing you. And you, my little wren, love every moment. Or you did until I suggested there was a better way to do it.”

She opened her mouth as if to berate him, then stopped, rampant curiosity on her face. “What other way is there?”

He pulled her toward him, then cupped her chin and tilted her face to his. “First, don't hold your lips so tightly together.”

She eyed him for a long, serious moment. He could almost hear the rumble of her weighty thoughts. Finally, she said, “I suppose one kiss wouldn't hurt.”

He bent and softly placed his lips on hers. She stood stock-still beneath his touch, the heat from her lips warming his, the scent of lemons and hay drifting over him. She was as sweet as a summer breeze, as seductive as a harvest moon. And she didn't realize it at all.

Chase brushed his lips over hers, nipping at her soft, plump lips. Again and again, he tasted and teased, each time opening her lips a little more. She remained where she was, face upturned, eyes closed. Chase captured her mouth beneath his, sliding his tongue across her bottom lip.

She started and almost pulled back, but he held her and did it again, tasting her more deeply, more intimately. This time, something changed. She
melted beneath his touch, opened herself to him naturally as she threw her arms about his neck and pressed her slender body to his.

Chase's body reacted instantly, tightening with a flood of passion. Her mouth opened beneath his, and to his delight, her tongue touched his.

By God, but for all her purity she was as hot as any fancy piece—more so because her reaction was as natural as breathing. It was as if her quiet, pale demeanor hid a pulsing heart that beat so wildly that none would ever credit it.

He could not turn away. Indeed, his hands gripped her arms beneath the edge of her sleeves, his fingers splayed over her heated skin. She moaned into his mouth, the sound so erotic that he pressed against her, rubbing his hips across hers.

Somewhere far away, Max barked in abandon, the sound penetrating Chase's heated thoughts. If he didn't have a care, he might lift her skirts and take her there, in front of God and country.

Breathing erratically, he broke the kiss and lifted his head, catching Harriet's bemused gaze. Sometime or another, both of them had lost their hats. Harriet's hair had come unpinned, and long thick strands hung down her back and to either side of her face, softening the angular corners.

It was curious, but with her hair loosened, she looked more vibrant, more sensual. Without realizing that he did so, Chase touched her hair, the silken strands clinging to his hands.

She caught at his fingers and pulled his hand so that she could see his palm, her gaze widening. “Your poor hands! Why didn't you say something?”

He looked at his blistered palms and shrugged. “They are better today.”

“They are bleeding!” She turned and marched toward the wagon.

“It's nothing, really,” he said, following her. “They don't even hurt that—”

“Do you know what could happen if this got infected?” She reached under the seat of the wagon to pull out a small box. “Hold out your hands. Both of them.”

Chase did as instructed, a little amused at how determined she seemed to be.

Harriet opened the box and took out a small vial. “This should do the trick.” She uncorked the vial and a strong whiff of something indescribable hit Chase.

He took an involuntary step back but she was too quick. She caught him and poured an oily substance into his hand. Then she capped the vial. “Rub that in.”

His nose curled of its own accord. “You have to be jesting—”

“Rub it in.”

“I don't want to.”

“It will make your blisters heal faster.”

“But it smells atrocious.”

She dropped the vial back in the box and replaced it under the seat. “Captain Frakenham, I—”

“John.”

She turned to face him, hands on hips. “John, then. It is very important that you don't get an infection. Rub that in.”

Holding his hands at arm's length, he briefly rubbed his hands together, then bent to wipe them on the grass. It hurt, but he'd have done much worse to get rid of the nasty stuff. “That is the most vile-smelling stuff.”

“Yes, it is. You should have seen poor Derrick when he slid out of the loft and scraped his entire back nearly raw. Mother practically bathed him in it.”

Chase lifted one of his hands and then rapidly held it away. “Bloody hell! This smells worse than the potion my mother gave me when I was twelve.” He grinned at the memory. “I pretended to have a fever so that I wouldn't have to take a bath.”

The words hung in the air between them.

Chase closed his eyes. He'd just given himself up. In one lousy unguarded moment, he'd lost the game.

He sighed, then opened his eyes.

Harriet stood stiff and immobile, regarding him with a frosty rage. “
Who are you?
”

H
arriet didn't know whether to slap the stranger for his audacity or crow with triumph at his slip of the tongue. Her mind swirled with emotions—shock, exuberance at being right, confusion at the realization that he'd knowingly misled them—misled her. Her brow lowered at that. The man had
lied
.

And she was not about to give the jackanapes any quarter. She crossed her arms over her chest. “Well?”

He removed his hat and raked his hair from his
eyes, then yanked his hand away and stared at it as if disgusted. “Bloody hell, now my hair will smell like—”

“Oh piffle! I don't care what your hair smells like.
Who are you?
”

He replaced the hat, the brim shading his eyes. “It doesn't really mat—”

“Your name, sir.”

His brow lowered as if he might challenge her. Harriet waited, eyes narrowed. If he thought to withhold such information now, he was sadly mistaken.

She wasn't sure what she'd do if he refused, but there would be hell to pay, make no doubt.

Some of her thoughts must have shown on her face, for he exploded into a sigh. “You're determined about this, aren't you?”

“I deserve to know what manner of man we've been housing.”

“Yes. I suppose you do at that. Very well. My name is Chase St. John.”

Harriet's finger itched, right at the band of that silly stuck ring. She absently rubbed it. He said the name as if it should mean something. Harriet tried to remember if there were any St. Johns about, but none came to mind. “I don't know of your family. Where exactly do they live?”

“We have homes in London, Herefordshire, Yorkshire, Devonshire, Strat—”

She laughed then. Of course the man who stood before her, smelling of sheep ointment and wearing her brother's old clothes, had houses in all those places. “So many homes! Goodness, how do you manage to keep them all up?”

He shrugged as if he had never really considered the question. “Servants, I suppose.”

Her amusement faded before his casual shrug. “You suppose?” He was serious. She swallowed. “How many servants do you have?”

“I don't know.”

“How could you not know?”

“I just haven't thought about it.” He leaned against the wagon, neatly crossing his booted feet at the ankles. “Servants just…are.”

Harriet thought of her own servants, four in all, and of the way she'd struggled to find just one more set of hands for the shearing. Yet here before her stood a man who had so many servants, he wasn't really sure of the number.

The thought rankled. “They just are. How very nice for you. So you're chock-full of houses and servants. I daresay you're also related to the King.”

“As a matter of fact, we are.”

Of course they were. Harriet's stomach tightened. He wasn't just wealthy, he was one of
the
wealthy. The man was not of her world, never had been, and never would be.

Harriet knew many things about life. She'd been on her own far too long not to have garnered a few bits of wisdom here and there. Her laughing, smiling father, who teased and joked and never seemed at a loss, had left his family with mounds of debt and nothing else. All from trying to be what he was not.

Harriet would never make that mistake. “How long have you known your true identity?”

He sighed, and rocked back on his heels. “I don't know how that's pertinent to—”

“How long?”

“I've always known.”

Her irritation threatened to blossom into something more. All of her suspicions had been true. “May I ask why you've lied to my family?”

His gaze hardened. “From the moment I awoke, your mother was there, telling me I was Captain Frakenham. Who lied to whom?”

She lifted her chin. “That may be. But why did you go along with it?”

“Why not? It seemed as if you needed a Captain Frakenham, and I, quite frankly, had nothing better to do.”

She couldn't answer that. They
had
needed a Captain Frakenham and, as much as she hated to admit it, he'd become quite adept at his part. “I find it difficult to believe anything you say, considering the charade you've perpetrated.”

“Speaking of charades,” he retorted easily, “there is no Captain Frakenham, is there?”

For a mad moment, she briefly considered continuing the lies. But there was no help for it—he would divine the truth sooner or later. “Oh very well. I suppose you deserve to know. Mother made up the captain.”

The lout didn't even have the decency to look surprised. “To protect your interests at the bank.”

“Once Mr. Gower arrived, there was no gainsaying the bank. We are so close to coming about. All we have to do is sell the wool, and we're done with them. We just needed two more—”

“—weeks. I know.” He tilted his head to one side, and he regarded her through his remarkable blue eyes. “I suppose it all comes down to this: you and I have lied to each other since the first day we met.”

In that moment, it was as if the magic of their one,
solitary dance, the passion of the few kisses they'd shared, the warmth of companionship that had been steadily growing, suddenly dissipated like the morning mist.

He was right—they
had
deceived one another from their first meeting. It was not a propitious way to begin a relationship.

Not, of course, that she wanted a relationship with such a pompous jackstraw, it was just that she was only now beginning to realize how much she enjoyed him and his kisses.

In fact, just thinking of that last kiss, when his tongue had touched hers ever so suggestively—she shivered, then caught herself, somewhat shocked at how hard her heart was racing.

“Why were you willing to assume Captain Frakenham's identity? You even agreed to work here, in the fields.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “I was on my way out of the country when I was attacked. I thought that if I became Captain Frakenham while recuperating, not only would it assist you, but it would also stop the local gossips from tattling to the world about my real identity.”

“Why would that matter?”

“Because my brothers would not look kindly on my leaving the country without notifying them.”

She raised her brows. “Surely you had more reason than that?”

“No. They would try to talk me out of it, but—” He stopped, a bleak expression resting on his face. “I've caused enough havoc in their lives as it is. In order to make things right, I must leave.”

Harriet suddenly realized that she'd seen that desolate expression before, that it visited him often,
even beneath his usual blithe smile. The expression caught at her heart, for she didn't think she'd ever seen so much pain on one face. “Make things right?” Her voice softened. “What did you do that was so wrong?”

He shook his head, his expression shuttered once again. “You don't need to know more.”

But she did. “You were right in thinking that your real identity would have been gossiped about far and wide. Sticklye-By-The-River is a small village and everyone knows everyone else's business far more than they should.”

“I've noticed,” he said dryly, no doubt thinking of the parade of visitors who came every evening to meet the “captain.”

“And since we're located on the post road, everything that happens here is heard for miles around.” She tilted her head to one side, regarding him steadily. “I can't imagine there are many crimes that are so severe that would require you to leave the country to make amends.”

Hard white lines appeared down both sides of his mouth. “I will not tell you more.”

That was certainly blunt. “Perhaps you owe a great deal of money?”

He didn't answer.

“Or mayhap a woman is involved…”

“No.” His gaze became flint bright. “I'm not going to answer any more questions, so don't ask.”

He was being rather rude, but then so was she, prying into his personal business. “Where were you going?”

“Away. Perhaps to Italy.”

She tsked. “You don't seem to have a very specific
strategy, which means you would have failed. If you wish to accomplish something, then you need a plan of action.”

He let his breath out in a hiss. “Look, Harriet. I had a plan of action—to get out of the country as quickly and quietly as possible. That was all the plan I needed.”

She gestured around them. “Does this look like Italy to you?”

“I was waylaid by thieves or I would be there now.”

“I can see why you stayed at first—your injuries. But later? Mr. St. John, why are you here now?” She didn't know what she was looking for—what she wanted to hear. But for some reason, she was holding her breath, waiting for his answer.

His jaw tightened. “You and your family have a lot riding on this venture with the sheep and I thought, since I didn't have anything better to do, that I'd stay for a day or two.”

“And then you were going to disappear.” It wasn't a question. She knew his intentions as plainly as if he'd spoken them aloud. “You don't want to leave England, do you?”

His gaze went past her, to the gently rolling hills and the sway of the green grass. “No.”

Harriet's throat tightened at his expression. Whatever he had done, he felt it was unforgivable. She tried to imagine what it could possibly be, but looking at him, the sun shining on his broad shoulders, knowing that he possessed enough heart to stay to help her family even when his own problems seemed large and painful…

Harriet bit her lip, her eyes moist. She simply
couldn't imagine him committing any crime so serious that it would be necessary for him to banish himself from his own home.

Chase caught her expression. Damn it! He didn't want anyone's pity, especially not Harriet Ward's. “Now that the game is up, you will wish me to leave. I'll go this evening and—”

“You can't.”

He frowned. “What?”

“You can't leave. Lady Cabot-Wells is to come this evening. What would you have us tell her?”

“That I was called back to sea.”

“Then the bank would immediately demand payment. We need you, Mr. St. John. You cannot leave.”

“Cannot?” he asked softly.

“You cannot leave,” she repeated. “Not yet.”

Chase absently rubbed his neck where it had begun to ache. If he had any sense, he'd be gone with the first ray of dawn.

That was what a sane man would do. But apparently Chase was no longer sane. Charading as the captain and working knee-deep in sheep muck had turned his brain to mush. “I suppose I could continue to be the captain for another week or so—”

“I knew you would do it!” She beamed at him, her earlier irritation melting away like snow before the sun. “That would be so lovely.”

Yes, he realized with some surprise. It could be lovely indeed. Or it would have been, if he wasn't aware that he was going to have to leave, and soon. A pang shot through him.

“I don't know what to say except…thank you.” Her brown eyes met his, warmth and light shining through.

Light that would disappear the instant she dis
covered his sins. “I will stay one more week but no more.”

“Excellent! And while you are here, perhaps you should think things through. I can't help but wonder if—”

“I have thought things through. I cannot go back to London.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

She sighed. “I could help if you'd tell me more.”

No one could help. This time, Chase was going to have to help himself. “You are not responsible for me, Harriet Ward.”

“You are just like Stephen. He won't listen to a word I say, either.” Exasperation tinged her voice.

Chase almost smiled. “You have never met a problem you couldn't solve, have you?”

“Never.” She regarded him for a long moment. “I suppose we are even, you and I, for our first meeting. A deception for a deception.”

“We are indeed even, thou and I.” His gaze dropped to her mouth. “And well matched, too.”

A faint flash of color touched her skin. And he was aware of an instant thrum of desire. Of all the beauties he'd met in London, he'd never beheld one who was as beautiful inside as she was outside. The combination was heady and he wished with all his heart that things had been different. But they weren't.

“There you are!” Derrick ambled up, Max hard on his heels.

The dog came to a sudden halt, lifted his head, sniffed, blew through his nose, then turned back the way he'd just come, though at a much faster pace.

“Max!” Derrick scowled. “Max! Come back here!”

The dog's ears and tail lowered, but he kept going.

Derrick blew out his breath in disgust and turned to walk back toward Harriet and the wagon. “I don't know about that dog. He's a wonder at herding, but at everything else, he—” Derrick slid to a stop, slapped a hand over his nose, and said in a strangled voice, “Good God, which sheep needed ointment?”

Chase started abruptly. “Sheep?” He glared down at his hands. “That was sheep ointment?”

“It works on people, too,” Harriet said defensively. “Ask Derrick.”

But Derrick was already walking briskly back the way he'd come, his shoulders shaking as if he was laughing too hard to speak.

“Wonderful,” Chase muttered. “I'm taking a bath as soon as I get back to Garrett Park.”

“Please do. You smell atrocious, and I don't think we could stand having you at the table at dinner.”

“You were the one who—” Chase clamped his mouth closed at her grin. Beautiful inside and out she might be, but she was also a mischievous tease. “Should we tell your family of my real identity?”

“They deserve to know. But never fear, they will keep your secret, especially once I explain how you so graciously agreed to be Captain Frakenham for another week.” She bit her lip. “I—I must admit that I was feeling somewhat bad.”