Stages of Desire (3 page)

“Yes. My father runs a company of strolling players. They're quite renowned.”

“I'm sure they are.” His tone was severe. “As far as I'm concerned, the entire profession, if you can call it that, is a travesty. Even in Shakespeare's day, theater was a way to please the masses, the lowest of the low. An effective method to keep the underclass entertained and amused. I prefer the opera myself.”

She jutted out her chin. “May I remind you that Queen Elizabeth was a great patron of the playwright? Our company plays to quality, including dukes and duchesses. The acting is excellent. With the slightest inflection my father can move the audience to tears, or make them think about important themes, like life and death.”

“So why aren't you off playing Lady Macbeth right now?”

“You ought to say ‘Lady M.' And I'm not a part of that life anymore.”

“So you've come up in the world.”

He could have sworn she stomped one foot beneath her gown. “How on earth can you judge an entire profession when you've never been inside a theater? Who exactly do you think you are?”

William laughed. She had no idea who he was, which might explain why she hadn't fluttered her eyelashes at him like the other girls he'd met, playing the part of the flirtatious chit.

“I will introduce myself, then.”

He bowed low, never taking his eyes off her.

“I am Abingdon. And the pleasure is all mine.”

Chapter 2

Harriet had made a terrible mistake. She clamped her lips tightly, trying to keep her jaw from dropping as the air rushed out of her. Here she was, a guest at Lord Abingdon's, the man who was to wed Marianne, and she was blithely handling the books in his private library as if she were the queen. She curtseyed. Hopefully the red flush rising up her neck didn't show in the dim light.

“You seem surprised.”

She couldn't tell from his voice if he was amused or irritated. Her eyes were drawn once again to the family portrait above the fireplace. She'd studied it when she first entered the room, intrigued by the severe countenance on the father's face and the sweet smile of the countess sitting beside him, surrounded by fair-headed children. None of the offspring had the reddish-brown hair of the man standing before her. Looking closer, she observed one boy had a sprinkling of freckles across his face.

“Yes, the portrait,” said Lord Abingdon. “My father insisted the artist change the color of my hair in the painting to match that of my brothers and sister. He desired a complete set, if you will.”

Like Mr. Hopplehill's matching steeds. How silly men could be.

The gentleman standing before her had a strong jawline and an athletic build suggesting time spent outdoors on the playing fields. The youthful freckles had faded with time.

“I'm so sorry, my lord.” How brazen she'd been, handling his books without permission. If only she could disappear. “I should never have come in here. I do hope you'll forgive me.”

“I'm curious to know how you got on the invitation list. I'm fairly certain my sister didn't invite any actresses. Or former actresses.”

His haughtiness was maddening and her compassion quickly dissipated. Earlier, when they'd discussed Shakespeare, she'd enjoyed his teasing, assuming he was another guest taking refuge from the festivities. Yet he'd allowed her to go on about plays and curses and she'd made a fool of herself. A burning shame rose up in her.

“Harriet?” Marianne poked her head into the room, her demeanor as disapproving as Lord Abingdon's. “What on earth are you doing in here?”

The moment Marianne caught sight of Lord Abingdon, her steeliness melted away. “Why, my lord, I wondered where you ran off to.” While her delivery remained dulcet, her eyes bore into Harriet. “I didn't realize you were acquainted with my sister.”

Lord Abingdon stepped back from her, bewildered, and Harriet relished his discomfort.

“Your sister?” He stared at Harriet, then over at Marianne.

Marianne sauntered to her side and linked arms. “Well, almost my sister. It's a long story, I'm afraid. Miss Farley, allow me to introduce Lord Abingdon. My lord, Miss Farley.”

Harriet curtseyed and turned to leave. “Please excuse me. I've been keeping his lordship from his guests for long enough.”

“I have time.” His deliberate enunciation brought her to a halt. “Do tell me how you acquired your faux sister, Lady Marianne.”

Marianne flashed him a coquettish smile, obviously pleased to be the focus of attention. “When I was a young girl, I was terribly ill. One day we were at our estate and a traveling troupe of actors put on a show in the courtyard. I was quite taken with Harriet. She was a child, like I was, but she played the drum and sang the silliest songs in the prettiest voice.” Marianne gazed up at her and then, infuriatingly, lightly chucked her under the chin with her gloved hand. “I wanted her for myself, so Papa and Mama agreed to take her in. As time went on, I grew stronger and now I'm perfectly healthy. My father used to say before he died that Harriet was my cure.”

Harriet hated this story. It made her sound like a doll her father had sold to the highest bidder, a possession to be bandied about. She couldn't read Lord Abingdon's expression. In the course of a few minutes, he'd treated her as a member of the upper classes, then a common strumpet, and now he was looking at her as if she were a puppy that narrowly escaped being drowned in the Thames. She hated pity.

“I see.” His voice was devoid of emotion.

“She's been such a comfort to me and Mama, particularly since Papa passed away.”

Lord Abingdon placed the stopper back on the decanter. “I am pleased to hear that. Shall we return?” He held out his elbow and Marianne took it with relish while Harriet stood awkwardly by.

“Now I haven't been able to locate your own sister this evening,” said Marianne. “I must remonstrate, as you'd promised to introduce us.”

He frowned slightly. “Lady Claire was taken ill again, I'm afraid.”

“I'm so sorry.” Marianne tilted her head to one side and gave him a sympathetic look.

“Not at all. I'm sure she'll recover soon and you'll be able to meet. She's eager to do so.”

“Perhaps I can lend you Miss Farley as a cure. She did wonders for my health, and I'm sure she might cure your sister as well.”

She curled her fingers into tight fists. “I will not be lent out like a puppet.”

Marianne glanced over her shoulder at her. “I was being silly, Harriet, don't make a fuss. Come along, now. I know Mr. Hopplehill is eager to have another dance with you.” Marianne arched one brow. “Harriet has a suitor, you see. A Mr. Hopplehill of Barings Bank. It's sure to be a fine match. Is that what you were discussing up here, in secret? Matches?”

“We spoke of Shakespeare,” Lord Abingdon said.

“And curses,” Harriet added. “And now, if you'll excuse me, my lord.”

She gave a quick curtsy and dashed out of the room.

* * * *

The next morning Harriet, accompanied by one of the housemaids, ventured out early, armed with a list of items to buy to refurbish Marianne's ball gown. She would throw herself into the construction of the new garment to keep from mulling over the previous night's events.

She'd been made to look a fool. Lord Abingdon had pretended to be interested in a subject dear to her heart, then derided her. After the debacle in the study, the rest of the evening had been even more unbearable. Whether due to the heat or Mr. Hopplehill's overwhelming attentiveness, she'd felt suffocated and angry. To top it off, Marianne had nattered on and on with delight at being the focal point of the Lord Abingdon's attention the entire carriage ride home. As far as Harriet was concerned, Marianne and the snobbish earl could marry and have twenty children and be done with it. It meant nothing to her.

Yet the image of Lord Abingdon and Marianne dancing a cotillion, their hands lightly touching and Marianne glowing as if she were lit from within, kept popping into Harriet's head. Even the duchess had become rather misty-eyed at the sight. Lord Abingdon and Marianne were well suited to each other physically: she, the embodiment of delicacy and femininity, and he the dashing, broad-shouldered suitor with intelligent chestnut eyes.

Had he ever confided in Marianne about his father's disdain? For some reason, Harriet liked to think he hadn't.

Not that any of it mattered.

This morning, in the light of day, Harriet was ashamed by her silliness. Character, not beauty, was the most important trait of a good man, and Mr. Hopplehill, she was sure, would prove to have a fine character. Perhaps not now, but eventually. Perhaps.

Harriet and the maid stepped inside the draper's. No other customers were present and the shop was peaceful inside, with shelf after shelf of fabric, lace, and ribbons. The possibilities were endless. Mrs. MacDonald, the shopkeeper, emerged from the back and gave Harriet a wide smile.

“My dear Miss Farley, how sweet of you to come by.” She was a stout and animated woman with kind gray eyes. “What can I do for you today?”

“I'd like to see some of your Brussels lace. I need to improve upon a gown of mine and could use your advice.” Harriet didn't mention the true reason for her visit, as she knew the duchess would prefer the family's financial condition not become fodder for gossip.

Over the next fifteen minutes, she and Mrs. MacDonald pored over the finest silk ribbons and the most delicate webs of lace, and, with Mrs. MacDonald's help, Harriet understood the best way to accomplish her task.

The older woman began wrapping the purchases in brown paper. “Did you and Lady Marianne attend Lord Abingdon's ball last night?”

At the mention of his name, Harriet blushed. “Indeed. I attended with Lady Marianne and the duchess. Lady Marianne was radiant in her white gown.”

“I'm so glad. I knew the color would work well on her. Lady Bancroft was just in here, and she said the ball was even grander than the ones his late brother used to throw, God rest his soul.”

Mrs. MacDonald was always a font of information when it came to the goings on of the
ton
, and although normally Harriet found her recitations tiring, she was curious to know more about Lord Abingdon's family. She sent the maid next door to the milliner's and, once they were alone, leaned in.

“Even grander, did you say?”

“Yes. I was told his lordship, who they say is a serious fellow, was surprisingly charming and even danced. Apparently he has a quick step and a fine sense of timing. Did you take note of his dancing abilities?”

“I can't say I did,” she lied.

“His late brother was quite clumsy. Of course, the drinking didn't help his allemande much. Always falling over his feet.”

“What exactly happened to the previous Earl of Abingdon?”

“Didn't you hear?”

Harriet shook her head.

“A carriage accident. Rumor has it he was out on a dark night, after drinking and gambling for hours, and the horses startled and crashed the carriage into a tree. He had a girl with him, who also died. She was an actress, if you know what I mean.”

Harriet bristled. “An actress?”

“Loose morals, that sort of type. I can't remember her name.” She bit off the twine with her teeth and expertly tied the knot. “Luckily they won't have any nonsense from the new earl. He takes after his late mum, from what I hear.”

She couldn't help herself. “In what way?”

“He's a sober, kind man. And he's quite bright. Studied to be a physician at Oxford, you see.”

The circumstances of Lord Abingdon's brother's death explained his prejudice against actresses. The man's life was complicated and Harriet was relieved not to have to think about him further.

His family's money would save the duchess from ruin, and everyone would benefit from the arrangement. Harriet was no part of the equation, and happier for it. If anything, Mrs. MacDonald's news lifted her spirits a little.

She signed for the purchases and stepped outside as the maid emerged from the milliner's. The skies had darkened and a storm was coming in from the west, so they hurried back and made it to the duchess's red brick townhouse on Brook Street before any deluge.

When Harriet first arrived in London by coach with her new family, she'd almost swooned at the sight of their London residence. That this would be her home, after years of traveling from place to place, seemed like a fairy tale come true. Three narrow doors on the first floor opened onto delicate, wrought iron Juliet balconies, and the curved tops of the window frames echoed the shape of the fanlight over the black front door. In spring, heavy purple blooms graced the wisteria that wound around the balconies.

Even now, looking at it from across the street as they waited for a carriage to pass, she could hardly believe she had her own room within its walls.

“Miss Farley.”

She spun around, although she'd recognized the crackly voice before she saw his face. “Adam!”

The short, stooped man standing before her looked a little older than she remembered, but his face, with its sharp nose and crinkly green eyes, was as craggy as ever. She even recognized his wrinkled brown coat, which from the looks of it had been torn and mended several times over.

“Miss Farley, my dear Harriet, I'm so glad I've found you.”

“Adam, I'm amazed.” Without thinking, Harriet embraced him, breathing in the familiar scent of pipe tobacco. She peered up at the windows of the townhouse, half expecting to see the duchess glaring down at her, then handed her packages to the maid and instructed her to go inside, that she'd follow shortly.

“I'm so sorry to bother you here, miss,” said Adam. “I've been waiting for a while. I figured I'd catch you coming or going at some point in the day.”

Part of her was relieved Adam hadn't knocked at the front door and asked for her, and another part was ashamed at her relief. “How did you find me?”

“Your father kept some of your letters in a trunk, stored at my cottage in Chipping Norton. I noted your address.”

Harriet was touched. She had heard nothing back from her father over the past six years, yet he'd saved her correspondence. She wasn't sure where to begin. “How are you, Adam? How are father and Freddie? Is everything all right?”

His eyes grew solemn. “I'm afraid not, miss. Perhaps we can talk.”

Harriet was unsure where they could speak privately, and his state of dishabille would attract attention. She took Adam's arm and they headed east, out of Mayfair. The duchess would be unhappy with her, but she had to hear his news.

They hadn't made it far when a mighty clap of thunder broke through the heavy air and rain poured down. Harriet's parasol quickly became saturated.

“I know a place we can go, if you don't mind, miss.”

She nodded. There was no point worrying about propriety now. Adam, who still had a sprightly step despite his years, led her down Poland Street to a small pub. She hurried to a small table in the back as he ordered a pint of ale and a cup of tea.

“This isn't the sort of place you're used to, I'm afraid,” said Adam as he put the drinks on the table.

To say the least. The only other women inside were of a dubious sort, their skirts more brightly colored than proper. Harriet didn't have much of a choice, but she could be certain she wouldn't run into anyone she knew here. And it was only until the rain stopped.