But Charlie, who had also been regarding horse and rider with admiration, was not to be so easily distracted. "Yes, by Jove, they are a remarkable looking pair. Now where have I seen them before?" He reined to a halt and considered for a moment while his sister, in acute discomfort, pulled her hat down on her head and tried to look as unnoticeable as possible.
"Ah, now I have it!" he exclaimed with some pleasure. "He is one of Wellington's aides-de-camp. I knew I had seen him with the duke somewhere. It was at Waterloo and by the time Wellington came to inspect our square just before the charge, this man was practically the only one of Wellington's aides left alive and unhurt. And now that I remember, I also recall before that at the battle of the Pyrenees the gentleman's 99
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colonel declared a retreat. He refused to listen, jumped off his horse, grabbed his regiment's colors, and scaled the wall to get the infantry to follow him. His conduct must have impressed Wellington enough that he made him one of his aides. I must speak to him and tell him that I saw his splendid performance in the Peninsula." And much to his sister's dismay, Charlie headed his mount in the direction of the solitary horseman, while Harriet, ordinarily delighted by her brother's open and friendly ways, cursed him silently for being so forthcoming with someone to whom he had not even been introduced.
She reached up to jam her hat even farther down, but it was no use. The stylish creation had been designed to look particularly jaunty and therefore had barely any brim at all with which she could conceal her face. Even had she been able to accomplish that, nothing could be done about the redgold curls that peeped out becomingly from underneath it. At any rate, she had no choice because by this time they had reached the horse and rider and her brother was greeting the former soldier in his usual ingenuous fashion."
"Hello, Fareham here. I saw you at the battle of the Pyrenees and thought you were a regular Trojan leading the chaps along like that. Saw you at Waterloo as well—no mistaking a mount like yours."
If the rider was taken aback at being addressed so unexpectedly, he gave no sign of it, but scrutinized Charlie's uniform, then grinned and extended his hand. "It's good to see another military man, especially one who has the good fortune to be a soldier still. I am Chalfont. I remember you 100
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fellows at Waterloo. The Guards were certainly in the thick of it at the end there. I am pleased to see that you came out of that carnage unscathed. But may I be introduced to your fair companion?"
"Oh, I beg your pardon." Charlie glanced around in some surprise to find his ordinarily friendly sister cowering behind him in what appeared to be a most uncharacteristic fit of shyness. "This is my sister. Lady Harriet Fareham. And you must be Lord Chalfont, Marquess of Kidderham, I believe?" Adrian nodded as he bowed low over the gloved hand extended so reluctantly to him.
Her heart thudding, Harriet kept her eyes lowered demurely, hoping against hope that she was unrecognizable in her fashionable slate-gray riding habit and dashing highcrowned hat. It was a vain hope, quickly shattered by the rider's low chuckle. She looked up in alarm to see the amber eyes, alight with mischief, gazing at her with a wealth of significance.
She held her breath as Lord Chalfont opened his mouth to speak. What would Charlie say when he heard that his favorite sister had been a regular visitor at London's most exclusive brothel? Her brother was well known for his free and easy ways, but he would most certainly draw the line at this. It would definitely be the end to all her plans for Mrs. Lovington's ladies and the only worthwhile thing she had found to amuse her in all of London.
"I am charmed to make your acquaintance. You must be most grateful to have your brother back home unhurt after his years fighting the Corsican monster." There was nothing 101
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in the marquess's voice or words that gave the least hint of their prior acquaintance. Even the closest observer would not have known that he had ever laid eyes on her before, much less come to her rescue in the most compromising of situations.
Faint with relief, Harriet let her breath out slowly. He was not going to betray her after all. Following his lead she replied with as little self-consciousness as she could muster. "Yes, I am delighted to have Charlie home, though I know he finds guard duty excessively dull after his exploits in the Peninsula and the recent events in Belgium." At last she dared glance up at him again. It was a mistake for he gave her a conspiratorial wink that very nearly overset her.
"We are all finding life rather quiet after the years spent campaigning," Adrian continued smoothly, and then he turned back to Charlie. "Tell me, were you at the siege of Bayonne or were you part of the group that chased Soult back to Toulouse?"
And with that, Harriet's presence was entirely forgotten as the two soldiers compared notes about crossing the Adour, foraging for food in the harsh countryside, and the unreliable nature of the Spanish troops. Though she could not help feeling the tiniest bit miffed at being so quickly and so easily forgotten, Harriet was happy to see Charlie enjoying himself so thoroughly.
It was also the first opportunity she had had to observe Lord Chalfont without his being aware of it. So immersed was he in the discussion of past exploits that she was entirely at liberty to examine the lean, tanned face with its high 102
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cheekbones and aquiline nose, the broad shoulders and powerful physique hardened by years in the saddle that quite set him apart from most of the men of the
ton
who seemed pale and soft by comparison. There was an air of command about him that she had not noticed before. He carried himself with the unconscious pride of a man who had seen a great deal of life and dealt with all of it—so very different from the men of fashion who were constantly on the alert, looking nervously around to see if anyone else had a better cut coat, a more intricately tied cravat, or Hessians more highly polished than theirs.
Examining him, Harriet was assailed with an odd breathlessness that had been troubling her ever since the latest incident at the Temple of Venus. It appeared to come over her whenever she relived that scene—Lord Chalfont knocking down her assailant. Lord Chalfont with his arm around her shoulder studying her with eyes full of concern. And here was that fluttery feeling again as the sun glinted on the golden highlights in his hair, making him look like some Greek god astride that magnificent horse of his. Harriet shook her head in an effort to clear her rapidly deteriorating mind. What had come over her? Ordinarily it never occurred to her even to consider a man's appearance. To her men were just men—exercising no more effect on her than women did. Now, however, all she could think about was what a singularly attractive man the Marquess of Kidderham was. Lord, she was no better that Alicia De Villiers and all the silly schoolgirls at Miss Drew's who sighed over every 103
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handsome face their eyes happened to light upon. What a lowering thought!
The marquess and Charlie were deep into a discussion of battle strategies, hashing out mistakes that had been made, rating the various commanders on their strengths and weaknesses and, in general, thoroughly appreciating the chance to talk over such things with another person knowledgeable about the bitter struggle that had been the Peninsular Campaign and the titanic clash that was Waterloo. As Harriet watched them conversing she thought how different Lord Chalfont appeared here in the park talking with Charlie than he did at the Temple of Venus. To be sure, he was no less attractive, but here he was all energy and animation while there, though he was interested enough to poke into her affairs, he did so with an air of lazy amusement, as though he had nothing particularly compelling to keep himself occupied. She had resented his teasing pursuit of her and his intrusions, until the last time that was, when she had been more than grateful for his presence. Now she understood the motivation behind his presence at Mrs. Lovington's.
Put quite simply, the Marquess of Kidderham appeared to be bored and she, Harriet, had offered him a diversion of sorts. That was certainly clear enough now. Was his patronage of the Temple of Venus merely the result of an active restless spirit forced to endure the dull and constraining world of the
ton
upon his return from the wars?
If it were, then she could most definitely understand his presence there. After all, she had ended up at Mrs. 104
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Lovington's herself for the very same reason, well, perhaps not exactly the same; after all, she was educating the girls and he was—Harriet did not care to contemplate what he was doing. But at least now she had a better comprehension of it all.
Harriet shook her head. What did it matter what he was doing at the Temple of Venus? She could not fathom this compulsion on her part to explain away Lord Chalfont's frequenting of the Temple of Venus. Why should she care whether or not he was a sad rake? The only men whose welfare was any concern of hers were Charlie and her father. How Lord Chalfont spent his time was immaterial to her. But Harriet reluctantly acknowledged to herself that it did matter. Much as she pretended to be annoyed by Lord Chalfont's insistence on attending her classes, she could not help but admit that his presence added a good deal of spice to these sessions and, annoyed as she was at him, she did take some perverse pleasure in resisting all his attempts to disconcert her. For some reason she felt challenged by him and she simply could not help rising to that challenge. She had a sneaking suspicion that he felt much the same way about her.
It was this rather combative camaraderie that made her wish to think well of him, to believe that he was something more than a Bond Street beau, and it made her question her brother later as they rode home about the exploits of the Marquess of Kidderham.
According to Charlie, these were many and varied. "Now mind you," Charlie insisted on pointing out, "he never blew 105
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his own horn, but I was present at many of the engagements he mentioned and I know he was in the thick of it. You don't get made a member of Wellington's staff unless you have proven yourself."
Harriet listened carefully as he described some of Lord Chalfont's narrower escapes. Somehow she had known he was more than just an idle lounger of the
ton
who spent his days drifting from Tattersall's to his club to Mrs. Lovington's. From the start Harriet had been conscious of a suppressed energy, a barely contained thirst for excitement. Perhaps it was because she was blessed—or rather cursed, for such characteristics were definitely not acceptable in a young woman whether she was in the center of the fashionable metropolis or rusticating—by the same traits in her personality that made it so easy for her to recognize them in someone else.
Yes,
Harriet thought as she thanked her brother for escorting her to the park,
there was more to the Marquess of
Kidderham than met the eye.
She had already seen several different sides to him: the careless, insouciant frequenter of the Temple of Venus, the man sensitive enough to appreciate what she was trying to do for Mrs. Lovington's ladies, the bold defender who had rushed in to rescue her from Sir Neville, the discreet gentleman who gave not the slightest hint that he recognized her as the instructress at the Temple of Venus, and now, according to Charlie, a brave soldier and hero of the struggle against Napoleon.
Much as she had wished to, Harriet had never been able to dismiss the unknown gentleman from her thoughts entirely. 106
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Now she began to wonder if she could think of anything else, so frequently did he seem to appear in her life. No, she told herself resolutely, now that she knew his identity that was no longer to be the case. There was no further need for speculations about the Marquess of Kidderham and at the moment she had far more serious things to occupy her time, serious things such as finding suitable positions for Fanny, Violet, Bessie, and the others.
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While Harriet was doing her best to direct her attention elsewhere, Adrian was very much enjoying concentrating all his on her. Lady Harriet Fareham! He smiled slyly. He had known all along that the fiery little schoolteacher was far too spirited to be a Quakeress—not that it was not a clever ruse, but it was totally out of character. Yet, as he considered it, Lady Harriet Fareham must feel as out of place in the world to which she had been born as she was in the persona she had chosen to adopt. She was no more the model of the selfeffacing propriety expected of a fashionable young miss of the
ton
than she was a modest and demure Quakeress. Adrian's thoughts turned involuntarily to someone who was the epitome of the successful belle—his fiancée. Nothing could be more different from Alicia than a girl who cared enough about the welfare of women whose existence she was not even supposed to recognize that she offered to help them while risking that most precious of possessions, her reputation. Why Alicia would have swooned at the mere mention of Mrs. Lovington's ladies and here was Lady Harriet, not only teaching them and involving herself in their lives, but endangering her own by coming to their defense. He had sensed she was special from the moment he had seen her at the head of her unusual class, her expressive little face alight with interest and enthusiasm for the task at hand. He had been doubly intrigued by her successful resistance to all his attempts to disconcert her. There was no doubt that 108
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