When Harriet reached the seclusion of her bedchamber, she wondered why she had not told Cordelia she would not go to the ball. What was the point in attending if she could not dance?
The marquess’s face swam before her mind’s eye. She remembered all those delicious feelings she had experienced when he had kissed her. But she had never been kissed before. Therefore it followed she would experience the same sensations with another man.
Harriet then thought of Pringle House and of what her life had been there. It would be wonderful to be married and have a proper home. Perhaps some gentleman might be attracted to her during the Season, some man who would take all the cares and burdens of looking after herself and Aunt Rebecca from her shoulders.
Aunt Rebecca came shuffling in as Harriet was climbing into bed.
“What did Cordelia have to say?” she asked anxiously. “Oh, provided I keep in the background and make sure Lord Arden does not even look at me, we may stay for a little. She suggested I follow her example and entrap some old man.”
Aunt Rebecca sat down on the edge of the bed. “There is young Mr. Hudson, Harriet.”
“I fear Lord Arden would have something to say about his young cousin proposing to a penniless girl.” Harriet smiled. “And think how exhausting it would be to be wed to such as Bertram Hudson. One would have to endure Gothic tragedies even at the breakfast table.”
“It is a pity about Arden,” said Aunt Rebecca cautiously. “I was sure he was not indifferent to you.”
“He has eyes only for such as Cordelia,” said Harriet, primming her lips. “I fear he regards all women as sluts. He—he kissed me, Aunt Rebecca.”
“Gracious! Where?”
“On the lips.”
“I mean, where did this happen?”
“On the roof, after he had rescued me and the duchess from the fire.”
“Well, the peril of the moment must have made him forget himself, for I am determined that Lord Arden is a fine gentleman in both rank and manner. Still, his behavior is very shocking, and had it happened in different circumstances, then he would be obliged to marry you. Perhaps it is my duty to call him to account for his behavior.”
“Oh, no, please, Aunt. We must have nothing to do wih him, or Cordelia will send us packing. Do you think we are behaving like weaklings, enduring her humiliating behavior just for a few balls and parties?”
“No, we have no choice.” Harriet looked very small and childish as she lay against the pillows. “But you may trust me to see to your future,” said Aunt Rebecca.
“
I
will take care of you to make up for all the times you have taken care of me and my poor nerves.”
“Dear aunt.” Harriet smiled. “Thank you.”
But after Aunt Rebecca left, Harriet shook her head sadly.
What on earth could poor old Aunt Rebecca do?
During the six days before the Marquess of Arden’s ball, Harriet attended a few routs, one opera, and one musicale. Anxious for Aunt Rebecca’s welfare and dreading the
crise de nerfs
that would undoubtedly be precipitated if they were given their marching orders, Harriet dutifully kept in the background.
She suspected the clothes that Cordelia had lent her were the most unbecoming her sister could find and that Cordelia had instructed her lady’s maid, Martha, to take off all the becoming flounces, laces, and ornaments.
Little better dressed than Agnes, meek, and demure, Harriet played her part so well that by the day before the ball, society had largely forgotten about her and even Mr. Hudson no longer sought her company.
The Marquess of Arden was nowhere in sight, and his absence was making Cordelia dangerously petulant. Her scheme of punishing Agnes by leaving her at home had gone awry, as Cordelia discovered on returning from an afternoon call with Harriet. She was told by Findlater that Mrs. Hurlingham had gone out walking in the park with Mr. Prenderbury.
Cordelia had thrown a famous tantrum, calling Agnes a slut and forbidding Mr. Prenderbury the house. Harriet heard Agnes weeping during the night and had gone to comfort her, but Agnes had screamed at her to go away, saying she was only making matters worse.
And that was when Harriet decided that life at Pringle House with all its attendant discomforts was infinitely preferable to life with Cordelia.
She went back to her room and lit all the candles, opened the wardrobe, and looked at the gown she was meant to wear at the marquess’s ball.
It was a skimpy affair of white muslin with a round neck higher than was the current fashion and with little puff sleeves. It had one flounce at the hem.
Behind it, swaying slightly in the draft, were the other gowns Cordelia had lent her.
Harriet took out the ball gown and then two of the other gowns, fetched her workbasket, and began to work busily through the night.
The next evening, Agnes, still rather red about the eyes, burst into Harriet’s bedroom. “Lady Bentley is in
such
a taking,” she said, gasping. “She says you are too late to go with us and must follow in a hack. Oh, my dear, you look beautiful.”
Harriet turned from the glass and smiled. The white muslin gown now had a floating overdress of green silk. The bosom was fashionably low, and a delicate wreath of green silk flowers was entwined in her glossy black hair. The remains of one of Cordelia’s green silk gowns lay on a chair.
“Very well,” said Harriet. “Present my apologies to Lady Bentley, Agnes, and tell her I will join her at the ball.”
Agnes hesitated. “Lady Bentley will not be pleased when she sees you, Harriet. You will outshine her.”
“I have already decided to return to the country,” said Harriet calmly, “so I do not care what she thinks.”
“Agnes!” Cordelia screamed from downstairs.
“I must go,” whispered Agnes. “Good luck!”
Harriet went into the sitting room, where Aunt Rebecca was patiently waiting for her.
“The plan worked,” said Harriet. “She has gone off in the most awful miff.”
“Oh, my dear,” said Aunt Rebecca. “You look so very beautiful. What a pity …”
“Don’t go on, Aunt. Confess that you yourself will be glad to be quit of here.”
Aunt Rebecca looked mulish but did not say anything.
Resplendent in Weston’s tailoring, the Marquess of Arden stood at the top of the graceful staircase in his town house in St. James’s Square to receive his guests. Beside him, looking smaller and less sulky in formal evening wear, was Bertram Hudson.
The marquess was glad to notice that Bertram’s enthusiasm for Harriet Clifton seemed to be on the wane. The conventional side of his character felt a certain distaste at the thought of any alliance with a family that contained Cordelia, Lady Bentley. The only trouble was that Harriet’s sweetness and innocence had quenched his dishonorable intentions toward Cordelia. Besides, he preferred his mistresses to have no claims to respectability whatsoever.
He almost regretted his decision, however, as Cordelia floated up the staircase toward him in all the glory of gold tissue and blazing diamonds. She looked ethereally beautiful.
“Where is your sister, Lady Bentley?” he asked as she curtsied before him.
“La! She will soon be here, if she comes at all.” Cordelia laughed. “I left her to make her own way. She is such a goose. So vulgar to be late,” said Cordelia, who was rarely on time for anything herself and had only made a special effort because she was worried by the recent coolness of the marquess.
Agnes made her curtsy as well and followed Cordelia into the ballroom. Agnes saw Mr. Prenderbury’s scholarly figure in the far corner and her heart lightened. “Now, I expect you to see to it that Harriet remains seated,” breathed Cordelia. “I do not need to worry about
you
making an exhibition of yourself, Agnes. No one
ever
asks you to dance.” And, with a malicious little laugh, Cordelia floated away.
Agnes took a seat next to the dowagers and looked down at her hands in her lap. She felt tired and miserable. Her pleasure at seeing Mr. Prenderbury had been destroyed by Cordelia’s cruelty. She sat scowling horribly as dance followed dance, while the marquess surrendered his post at the door to his butler and joined the dancers, and still Harriet did not come.
And then all at once she was there. Agnes felt a ripple of interest running through the ballroom and looked up.
Harriet was standing at the entrance with the squat bulk of Aunt Rebecca behind her. She looked very sweet and young and tremulous, her large eyes sparkling in the perfect oval of her face. Candlelight shone in the midnight masses of her black hair. She had all the freshness and beauty of youth and spring and first love.
Agnes felt the pain and depression inside her lift and she smiled at Mr. Prenderbury, who gave her a startled look and then hurried to her side.
“My dear Mrs. Hurlingham,” he said, “I have been trying to summon up courage to speak to you, but you looked so fierce.”
“Not fierce,” said Agnes with a surprisingly charming laugh. “Just rather depressed.”
He flicked the tails of his coat and sat down beside her. “I called twice to see you, but I was informed you were not at home in such a way as to imply I was no longer welcome.”
Agnes took another look at the radiant vision of Harriet to give herself courage and then threw the last remaining vestiges of loyalty to Cordelia away.
“I would like to have seen you,” she said, “but I fear Lady Bentley becomes jealous if anyone other than herself appears to be attracting attention. It was she who told the butler not to admit you.”
“Monstrous! Can you not leave her household?”
Agnes shook her head. “I have signed a contract for seven years.”
“But that is bondage. That is like being treated like a servant in the colonies. Perhaps I could assist you. I have a friend who is a very good lawyer.”
“The trouble is that I have nowhere else to go,” said Agnes. “I have thought perhaps of offering my services to Miss Harriet and her aunt when they return to the country. I do not eat much, and although they are very poor, I am quite clever with my hands and could perhaps be of help to them. But Lady Bentley would take me to court.”
“We will talk further of this,” he said gently. “The next dance is a waltz. Pray honor me by partnering me in it.”
“Oh, I dare not,” said Agnes. “Lady Bentley would be furious.”
“She is already so furious with her sister she will not even notice us. Look!”
The Marquess of Arden was holding out his hand to Harriet to lead her in to the waltz. Aunt Rebecca was nodding and smiling. On the other side of the ballroom stood Cordelia with a sort of dreadful stillness about her as she watched her sister.
Harriet was determined to dance. She had never danced the waltz before. Aunt Rebecca, lumbering and hopping like an elephant around the drawing room at Pringle House, had taught her the steps of various reels and country dances. Harriet had only heard of the waltz, that daring and shocking dance where the man actually put his hand on your waist. She had a brief moment’s panic as the Marquess of Arden led her onto the floor. But then he put his hand on her waist and her feet seemed to float over the polished floor.
The marquess looked down at her with a disturbed expression in his eyes. He seemed to be looking at several Harriets. There was Harriet, naked under the pump; Harriet, with her hair spilling about her shoulders as she sat at the spinet; Harriet, sooty and dazed, clasped in his embrace above the roaring crowd; and now this Harriet, fresh, beautiful, and achingly vulnerable. He was aware of the malice in Cordelia’s eyes, the awakened interest in Bertram’s, and all the nodding, gossiping painted faces. He wanted to protect her, to make sure she never suffered a day’s harm or hurt again.
He was alarmed at the intensity of his feelings. She was only a woman, after all. If anyone had ever told the marquess that he despised women, he would have been most surprised. But the sad fact was, the only time a woman had not bored him in the past was when she had been flat on her back in his bed. Courted for his title and fortune, toadied to and flattered since the day he was out of short coats, he regarded all of the fair sex with a cynical eye. Romance was for milksops and poets. And yet there had been magic in Harriet’s kiss.
“You are looking very beautiful tonight. Miss Harriet,” he said.
“Thank you,” said Harriet, her eyes very bright with pleasure at the compliment.
“In fact, you are so beautiful I have a great desire to kiss you again.”
Harriet stumbled. “You should not speak of that,” she said breathlessly. “It was excusable
then
because of the unnatural circumstances, but it is not the manner of a gentleman to remind me of something I would much rather forget.”
The marquess felt a stab of pain somewhere in the region of his heart. “Was it so distasteful?” he asked.
“Well, no … that is … surely all unconventional behavior must be distasteful?”
“An attraction between the sexes is very normal. You will no doubt marry some fine gentleman before the end of the Season and live happily ever afterward.”
“Perhaps,” said Harriet, and again he felt that odd stab of pain. “No one else seems to marry for love,” she said, half to herself, “so there cannot be anything wrong in hoping for a home and security.”
“But it is possible to have love
and
security.”
“Beggars cannot be choosers. Since I must take care of Aunt Rebecca, I will forget about love and concentrate on security.”
“I had not thought to find you mercenary.”
“Why not? Everyone else is. ‘Tis money that makes the ton go ‘round.”
He looked at her. speculatively, wondering whether she was in fact more like Cordelia than he had thought. Some of what he was thinking must have shown in his eyes, for Harriet once again stumbled and said sharply, “Do not look at me like that, my lord.”
“I do not know what you mean,” he said. “You must not read things into my expression that do not exist.” His voice was sharp. The magic of the waltz faded. Harriet forgot her steps and stumbled miserably through the remainder of the dance.
Her hand was eagerly claimed for the next dance by Bertram Hudson. Once more he saw Harriet as the glorious heroine of his Gothic dreams. He chattered away during the country dance in a bewildering way, since he would start a sentence and continue where he left off some five minutes later when the figure of the dance brought them together again.