Trouble With Harry (7 page)

Harry closed his eyes for a second, praying that when he opened them again, he would be alone with his wife. That failing, he prayed he'd come up with a good enough explanation to keep her from walking out on him.

The sound of glass breaking stirred him into action. “Out!” he bellowed, grabbing the back of Andrew's nightgown in one hand, the back of Anne's with another, pulling them apart, and sending them with none too gentle pushes toward the door.

“Out!” he roared again, pointing at the door as he glared at Digger. “And take the twins with you.”

“I still want a horse,” Digger said, but at least he managed to get the twins, still fighting, out the door so Harry could slam it shut. He also locked it. Without glancing at Plum, he hauled the fainting couch over to the door, just to be sure they couldn't get in.

“Five,” Plum said when he finally turned to face her.

All his words of explanation, all his entreaties for her understanding melted before the one cocked eyebrow and the arms crossed over her delicious chest. His hopes of a wondrous, erotic night spent exploring the ways of marital harmony withered into dust and blew out the window on a faint waft of rose powder.

He rallied a feeble smile and tried very hard not to cry. “Yes, well, five always has been my lucky number.”

Plum awoke to the uncomfortable feeling that she was being watched. She opened her eyes. She was being watched. Circled around the bottom of her bed, five pairs of eyes stared steadily at her as she pushed her heavy hair out of her eyes and propped herself up on her elbow. The youngest of Harry's sons, the boy oddly named McTavish, squirmed out from under India's restraining hand and jumped onto the bed next to Plum.

“You're awake now, aren't you? India said I wasn't to wake you up, but your eyes are open now so you're awake. I want a kitten. I have a dead rat. Would you like to see it?”

“No, thank you, McTavish. I try to maintain a strict policy of entertaining no dead rats before breakfast. It's not easy, but life is nothing if not a challenge. What are you all doing in here?”

“Waiting for you to wake up,” Digger said.

“Why aren't you sleeping with Papa?” India asked, her lips tight with suspicion. “Gertie said the reason Papa wanted to get married was so he wouldn't get lonely in bed. You're supposed to keep him from being lonely. Gertie said so. Why aren't you?”

Plum closed her eyes for a few seconds before sitting up and facing the bright faces watching her so carefully. “To be honest, I don't feel up to a detailed explanation of my intimate relationship with your father, but as you are obviously concerned about his happiness, I can reassure you that although the situation last night was not one conducive to…er…keeping him from being lonely, I have every intention of seeing to that task tonight. Will that suffice?”

“I want a kitten. You said I could have one this morning.”

“Our
real
mother slept in the same bed as Papa,” India said accusingly.

“I don't
want
a new mama,” Anne said, then disappeared as she dropped to the floor. Peering over the side of the bed, Plum could see Anne's legs where they stuck out from under the bed.

“I want a mama, I want a mama,” McTavish chanted, bouncing up and down on the bed in time with his words. “I want a kitten, I want a kitten.”

“That's mine!” Andrew said and immediately jumped his twin as she emerged with a pretty blue and pink chamber pot. “I saw it first!”

“Our
real
mother took care of Papa. She wouldn't let him be lonely.”

“A kitten, a kitten! I want a kitten!”

“It is not, I saw it first! It's mine. You have to find your own.”

“Our
real
mother made sure Papa was dressed warmly when he went out in the cold, and took a draught whenever he was sick.”

“Mine, Annie!”

“Papa never
was
sick,” Digger told his sister. She glared at him, her arms tight across her chest, her nostrils flaring in that particularly effective way young women of three and ten had of expressing their contempt.

“He would have taken a draught if he was sick. Mama would have made him.”

Digger gave way before such reasoning. He nodded. “Yes, he would have.”

“Kitten, kitten, kitten, kitten.”

Plum, starting to get a headache from all of McTavish's bouncing, clutched him to her chest. “I appreciate the fact that none of you wish to have a new mother—”

“I want a new mama,” McTavish told her shoulder, squirming to get free. Plum loosened her grip just enough so he could sit next to her and play with the long, inky tendrils of hair that curled around him.

“Thank you, McTavish, I appreciate that.”

“I want one, too,” Digger said unexpectedly. “And so do the twins, don't you?”

Andrew, in the process of wresting the chamber pot—thankfully unused—from his sister's grip, didn't look up as he nodded. “Yes.”

“No, you don't,
I
want one,” Anne snarled as she stomped on her brother's foot, crowing in triumph when he yelped and released the chamber pot.

“I thought she said otherwise?” Plum asked as Anne raced out of the room, her prize hugged to her chest. Andrew was directly on her heels, yelling at her that she was a thief to take his pretty pot.

“Oh, that's just the twins. They never agree on anything,” Digger said, then started for the door. “Come on, Tavvy, George said she heard that one of the bulls' tails fell off during the night. If we're fast, maybe we can find it before the stable boys do.”

“I want a bull tail!” McTavish said as he scrambled across the top of Plum to follow after his brother. “I want a kitten and a bull tail.”

Plum blinked at India, who was still frowning at her. “Is it like this every morning, or are you all being unusually bizarre on my behalf?”

India unfolded her arms and marched toward the door. “My
real
mother didn't have black hair. My
real
mother was pretty, and blonde like me, and she didn't touch me when I didn't want to be touched.”

Plum sat back against the headboard as the door slammed behind India, blowing out a breath she hadn't realize she had been holding. “You wanted children, well now you have them. Only, what am I do to with five grown children? Babies I could handle, but
children
children…hoo!”

The room held no answer for her. Since she didn't want to frighten her maid by asking her any more rhetorical questions, she washed in the water that had been left for her, and with the practice of one who has long tended to herself, slipped into the nicest gown she owned. She was just braiding her hair when there was a knock at her door.

“India said you were awake. I thought I would see how you enjoyed your first night of marital bliss.” Thom entered the room, her arched eyebrow (Plum had gnashed her teeth many times at the lovely natural arch in Thom's eyebrows) and coy smile an indicator of what sort of an answer she expected.

“I slept quite well, thank you, although not due to any activities that you are perilously close to smirking about. And while we're on that subject, I will remind you again that unmarried young ladies of good family do not allude to matters that are unsuitable.”

Thom blew her a kiss and opened the door. “You're so adorable when you're prudish. Since you are obviously hale and hearty, I will see you later. I'm going to investigate Harry's stables. He appears to have excellent taste in horses…”

Before Plum could do anything more than sputter, “Prudish! I've never been prudish a day in my life!” Thom was gone. Plum gave her hair a final pat, spent three minutes wishing she had a nice gown in which to greet her new husband, and set off to begin her life as wife and mother.

“Good morning, er…” Plum hesitated in the great hall, unable to recall the butler's name. Her introductions to the staff the previous night had been so quickly conducted, she had nothing more than an impression of a heavy Spanish accent, sultry, flashing black eyes, and extremely white teeth against dark skin.

“I am Juan Immanuel Savage Tortugula Diaz de Arasanto, and you are my oh, so very, very lady.”

“Very, very lady?” Plum extracted her hand from where the handsome Spaniard was bending over it.

“Yes, you are so very.” Juan the butler waggled his eyebrows at her in what she assumed was meant to be a seductive manner.

She fought back the desire to giggle at him, and instead asked, “Yes, well, Arasanto, have you seen his lordship this morning?”

“One.”

“You saw him at one this morning?”

He gave her a very polished leer. “No, Juan. It is my name. You may call me Juan rather than Arasanto. It is preferred, yes?”

Plum took a deep breath and reminded herself that no matter how much she might like to either burst into hysterical laughter or scream, neither were actions suitable to a new marchioness. “I see. Very well, Juan, do you know where my husband is?”

He shrugged and pointed his thumb over his shoulder toward a narrow, dark passage. “Harry is probably hiding in his office.”

“Harry?” Plum asked, a little surprised by a servant addressing his master by his first name.

“He asks me to call him that because he calls me Juan, eh?”

“Oh. I see. Yes, well…um…thank you.” Plum started toward the passage, but found her way blocked by the amorous Spaniard.

“You would like for me to show you around the house first, eh? I have many things of interest to show you.” His eyebrows waggled at her again.

Plum knew she should be offended or angry with such blatant flirting by a servant, but she found herself oddly amused by Juan. He was so sure of his charm, so obvious about his innuendoes, she couldn't help but smile. “Thank you, but I will have my husband—your employer—show me around the house. I'm sure he, too, has many interesting things to show me.”

“He is old, that one. I am young and how it's said, virile.”

“He's not that old.” Plum laughed. “And considering he has five children, I would hazard that his virility is not in doubt.”

Juan shuddered and crossed himself. “Santa Maria, those ones are spawned by the devil himself.”

“Oh, come now, they're a bit high-spirited, but they aren't really that bad.” Plum sidled around Juan while he was busy rolling his eyes. “A little untamed, perhaps, but that is no doubt due to having been without a mother for the last few years. I quite like them.”

Juan grabbed her hand as she moved past him, bowing over it again, brushing his lips against her knuckles before Plum yanked her hand back. “It is because you have not been here with them that you think they are the angels. They are not. And now, most very lady, I will return to my duties. You are mistress here now, you will want to speak to me later about my duties, yes? I will await your pleasure in the pantry of butlers.” His black, liquid eyes sent her a message that was unmistakable. Plum's lips twitched as she struggled to keep from giggling. She hurried down the dark passage, wondering how on earth Harry had come to employ such a bold butler, when his words sank in.

“What can Harry be hiding from, I wonder?” she mused as she approached a door. She entered a small, extremely tidy room and smiled at the man sitting behind a desk piled high with books and papers. “Good morning, Mr. Harris. Can you tell me where I might find Lord…merciful St. Genevieve, what was that?”

The loud crash that came from the hallway made Plum jump. She turned back to the secretary, expecting him to leap up and investigate.

“His lordship is through the door to your right. If you could possibly convince him to allow his room to be cleaned, I would be eternally grateful.”

Plum stared at him as if he had horns growing from his head. “Didn't…didn't you hear the crash? From the hall? Shouldn't you investigate?”

Temple tipped his head to the side as he considered her. “No. I've found it's much safer not to be too curious about those sorts of things.”

“Safer?” Plum gaped at him, positively gaped, and she was not a woman who took gaping lightly. “But…but…the children could be injured!”

Temple pursed his lips and listened for a moment, then shook his head and went over to the door leading to Harry's room. “No, no one is hurt. We'd hear screaming by now if one of his lordship's little darlings were injured. They're very vocal.”

“Well, surely
someone
should inquire as to what happened? Surely
someone
would like to ascertain just what caused such a horrifying sound?”

Temple eyed her curiously. “I wouldn't advise it, ma'am. His lordship has found that a strict policy of unenlightenment is the best for all concerned.”

Plum snorted. She hated to do so in front of Temple after so short an acquaintance, but she felt such an extreme action was called for. “You cannot make me believe that a man as fond of his children as Harry is would not wish to investigate the noise we just heard.”

“As you say, ma'am.”

Plum thinned her lips at him. “You're patronizing me, Mr. Harris. I dislike being patronized.”

“That thought was the farthest from my mind, you can be assured. I simply wish to inform you that about this, I am well familiar with his lordship's habits.”

“Prove it.”

His eyebrows rose in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”

“Prove to me that Harry won't want to know what's going on out in the hall. Ask him.”

Temple opened the door for her and waved her into the room. A second, less loud crash echoed from the hall. She cocked an eyebrow at Temple and marched into a dimly lit chamber so dusty her nose tickled. At the far end of the long room, with his back to a pair of filthy windows, her husband sat reading a letter.

“Sir,” Temple said from the doorway when Harry didn't acknowledge them.

“Mmm?” He didn't raise his eyes from the letter.

Plum looked him over carefully, this man she had married and more or less thrown out of her bedchamber the evening before. His sandy hair was mussed and disordered, as if he had combed it with his fingers, the one rogue lock of hair having fallen over his brow. The planes of his long face were thrown into interesting shadows, the bright gold of his spectacles glinting in the sunlight that bullied its way through the grimy flyspecked windows. This was the man she had bound herself to for the rest of her life. The man who had neglected to tell her about his five children. The man about whom she had built up so many dreams and hopes—or as many dreams and hopes as one could arouse in just two days. This was the man with whom she wished to indulge in many, many connubial calisthenics, the man who would twine his heart and soul (not to mention legs and arms) around hers, the man who would complete her, make her whole, give her what she wanted more than anything in the world…

“Your wife, sir.”

“What about her?” Harry asked, still reading his letter, one long finger tapping on his lower lip as he read. At the sight of that finger stroking the curve of his lip, Plum remembered, with an unmaidenly flash of heat to her womanly parts, just how wonderful his mouth felt on hers.