A Wicked Pursuit (28 page)

“She won’t,” Harry said. He knew what Father meant: that no lady would refuse his fortune and his title, with the likelihood of a dukedom in time. Plenty of ladies married doddering old men and blithering idiots for less of a prize. Gus wasn’t one of them. If—no,
when
—she married him, it would be for himself, hobbled and imperfect though that might be, and not the wealth and power and grand houses that came with his name.

“Then why not settle this among us now?” Father said. “If that fool Wetherby were here, watching after her as he should, then we’d be making the settlements while you two watched.”

“Father, please,” Harry said. “Let me speak to her alone first. I want to give her Mother’s ring.”

Father smiled, almost wistfully. “You have your mother’s ring here?”

Harry nodded, already picturing the flower of diamonds on Gus’s finger. “When you see it on Gus’s hand, you’ll know she’s accepted me.”

Father finished the wine and stood, holding his hand to help Harry rise, too.

“Very well, then, Harry,” he said. “Do it your way. But mind you, don’t waste time about it. The wedding will be Saturday, whether you’ve made your pretty proposal or not.”

Gus hurried up
the back steps from the servants’ hall, reviewing all the things she’d already done, and what still needed doing. Having Harry’s parents appear unexpectedly like this presented an enormous number of tasks for her and for the household, and she doubted Harry himself, being male, had any notion of even half of them.

She had first met with Mrs. Buchanan to see what could be contrived for a suitable dinner for His and Her Grace. There was no time to send for more provisions from Norwich; Mrs. Buchanan would have to make do with what was on hand in the pantry and larder, and she was not happy about it. Next Gus met with Mr. Royce to review which members of the staff could be pressed into helping with the service, as well as how the table was to be laid and arranged, and which wines should be brought up from the cellar.

Then there was the question of where everyone should sleep. By rights, the duke and duchess should have the best bedchamber with the yellow silk hangings, but Harry was so firmly entrenched there that he couldn’t be moved, not even for his father. Fortunately, Her Grace had told Gus that, unlike most noble couples, she and duke preferred to share a single bedchamber, which made it easier for Gus to have the second-best one readied. But they had also brought personal servants as well as the driver and footmen connected with their carriage, and these all had to be fed and housed as well. It was a giant puzzle for Gus, fitting so many pieces together, but one she welcomed—not only for the challenge itself, but because it made her think of something other than Harry.

Harry
. At once he filled her thoughts; she couldn’t help it. His handsome face, his laughter, the way he’d kissed her and caressed her and brought her to pleasure she’d never dreamed possible. Even the heady memory of what they’d done made her blush, and resolutely she shoved the thoughts aside for what must be the thousandth time. She’d barely time to make herself ready for dinner, and she didn’t need Mary guessing her thoughts as she arranged Gus’s hair and helped her dress.

To her relief, Mary must have been pressed into other preparation belowstairs, and was not waiting for Gus in her bedchamber. Swiftly Gus undressed herself, thankful to be alone. As she’d feared, there were telltale stains on her petticoats from their lovemaking, with a long rip along one side from where she’d ordered him to tear it away. She wadded up the garments and stuffed them beneath her mattress, hiding them from Mary for now, and then at last rang for the maid to join her.

For once Mary did not pry, but instead chattered on excitedly about what she’d seen and heard from the other servants about the duke and duchess. Ordinarily Gus would have hushed her, not wishing servants to gossip about guests, but this evening Mary’s words simply washed over her unheard. As she sat on the bench at her dressing table, she could think of nothing but Harry.

He’d told her he loved her, and they’d been the most glorious words she’d ever heard. But then he’d said other words that had not been quite as glorious.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this
. . .

Those words had drummed over and over in her head, driving doubts where there had been none before. Did he regret what they’d done? Had his passion been so fleeting that he’d wished it away? She’d given her maidenhead to him willingly, but she wasn’t so blindly lovesick that she’d forget the consequences of that gift.

Because now she was
ruined
, another fearsome word, one that unmarried ladies like her were only supposed to whisper with dread. In romantic books, if the gentleman truly loved the lady he’d ruined, he’d behave honorably and marry her. But what if that was only in books, and not in life? What if Harry was feeling trapped instead of honorable, and she’d become no more than an embarrassment, an encumbrance?

How much she wanted to trust Harry, wanted to trust him in everything. But those words kept coming back to her, jabbing at her trust like anxious little fists of doubt.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this
. . .

While they’d walked in the garden, Her Grace had told her that she and the duke didn’t intend to remain at Wetherby Abbey long, only a few days at most. She’d meant it generously, understanding the inconvenience that their visit had caused to Gus and the house, and wanting to lessen the imposition. But Her Grace had also said that they intended to take Harry with them back to London.

And then, just like that, he’d be gone.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this
. . .

Oh, she’d so little experience, and no one to ask! When Harry had first told her he loved her, those other words had made her hold back, wanting to protect that last little bit of her heart. But when he’d stood by her side in the hall with the sun falling all around him and told her again that he loved her, she’d wanted so much to believe him that she’d told him the same, her heart spilling out with the words. Because she did love him, loved him more than she’d ever thought possible.

And because, for her, it
was
supposed to be like this.

“Are you well, miss?” Mary asked with concern. “You’re looking pale.”

With effort Gus pulled herself back to the present. Mary was right: Her reflection in the looking glass before her was pale, her freckles more pronounced across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. Yet it wasn’t just the pallor that made her face seem unfamiliar, or the fashionable London style that Mary had coaxed her reluctant hair to assume. She wasn’t the same woman who’d begun the summer, or even the day. Loving Harry had changed her forever, and the proof was there in her own features.

“I’m fine, Mary,” she said, hooking her pearl drop earrings into her ears. “I suppose I’m a little weary, that is all. There’s been so much to do with the duke and duchess here.”

“Yes, miss,” Mary said, giving Gus’s hair one final pat. “It’s a pity your father isn’t here to see how well you’ve arranged everything so successful. He’d be so proud of you, miss, sitting at dinner with a duke and a duchess!”

Gus’s smile was small and tight as she turned away from the looking glass.

“Let us survive dinner tonight before you speak of successes, Mary,” she said, standing and smoothing her skirts over her hoops. “I’m terrified that one of the footmen will drop a tureen full of soup to splatter on Her Grace’s gown, or that some stray mouse will go racing through the dining room beside His Grace’s chair.”

“I wouldn’t worry, miss, not at all,” Mary declared, and pressed her hands together. “Don’t you look fine, miss, and fit for London society! You’ll have His Grace and his lordship squabbling over who’ll take you in to dine, that’s for certain, and the poor duchess left behind.”

Gus smiled, more at Mary’s loyalty than the compliment itself. She was wearing her best silk damask gown, deep blue with a pattern of silver pomegranates embroidered around the neckline and on the cuffs, and she knew it suited her. But the gown had been stitched by a Norwich mantua maker, not a fashionable one in London with a French name, and she knew that in comparison with the golden-haired and elegantly stylish duchess, she’d be a poor second.

“I do not believe Her Grace will worry overmuch about competing with me, Mary,” she said wryly. “If Julia were here, then things might be different, but—ah, there’s someone at the door, Mary. Would you please answer, and if it’s one of the maids from Mrs. Buchanan, tell her I’ll be there directly.”

Hurriedly she reached for her folded fan from her dressing table and tucked it into her pocket for later.
There
, she thought,
that should be all
, and she turned, ready to head downstairs to the kitchen for one last conversation to reassure Mrs. Buchanan.

But the servant at her bedchamber door wasn’t one of the scullery maids from the kitchen. It was Tewkes.

He bowed before her, holding out a small silver salver with a letter on it.

“From his lordship, Miss Augusta,” he said, holding the salver out to her. “His lordship desires that you read it and reply at once.”

Gus took the letter, her heart racing. Only her full name—
Lady Augusta Wetherby
—was written across the front. It was strange to realize she’d never seen his handwriting, not once, and yet somehow she was sure she would have recognized it anywhere, bold and slashing and masculine. She turned it over in her hands, her finger slipping beneath the seal. That, at least, was achingly familiar to her, the armorial figure from his intaglio ring pressed into the wax reminding her of all the times she’d held his hand while his leg had pained him.

He’d written only a few lines on the heavy cream stock—a few lines that could mean everything, or nothing.

My own Dear Lady
,

Please honor me with your presence, & join me now in the rose garden.

With Much Love & Affection,
Yr. Ob’t. S’v’t.
Hargreave

“I must go to him,” she said aloud without realizing it, then with a little shake she turned back toward the servants. “Mary, please tell Mrs. Buchanan that I will come to her in a quarter hour, no more. Tewkes, you need not tell his lordship that I’ll attend him, because I am going to him directly.”

She truly did have only a quarter hour, because a quarter hour after that the duke and duchess would appear downstairs for dinner. She prayed that whatever Harry wished to say to her could be said in fifteen minutes’ time, but beyond that she didn’t dare hope.

She knew exactly where to find him in the rose garden, a curving stone bench beneath the arbor, because they’d often stopped there to rest his leg. Twilight had just begun to fall for the summer night, with the first stars beginning to show overhead and a silvery crescent moon rising over the tops of the trees. The birds were singing their last songs for the day, settling to roost, and the glowworms were beginning to show in the hedges around the garden. The kitchen doors were thrown open to catch the cooler evening air, and from them came the distant sounds of clanging pans and crockery, and Mrs. Buchanan calling orders to her staff as the last preparations for dinner were made.

Aware she hadn’t much time, Gus walked briskly along the familiar paths, her shoes crunching on the gravel and her silk skirts rustling around her ankles. Her heart was racing and her breath quick as she turned around the last tall hedge, and there he was.

Harry was sitting on the bench, a lantern with a thick candle inside hooked to the arbor’s post. He, too, was dressed for dinner, more formally than she’d ever seen him. His suit was a soft blue-gray, almost as if it had been cut from the twilight sky, with curling silk embroidery dotted with gold paillettes that winked in the candlelight. The buttons on his coat and waistcoat sparkled as well with cut stones that might have been paste, or might just as well have been diamonds, and there were more cut stones on the buckles of his shoes. As soon as he saw her, he smiled and began to stand.

“Don’t rise on my account, Harry,” she said, coming forward to take his hand as she bent to kiss him lightly, a greeting more than a passionate lover’s embrace.

“Thank you for coming, Gus,” he said, his eyes dark in the half-light. “I’d almost persuaded myself that you wouldn’t.”

“Of course I would,” she said, more breathlessly than she wished. She sat on the bench beside him, sweeping her skirts to one side. “But I haven’t much time, and neither do you. Your father will be—”

“I know we don’t have time,” he said firmly, “and I don’t want to squander what we have discussing my father. What happened today—”

“I know,” she said quickly, saying the words before he’d say them himself. “It—it wasn’t how you wanted it to be.”

“Not at all,” he said, agreeing far too fast. “It wasn’t right.”

She looked down at their clasped hands, rubbing her thumb lightly over his, and she blinked, struggling to keep back the tears. She’d guessed right. This was how it would end, then, with an agreement that everything had been an impulsive mistake.