Stages of Desire (17 page)

Knowing his sister would chide him later for any recalcitrant behavior, he bravely attempted to listen and be solicitous. At least he'd persuaded both women to venture out of doors, so as to limit the likelihood he'd run into Harriet at the duchess's residence. The image of her stricken face the last time they'd seen each other still haunted him.

“Don't be silly,” said Marianne, linking arms with his sister. “Lady Claire can lean on me if she gets weary.”

Marianne was dressed to be seen, in a wide-brimmed bonnet topped with four or five large, purple feathers. He could tell from Claire's raised eyebrows she'd considered the finery a bit much. But once they'd started walking the conversation between the two women had flowed nicely. Marianne was making a great effort to find subjects in common with his sister. She looked angelic, as always, and was eager to please.

Too eager, perhaps. Claire extricated her arm from of Marianne's clutches. “I'm fine, truly. It's nice to be out in the sunshine.”

“Do you like the sunshine?” asked Marianne. “I do as well, although Mama always tells me to watch my complexion. Your skin is lovely, Claire. Like ivory. I'm jealous.”

“It comes from years of being ill, so perhaps there's no need for envy.”

Marianne gave a nervous laugh. “Of course not.” She turned to William. “It's been so enjoyable speaking with your sister. I'm glad we were finally able to be introduced.”

“I am sorry so much time has passed since we've seen each other. I was away longer than I had expected to be.”

Marianne gave a smile that bared her pretty white teeth. “Lady Claire, I'm sure you heard my dear mother sent William on a tedious errand. The poor man had to collect her wayward ward and bring her home to London. It was tedious, yes, my lord?”

“Quite. I'm glad to be back.”

“It couldn't have been that tedious,” murmured Claire.

He shot her a look. “What do you mean?”

Perhaps his sister, who knew him so well, had guessed at his infatuation with Harriet.

“Well, you came home with your remarkable treatment for malaria.”

“Of course.” Marianne clapped her gloved hands. “The tree bark and the equation.”

“Extraction,” he corrected.

She bit her lip in a gesture both sweet and annoying. He must try harder to be nicer. It wasn't Marianne's fault they didn't share the same rapport as he and Harriet once had. That kind of intimacy was treacherous and led to disaster. She was dangerous.

No, that wasn't right. In the past, he'd tried to implement structure in his life by considering people in the starkest of terms, as either good or bad. Like his father had done before him. But that wasn't the way the world worked.

Once he'd learned Harriet had returned to the duchess, he'd become even less convinced of her complicity. If she'd been part of the scheme, he'd expect her to be making her London stage debut, not hiding under the duchess's wing.

But even if she wasn't directly involved in the murder of Mrs. Ivey, she was at fault. The horrendous article in the
Times
today had once again proven she was not to be trusted. No, it was time to settle down, and Marianne would make a proper wife. He must stop dithering about.

A dozen model boats dotted the smooth surface of the Serpentine, their sails fluttering a brilliant white in the breeze. A crowd had gathered around to watch. William, who'd read a couple of books on the physics of yacht racing, pointed out the various tactics until a look from Claire made it clear he was being a bore.

Marianne was in the middle of stifling a yawn when her face suddenly lit up. She pointed into the distance. “It's Harriet and her beau!”

William whirled around. Indeed, Harriet was walking with a short, stout man who could hardly keep up with her. Although her movements were brisk, she looked more tired than he'd ever seen her, her face a pallid gray, and for a moment he worried she was ill.

“No need to call them over,” he said but it was too late. Marianne had gotten their attention and, although Harriet stood immobile for a moment, she and the man were now headed their way.

Introductions were made, where Harriet refused to meet his gaze. Claire, however, watched him carefully and he tried to keep his countenance as even as possible.

“How surprising to see you out, Miss Farley,” said Marianne. “And Mr. Hopplehill.” She turned to Claire. “Poor Miss Farley has been working so dreadfully hard for Mama and me. She seems to be able to do anything, from sew a hem to help cook. I don't know what we'd do without her.”

The words were intended to injure, to demean, and William could tell they did. Harriet nervously tugged on her gloves.

“Miss Farley is quite amazing,” said Mr. Hopplehill, wiping the sweat from the back of his neck with a handkerchief. “I'd have her out in my four-in-hand today, as all this walking is tiring, but it's being repaired.”

He continued, answering Marianne's questions about the carriage and horses with great enthusiasm. William couldn't imagine Harriet with this fellow, one who so obviously lacked her level of intelligence and wit.

“I understand, Miss Farley, you were instrumental in helping my brother with his malaria treatment in Birmingham,” said Claire.

All conversation ground to a halt. He may have mentioned Harriet once or twice in passing, perhaps more, but certainly not enough for Claire to speak so candidly.

Harriet's eyes grew wide and Marianne stiffened beside him.

“No, not at all,” said Harriet. “His lordship and Mr. Urswick were the true discoverers of the cure. I was simply the reason for the visit to Birmingham.”

“And not a pleasant reason,” said Marianne hurriedly. “Mama was worried to death about you. I'm sure Mr. Hopplehill would never have approved.”

The conversation was sliding into unsafe territory. “I'm sure Mr. Hopplehill sees his own father quite often, am I right?” asked Harriet, and Mr. Hopplehill was off again, talking at great length of his father and many brothers.

“Oh look, one of the boats is sinking,” said Marianne, cutting in. “Let's go and watch.”

William scanned the water. One of the boats had capsized and its owner, a sturdy-looking young man, waded in after it, encouraged by his mates.

Claire, Marianne, and Mr. Hopplehill moved closer to the shoreline, but William hung back and caught Harriet's arm.

“We need to speak.”

“No, my lord. If you'll excuse me.”

Her arm was strong under his touch. Unlike Marianne, there was nothing birdlike about Harriet. Although the color she wore was drab, the hue made her eyes seem even bigger and bluer.

He recalled the way her long legs had been encased by her breeches, and how her breasts had overflowed in his hands that evening in the dressing room, and his body responded uncomfortably. He pulled her closer. “I saw the article in the
Times
. Your father is talking of poison.”

“I told him in order to prevent him from coming to London.” She turned her head, avoiding his gaze. “So he could see how dangerous Freddie, and the entire situation, was. I didn't know he would use it as a cheap stunt to sell more tickets.”

His physical reaction to her angered him, along with the fact that she'd rashly confided in her father. A dark, malicious part of him wanted to punish her for making him so vulnerable in every way. “You continue to put me in jeopardy, and the play opens tonight. Everywhere you go, disaster seems to follow.”

She blanched at his strong words. “I did what I promised. I'm out of sight, working for Her Grace now. And soon I'll be with Mr. Hopplehill. There will be no reason for our paths to cross.”

“You're marrying Mr. Hopplehill, then?”

“If he asks, yes. And you and Marianne will be wed soon, it appears.”

Marianne had relinked her arm to Claire's and was laughing at something his sister had said. Marianne would indeed soon be his wife. And Harriet would marry Hopplehill. He couldn't speak the truth out loud: he wanted her for himself. The idea was ludicrous and impossible.

A roar rose up from the spectators lining the lake. Apparently the boat retrieval had been successful. “I shouldn't be seen speaking to you,” he said.

“Then walk away. As you did in Birmingham.”

He pulled her close to him. Her chest rose and fell seductively, her lips were parted, her eyes ablaze with anger. She was fierce and alluring and the only woman he had ever loved.

He let go of her and watched as she disappeared into the crowd.

Chapter 15

Marianne's face was pink with delight, but William couldn't tell if it was from the brisk pace of their walk back from Hyde Park or that she realized he was about to ask for her hand. He'd called a hackney once they'd reached the duchess's doorstep, but instead of returning home with Claire, he'd accompanied Marianne inside the townhouse. They sat side by side on the sofa in the salon once again, as they'd done several weeks ago. As if Birmingham had never happened.

His side trip to Chipping Norton, which had turned into an extended trek north, had changed his life considerably. Harriet had infuriated, challenged, and aroused him in ways he'd never before experienced.

As an earl, and the head of his family, he couldn't allow himself to fall for her charms and intelligence or be swayed by her passion anymore. Seeing her in the park had convinced him of that. She was no good for him, and beside him was a woman more in keeping with what he'd always envisioned his wife would be: charming, sweet, and predictable. Marianne would no doubt patiently handle the various demands of being a countess and raise their children to be well behaved.

Wasn't that what he'd always wanted?

“Shall I ring for tea?” Marianne asked.

William nodded. While she spoke with the servant, he studied her carefully. He wondered what it would be like to make love to her. She was so small, he hoped he wouldn't crush her underneath him. Unlike Harriet's curvy and strong physique.

He had to stop comparing the two women. One was an appropriate match, the other a disaster.

“Marianne, we ought to speak seriously for a moment, if you don't mind.”

“Of course.” Marianne looked up at him expectantly. “What would you like to discuss?”

“First, I must apologize again to you for my absence. You've been patient through my travels and my sister's illness and recovery, and I appreciate that.”

“Your sister is a charming woman. I feel close to her.”

“I'm glad. She is fond of you as well,” he lied. Even if Claire wasn't too keen on his choice for a wife, there would be ample time for the two to get to know each other better.

“I'd like it very much if you'd agree to marry me.”

She gave him a sparkling smile. He found himself watching her with an air of detachment, wondering if she'd bite her lip next or toss her head back with a laugh.

She did both. “Oh William, you've made me so happy. And Mama will be so pleased. Shall I fetch her?”

Presumably Harriet had run home after their horrid discussion and was somewhere nearby. He didn't want to see the look on her face when she found out about the engagement. Once Marianne was safely ensconced in his home as his bride, there'd be no reason to see Harriet anymore. After all, she wasn't a true sister. Until then, he preferred to keep his visits to the house brief.

“No need to bother her. I must go. I'd like to make sure Claire arrived home safely.”

“I'm sure she's fine.” Marianne put a hand on his arm and moved herself a few inches closer. “I'm so glad, William, I am. I'll do everything I can to make you happy, you know that, don't you?”

“Of course. As will I.”

“I'm sorry my father can't be at the wedding. He would have so enjoyed meeting you.”

“That's kind of you to say.”

“Do you think your mother would have liked me?”

A flash of pain throbbed in his head. One evening, a year or two before she died, his mother had railed at his father, her eyes aflame with anger. When she'd noticed William in the doorway, she'd scooped him up and carried him to his room and entertained him with a story until he'd fallen asleep. His mother had been a kind woman. And, according to his father, an unreliable, hysterical female.

His mother, with her passionate side, would have preferred Harriet, he guessed. His father would have been dazzled by Marianne, of that he had no doubt.

“I'm sure both my parents would have been delighted to have you as their daughter,” he said finally.

She moved closer to him and he realized she wanted a kiss. He took her small chin in his fingers and leaned in. Her mouth stayed motionless and the kiss ended in an instant. When he opened his eyes again she was beaming at him.

“That was wonderful.”

William stood. “I must go. I will see you and the duchess at Lady Bancroft's dinner party tonight.”

“Yes, my dear.”

The deed was done. Marianne was to be his wife.

* * * *

Marianne's squeals of joy rose up through the floorboards and left no doubt in Harriet's mind William had proposed. She'd seen them arrive from her bedroom window and remained quietly at her desk, sewing an apron she'd accidentally caught on a hook while making dinner the night before, much to cook's annoyance.

Marianne's high-pitched voice and the duchess's muted tones carried up the two flights of stairs, but Harriet was unable to make out the thread of their conversation. She was sure to learn the details soon enough.

William was done with her. Now they were both back in London he was eager to sweep everything they'd experienced together under the proverbial rug. If she'd never gone to Birmingham to seek out her father, none of this would have happened. As it was, she had tasted freedom and tapped into a creative streak she'd long believed to be dormant, and met a man who'd moved her like no other. Two weeks had changed everything.

And nothing. She was still under the thumb of the duchess, destined for Mr. Hopplehill.

Harriet had been surprised, at the park earlier, to learn William discussed her with his sister. She'd also sensed Lady Claire wasn't pleased with her brother's choice of Marianne as a wife. But none of that mattered. No doubt Marianne would insist the marriage be carried out quickly, to prevent any further delays.

She looked around her room. For six years, it had been a refuge for her, a safe place to retreat when she missed her brother or her father or Adam too much. Now it was a prison.

The duchess would more than likely put her to work assembling Marianne's wedding gown and trousseau, gathering petticoats and chemises William would touch, and remove, on their wedding night. The idea was unbearable.

She had returned to London because she'd felt guilty for dragging William into a terrible mess. Of course, she didn't expect him to thank her or even appreciate her decision. Yet everyone else around her—her father, her brother, even William—were doing exactly as they wished to.

Why shouldn't she do the same?

The past several weeks her goal had been single-minded: to rescue her father, and her own will and determination surprised her.

Perhaps it was time she rescue herself.

Harriet yanked the portmanteau out from under the bed and placed her few belongings inside, including the book of sonnets. Marianne was still burbling away in the drawing room, and Harriet quietly made her way down the stairs and out the back door. She'd almost closed it behind her when a gruff voice called out her name.

With a sweeping movement, she tossed her portmanteau into the boxwoods beside the steps. The cook emerged in the doorway and glared at her.

“Where are you going? We've got work to do.”

“Her Grace has sent me on an errand. I won't be long.”

The cook eyed her suspiciously. “Did you fix that apron yet?”

“I have. I'll bring it down this evening.”

“Good. Otherwise you'll ruin your pretty dresses. And we wouldn't want that.”

She huffed away. Harriet closed the door, freed her portmanteau from the shrubbery, and ran.

During her furious escape, she kept her eyes trained forward, like a carriage horse wearing blinkers. She entered the Covent Garden Theatre through the stage door, where a grizzled stagehand directed her up two flights of stairs to an office door painted with the words “Mr. Harris, Producer.”

She knocked and stepped inside. Random props from previous shows, including several swords balanced precariously on a narrow cabinet, covered every surface of the room, and a large cutout of a palm tree lurked in one corner. Framed playbills from previous shows, including John Philip Kemble's
Othello
and Sarah Siddon's
Measure for Measure
, adorned the walls.

Mr. Harris sat behind a giant wooden desk that was out of proportion with the rest of the room. Her father sat opposite him, and both men looked up in surprise when she entered.

“Harry!”

Her first instinct was to run into her father's arms and bury her head in his lap like a young girl. Instead, she stood firm and launched into the speech she'd formulated on the way over. “Father. Mr. Harris. I'm here to offer my services.”

Her father's face lit up before she could say anything further. He took her in his arms. “My girl, I knew you'd come to your senses.”

“I needed time to think about my future, and I was rash to not consider your offer of employment.”

“The role of Rosalind is already cast.” Mr. Harris's voice was cold.

She was prepared for that. “I'm not interested in acting. I'd prefer to support the production behind the scenes.”

“From behind the scenes, you say? Why not on stage?”

“I enjoy acting, but I can do more.”

“What more?”

Her father laughed. “Harriet's awfully good at telling other people what to do.”

She nodded without smiling. “Yes, that's true. But I don't want to be presumptuous. I simply want a job.”

Mr. Harris leaned forward. His eyes were widely spaced apart and he blinked several times in a row. “You're a woman.”

“I can be an assistant, or help with costumes. Whatever you need. I must support myself now.”

“The duchess tossed you out?” her father asked.

“Not exactly.”

Mr. Harris rubbed his chin. “I'd have to speak with our general manager. He's out of town at the moment.”

“Of course. In the meantime, I can help out backstage during the run of
As You Like It
.” She hated putting herself at their mercy, but she'd learned there was no turning back. This was the life she was meant for.

“Why don't you step out of the room for a moment, Miss Farley, so your father and I can discuss this matter privately?”

A few minutes after she'd obeyed, the door opened. Her father took her face in his hands and kissed her cheeks. “Welcome back to the theater.”

A lump formed in Harriet's throat and she swallowed hard.

“Come with us, we'd like to show you around,” said Mr. Harris. “Leave your valise here for now.”

“Have you heard from Freddie?” she whispered to her father as they followed Mr. Harris down the labyrinthine hallways.

He shook his head. “Nothing. I doubt we'll hear from that boy again.”

“Why did you tell the papers about the poisoning?” She was in no position to argue with him now, but she didn't want him to think by joining him she approved of his actions.

“No one believes it. It's all for show, you know that. Rumors sell tickets.” He pulled her closer, not taking his eyes off the back of Mr. Harris's dark head. “Without you, ticket sales haven't been what we'd hoped. By London's standards, the Farley Players don't deserve to be here, in the finest theater in England. If the crowd turns up their noses, we don't make any money and it's back to the circuit. I had to pique their interest.”

The narrow hallway opened up into a balcony overlooking the lobby. Mr. Harris waited for them to catch up, then opened a door and led them into a private box. Harriet put one hand on the wall to steady herself as she gazed into the cavernous space before her. The actors were in the middle of act one, arranged onstage before an exquisitely painted backdrop of a sinister-looking castle edged with willow trees. Their voices carried effortlessly to the back of the house.

“It's beautiful,” Harriet whispered.

The actress playing Rosalind was on her knees, pleading with the duke not to banish her, and even from this distance Harriet could see the woman was too old and stout for the part of an innocent young girl.

“Mrs. Rebecca Mudie,” said Mr. Harris. “She has a loyal following.”

Harriet nodded. To her astonishment, when it came time for the actress to rise, she was unable. The boy Martin ran forward and helped her to her feet. She waved him off once she was upright and coughed a couple of times before continuing her speech.

Harriet gave her father an inquisitive look.

“We had to take what we could get.”

More likely, her father wanted to keep a greater share for himself at the expense of the production. Hiring a more expensive actress would have dipped into his profits. He preferred spreading rumors to paying for talent.

“Stop, stop.” Mrs. Mudie brought the scene to a halt and waved her hands in front of her. “I need something to coat my throat. We must break.”

“Very well,” called out one of the stagehands. “Take ten minutes, ladies and gentlemen. Ten minutes only.”

“Mrs. Mudie has been complaining about her assistant. I'll introduce you,” said Mr. Harris. “Perhaps you can take over.”

Backstage, Mr. Harris knocked on Mrs. Mudie's dressing room door and entered without waiting for an answer. The actress was adjusting her wig and didn't look up. “I said I'm not going onstage until I've had a cup of tea.”

“Mrs. Mudie.”

“Mr. Harris.” She rolled her eyes and tossed the wig onto the dressing table. “Your wigs don't fit properly, and I assure you, you won't be happy with the howls of laughter when it falls off during the show.”

“I'm sorry you're not pleased. Mrs. Mudie, may I introduce Miss Farley?”

Mrs. Mudie gave Harriet an appraising glance. “Right. The one from Birmingham.”

A young girl hurried in with a tea tray and placed it near Mrs. Mudie's elbow. She lifted the cup to her lips and sneered. “It's cold. Get your head together, Emmaline, you've been acting like a simpleton all day.”