daggers at him, and he knew a stormy scene lay ahead. He wished he had not taken her out of the care of old Lord Brothers. Belinda was delightful, but she was becoming increasingly jealous.
The supper room was decorated in an Indian theme, draped with yards of silk and set about with palm trees.
Voices rose and fell. Harriet looked down at a selection of delicacies on her plate and felt she did not want to eat any of it. She was aware of the marquess’s eyes on her face. She was aware too of the strength of his personality, a personality which seemed to be seeking to dominate her. Harriet had been used to being ordered around. Her parents had laid down the law on every subject, and, after their death, Sir Benjamin had fallen into the way of ordering her about. Even Josephine – Miss Spencer – had, on occasion, affectionately called Harriet a widgeon and had stepped in to tackle her problems for her. But since she had come to London, her desire to do the best for Sarah and Annabelle had given Harriet a new courage and independence. Unknown to herself, she was on the brink of discovering she preferred to make up her own mind.
‘Where is your home, Miss Metcalf?’ she realized the marquess was asking.
‘Upper Marcham, a small village in Barshire.’
‘And do you see much social life there?’
‘Not since my parents died, which was some seven years ago,’ said Harriet. ‘Before that, they took me to assemblies in Barminster.’
‘I am amazed you are still unwed.’
The candid blue eyes that looked up into his own had an expression of wonder in them, as if still astonished by the whole wide world. ‘Why, sir,’ she said, ‘I have no dowry.’
‘I would have thought your face was dowry enough,’ he said. His voice was warm and teasing; the voice, thought Harriet, of a practised flirt.
‘No one’s face is enough, my lord,’ she said sharply.
‘Come, I cannot believe no one has ever proposed to you.’
‘Yes, they did, when my parents were alive, but Mama considered them unsuitable.’
‘And what did you think?’
Harriet looked at him in surprise. ‘I did n-not think anything,’ she faltered. ‘One must always honour one’s parents’ judgement.’
‘Even if the heart is engaged?’
‘I do not think hearts have much to do with marriage,’ said Harriet. ‘A lady must marry someone suitable. If her heart is also engaged, then she may count herself fortunate.’
‘But you do not seem to think many such fortunate ladies exist?’
‘No, love seems to be something found outside marriage – as in your own case.’
She turned brick red.
‘Some wine, Miss Metcalf?’ he said smoothly while inwardly fuming. But, then, he had only himself to blame. This is what came of encouraging rustic beauties to be impertinent. But it was so very hard to remain angry with her when she looked so ashamed and downcast. Her rare combination of innocence and sensuality was beginning to stir his senses. But it would not answer. He did not wish to be married. He had been married once, such a long time ago, to pretty Dorothy, a tiny charmer, who had died of consumption and saved him the pain of divorcing her for her blatant faithlessness. And Dorothy had once been as innocent as this Miss Metcalf. Women were all the same; once the bloom was lost, they turned into heartless sluts. And Miss Metcalf, for all her innocence, showed a decidedly mercenary turn of mind.
‘I apologize for my last remark,’ said Harriet stiffly. ‘It – it – just came out.’
‘Your apology is accepted,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you will find a husband this Season, Miss Metcalf.’
‘I am only interested in finding husbands for the Misses Hayner,’ said Harriet, ‘although I do not expect any difficulty. Both are so charming and talented.’
‘And where are these paragons?’
Harriet nodded her head in the direction of the right-hand corner of the room. ‘Sarah is the one in blue, and Annabelle is in pink. They are
The supper room was decorated in an Indian theme, draped with yards of silk and set about with palm trees.
Voices rose and fell. Harriet looked down at a selection of delicacies on her plate and felt she did not want to eat any of it. She was aware of the marquess’s eyes on her face. She was aware too of the strength of his personality, a personality which seemed to be seeking to dominate her. Harriet had been used to being ordered around. Her parents had laid down the law on every subject, and, after their death, Sir Benjamin had fallen into the way of ordering her about. Even Josephine – Miss Spencer – had, on occasion, affectionately called Harriet a widgeon and had stepped in to tackle her problems for her. But since she had come to London, her desire to do the best for Sarah and Annabelle had given Harriet a new courage and independence. Unknown to herself, she was on the brink of discovering she preferred to make up her own mind.
‘Where is your home, Miss Metcalf?’ she realized the marquess was asking.
‘Upper Marcham, a small village in Barshire.’
‘And do you see much social life there?’
‘Not since my parents died, which was some seven years ago,’ said Harriet. ‘Before that, they took me to assemblies in Barminster.’
‘I am amazed you are still unwed.’
The candid blue eyes that looked up into his own had an expression of wonder in them, as if still astonished by the whole wide world. ‘Why, sir,’ she said, ‘I have no dowry.’
‘I would have thought your face was dowry enough,’ he said. His voice was warm and teasing; the voice, thought Harriet, of a practised flirt.
‘No one’s face is enough, my lord,’ she said sharply.
‘Come, I cannot believe no one has ever proposed to you.’
‘Yes, they did, when my parents were alive, but Mama considered them unsuitable.’
‘And what did you think?’
Harriet looked at him in surprise. ‘I did n-not think anything,’ she faltered. ‘One must always honour one’s parents’ judgement.’
‘Even if the heart is engaged?’
‘I do not think hearts have much to do with marriage,’ said Harriet. ‘A lady must marry someone suitable. If her heart is also engaged, then she may count herself fortunate.’
‘But you do not seem to think many such fortunate ladies exist?’
‘No, love seems to be something found outside marriage – as in your own case.’
She turned brick red.
‘Some wine, Miss Metcalf?’ he said smoothly while inwardly fuming. But, then, he had only himself to blame. This is what came of encouraging rustic beauties to be impertinent. But it was so very hard to remain angry with her when she looked so ashamed and downcast. Her rare combination of innocence and sensuality was beginning to stir his senses. But it would not answer. He did not wish to be married. He had been married once, such a long time ago, to pretty Dorothy, a tiny charmer, who had died of consumption and saved him the pain of divorcing her for her blatant faithlessness. And Dorothy had once been as innocent as this Miss Metcalf. Women were all the same; once the bloom was lost, they turned into heartless sluts. And Miss Metcalf, for all her innocence, showed a decidedly mercenary turn of mind.
‘I apologize for my last remark,’ said Harriet stiffly. ‘It – it – just came out.’
‘Your apology is accepted,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you will find a husband this Season, Miss Metcalf.’
‘I am only interested in finding husbands for the Misses Hayner,’ said Harriet, ‘although I do not expect any difficulty. Both are so charming and talented.’
‘And where are these paragons?’
Harriet nodded her head in the direction of the right-hand corner of the room. ‘Sarah is the one in blue, and Annabelle is in pink. They are
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