Accidental Peers 03 - Compromising Willa (10 page)

The sister rolled her eyes. “Willa, His Grace will think you are quite radical when nothing could be further from the truth.”

Hartwell smiled at Lady Adela. “Not at all, my lady. I find the discourse most engaging.” He turned his attention back to Willa. “Pray do continue, Lady Wilhelmina.”

“A woman is entitled to more than a domestic education. If a woman has no interest in domestic pursuits, she is doomed to a life of boredom,” Willa said. “Her mind is essentially wasted.”

“Some would argue that women do have a duty,” said Selwyn, still obviously dazzled by Willa’s radiance. “The importance of raising a family and running a household are not to be underestimated.”

“But what if a woman does not marry?” she said. “At my age, I will likely never marry. Am I doomed, then, to a life without intellectual pursuit?”

The lady’s eyes glittered with activity, a lovely flush of color high on her cheeks. Hart had never seen her so animated and engaged, her aloof demeanor stripped away, her passion apparent. Ah, to have that passion directed at oneself. “Is that what you desire, the right to never marry?”

“Yes. I shall never wed.” Willa’s answer was firm. “But if I were to marry and bear children, wouldn’t they be best served by a mother who is educated? Should they not be guided by a mother with an active, learned mind? An educated woman is best for her family and for society. So it follows that educated women are good for the prosperity of the nation.”

Hart had always liked women with keen minds. But social debates had never aroused both his mind and body before. By God, this unwitting temptress had his blood surging through his body in mindless anticipation.

“I concur with that part of Miss Wollstonecraft’s argument,” he said. “A well-educated woman is an asset not only to herself, but to her husband and children. And, of course, that benefits a civilized society. It is my contention, though, that members of your gender can be alluring to men as well as highly educated and intelligent. The two are not necessarily mutually exclusive.”

The arrival of the tea interrupted their discussion. Sipping it, Hart realized the brew not only compared to Willa’s, it actually surpassed it. In fact, the hint of citrus combined with an edge of rosemary sweetened with cinnamon was frisky on the tongue in a way that might make it the best cup of tea he’d ever had.

He looked up to find Willa watching him with more than just a passing curiosity. In fact, that intense, almost anticipatory look was remarkably similar to the one she’d worn the day he’d tasted her tea at Camryn House. Come to think of it, this tea seemed quite similar to that tea. Too similar. As though it had in fact been mixed by the same hand.

His eyebrows lifted. Surely she wouldn’t dare sell her blends. No lady would court scandal like that, not even one who spouted the virtues of Wollstonecraft. “This tea is quite good actually, excellent even.”

Her answering smile of satisfaction told him all he needed to know. “Yes,” she said in a propriety manner. “It is why Flor and I frequent this establishment.”

“It tastes familiar somehow.”

Willa’s expression froze with her lush lips slightly parted. Red sputtered into her teacup and coughed several times.

“Lady Florinda?” Cam leaned forward to offer her his kerchief. “Are you well?”

“Yes, quite well,” Red choked out, her face as flaming as her hair. She grabbed the linen cloth and put it to her mouth. “Thank you ever so much.”

Hart downed more tea. “Yes, I’m sure of it. Do you agree the tea tastes familiar, Lady Wilhelmina?”

Steely eyes met his. “I can’t say that it does.”

“Really?” Taking another sip, he allowed the warm liquid to roll around in his mouth. “Of course, your blends are sharper on the tongue.”

“Flor is unwell.” She pushed to her feet quite abruptly, added color tingeing those high cheekbones. Sadly, he couldn’t check the temperature of her ears because they were hidden beneath her turban. “We should go.”

“Are you certain?” he said as the gentlemen came to their feet. “We were having such an enlightening conversation.”

“Yes.” She gave him a frigid look. “Quite sure.”

After a moment’s delay, Red got to her feet. “I do feel rather badly.”

“You are a bit flushed,” he said, amusement in his voice. “Allow me to see you home.”

Willa’s enormous eyes narrowed. “That will not be necessary. Cam can escort us.”

“I suppose Selwyn and I will stay behind to finish our tea.” Hart bowed. “What did you say this blend is called?”

“I didn’t say.” Taking Red by the arm, she smiled serenely, not about to get caught in his obvious trap. “Come, Florinda, let us go.”

Looking back over her shoulder as Willa firmly guided her away, Red called back to him, “It’s called Heavenly Tea.”

…

Willa moved about the morning room mixing her latest tea blend for the shop when Smythe appeared with a sizeable package.

“Who is it from?” she asked, eyeing the parcel.

“It was just delivered by a footman in the Duke of Hartwell’s livery.”

A pang cramped Willa’s insides, a mix of both ire and lingering wounded feelings after his humiliation of her in the garden. She turned back to her tea leaves. “Send it back.”

“I am to read the accompanying note to you before the parcel is returned.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Willa measured out the leaves. “I’m not the least bit interested.”

Smythe cleared his throat. “Please, my lady, I wouldn’t want His Grace displeased with me. And if her ladyship learns of this—”

She regretted the butler’s distress. He’d had to rebuff both an earl and a duke on her behalf more than once this week. She shook her head with exasperation. It was as though everyone had suddenly forgotten she was ruined.

Without turning around, she said, “Oh, very well, just read it and have done with it.”

“Yes, my lady.” Relief weighted his voice. “If I may, it says, ‘To an angel of a lady who mixes the most heavenly of teas.’”

The silver mixing spoon clattered to the floor. She whirled around. “What else does it say?”

“That is all,” he said serenely. “Shall I return the package now?”

So Hartwell had rightly guessed the coffee house tea was her very own blend. Icy fear gave way to a rising tide of indignation. Did he mean to threaten her into accepting his notes and gifts? “You may leave the parcel. That will be all.”

After Smythe departed, Willa eyed the sizable package. A fiery sensation flared in her chest at the thought of Hartwell. And that kiss. Passionate and delicious in a way that made her insides clamor for more, Hartwell’s embrace had been nothing like her regrettable intimacy with Augustus. She’d never willingly opened her mouth for Augustus; it had disgusted her. Yet, with Hartwell, her lips had parted almost of their own volition. She’d
wanted
to taste him.

And then he’d stopped. With the harsh words that followed, her humiliation had been complete. Rumors of her ruination had undoubtedly reached him. Why else would he have treated her like a strumpet? She had only herself to blame for the soreness in her chest when she thought of the duke; she of all people shouldn’t require reminders about the true nature of men. Besides, Hartwell’s meeting with Mr. Webb suggested he was the potential buyer who meant to purchase the building and close the coffee house. Clearly, it meant nothing to the duke to put struggling mothers out of work.

Staring at the package now, her first instinct was to throw it out since she couldn’t send it back but—drat it all—curiosity finally got the better of her. She untied the string binding it and something fluttered to the floor. Another note. She stooped to pick it up. The words were written with a heavy hand in sharp, decisive strokes—not unlike the man who’d wielded the pen.

Forgive the tactics but my apology is most sincere.

Sincere. She knew a thing or two about men and their sincerity. Her father had professed his devotion to her mother but that hadn’t kept him from straying. And hadn’t Augustus pledged his undying regard for her? Her attention returned to the package. She could still throw it out. If only she wasn’t so curious to learn what it contained.

She tore away the paper to reveal some sort of wooden box. Her breath caught as the most exquisite tea caddy she’d ever seen came into full view. The rich scent of dark wood and something faintly exotic drifted into the air. She stared at the intricate swirls of design which was inlaid with both brass and smooth ivory. It was perhaps the most beautiful object she’d ever seen.

Admiring the molded edges, she released the clasp to lift the finely crafted, stepped lid. Inside, the triple caddy contained two glass jars and a bowl. Her eyes widened. The glass jars were filled with tea, but nothing she recognized. Opening one of them, she inhaled a singular musky spiciness that sent her senses swirling. What was it? Closing her eyes, she took in the deep, rich, earthy fragrance again. This tea would be sweet, perhaps malty. Was it from India? She had to taste it. Ringing for Smythe, she asked for tea to be sent up right away.

While she waited, she ran her fingers along the cool dark wood of the tea caddy and her thoughts returned to Hartwell. She smiled, reluctantly admiring his clever gift. He barely knew her, yet this gift suggested otherwise, for he’d selected the one thing in this world she could never bring herself to return. But it didn’t mean she’d forgiven him. And she certainly didn’t trust his intentions any more today than she had yesterday.

…

The following afternoon, Willa set out for the coffee house with her latest blend tucked under one arm. She was in a hurry because the last package she’d sent over had been misplaced. Pamela’s footman swore he’d delivered it, but the women at the shop could not seem to place it.

The timing couldn’t have been worse. Lady Rawdon, the lovely widow who had an eye for Hartwell, had scheduled a gathering at the coffee house today. The anticipated profits would pay the establishment’s expenses, including the workers’ wages, for a month.

Too impatient to wait in the front hall for the carriage to be brought around, she stepped out onto the sidewalk and her heart sank when an opulent coach-and-four bearing the Bellingham insignia pulled up.

A Bellingham footman jumped down from his place at the back of the horse-drawn carriage to open the door. Augustus’ chiseled profile leaned into view. “The lovely Lady Wilhelmina.” He eyed her package. “Are you going somewhere? Allow me to convey you there.”

She looked around. Where was her carriage? Time was running short. Lady Rawdon’s event would commence at any moment. She had to get the tea there in time. “Very well. It will be just a moment for my abigail.”

Augustus extended a hand to help her up into the coach. “No need for that.” A cool smile. “After all, we are practically family.”

She stood her ground well away from the coach. As if she would ever place herself in a position of vulnerability with him again. “I go nowhere without Clara.”

A footman hurried inside to call for Willa’s maid. Only when she finally rushed out, pulling on her bonnet, did Willa allow the earl to hand her up into his coach. Clara slipped in beside her. Augustus took the seat opposite them, his back to the driver. He tapped on the roof, signaling the coachman to drive on.

“I am going to the coffee house on Bond Street,” Willa said. “Do you know it?”

His brow arched. “I do indeed. Although I have to say it is distasteful the way unchaperoned innocents have taken to congregating there.”

Glancing out the window, she wished the coachman would move faster. “It is a perfectly respectable establishment.”

“I should like to announce our betrothal immediately.”

She swung her head from the window to him. “I am not marrying you. I’ve made myself quite clear in that regard.”

“I should think your reputation would not allow you to be so choosy.”

“Whose fault is it that my reputation is not as pristine as it once was?” she retorted while Clara shifted uncomfortably beside her.

“Exactly.” He regarded her over the bridge of his well-formed nose. “I am most willing to rectify it.”

She shook her head, thoroughly exasperated. “I do not wish to marry. Not you nor anyone else.” The carriage lurched to a halt. “Why have we stopped?”

“London traffic is atrocious.” His austere expression chilled. “Perhaps you await your duke.”

“He is not my duke. I don’t know what this feud between you and Hartwell is about, but I want nothing to do with it.”

“Impossible. You are the prize we both intend to claim.”

“Please. Hartwell has no serious interest in me.” She almost laughed at the irony. For years, there had been no suitors save a bevy of fortune hunters. And now both a duke and an earl vied for her attention? “I’m quite the tainted prize, wouldn’t you say?”

His expression firmed. “I don’t intend to lose to that man.”

The carriage inched forward. She regarded Augustus with open curiosity, taking in the sun-shot curls and high-cut cheekbones. Without a doubt, he was pleasingly formed, probably the most handsome man of her acquaintance, yet his presence now left her completely unmoved.

“Why did Hartwell pummel you at university?” she asked.