How to Treat a Lady (16 page)

“B-but there is no music.”

“We'll pretend. I've noticed that your entire family is good at pretending. This shouldn't tax your abilities in the least.”

She shook her head. “I don't think—”

“Don't think, Harriet. Pretend. Pretend you're at a ball. Pretend you're wearing a gown that goes with these shoes. Pretend you're surrounded with soft music, flickering candlelight, and the glitter of jewels.”

She smiled, her eyes closing slightly. “Mmmm. A full orchestra. And the Prince is in attendance.”

He smiled down at her. “As you wish, m'lady.”
He tightened his hold on her waist. “May I have this dance?”

She lifted her wrist and consulted an imaginary dance card. “Let me see. I danced the quadrille with the Duke of Devonshire and the country dance with the Prince Regent. I suppose we can dance the last—”

He pulled her tight, her body firm against his. “The waltz. It's just beginning.”

She colored adorably. “I—I don't know that dance.”

“Then I shall have to teach you.”

Her eyes sparkled. “Could you? I saw it danced once at the assembly rooms in Harrowgate and it looked excessively elegant.”

“It is. Now, put your hand like so, and rest your other hand here…there you go. Now, relax and just follow me.” He began to hum, swaying ever so slightly.

She followed him, naturally graceful. Her steps matched his so perfectly that he quickened the pace. She never faltered. He hummed a little louder, increasing the tempo. Her skirts flared out, her slippers glinting like dewdrops on the faded rug.

“How wonderful!” Laughter gurgled in the back of her throat as they spun around and around. “It's even more enjoyable than it appear—”

“Harri!” rang a call from the foyer. “Are you ready?”

Harriet came to a complete stop. “Oh dear! That's Stephen. They must be ready. And I don't even have my boots on!” She whirled away, her skirts brushing his legs, before she plopped onto the edge of the bed and removed the silver slippers. She yanked her thick woolen stockings back on.

Chase watched, feeling strangely bereft. Of all the women he'd known, none had intrigued him so thoroughly or as quickly as the slip of a woman on the edge of her bed. He sighed. “I'll go and get the basket from Cook.”

Harriet nodded. “Please do! And pray tell Stephen I'll be right down.”

“Of course.” Chase turned to leave.

“Captain?”

He paused. “Yes?”

“Thank you.”

Chase glanced back and saw a soft smile touch her lips.

She lifted the shoes and looked at them, a glow in her eyes. “I and my shoes thank you.”

Chase tried to think of any woman of his acquaintance who would be sincerely grateful for such a trifling thing as a dance in an empty room without the benefit of an orchestra or champagne or any of the trappings most females prized.

Harriet stomped her booted feet to the floor and went to the wardrobe. She replaced the shoes on the bottom shelf and then stood back and regarded them with satisfaction. “Now no one can say they've never been worn.”

“No. No they can't.” And with that poor rejoinder, he left. What was it about Harriet Ward that fascinated him so? He wasn't sure what it was, but he was damned well going to find out.

M
other's soft voice traveled through the door. “Harriet?”

Harriet rolled to her side, cuddling deeper into the cocoon of warmth she'd made in the night. “Yes?”

“Time to wake up, dear.”

Harriet wasn't sure she'd ever really been asleep. Her thoughts had churned restlessly last night, just as they had every night since the captain had found his way into the Ward household. Especially since the day before, when he'd danced with her.

She opened her eyes and looked around her room. It looked the same…yet it didn't. Something magical had happened. Something that had shaken her to the very core.

Worse, every time she closed her eyes, she found herself wearing her sparkling shoes, waltzing in his arms once again, over and over, as if her heart couldn't get enough of the sensation.

She closed her eyes, remembering the feel of his arms about her, the warmth of his breath on her temple, the deep sound of his voice against her ear—

“Harriet? I don't hear you moving.”

“I'm awake,” Harriet said, bouncing a little in the bed so that the rails would creak.

“Good. I'm going to help Jane set out breakfast.”

Harriet sighed. “I'll be down as soon as I'm dressed.”

“Very well, dear. I just didn't want you to fall asleep again.” Mother's footsteps faded down the hallway.

Harriet turned onto her back, careful to keep the covers tucked beneath her chin to hold in the warmth, and wondered what made the captain so…fascinating.

Oh, it was true that she'd never seen a more handsome man—the combination of black hair and piercing blue eyes was enough to make anyone take notice. But added to that was a sensual smile that could send a shiver down one's spine, a set of hard-carved lips that seemed made for kissing, a rather lively sense of humor, and a definite streak of…reluctant chivalry, she supposed it was, for lack of a better phrase.

But there were a few other things, as well. Broad shoulders, a tapered waist, and a very firm posterior.

Not that she'd been looking at his posterior, mind you. Harriet was quite certain she wouldn't have noticed anything about the captain at all if she
hadn't been forced to endure Ophelia's and Sophia's constant musing on the subject.

Every day, they watched, commented, debated, and argued about which of the captain's features they liked the best. Sophia was very fond of his blue eyes, shadowed as they were by coal black lashes so long that they curled just a bit at the ends. Ophelia rather thought she liked the way his muscles rippled beneath his shirt while he was working. The only thing the two were in complete agreement on was the captain's rump. They both thought it was a thing of godlike beauty.

To be honest, his posterior
was
rather impressive. Especially arrayed in Stephen's slightly too-tight breeches. Harriet smiled. There were some advantages to working in the fields. Mainly, you had the opportunity to watch your more interesting companions for lengthy periods of time without their being aware of it. Until four days ago, Harriet hadn't been aware of that particular benefit to field work.

Not that any of it mattered. It was a complete waste of time to dream over a man who was bound to leave. Fortunately for her, Harriet had long since learned to waste neither her time nor her life dreaming about things one could never have.

Father, of course, had believed differently. He had been a dreamer. She could remember him saying that their only chore was to enjoy life to the fullest and to let tomorrow take care of itself. But his determination to live in a manner he could ill afford had, on his death, left his family deeply in debt. Harriet had learned that the only time one could really enjoy tomorrow was after one had taken care of today.

She thought about her brothers and sisters. About
Stephen, who worked so hard that his hands were already callused and rough; about Sophia and Ophelia, who fetched and carried and cleaned; about Derrick, who'd lost the chance to attend Eton; and especially Mother, who worried about them all, more than she wanted anyone to know. Harriet had to force away a very real flare of anger at her father for his shortsightedness.

A noise outside of Harriet's door drew her attention to the clock. Piffle! If she didn't get busy, she'd be late again. And all because she'd lain in bed too long.

Harriet took a deep breath, pushed aside the mound of blankets and jumped to the floor, the cold chattering her teeth. Hugging herself, she ran across the room, threw open the door to the wardrobe, grabbed her clothing from a peg and ran back to bed.

She tossed the clothes onto the bed and then dived under the covers, luxuriating in the cozy spot she'd just left. It was warmer in the house during the winter, when it was so cold they had to have the fires lit. But in the spring, when it was warm in the daytime, they made do without the fires, which left the mornings a bit frosty early in the season.

Harriet snaked out a hand from beneath the covers and grabbed her gown. She then began the laborious process of putting it on while staying warm. Years of practice held her in good stead, and she soon had the gown in place and was ready to face the chill morning air.

Harriet stood in her stocking-clad feet and fished her boots out from under her bed, yawning away the effects of too little sleep. What was she doing, losing sleep over a man who was destined to leave?
She seemed to have no control over her thoughts of late.

It seemed that as soon as her head hit her pillow, no matter how tired she might be, her mind immediately began to dwell on Captain Frakenham. There was something about him, about the way he smiled, about the flashes of sadness she saw in his eyes at unexpected moments, at the little acts of kindness that he committed when he thought no one was looking—like asking her to dance. Or the times he helped Ophelia or Sophia with a bucket that appeared too heavy. Or—oh—a dozen other kindnesses.

She closed her eyes and for an instant, she was back in his arms, twirling across the bedroom floor, her magic shoes on her feet as they swooped and swirled until Harriet was quite sure she could fly.

Her heart warmed at the memory, banishing the cold, and she held her arms out and danced a few steps in the empty room, her skirts swirling about her legs. As she turned, she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror over the washstand. Her eyes were shining, her lips curved into a bemused smile. She looked like a woman in lo—

She dropped her hands to her side, her gaze widening. Blast it, that was no way to feel about a man who would soon leave, even if he did know how to dance. She would not be so silly as to allow herself to feel anything for him. She was not her father, ready to throw away her future and the future of those she loved for something she could never have.

“Piffle,” she said aloud, to further stifle her unruly imagination. For the thousandth time, she won
dered at the captain's true identity. And why he'd elected to stay here, with them. Whatever it was, Harriet decided she had better find out. She hated a mystery almost as much as she hated empty, wasted dreaming.

Firmly putting the waltz tune out of her mind and restoring her heart to its normal location in her chest, Harriet put on her boots and left her room.

 

He was drowning in a sea of wool. Baaing sheep surrounded him on all sides, black-faced ones, and white-faced ones, and large spotted ones. They stood all around him as far as the eye could see, as deep as the ocean itself.

Try as he might, he could not break free. All he could do was flounder helplessly as muffled waves of wool enclosed him, pressed upon him, dragged him under until he could not breathe. He struggled furiously, fighting madly, desperate for breath as he tried to break to the surface
—

Chase awoke with a start, facedown in his pillow. He yanked it away and gulped in the cold morning air, his body drenched in sweat. Bloody hell, what a nightmare.

But it was no wonder—he was inundated with sheep. Chase tucked the pillow back under his head and rolled onto his back, blinked groggily into the darkness as he waited for his breathing to return to normal. He'd never worked so hard in his life, though to tell the truth, as more and more days passed, he found that he was beginning to enjoy it.

Well, some of it. There was one particular ram who detested Chase on sight, a sentiment Chase found that he could return with his full compliments. Every opportunity the ram got, he would lower his head and attempt to knock Chase into the mud.

In all truth, far worse than the work and the cantankerous ram, was the constant trail of visitors that had descended on Garrett Park. They came, they saw, they gawked. Each night, Chase would drag himself in from the fields, take a quick gallop on his poor horse, who no doubt was feeling as cooped up as Chase himself, and then put on his London clothes and pretend he wasn't nigh dead with exhaustion at dinner.

That night promised to be the worst night of all, for Lady Cabot-Wells was reputed to be attending. Mrs. Ward had announced with some glee that the woman was the busiest gossip this side of Dorset.

Chase rubbed his neck and stretched, wakening more each passing moment. The more he saw of the gossip chain that operated in Sticklye-By-The-River, the happier he was that he hadn't blurted out his name when he'd first arrived.

In one more week, all would be finished. The wool would be gathered, the bank paid, Garrett Park saved, and Chase St. John would be on his way. He rolled to his side and looked about his dark bedroom, wondering why the thought made him feel so bleak.

Didn't he want to protect his family from his own errors? Of course he did. And leaving was the best way. He was sure of it.

Almost.

What, he wondered, would Harriet do in his case? He saw her as she'd looked in his arms, dancing with such a joyous air.

Of all the women Chase had known, Harriet Ward was the most honest, genuine of all. He liked how she faced life's difficulties with her chin in the air,
still able to laugh and enjoy a moment of frivolity without playing the martyr. He thought of her shoes and the joy she'd taken in wearing them.

One day, when all this was over, he would order a dress for her, one that would match those shoes. One that would fulfill every daydream she'd ever had.

The thought pleased him and he lay in the darkness, smiling.

“Captain?” Stephen threw open the door. “It's another day.”

So it was. Chase kicked back his covers and sat up, stretching in the dark. The second the sheep were shorn and he was certain Garrett Park was saved, it would be time to leave. Time to resume his journey. But today was not that day.

For some reason, that small thought soothed him and it was with a lift to his step that he dressed and went to breakfast.

 

Harriet pushed her hat off her head and wiped her brow. These were the last of them. Beginning tomorrow, they would start the shearing.

She leaned against the fence, her neck and back aching. Thank goodness for Max. He herded the sheep almost effortlessly, crisscrossing back and forth, nipping at a heel here, a rump there. The sheep, though nervous around him, seemed to understand he meant no harm and they jostled along in the general direction he provided.

“Are we done?”

Harriet glanced up at the captain. He leaned against the fence, his shirt undone at the neck, his sleeves rolled up. A wide-brimmed straw hat was settled on his black hair, shading his eyes from the
sun. He'd not worn a hat the first day, and the bridge of his nose and the tips of his ears were a pleasant shade of pink.

After seeing him glowing red at the end of the first day, Harriet had demanded that Stephen provide him one of his straw hats. The hat, old and frayed, wasn't one of Stephen's better ones, but on the captain, it seemed different somehow. Bolder. More…noble or something.

The captain glanced down at her at that moment, his brows lifting. “What?”

She looked away, irritated he'd caught her staring at him. “Nothing. I was just seeing if your sunburn was better.”

“Oh I hardly feel it at all. Of course, that could be because the rest of me is so pained that I barely notice the sunburn, but…” He shrugged.

Her lips twitched. “You know, I'm surprised you are sore at all. It's almost as if you'd never done a day's labor in your life. A strange thought, that. You'd think a sailor would be more used to hard work.”

Chase glanced down at the wretch. She was teasing him, he was sure of it. Always dancing on the line of the fantasy she'd forced on him, while waiting for him to reveal himself.

Well, he didn't have to reveal a thing. And while it behooved him to pretend to be “Captain John,” he didn't
have
to be nice about it. He owed this little slip of impudence a lesson or two. A lesson about toying with the minds of men far greater than she.

He was a St. John, dammit. Perhaps the least of the St. Johns, but a St. John nonetheless. He turned, leaning his back against the fence so that he could
more fully face her. “Strange that you should mention the sea. I wonder that I do not have any memory of that. Not even a little.”

“No? I heard you tell Miss Stanhope all sorts of sea tales just the other day.”

“I stole them out of a book from your library.”

She appeared much struck. “Did you?”

“
Tales of a Foreign Born Sailor
.”

“I'm impressed that you've gone to such lengths.”

“You should be,” he retorted. “I just find it strange that I don't have any clear memories of being at sea. I remember other things, but not that.”

“Other things? Like what?”

“Like kissing. And touching. And—”

“I see,” she said hastily, her color high. “You know, the doctor did say that it is not unusual for someone with an injury such as yours to remember the incidentals in life, but not the details.”