The Bewitching Hour (4 page)

T
hree days later, Stratton was beginning to think that shooting young Lord Bertram was a fine idea. Bertram had been dogging his heels for the better part of the morning. Had he not been so disgruntled at the paces he was being put through, he might have admired the young man’s resolve.
      It was an untenable situation. Bertram was insisting that he inform him of his misdeed and as Stratton had no intention of telling him about his ill thought out flirtation with Miss Hawthorn, he was in a quandary. Avoiding Bertram seemed the only answer and he had spent the past twenty minutes ducking in and out of various shops trying to evade discovery.
      It had begun as a perfectly decent day. He had breakfasted early while Aunt Mirabella and his sister were still in bed asleep. There had been no arguments to mediate and he was able to enjoy his eggs and sirloin in peace. The mongrels were locked up and there were no yapping little creatures nipping at his heels. The weather was sunny with a bit of a chill in the air and a clear blue sky so rarely seen in London. All in all, he was off to a fine start. His plans were to visit his tailor and boot maker and spend a few quiet hours at Whites reading the newspapers. But his plans were thwarted the moment he had spotted Bertram.
      Swearing beneath his breath, Stratton realized Bertram was gaining ground. If the lad got much closer, he wouldn’t be able to avoid another altercation. He ducked into the closest establishment, hoping he hadn’t been seen.
      The shop appeared deserted. He crouched behind a shoulder-high wooden partition separating the display window from the shop, his face blocked by a bit of pink fluff. He watched and waited, holding his breath as Bertram passed the shop. The young lord appeared intense, his eyes darting as the scanned the area. Halfway down the block he stopped, threw his hands up in the air, then turned down Brook Street and disappeared. Stratton lingered a few moments longer before he stood up.
      “I quite like the blue one. Could you shorten the netting a bit?”
      The soft feminine lilt was unmistakable. A grin spread across his face. He crept to the rear of the shop where she stood talking with the shop girl. If anything, she was even more appealing than he remembered. Bareheaded, her golden hair was piled on her head with a few loose curls brushing against her face and neck. Her cheeks bloomed with color. The pale blue velvet gown she wore skimmed her breasts and fell gracefully to the top of her ivory kid boots. Her delicate hands were encased in matching kid gloves studded with seed pearls. How wonderfully enticing.
      “Miss Hawthorn.” He bowed gracefully. “How delightful to see you, again.”
      Obviously startled, Priscilla’s hand flew to her breast as she took a step back. She recovered quite quickly and dipped a slight curtsy as she inclined her head. “Lord Stratton.”
      The plump, dark haired shop girl curtsied. “May I help you, my lord?” she asked.
      Stratton looked around and realized that the tiny shop was quite elegant with mirrored walls and carried nothing but hats. Hats trimmed with feathers and flowers, frills and lace.
      “This is a milliner. For ladies,” he said slowly. For some reason, the discovery surprised him.
      “That’s very astute of you, my lord,” Priscilla remarked with a degree of sarcasm. “I must say I’m surprised to see you here. Were you looking for anything in particular?”
      He grinned. “Something quite daring, I suppose.” He glanced around the shop until his eyes rested on the pink feather headdress in the window he had hidden behind. It was particularly atrocious. London should be saved from such a monstrosity. He motioned to the shop girl. “I’ll take that one. The pink one in the window.”
      Eyes wide, she repeated, “The pink one, my lord?”
      “Yes, the pink one. If you would be so kind as to wrap it up, or box it, or whatever it is you do with a lady’s hat.” He pulled a few notes from his pocket. “Will this cover it?”
      “Oh yes, my lord.”
      He watched her remove the hat from the window then scurry to the back of the room before he turned to Priscilla. “You seem quite astonished, Miss Hawthorn. Is there some reason I shouldn’t buy that hat?”

Recovered from the shock of his unexpected appearance, Priscilla barely refrained from bursting out in laughter. Instead, she pretended to consider his question a moment, then shook her head. “I suppose not. Unless, of course, you plan on wearing it. I don’t believe it would be very flattering.”
      "There’s no chance of that. Pink isn’t my color.” He leaned a little closer. “It’s quite fortunate that I’ve run into you this morning. Several days ago, I became acquainted with your fiancé and he's become quite the nuisance.”
      Certain she must have misunderstood him, she asked, “I beg your pardon?”
      “I’ve been doing my best to avoid your young Lord Bertram. I didn’t realize you were betrothed.”
      
Bertie?
She stared at him a moment. Judging by his expression, he didn't appear to be joking. “To Bertie?”
      He folded his arms across his chest. “Yes.”
      
How utterly absurd.
Priscilla’s gloved hand flew to her mouth. “You believe I’m betrothed to Bertie?” she managed to choke out.
      “He’s quite upset with me for upsetting his sweetheart and you were rather disconcerted with me the other day.” He stopped as her words seemed to sink in. “You aren’t betrothed to the lad?”
      “Heavens, no." Her shoulders were quivering with laughter as she shook her head. "He’s betrothed to my cousin, Miss Mary Dearborn. She’s been somewhat indisposed of late and has told Bertie that you’re in some way responsible for her decline. I knew he said he meant to take issue with you about it, but I didn’t really think he would try and find you. I suppose that was wishful thinking on my part.”
      The gray eyes widened. “I don’t even know your cousin. How could I be responsible for her decline?”
      She studied his face, looking for signs of deceit, but all she could focus on was how devilishly handsome he was. With his sun-bronzed complexion, heavy dark brows and beautifully sculpted features, he managed to look both elegant and rugged at the same time. She had the feeling he would be just as comfortable in the wilderness as he would on a ballroom dance floor. Perhaps, even more so.
      "Miss Hawthorne?"
      Startled, she tried to collect her thoughts. Had she been staring? It wouldn't do for him to believe she actually liked him. Because she didn't. Not one bit. She cleared her throat. "Yes?"
      Head tilted, he peered at her with a mixture of confusion and curiosity. “I would appreciate it if you could tell me what this is about. Frankly, he's getting on my nerves.”
      She wasn't looking forward to explaining the muddle Mary had created. Hoping to discourage him, she gave a tiny shrug of her shoulders. "I'm afraid Bertie has that effect on people. He can be terribly intense. He should calm down in another day or so.”
      “I don't share your optimism.” He made no attempt to hide the exasperation in his voice. “I’ve managed to put him off but I don’t want to spend every wretched minute of the season trying to avoid him. He has been chasing me for the past two days, insisting on hearing my misdeed as he doesn’t seem to know what has upset your cousin so. As I don’t know either, I couldn’t enlighten him." His gaze sharpened. "Miss Dearborn has created quite a mess. I suggest you tell me what you know.”
      Priscilla realized she had no choice but to explain. "Very well." She took in a breath. “My cousin said she wrote you several letters about three years ago.” Priscilla glanced over her shoulder at the shop girl who was busy with Stratton’s purchase. She lowered her voice. “Compromising letters that could ruin her reputation. As absurd as it sounds, she's afraid they will come to light.”
      He looked at her in obvious astonishment. “That’s ludicrous!" She shushed him and he brought his voice down to a loud whisper. "I don’t remember receiving any letters, but even if I had, why would I deem it worth my time to ruin her reputation?”
      It was a legitimate question. Priscilla silently vowed that the next time Mary came to visit, she would lock herself in her bed chamber. “I don't know. Unfortunately, she left town and isn't here to help straighten things out, though she would likely only make matters worse. She can be rather difficult, but I suppose you've figured that out by now. I don't understand what she could have been thinking to set all this in motion." She stopped to catch her breath. "I'll talk to Bertie. I won’t mention the letters, but perhaps I can reason with him. Make him see how foolish his behavior is.”
      “No, that won't do at all." His tone was too firm for her liking. “He doesn’t need a set down by a woman. It would only make things worse.”
      “I’ve known Bertie most of my life," she argued. "He’ll listen to me.”
      He lightly touched her arm, his fingers warm against her skin. “Only another male can comprehend the nature of a young man’s thoughts in a case such as this. If you were to imply you believed he was behaving foolishly, he would only become more determined to prove his gallantry." His hand fell to his side; his smile held a touch of irony. "This is a matter of pride for him. I’ll come up with something.”
      Priscilla regarded him a moment and decided that Bertie was likely foolish enough for this to be true. “Very well.” she relented. “For the moment, I shall stay out of it.” She paused as a thought came to her. “I made a point of not giving you my name. How did you learn who I was?”
      “I described you to Mr. Danfield and he knew who you were immediately.” An unexpected glint of laughter flickered behind his eyes as he spoke.
      Sensing there was more to his answer than she wanted to know, her cheeks warmed. “I don’t see how, but it’s of no matter at this point. I really must leave. More customers will be in soon and I don’t wish to start tongues wagging.” She looked over her shoulder and smiled graciously at the shop girl who was pretending not to notice them.
      Stratton placed his hand on his heart and making no attempt to keep his voice down, said, “How cruel of you to deprive me of your company. I would be more than happy to see you home.”
      Priscilla had no doubt the girl, as well as her maid who was sitting by the back door, had heard every word he said. She lifted her chin a notch. “Thank you for the kind offer, but no, I would prefer to walk.”
      “As do I.”
      He had to be the most vexing man she'd ever met. Even Lord Mallory didn't hold a candle to this man's persistence. Her tone sharpened. “No, thank you. I live nearby and there’s no need for you to bother.”
      “You’re perfectly safe with me, Miss Hawthorn. I promise. We’ll be in plain view. I couldn’t so much as kiss your hand without the world knowing.”
      "I believe I said no, thank you." She attempted to move past him, but he had managed to place himself squarely in her way. "Would you please step aside so I can retrieve my belongings?”
      He didn’t move.
      “I could scream,” she threatened.
      He grinned. “Go ahead. It would stir up a great deal excitement.”
      A sound of exasperation escaped her lips. “This is ridiculous.”
      He broadened his grin. “I can be very determined, Miss Hawthorn. If you decide to leave without me, I’ll only follow you.”
      She didn't know what to make of him. What sort of game was he playing? “Must you always have your way?”
      He paused a moment before answering. “When it’s important.”
      Deciding that it would be preferable to allow him to escort her home than continue to argue the matter, she said, “Very well. I’ll fetch my maid, but I warn you, you'll find me a poor conversationalist and even worse company.”
      He smiled. "I'll take my chances, Miss Hawthorne." He stepped aside and gracefully motioned for her to pass by him. She quickly made her way to the back. With her maid trailing closely behind her, she returned a few minutes later wearing a chip bonnet tied with blue satin ribbons.
      His gaze moved over her. “You have exquisite taste in hats, Miss Hawthorn.”
      Her face and chest warmed at this scrutiny. Why did he make her so uncomfortable? It wasn't as if he were the first man to take note of her. “I would appreciate it if you would refrain from making further comment about my personal appearance.”
      He grinned at her. “Must I?”
      “Yes, you must. And please remember that Sally will be right behind us,” she said. “And, it will be a very short walk.”
      Pulling a long face, he said, “I’m crushed. You don’t trust me at all, do you?”
      “Should I?”
      “Not for a moment.”
      “My lord!” The breathless voice of the shop girl reached them. “Where should I send the hat that you purchased?”
      He rubbed his hand across his chin and appeared to give it some thought. “Mmm. After careful consideration I believe you should burn it.”
      Priscilla brought her hand to her mouth to cover an inelegant snort of laughter.
      The girl's eyes had gone wide. “Burn it?”
      “Yes, please. As quickly as possible before anyone else has the misfortune to lay eyes on it.”
      “Yes, my lord.”
      Stratton settled Priscilla’s hand on his arm and by the time they had taken a few steps, the sound of laughter rang out behind them. “Silly woman,” he whispered as he swept her out the door. “One would think I was the first customer to request that she burn a hat.”
      “I believe she finds you entertaining, though I can’t imagine why.”
      He looked quite astonished. “You don’t find me entertaining?”
      She did, but rather than admit it, gave him a sour look and said, “I find you forward and ill-mannered and I can’t imagine why I’ve allowed you to see me home.”
      He chuckled. “I’m most grateful for your lapse in judgment. I pray that it continues. I do enjoy your biting wit.”
      A retort formed on her tongue, but she quickly thought the better of it. They'd only taken a few steps before they were forced to make their nods to a group of passing pedestrians. The cobblestone street was rapidly filling up with carts and carriages and she knew it was likely they would be noticed by someone of their acquaintance. The thought that they might be linked together was disconcerting.
      "A lovely day, don't you think?" he said. "London has so few of them. I much prefer the country."
      Curious, she forgot her decision not to encourage conversation. "Why did you return?"
      "Familial duty. My parents are in France and I returned to escort my sister for the season. She's coming out this year and I couldn't allow her to face the season with only Aunt Mirabella to look after her. That would have been heartless."
      He sounded genuinely fond of his sister. Perhaps she had misjudged him. “I would ask you for a favor, my lord.”
      “I would do most anything for you, Miss Hawthorn.
      She almost believed him. “If there’s any chance you do possess those letters, or that you might run across them, would you let me have them? I could send them to my cousin and I believe that would take care of the problem.”
      He carefully led her around a small pile of debris on the walkway. “As I told you before, I don’t have them. But even if I did, I don’t believe I would give them to you.”
      A sound of exasperation escaped her chest and she came to a stop. “For heaven's sake, why not?”
      “Once you have the letters, I might never see you again and that would make me very sad.” He gave her a mournful look. “It’s quite possible I would fall into a decline.”
      A smile tugged at her lips as she visualized him reclining on a chaise lounge with a cool compress on his forehead and a bottle of foul-tasting tonic at his side. “Good.”
      “Why, Miss Hawthorne, I’m devastated. One would think you didn’t care for me.”
      “I don’t.”
      “I hope to change that.” They walked in silence a few moments. “Do you really believe I would use these letters to ruin your cousin?”
      She shook her head slowly. “I suppose not.”
      He patted her hand. “I truly don’t remember receiving any letters from Miss Dearborn. I’ll sort through the correspondence in my files, but that’s the most I can do.”
      “I suppose I’ll have to be happy with that.”
      “Will I see you at the Danfield’s ball?”
      
Drat
. Of course, he would be there. She hadn't thought that far ahead. “It might be best if I didn’t attend.”
      “And why is that?”
      She glanced down before meeting his eyes. “It isn’t wise.”
      “But I so wanted to share a dance with you.”
      “That’s why it isn’t wise.”
      He grinned. “Ah, I see. Then by all means, you must attend.”
      "Perhaps." They had reached a fashionable, well kept, red brick townhouse set back a few feet from the walkway. It was four stories high and quite regal with ivory shutters and a large paneled front door with a brass knocker set in the center. She turned to him and said politely, “Thank you for escorting me home, my lord.”
      “It was my pleasure.”
      The front door opened and a black-garbed little man hovered protectively in the doorway. He looked directly at Stratton and said, “Do you need assistance with your purchases, Miss Priscilla?”
      “No, thank you, Beldon. Sally has my packages.” She looked over her shoulder. Her maid was still trailing a good distance behind them. “She’ll be here in a moment.” She lowered her voice and said to Stratton, “If I didn’t know different, I would think you had bribed her to keep so far behind us.”
      He raised his brows in mock surprise. “Miss Hawthorn! What an unjust remark to make. I’m entirely innocent of that particular misdeed.”
      “But guilty of a good many others, I’m sure,” she commented.
      “I fear you are correct in that observation. But a man can always change.” He bowed over her hand, bringing it almost to his lips.
      “One can hope,” she murmured. “Though, in this particular case, I have my doubts.”
      When he lifted his head, he was laughing. “Good day, Miss Hawthorn. I look forward to our next meeting.”
      “Good day, Lord Stratton.”
      She watched as he turned and headed cheerfully back down the street. Sally came up and stood beside her. “Sally,” she said. “There was no reason for you to lag so far behind. You might as well have not even been there.”
      Sally curtsied. “Yes, miss.”
      “Don’t let it happen again.”
      The maid grinned happily. “Yes, miss.”
      “And quit grinning like a loon.”
      “Yes, miss.”
      Priscilla looked up at Beldon and was shocked to see that he was also smiling, though he quickly replaced it with a very proper look when he caught her gaze. In the twenty years he had been their butler she wasn’t certain she had ever seen him smile. “Good heavens,” she said as she stomped inside. “I do wish everyone would stop being so cheerful!”