Trouble With Harry (4 page)

“How many applicants remain, Temple?” Harry asked, wearily pushing up his spectacles as he leaned back in the private room bespoken at the local inn for the purpose of conducting interviews.

Temple consulted his list. “Let me see, applicant number fourteen was reported too ill to travel…”

“Strike her from the list. If she is of frail health, she won't be able to stand up to the strain of the children. It takes a strong woman, in full possession of her faculties—both mental and physical—to deal with my brood.”

“…and number twenty-three changed her mind at the door…”

“Shy. Shy won't do either. My wife has to have a firm sense of purpose. Determination, too. Grit wouldn't hurt, either.”

“…and numbers thirty and thirty-one appear to have run off together…”

Harry raised both eyebrows and forbore to comment.

“…and number thirty-three, the last applicant, appears to have decided not to meet with you.” Temple looked up. “There are no more, sir.”

Harry stood and stretched, rubbing the back of his neck and collecting his hat. “Well, that was six hours wasted. I hope to God I never have to meet so many women again.”

Temple trotted alongside Harry as he strode out of the inn, pausing to pass a few coins to the innkeeper before heading for the small stable block. “Were there none that meet with your specifications, my lord?”

“Shhh!” Harry waved Temple's words away as he waited for Thor to be brought out. “No
my
lording
, Temple. The fewer people who know my true identity, the better. At least until I find a wife.”

“My apologies, sir. Were there no women—”

“No, there weren't,” Harry said, slapping his leg with his riding crop as he looked around the quiet inn yard. “Not a single blessed one of them would do. Most of them were too young, a few were of the right age, but lacked the mental capacity I seek in a wife. I don't expect her to be a genius, but I must have a woman I can converse with, one who has an interest in books and current events and such.” Harry noted a very pretty woman hurrying into the inn, the bottom six inches of her dark red gown covered in mud and filth as if she'd been tramping through the woods. “The remaining two qualified applicants were, to put it finely, a little on the homely side.”

“You said that you weren't requiring your wife to be toothsome, sir.” Although the words were subservient, the tone was most definitely chastising.

“Toothsome, no, but I'd like to be able to look at her without thinking of bulldogs. One of the women today had a great hairy wart right in the middle of her forehead. I couldn't stop staring at it. No matter where I looked, my gaze ended up back on her forehead. I couldn't possibly have a wife whose forehead held such an unwholesome fascination for me. That woman who scampered into the inn just now—she's the sort I'm looking for. Not beautiful, but pleasing, soft on the eyes, with a delicate oval face and lots of”—Harry made a gesture with both hands that was universally understood by all men over the age of fourteen—“curves. Why couldn't one of my women have been like her? I don't think that's asking for too much.”

Thor charged out of the stable, snorting like a steam engine, his ears back as he hauled a young stable boy behind him. Harry grabbed the reins with the ease of long practice, thumped the horse on the shoulder in an affectionate greeting, and flipped the boy a coin before mounting the fiery bay. “Hurry up, Temple, I've a desire to get home before the children bring the house down about their ears.”

“Just coming, sir,” Temple said, looking warily at the new mare Harry had purchased to replace his old mount. The mare bared her teeth and narrowed her eyes at him. Just as he was about to take his life into his hands and climb into the saddle, a feminine cry reached his ears.

“Mr. Harris? Sir?”

Harry turned to watch as the curvaceous woman in the well-used red gown hurried out of the inn, her skirts held up with one hand as she dashed across the muddy yard. He admired the flash of ankle for as long as was gentlemanly (far too short a time since the woman dropped her skirts as she reached them).

“Mr. Harris?”

Temple turned his back on the mare as he faced the woman, an error Harry was about to rectify when it occurred to him that the woman must be the missing last applicant. He eyed her again, closer this time, appreciating not just her pretty face with cheeks bright with exercise but the raven-black hair that was visible beneath her bonnet, the slash of black eyebrows across her brow, and two dark eyes that had an appealing, almost exotic tilt to them. To Harry's great mortification, he became instantly and fully aroused. Clamping the reins under his knee, he pulled his jacket off and laid it across his lap in what he hoped was a suitably nonchalant it's-a-bit-hot-out-today manner.

“Mr. T. Harris? I'm Frederica Pelham. I apologize for being so late, but I lost my way a few times and had to ask for directions.”

The woman was speaking to Temple, having given him a glance that took in more of his horse than him. Harry wished he could dismount and speak to her, but his reaction to the sight of her had left him in the unenviable position of having to remain astride Thor. The thought of her noticing his bulging breeches had the unexpected (and lamentable) effect of making him even harder.

“I'm not too late, am I? You haven't…er…filled the position?”

She caught her lower lip between her teeth, clearly worried and anxious. Harry wondered why such an attractive woman should be so desperate for a husband. She had no warts, no physical imperfections that he could see, and her voice was educated and well-modulated.

Temple cleared his throat and glanced toward him. Harry shook his head, then remembered he couldn't stand before the woman with his breeches nigh to bursting, and nodded. Temple looked confused. “Er—”

“No, you're not too late,” Harry said, fully enjoying receiving the attention of those dark, velvety eyes as they turned upon him. “Mr. Harris is my man of affairs. I am the one who is looking for a wife.”

“Oh, I see,” the woman said and eyed him just as curiously as he had been examining her. She didn't appear to find anything objectionable about him, although she must have wondered why he was so ill-bred as to remain on horseback, sitting in his shirtsleeves while speaking with her. He damned his own lack of control and decided that the interview would have to be conducted quickly.

“We were about to return home, but if you don't mind answering a few questions here, I'm sure we can have this business over with quickly. You said your name was Pelham?”

She made an odd sort of flinching movement, but lifted her chin and stared him straight in the eyes while answering. “Yes, sir. Frederica Pelham, although my friends call me Plum.”

His eyebrows rose. “Plum?”

“For Pelham. It's a pet name, you see. My father used to call me Plum. He was Sir Frederick Pelham, of Nottingham.”

Daughter of an impoverished baronet, no doubt. She had a niceness about her that did not allow her to look on him with scorn despite the fact that he was insulting her by remaining on his horse.

“Do you read, Miss Pelham?”

She looked startled by that question, but recovered quickly enough, although her high color remained. “When I have the opportunity to, yes.”

“Ah. Good. I have a large library.” Harry considered her, trying to separate the lustful urgings of his body from the less earthy desires of his mind.

“Do you?” Plum asked politely, reaching out to pat Thor's long face. Harry grabbed the reins from under his knee, about to pull Thor back lest the stallion snap at her, but was surprised when his high-strung horse not only allowed her to caress his ears but bumped his nose into her, searching her person for treats. Plum laughed, a low throaty laugh that Harry found utterly sensual and erotic, a sound that seemed to stroke his skin, leaving him harder than ever, unable to keep from visualizing her lying in his bed, surrounded by all that glossy black hair, laughing that sultry laugh.

“He likes you,” Harry said as he dragged his mind back to the present.

“He probably knows how fond I am of horses. He's very handsome. What's his name?”

“Thor. Do you ride?”

A wistful look flickered through her eyes as she gave Thor one last pat, then gently pushed his head away. “I love to ride, but haven't had the chance to in a long time.”

A
very
impoverished baronet's daughter, Harry amended. Still, possession of a fortune was not one of the qualifications for his wife. Thus far, Plum had exceeded every expectation he had—there was just the one remaining. “Er…how do you feel about children?”

“Oh, I love them,” she said, her eyes lighting up, their midnight depths soft and compelling.

Harry could not help but believe her, as the truth shone like sunlight on a still pond within her dark eyes. He allowed himself a silent sigh of relief as he moved uncomfortably in the saddle, then waved toward Temple. “Just so. I see no reason that you will not suit. I must…er…return home. Temple will take down your particulars. Have you an objection to marrying the day following tomorrow?”

Plum didn't even bat an eyelash. Harry wanted to smile, but knew in his present uncomfortable state, it would be likely to come out a pained grimace. There are few things that became a bridegroom less than grimacing at his bride-to-be.

“None, except I have not interviewed you, sir.”

He blinked in surprise. She wanted to interview him? None of the other women had. How delightfully refreshing of her! He had the sudden warm satisfaction of knowing that he would not easily be able to second-guess Plum. “Ah. Yes. Of course. You wish to know about me.”

“Yes, sir, I do,” she answered and lifted her chin a little higher.

He liked that chin a great deal. He applauded her high spirits, and began to think with pleasure upon his future with her as he quickly rattled off the important particulars about himself. “My name is Harry…Haversham. I live here in Raving, out toward the north spit. Do you know it?”

She shook her head.

“Good. That is…er…it's of no account. I'm forty-five years of age…” He paused, narrowing his eyes as he looked carefully at her face. “If you will not be offended by me asking, how old are you?”

“I…I…” Plum looked nonplussed for a moment, then that adorable chin rose again. “I'm forty, sir.”

He did smile then, a pleased smile, a happy smile. Really, she was perfect for the position. Intelligent, liked children, wasn't too young and silly, and heaven knew he desired her in a more fundamental manner. Every time she lifted her chin, he wanted to kiss her. “Excellent. As I said, I'm forty-five and in reasonably good health, possess means that leave me comfortable, and don't have any excessive vices that I'm aware of. Do you have any questions? No? Very well. I shall leave Temple to take down your information, and will obtain a special license tomorrow so that we may be married the following day.” He touched his riding crop to his hat in salute, and was about to ride away when it suddenly occurred to him to ask a final question. “Er…what village are you from?”

Plum looked a bit stunned around the eyes, but other than a momentary pause, gave him no indication that he had just rushed her through a proposal. “Ram's Bottom, sir.”

Harry's eyes widened as he glanced down at her muddy hem. “You walked eight miles?”

The chin rose again, just as he knew it would. He smiled to himself, more than satisfied with his choice. This woman would not leave him bored after a few days, as all the others threatened to do.

“Yes, I did. I find walking quite beneficial to the constitution.”

“And so it is, however, sixteen miles in one day is a bit more benefit than anyone could need, even someone who is in your”—he allowed his gaze to caress her curves for just a moment, not long enough to be offensive, but enough to let the lady know he found her attractive—“fit condition. Temple?”

“Yes, sir. I will arrange for Miss Pelham to be taken home.”

Harry beamed at her, bid her a good day, and put his heels to Thor, riding home with a whistle on his lips, satisfaction in his heart, and a throb in his breeches that predicted a very happy future.

***

Plum entered the dark cottage as the hired carriage rattled down the lane, more than a little dazed by the happenings of the day. She was betrothed! To a gentleman she had known for all of five minutes, a very handsome man, a man who had laugh lines around his eyes and an unruly lock of sandy hair that hung over his forehead. A man who either had some infirmity of the lower limbs that prohibited him from dismounting, or…Plum giggled as she lit the candles around the small room. Once when she and Charles were having tea at her old nurse's cottage, he had been unwilling to leave at the end of the visit. He told her later that he had been musing upon the pleasure of their most recent connubial calisthenics, and had to remain seated until several minutes later when he had himself in control. The way Harry had draped his coat over his lap was reminiscent of Charles playing with her shawl in such a manner as to conceal his groin.

“If he was in a similar situation because of me,” she told the cat Maple as she lit the fire and prepared to warm up the potato soup remaining from the day before, “I shall be very pleased, very pleased indeed, for it indicates that he is interested in bedchamber sports. Heaven knows I am.”

“I am as well, despite the fact that you won't let me read your book,” a voice said behind her.

Plum shrieked and dropped the soup ladle, clutching her heart as she spun around.

Thom was seated on the floor in a dark corner, a bowl of milk and several pieces of straw beside her. “Which is silly, when you think about it, for how am I ever to learn the joys of such activities if you won't let me read about them?”