Hattie Wilkinson Meets Her Match Page 3

  ‘Come tomorrow. I will regale you with tales about how I escaped from the harem. Lots of danger and excitement.’

  A great longing to see far-flung places and experience life swamped Hattie. When she was a little girl, she used to watch the ships on the Thames and swear she’d go abroad some day. But the furthest she’d travelled was to Northumberland and now that had become home.

  Now that Stephanie’s children were nearly grown, she could start thinking about travelling. Doing things for herself rather than for others, but she still had to be aware of how her actions could affect the family. Outward appearances were everything. ‘Did you

  really escape?’

  ‘I feel the sheikh desired me more than I desired him. I was a great beauty once, you know.’

  ‘You still have a beautiful soul, Mrs Reynaud.’ Hattie covered Mrs Reynaud’s hand and ignored the tear that trickled down Mrs Reynaud’s face.

  ‘You have no idea the mistakes I have made and how I’ve paid for them.’ Mrs Reynaud’s gnarled hands fumbled for a handkerchief. ‘Sir Christopher... Remember, I specifically want to know when he departs from the neighbourhood.’

  Hattie firmed her mouth. She wouldn’t enquire into Mrs Reynaud’s reasons, but she suspected they would both be relieved when he went. ‘If I learn any more news about Sir Christopher, I’ll tell you. I promise.’

  * * *

  The gravel crunched under Hattie’s feet as she marched towards Highfield’s rose garden. Despite the pile of unopened cards and several bouquets littering the drawing room, her sister and nieces were entertaining gentlemen callers in the rose garden.

  Hattie knew she should have come earlier, but she had wanted to visit Mrs Reynaud and get her opinion before she acted. Surely Stephanie could cope with Livvy’s high spirits for a few minutes? When the time was right, she intended to have a quiet word with Livvy. Romance at a ball was all well and good, but some day, you had to wake up and face the harsh reality of the morning after when the evening prince turned out to be an unreliable toad.

  Moth gave a sharp bark, indicating she wanted out of the basket. Hattie set the basket down. Moth gave Hattie a quizzical look and wandered off to investigate the garden, but came racing back almost instantly and sat at Hattie’s feet. Straight behind her strode Sir Christopher, his black coat and tan breeches gleaming in the sun. A gentleman caller with a difference.

  ‘Ah, I had wondered if you were going to grace us with your presence, Mrs Wilkinson, before I managed to wear out my welcome.’

  ‘Sir Christopher.’ Hattie hoped any high colour would be attributed to her walk, rather than his nearness. Mrs Reynaud had put ideas in her head about flirtations. Not precisely true. Her sleep had been filled with dreams of them dancing where Sir Christopher spun her round and round as Charles stood in the shadows.

  ‘Is the miscreant dog yours?’ he asked. ‘I caught her attempting to dig a hole in the borders. She is hardly bigger than a cat.’

  ‘Yes, Moth is mine. She is a papillon.’

  ‘A trained killer, rather than a butterfly.’ Sir Christopher bent down and tickled Moth under the chin. Moth lifted her chin a notch higher before rolling over and exposing her belly. Moth gave a little whimper of pleasure as Sir Christopher obligingly stroked her belly.

  Hattie belatedly realised she was staring and turned towards a stand of deep-blue delphiniums. ‘An unexpected pleasure.’

  ‘My godson was anxious to call on Miss Parteger, but my true purpose involves you.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘The return of your gloves.’

  Hattie winced. The gloves. How had she forgotten he had retained them until the blasted forfeit was over? ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Your sister has taken possession. She expressed surprise that you were so careless with her birthday gift.’

  ‘It was good of you to return them.’ Hattie kept her gaze carefully on the gravel path, rather than meeting his intense grey eyes. ‘I’m sure my sister will hand them to me. She is very trustworthy in that regard.’

  ‘I assumed they were precious to you. You were very concerned when you mislaid them earlier in the evening.’

  ‘That had a different purpose, as you rapidly guessed.’

  ‘I know, but you neglected to finish your forfeit and collect your gloves. What does this say about you?’

  Hattie winced, knowing she’d been the one to make the mistake and leave the dance floor so abruptly. She’d been foolish to give in to her anger and to forget that he held the gloves hostage last evening. It wasn’t his fault that she’d once believed a night’s romance at a ball would last for ever. All Sir Christopher had required was light conversation during the dance and a polite goodbye, something seven years ago she’d have done without considering the consequences. Instead she had behaved like the worst maiden aunt, storming off as if he had attempted to make love to her on the dance floor. ‘The dance was over.’

  ‘We shall have to examine another forfeit for leaving me bereft on the dance floor.’

  ‘Have you spoken with your godson about his behaviour?’ she said more tartly than she intended as she tried to banish the sudden image of Sir Christopher kissing her. She would not be agreeing to any sort of renewed forfeit.

  ‘Rupert now understands the necessity of behaving properly if he desires to further his acquaintance with your niece. Your niece is very adept at the use of her fan. He had considered that she was older.’

  A cold shiver went down Hattie’s spine. She could just imagine. She knew all about Livvy’s fascination with fan language for flirtation purposes. She’d warned Stephanie about it weeks ago. Obviously nothing had been done. The problem was how to discuss Livvy’s use of the fan without revealing where she had been. ‘Livvy is impetuous, but innocent. It was a game to her, to see if she could. Nothing more.’

  His shadowy grey eyes locked on to hers. ‘And was it a game for you, bursting in on them? Attempting to find evidence of a flirtatious game gone too far? Or is any flirtation too far for you?’

  ‘My niece’s reputation is paramount.’ Hattie hugged her arms about her waist and tried to control the shiver. ‘And anyway, why are you wandering about the grounds on your own?’

  ‘Your sister is playing the chaperon while I attempt to find the cedar of Lebanon. As Rupert has decided he wants to do more than play infantile fan games with your niece, he needs to make a favourable impression on your sister.’

  ‘Have you found the tree?’ she asked brightly.

  ‘I was on my way when your dog discovered me.’ He checked his fob watch. ‘A quarter of an hour to make a good impression is all Rupert requires.’

  ‘You need to find the tree before your time is up. Truth in all things.’

  ‘We reach complete understanding at last, Mrs Wilkinson.’ A smile tugged at his features. ‘It is part of my creed.’

  Hattie shook her head. His charm was lethal. She was certain most women discounted his words and only focused on the seductive warmth in his voice. Listening to him, it was easy to understand why he enjoyed such a reputation with ladies. But she knew the trick—the words, not the tone, were important.

  ‘You’re going in the wrong direction,’ she called as he started going towards the boating lake.

  ‘Am I? How remiss of me.’ A dimple shone in his cheek. ‘Perhaps you will be kind enough to show me the proper way, Mrs Wilkinson? Getting hopelessly lost could ruin the entire matter. Consider it a fair exchange for leaving me on the dance floor.’

  ‘When you put it that way, how can I refuse? Find the tree and all obligation will end.’

  ‘Something like that,’ Sir Christopher murmured.

  Hattie placed her gloved hand on his arm. Every inch of her being hummed with awareness of him and the tantalising sandalwood scent he used. A pleasant conversation would not harm anyone, particularly as she remained in control. Mrs Reynaud was right. It was about time she started living, rather than hiding behind her widowhood.

  ‘We
should take the left-hand fork here,’ he said.

  She glanced at him under her lashes. His entire being radiated smugness. ‘You engineered this walk! You know precisely where the tree is. Stephanie gave you directions.’

  ‘Walks are more pleasant if there are two people, even if one of them has tendencies to be sharp-tongued.’

  ‘I’m not. What is the point of having a mind if I can’t speak it?’

  ‘Never apologise. Women fall over themselves to falsely compliment me. You make a change.’

  ‘Why were you in the card room?’ she asked to keep her mind away from the potential rocky subject of comparing her to other women. ‘You hardly seem to be the shy and retiring type. Were you waiting for a lady to appear? One of those who fall over at your compliments? Surely you can confess all to a sharp-tongued widow like me.’

  He stopped abruptly in front of a spreading oak. All humour vanished from his countenance. ‘You continue to do me a disservice, Mrs Wilkinson. I only ever pursue one lady at a time.’

  The butterflies started beating inside her. One lady at a time. He had sought her out after the dance when he could have sent the gloves.

  The news made her blood fizz and tingle.

  She removed her hand from his arm and took a gulp of life-giving air. She was not going to start to believe in the illusion of romance again. Charles Wilkinson had for ever cured her of that. Sir Christopher had an ulterior motive, but he would be disappointed. She would show him that at least one woman would not tumble into his bed with the merest crook of his finger or a seductive laugh. Two could play this game. He would learn a lesson.

  ‘Is that the only explanation I will get?’ She forced her voice to sound playful. You’ll trap more flies with honey than vinegar, she reminded herself.

  ‘You require more?’

  ‘The mystery intrigues me. Did you see the fan play between Mr Hook and my niece and know where the proposed liaison would happen?’

  ‘I was not playing an errant knight. Alas.’ Kit stopped and stared out into the garden with its low hum of bees and faint birdsong rather than at the soberly dressed woman who stood next to him. The scene contrasted so much with the thick mud and scent of gunpowder that had filled his nostrils a year ago. The feeling of being truly alive washed over him again.

  The circumstances, rather than the company. Kit forced the brief panic down his throat. After his mother’s departure when he was four and his later experience in Brighton, he’d vowed never to care about a woman. In any case, Mrs Wilkinson was far too severe for his taste. She wanted an explanation, she would get it. That would be an end of the matter.

  ‘A year ago last Thursday, I attended a ball in Brussels. It was all gaiety, but like many other men I had to leave early. We went from the Duchess of Richmond’s ballroom to the mud and stink of war. I returned, but many of my comrades didn’t.’ He waited for her to take the hint and politely change the subject.

  ‘You were at Waterloo? As a soldier?’ she asked, her eyes growing wide and luminous under her bonnet.

  ‘I was at Waterloo,’ he confirmed.

  ‘No one ever mentioned you being in the Army. Not a single word.’ She turned her head and all he could see was the crown of her impossible bonnet and the back of her shoulder.

  ‘Does it bother you?’

  ‘It is unexpected. I have heard stories...’

  Kit could well imagine what was said of him. And for the vast majority of his life, he hadn’t cared. It was far better to be thought heartless than to be ridiculed as someone whose mother couldn’t love him, who had left his father because of him.

  After Waterloo, it had changed. Brendan Hook had thought him a good enough friend to die for. London and his former pleasures lost their allure.

  ‘It doesn’t matter what others think. It has never mattered,’ he said. ‘The battle only occupied a few hours of my life. Being in the Army lasted a few short weeks and then I went back to my usual haunts.’

  ‘You are wrong to minimise it,’ she said, turning back towards him. ‘Very wrong. You played a part in a great victory. People will be celebrating Waterloo for years and you can say that you were there.’

  Kit regarded her earnest face with its English-rose complexion, gazing up at him. She possessed a delicate beauty, he realised with a start. He wondered how he’d overlooked it before. But the highly conventional widow was also not his type.

  Kit was very strict about the women in his life and his rules surrounding them. They asked for no more than he was prepared to give. They were experienced and knew the rules without them being clearly stated. He always ended it before emotions were involved.

  Mrs Wilkinson was trouble, but he was also loath to leave before this lesson in mild flirtation finished.

  He turned the conversation to more mundane subjects as they continued towards the tree. To his surprise, the conversation about gardens was far more enjoyable than he had considered possible at the start of the journey.

  ‘Behold the tree. We can turn back now,’ Mrs Wilkinson said as they rounded a bend.

  ‘Yes, the tree. It is a magnificent sight.’

  A gentle breeze moulded her skirt to her remarkably fine legs. Mrs Wilkinson possessed a far better figure than he’d first imagined. Kit struggled to keep his gaze on her face and not wonder why she had failed to remarry. None of his business.

  ‘You keep changing the subject.’ She laid a gloved hand on his arm. ‘Why keep your service a secret? Weren’t you supposed to be there?’

  ‘I rapidly acquired a lieutenant’s commission in the Life Guards once I heard of Boney’s escape and was lucky to get that. Everything was snapped up in days. The whole of London society seemed to be in Brussels last year. A number of friends couldn’t even get a commission, but they came anyway. They got out when the fighting got too hot and left it to the proper soldiers.’

  The green in her eyes deepened. ‘But you stayed until the end. You didn’t run, even though you are determined that I should think the worst of you. If you had run, it would have been the first thing you said.’

  ‘I know how to be a soldier.’ Kit’s shoulders became light. Even without his saying it, she believed he’d done the right thing. He hated to think how few people ever believed that of him. It mattered. ‘Eton prepares one for it.’

  The memory of those long-ago days swept over him. Back then, he’d thought himself capable of anything. In his final year, he’d believed himself in love and that Constance Stanley would marry him once he asked her.

  His illusions were shattered when he’d arrived at her house unexpectedly with the engagement ring in his pocket. He’d overheard her assessment of him as the son of two wicked people and how her family needed his money and how she’d feared that she would have to marry a devil. He had stepped out of the shadows. Constance’s shocked face had said it all. All of his father’s warnings thudded into him. He bid her and her companion good day and gave the ring to the first beggar woman with a baby at her breast that he saw.

  Never again had he allowed himself to contemplate marriage. Never again had he allowed a woman to get close, preferring to end the thing before it happened. Kit had a variety of presents he’d send—a bouquet to end a flirtation, a strand of pearls to end a brief but hugely enjoyable weekend, sapphires to end something longer.

  Mrs Wilkinson turned her back on him and walked with quick steps over to the cedar. She stood there, unmoving for a moment, her brows drawn together in a frown. He waited for her to make a remark about the weather or society.

  ‘Why aren’t you down in London? With Rupert’s father?’ she asked.

  He turned from her and stared towards where the great cedar towered over the garden. Everything was so peaceful and still, except for the distant cooing of a dove, calling to its mate. No danger here. This was the England he’d fought for, not the bright lights of London. He wanted that peace that had eluded him. He wanted to show that he had changed and that he did deserve a future, a future that
he did not intend to squander. ‘Rupert’s father died.’

  ‘I didn’t know. I’m sorry for you and for Mr Hook.’

  ‘False sympathy fails to matter. You never knew him.’

  ‘You’re wrong. Any man’s death should be remarked on and he was your friend. You must miss him,’ she said with an intense earnestness. ‘When did you decide to come up to Northumberland?’

  ‘When I was on the battlefield, surrounded by men dying on either side, I swore that next year I would be somewhere which epitomised what I was fighting for.’ The words came from deep within him. He wanted her to understand that on the battlefield he’d decided what was important and how his life needed to change. She, of all the people he’d met recently, might understand and the very thought unnerved him. ‘I thought of the fair, the Stagshaw Bank Fair, and how it is held every year on the fourth of July.’

  Her dusky-rose lips turned up into an incredulous smile. ‘You are asking me to believe that you decided to come to Northumberland when you were at Waterloo? I can think of a dozen other more likely places that should have sprung to mind.’

  ‘It seemed as good a place as any to my fevered mind. When I was a lad, my uncle brought me here. The day has long stood in my memory. He bought me a wooden jumping-jack.’ He shook his head.

  There was no need to explain that it had been the first time since his mother’s departure that he’d received a gift or anyone had taken notice of him beyond cuffing him on the ear. He’d kept that jumping-jack for years, hidden in his handkerchiefs so that his father would not stumble across it and destroy it.

  ‘It seemed like a place worth fighting to see again. I said as much to Brendan, who was on my right—there will be time enough to reminisce as the years go by, but next year I would be up in Northumberland and would go to the fair. He agreed to go with me.’

  ‘And that is why you and Mr Hook are here,’ she breathed. ‘To honour your vow.’

  Kit closed his eyes and said a prayer for Brendan’s soul. He had said enough. She didn’t need to know the rest. He’d asked Brendan to exchange places with him because he thought he’d get a better shot. Brendan had agreed with a laugh and a clap on his back. The next thing he’d heard was the soft thud of a bullet hitting Brendan in the chest. Brendan’s last words were about his son and his hopes for Rupert’s future. Kit had promised and he intended to keep that promise.