Harriet had left orders that she should be told as soon as her mother awoke, and so she was summoned to her bedchamber later that afternoon. Mama was still lying down, dazed from the dose she’d taken, but she brightened when given the news of Harriet’s engagement.
“You’re not joking?” she asked, sitting up against her pillows.
“No.” Nothing could be further from a joke, Harriet thought.
Her mother clasped her hands together. “Papa will be so happy. Have you told him?”
“Yes.”
“Was he pleased? Of course, he must have been.”
“He was.” Triumphant might be a better word.
Her mother smiled. “This is splendid. Oh, I am so happy, Harriet.” She reached out and squeezed Harriet’s hand.
Taking in the dark circles under her mother’s eyes, the new lines around her mouth, the sagging skin that showed lost weight, Harriet could not be sorry for what she’d done. Mama required a respite, and given the circumstances, she’d seen no other way to manage one. Now, her mother looked so relieved.
“You will move to Ferrington Hall after the wedding,” her mother went on. “Quite a fine house, I thought. Though in need of some attention. You will be comfortable there. Papa will hand over your portion to your husband, so there can be no doubts about the money any longer.”
More of a pernicious system than an advantage, Harriet thought, but she said nothing.
“He won’t be able to dangle it before us while threatening to snatch it away,” Mama said. “You will be all right. Settled. And I…” She blinked and looked uncertain, as if she’d lost her train of thought. Or, more likely, she had no idea how to finish that sentence.
Harriet nearly said that of course they would both move to her new home, where neither of them would have to care what her grandfather thought or wanted ever again. Except…her engagement was a ruse. She was going to think of another plan for the future and then break it off. Wasn’t she? Yes, of course she was. She’d made the rogue earl propose. He hadn’t been intending to. He hadn’t said he loved her. She couldn’t actually marry him. And that fact was not the least bit melancholy. But her mother looked so forlorn. “You will come with me when I marry,” she declared. That was perfectly true. If she ever married.
“Oh, Harriet,” said her mother.
“I won’t abandon you. You cannot live here with Grandfather.”
Tears welled up in her mother’s eyes. She blinked them away like a prisoner who did not dare hope for release. “You must see what your future husband thinks.”
In other words, she was to exchange one tyranny for another. Harriet was assailed by a muddle of emotions, with rebellion at the head of the stampede.
Mama squeezed her hand. “You are such a good girl.”
She wasn’t. She was a selfish schemer. But she would set things right, as soon as she came up with another way forward.
Her mother rose from her bed and went to the dressing table to tidy her hair. “Ferrington seems quite charming. I expect you’ll be happy with him.”
There was nothing to say to this.
“And you like him. Well, of course you do. You accepted his offer, and I know you too well to think you would have done so if you did not. Like him, I mean.” Mama’s fingers picked at the folds of her gown, smoothing creases left from her nap. “And why shouldn’t you? He has a lovely smile. I think he must be kind.” Her eyes in the mirror found Harriet’s and held them. “Is he kind?”
“Yes, Mama.” Harriet would have confirmed this in any case, to reassure her mother. But she realized it was quite true. The rogue earl was kind; she’d noticed it with Samia and in other ways. Her thoughts stumbled as she wondered if he’d offered for her out of kindness. Or even pity? The possibility scalded along her veins.
“His smile quite makes up for his commonplace looks,” her mother added.
Harriet didn’t think his looks were commonplace. On the contrary, he was very attractive, as well as quick-witted and capable and amusing. His kisses were deliriously… She cut off this dangerous line of thought. “We should dress for dinner.”
The necessity distracted her mother, as Harriet had known it would, and she was able to escape to her room.
Harriet’s grandfather was uncommonly affable at dinner that evening. Every so often, he paused, fork suspended, and stared into space as if contemplating some pleasant prospect. “We will hold an engagement party,” he said at one point. “Perhaps a ball. Yes, why not? The workmen are nearly finished with the new ballroom. Or, if they are not, they can bestir themselves.” He frowned in a way that boded ill for the carpenters. “Our high-nosed neighbors will have to come, since you’re marrying the earl. And when they hear that your friends the duke and duchess will attend, well, they’ll abandon their snobbish ways soon enough.”
Harriet wanted to object. But what was to be her reason?
“You don’t look pleased, Harriet,” the old man added. “I thought all girls loved balls.”
“Of course she is pleased,” said Harriet’s mother. “Aren’t you, my love?”
“Yes. Er…”
“Those friends of yours are arriving for a visit next week, aren’t they?” asked her grandfather. “I daresay they’ll be delighted to hear there’s to be a ball.”
Harriet hadn’t forgotten that Charlotte and Sarah were coming. She’d simply been busy thinking of other things. A flush warmed her cheeks when she imagined their arrival. What would they think of her engagement? They’d be astonished is what. They would expect to have heard a great deal about Ferrington beforehand, but she’d never mentioned him in her letters. Until very recently, he had been Jack the Rogue, and she hadn’t known how to speak of him. Her friends would ferret out the true story. They were experts at doing exactly that. It was all too easy to imagine Charlotte’s acerbic opinion of her conduct.
“How shall we manage the arrangements?” her grandfather wondered. “I don’t suppose you can plan a ball, Linny?”
This roused a flash of her mother’s old spirit, which Harriet was glad to see. “Naturally, I can, Papa.”
He took a large bite of potato and surveyed her, chewing. When he’d swallowed, he said, “You will come to me with the details for approval at each stage.”
Harriet’s mother nodded, accepting this humiliating prospect without argument. Was she perhaps a fraction less cowed? A tiny bit irritated at his contempt? Harriet dared to hope so. If she was, that made her scheme worth it.
***
Jack announced the change in his status at the Ferrington Hall dinner table. The Terefords took in the news of his engagement with a slight pause.
“Congratulations,” said the duke then.
“This is rather sudden,” remarked his wife, focusing her gimlet gaze on Jack. “How did it come about?”
He wasn’t sure what to say. If he agreed it was sudden, which he actually did, that implied some irregularity. That wouldn’t do. Clearly, he couldn’t mention kisses and damaged reputations. In any case, the duchess knew about those. She’d seen their embrace on the riverbank, and Harriet had implied her disapproval. Why then was she asking? “Ah,” he said.
His two polished houseguests gazed at him. Not like cats trying to decide if they were observing a mouse. The duke’s eyes showed some sympathy, didn’t they?
There were, in fact, no details of his proposal that Jack cared to share, he realized. There’d been no talk of love or even esteem, as one would expect on such occasions. He’d blurted out some hackneyed phrases. Harriet must think him a bit of a clod. He ought to have prepared pretty speeches. He would have if he’d known what was afoot. Of course, Harriet had thought he ought to have known. Jack supposed that was true. A gentleman didn’t go about kissing young ladies unless his intentions were honorable. But she’d been so angry with him so recently. He’d thought things had to be smoothed over before an offer would be acceptable. And so, he’d stumbled through his first, and only, he trusted, proposal. By the time he’d gathered his thoughts, Harriet was ushering him out the door. He’d made a mull of the thing from start to finish. But she’d said yes. He clung to that happiness.
The silence had stretched too long. “When is the wedding to be?” asked the duke politely.
“Quite soon,” Jack replied. “Harriet’s grandfather talked of posting banns at once.”
“I suppose we are staying for the ceremony then?” the other man asked his wife.
He might have consulted Jack, as their host and the prospective groom, but Jack didn’t blame him for turning to the true authority.
“One doesn’t wish to miss a wedding,” said the duchess.
Something had perplexed her. Jack had no idea what.
“Lady Wilton will be so pleased,” she added with a tiny brush of wickedness.
“Will she?” Jack frowned and muttered, “That would almost make a fellow draw back, just to spite her.”
“But of course, that would be ridiculous,” said the duchess.
Jack had no objection to providing entertainment, but he liked to do it on purpose. With the Duchess of Tereford, he was seldom granted that opportunity. “I don’t see why Lady Wilton should keep sticking her nose in,” he said.
“An inborn conviction that she knows best strengthened by decades of habit and the cowardice of her offspring,” replied the duke.
His tone was dry, but his blue eyes glinted. Jack laughed. Until another thought occurred. “Do I have to invite her to the wedding?”
“It would be customary,” said the duchess.
Jack groaned.
“You needn’t worry,” said the duke. “Grandmama will be pleased with the match.”
“So she likes Miss Finch?” Jack wasn’t surprised. Who could dislike Harriet, after all?
“Miss Finch is an heiress,” the duke replied. “Grandmama encourages all her family members to marry money.”
“I was not an heiress,” said his wife.
“I’m sure she saw your lack of fortune was outweighed by your many sterling qualities.”
“And your lengthy resistance to any marriage at all.”
“And that,” he agreed, smiling at her.
Jack had decided it was no use trying to understand all the nuances of the Terefords’ conversation. They practically had a language of their own. “Will people say I married Miss Finch for her money?” he asked. He didn’t like that idea.
“Oh, I shouldn’t think so.” The duke shrugged. “It’s not as if you were a penniless fortune hunter.”
He’d forgotten. He was an earl. With a great estate. His acceptance of that fact had changed everything, particularly regarding Harriet’s grandfather.
“I can recommend someone if you like,” said the duke.
“What?” Jack hadn’t been listening.
“To help with the settlements, the marriage contract.”
“Contract?” Jack knew about legal agreements. He ran a business, after all. But he’d never thought of marriage in those terms.
“Families with large estates must make a variety of arrangements,” explained the other man.
“Did you do so?” Jack looked from one to the other. The Terefords were obviously in love. The story of their engagement was probably crammed with romance. Yet the duke spoke of contracts without constraint.
“Oh yes,” was the reply.
“I suppose I’d better consult with your fellow then.”
The duke nodded.
“I expect Harriet’s mother will be moving with her,” said the duchess.
“Moving?”
“Here to Ferrington Hall. It would be cruel to leave her behind. Mrs. Finch finds living with her father quite trying.”
Jack could see that. Winstead was no charmer. But he hadn’t counted on a resident mother-in-law.
“You don’t mind?” asked the duchess.
Mrs. Finch seemed all right, if a bit limp and weepy. “Whatever Harriet wants,” said Jack.
“Umm,” she replied.
How could one word—not even a word, really, more of a hum—convey skepticism and concern and sympathy? And what was the need for these things? Jack gazed at the gravy congealing on his dinner plate and thought how much he needed to see Harriet again. Some…things needed to be clearer. And he should make those pretty speeches he hadn’t yet composed. He considered asking the duke for advice about that. And decided against it. Tereford wouldn’t laugh out loud, but his amusement would be all too apparent, nonetheless. As for the duchess… Jack suppressed a shudder.
***
One advantage of being an engaged man was he could call at Winstead Hall whenever he pleased, Jack decided. And so he set off the next morning to walk through the woods, determined to sit down with Harriet and thrash everything out.
Before he was halfway there, however, a mob of children swept out of the trees, shouting and laughing, leaping over sprigs of bracken, and waving sticks as if they were swords. Jack paused to enjoy their sheer, exuberant joy. But as soon as they spotted him, the gang stopped short, lowering their mock weapons to stare. The tiny, dark-haired, and bright-eyed ringleader put her hands on her hips.
“Hello, Samia,” said Jack.
“Hullo, uh…Mr. Earl.”
“I’m still just Jack.”
“No. Mistress Elena said I was to call you…” The little girl frowned in concentration. “My lord, it was.”
“I wish you wouldn’t.”
“Mistress Elena said.”
There were murmurings among the other children. The Travelers did not question Mistress Elena’s decrees. Jack felt again his separation from these people, a sad loss. “What are you playing?” he asked.
“Pirates,” replied Samia.
“Don’t pirates need a sailing ship?”
“Up in the trees sways just like a ship,” she informed him.
“Got a real crow’s nest,” said one of the smallest boys. “With crows.”
“Ah.” It was a clever idea. No doubt Samia had come up with it. She had a vivid imagination.
“You going to the camp?” the little girl asked him.
“No, I am on my way to Winstead Hall. That’s the house…”
“Over yonder.” She pointed in the right direction.
“Yes. I’m calling on Miss Finch. We’re going to be married.” He wasn’t certain why he added that bit of information. Perhaps he just liked saying it aloud.
“Today?” asked Samia.
“No. Soon.” Jack resumed his walk. The children tagged along at his heels.
“Can I come to the wedding?” Samia bounced at his side, occasionally beheading a weed with her wooden scimitar.
“Yes,” said Jack. Harriet’s grandfather wouldn’t approve, but it was his wedding, and he would invite whomever he liked.
The unruly group came out of the woods into a meadow. A burly man rose from a stone where he’d been sitting and waved a quarterstaff. “You rabble keep away from here!” he shouted.
The children slid to a stop, then melted back into the trees. Annoyed that he’d forgotten Winstead’s border guards, Jack walked on.
“No comin’ through here,” the man declared.
Jack was wearing clothes tailored for a duke. He was on land he owned. He summoned his father’s haughtiest accent and kept moving. “I am Lord Ferrington,” he said. “I’m on my way to call at Winstead Hall.”
The guard squinted at him. “Ain’t I seen you about here before? Dressed different?”
“I arrived at Ferrington Hall only recently.” Neither an answer nor a lie, Jack thought as he approached the man’s station. His father had been expert at that sort of response, providing no information in a supercilious tone. Jack tried to mimic one of his expressions as well—serene confidence that no one would think of questioning his wishes.
The man lowered his staff and stepped back.
A spot between Jack’s shoulder blades itched as he passed by and walked on. But no blow came. He’d cowed the fellow. He supposed that was a triumph, but he didn’t much care for the feeling.
The servant who opened the front door at Winstead Hall was far more welcoming. He ushered Jack in with a bow and held out a hand.
Did he want a tip just for admitting him?
“May I take your hat, my lord?” the footman said.
“No. Miss Finch and I are going to walk in the garden. If she is free, I mean.”
It seemed his new status was known to the household, because there was no nonsense about inquiring whether the ladies were at home. The servant took him directly to a small parlor at the back of the house where Harriet and her mother sat. The latter seemed delighted to see him. His fiancée less so.
“I thought we might walk in the garden,” he said to Harriet when he had made his bow.
“Perhaps you would care to talk to my mother?” She looked severe. He seemed to have a special knack for making her do so.
“That’s all right, Harriet,” said Mrs. Finch. “You go and get your things.” She beamed up at Jack.
“I think, Mama, that we might…”
“We will have a chat while you do that,” interrupted the older woman.
Jack was careful to show no reaction as Harriet frowned, then turned and went out.
“Do sit down, Lord Ferrington.”
He did so.
“I’m so happy you will be joining our family.”
She sounded sincere and kind, which made a nice change. Jack looked at her closely for the first time, this small, brown-haired woman who didn’t much resemble her daughter. She was more like her father, Winstead, he realized, though without the man’s glower and choleric temper. He had thought of her as plump, but she wasn’t. In fact, she looked wan and quite weary. Jack wondered if she’d been ill. “Thank you, Mrs. Finch,” he said.
“Oh, you must call me…” She cocked her head like a sparrow. “Now, what shall you call me?”
He caught a glint of humor in her tired eyes.
“Mama-in-law perhaps,” she went on. “Nothing that would offend your own mother.”
Jack remembered Lady Wilton’s searing disapproval of his lineage. And then he thought of his feisty, red-haired mother. She would have been offended by many things he’d encountered since coming to England but not by Mrs. Finch.
“Will she be coming over for the wedding?” that lady asked.
Fleetingly he thought she meant Lady Wilton. But of course, she was referring to Mam. “She died several years ago.”
“Oh, I am so sorry.” She leaned over to press his hand briefly.
The warmth in her voice and the touch of a sympathetic hand moved Jack. For a moment, he couldn’t speak. He thought he heard a sound in the corridor, but no one appeared. “I could call you Milady Mother,” he suggested. “Or what about Materfamilias?”
***
Standing outside the open parlor door, Harriet listened to her mother laugh. It was a sound she hadn’t heard for some time.
“Is that Latin?” Mama asked the rogue earl.
“Yes, it means the female head of the family.”
The fact that he knew Latin struck Harriet as another deception. She remembered the ridiculous accent he’d put on for the duke. Had Ferrington been laughing at them the whole time?
“Oh, that name would not be proper for me then,” replied her mother.
“No? You must educate me in English proprieties.”
“I didn’t mean… It is just that I am not… Our family does not…”
“I’m sure you can tell me just how to go on,” said their visitor, interrupting Mama’s fumbles. He sounded warm and encouraging. Harriet was struck by his gentle tone.
“Oh, no. I have been living quite out of the fashionable world for many years.”
“Not as out of it as I was.”
“Over in America.”
“Yes. Where my father was sent.”
From the corridor, Harriet heard a sound rather like a snort. It took her an instant to realize her mother had made it. “I’ve heard Lady Wilton tell that tale,” Mama said. “I found her actions absolutely unforgivable!”
She hadn’t sounded so spirited in months.
“Did you?” asked Ferrington.
“I certainly did. And I am not the only one. Lady Wilton must be a hard, cruel woman to have done such a thing.”
Harriet heard the pain of her mother’s own rejection in her tone, along with true sympathy for Ferrington’s case.
“I must admit I found her so,” said the rogue earl.
“There is no excuse to…to throw away a child.”
As Mama had been discarded, Harriet thought. As she still was, by Grandfather’s dismissive attitude. She’d known there was hurt in that, but perhaps she hadn’t understood the full depth of it.
“I agree,” he answered.
A similar sort of pain, Harriet noted. Not as deep as her mother’s, but the relationship was more distant. Still, they had this wound in common. She hadn’t really considered that. What must it be like to be…expunged from a family after nearly twenty years of domestic life?
“She has you back now, however,” said her mother. “Which may be more than she deserves.”
“It is certainly less than she likes,” said Ferrington. “Lady Wilton discovered nothing to approve in me. Thoroughly undistinguished, she said. With the manners of a barbarian.”
“Well, that is obviously not true,” said Mama.
She was hotly defensive. Harriet enjoyed her fire. She’d missed that so much.
“Thank you, ma’am. I’ve been trying to…”
“There is no need for you to try to do anything. You are perfectly charming as you are.”
There was a short silence. Though she couldn’t see them, Harriet felt it was fraught with emotion.
“Much obliged,” said their visitor.
His voice trembled just a bit. She could hear the appreciation and gratitude in it. Harriet realized this man could not have been more different from her grandfather, with his coldness and constant criticism. Ferrington had a quick sensitivity beneath his insouciance. He listened. Her mother would be comfortable in his household. Content, even joyful. Except… That wasn’t going to happen, was it? Feeling uneasy, Harriet stepped into the room. “I’m ready,” she said.
They both started, like people caught in a private moment, deep in rapport. They seemed to have briefly forgotten her existence. It was so very unexpected.
Her mother recovered immediately. “Have a lovely walk,” she said and positively twinkled at Harriet. She couldn’t have approved of this match any more if the rogue earl had been a fairy-tale prince.
Ferrington rose. He looked shaken out of his usual lightness. The emotion in his dark eyes was…endearing?
No, it was not. Harriet turned away, reminding herself of all the times he’d been irritating and deceitful. One mustn’t forget the lies! But they seemed harder to condemn this morning after hearing him talk with Mama. She’d caught a glimpse of a younger, more tender person, and he had evoked a wave of sympathy. Her anger was slipping away, moment by moment. What would be left if it was gone? She strode out of the parlor, tapping the tip of her parasol sharply on the floor with each step.
All doors were opened to them now. Servants radiated goodwill. Clearly everyone had heard of the engagement and approved. Or, more likely, they appreciated the softening of her grandfather’s mood. That must make working here easier.
“Your mother is a lovely lady,” said Ferrington from behind her.
Without warning, Harriet’s throat grew tight with tears. Mama was lovely. Her meekness and anxiety might sometimes be irritating, but no one could fault her heart. Harriet had to do whatever was required to protect her.
Stepping through the outer door, Harriet snapped her parasol open and positioned it like a shield. She struggled with emotion as she moved rapidly down one path and up another.
“Is this a race?” asked the rogue earl.
“You wished to walk. I am walking.” If she stayed ahead of him, she didn’t have to see his expression. And possibly be undone by it. That would not do.
“More of a trot, if we’re speaking of gaits.”
“Ha, ha.”
He came up beside her, brushing aside sprays of flowering shrubs on the narrow path. Their pungent scent filled the air. “Why are you angry?” he asked.
“I am not angry.”
“You are giving a good imitation of it then. I seem to have a positive genius for making you angry. And yet I never mean to do so.”
If he weren’t so irritating… No, that wasn’t fair. She was angry at the situation and at herself for creating it. Recalling the animation in her mother’s voice when she spoke to Ferrington, Harriet wondered what she was going to do. She kept the parasol bobbing between them, hiding her confusion. “Was there something in particular you wished to speak to me about?”
“Yes. Any number of things. None of which I can recall just now.” He touched her elbow. “Here, will you sit? This bench is in the shade, so you can close that dashed parasol.”
“I…” His hand had shifted to the small of her back, warm and insistent. She couldn’t think of a reason to refuse.
They sat. He took the parasol gently from her hands and shut it. “That’s better. Now I can see you.” He smiled.
Why must he smile? From the beginning, that smile had been her downfall. It was open and warm. So terribly alluring.
“I thought we should talk about our future,” he went on. “And I also wished to tell you, as I didn’t have the wit to do yesterday, that I sincerely, ah, admire you.” He cleared his throat.
Admire was such a paltry word, Harriet thought. She’d never noticed that before. He was straining for compliments, the man who’d been so fluent when they were together in the forest. She’d forced him into an uncomfortable position. Harriet couldn’t bear that idea. It worried her so much that she leaned forward and kissed him.
And discovered a remarkably effective means of silencing a man.
Indeed, it was useful for driving every thought from one’s own head as well. The touch of his lips required all her attention. He was, it seemed, something of an expert in gently fiery, tantalizing kisses. The strength of his arms as he pulled her nearer on the stone bench demanded even more concentration. Really there was no room for anything else in her consciousness. She could only respond, shifting with him, pressing closer, twining her fingers in his dark hair. It felt a bit like a dance, and yet not like that at all.
When his hands began to wander, Harriet discovered spikes of sensation and waves of desire that swept all else before them. Her parasol fell over with a clatter. It was made of satin and lace and would be spoiled by dust. Harriet could not have cared less.
She nearly whimpered when he drew away. Her pulse was racing, and her breath was near a pant. He was breathing hard, too, she noticed. “I see this engagement business has both advantages and drawbacks,” he said in a thick voice.
Harriet groped for the scraps of her reason. She had no idea what he was talking about.
“One is allowed more privacy,” the rogue earl continued. “But only enough to make one want…a great deal more.”
More, thought Harriet dreamily. Yes, she wanted that.
“I’m more thankful than ever that your grandfather wants a quick marriage. They tell me this reading of the banns in church takes three weeks?”
“Three Sundays,” Harriet managed.
“Ah, too bad Sunday is just past and we missed our opportunity.”
Harriet came back to earth with a jolt. If the vicar read the banns, all would become public and official. As things stood now, people might hear of the engagement, but mistakes could still be claimed.
“Well, the details don’t matter, do they?” Ferrington said, taking her hand and kissing it.
She tried to ignore the wave of heat ignited by his touch. Of course they mattered. There was the detail, for example, that no one had spoken of love. She pulled her hand away and stood. “I should go in.”
“Perhaps so,” he said with obvious regret. “It’s all I can do to keep my hands off you.” The words sent a thrill through Harriet as he bent to pick up her parasol and began brushing off the dust. “I don’t care for this thing, but I didn’t wish it ill,” he added with a wry look.
A tender and teasing smile this time, joined by an irresistible glint in his dark eyes. Harriet found herself transfixed by his lips and leaning toward him.
In the next instant, the parasol fell back into the dirt, and they came together as if their lives depended on it. The rogue earl’s muscular body pressed against hers, kindling all her senses. How had she never known that physical passion was easier than thought? And so much more compelling? The world dissolved in a whirl of desire.
“Oh dear,” said a feminine voice behind her. “I’ve done it again. So maladroit.”
Harriet pulled back. The Duchess of Tereford stood a few feet away. Clearly, she had just come around a corner in the path.
“I do beg your pardon,” she said, taking a step backward.
Naturally, they separated. That was the correct thing to do, the only thing to do. Ferrington again retrieved the parasol, though this time, he seemed to wish to hold it in front of him like a shield. Harriet squared her shoulders, wondering how disheveled she looked. Rather tellingly so, she assumed. “Hello, Cecelia.” She liked the duchess very much, but she did wish that her friend hadn’t arrived at this particular moment. Or…perhaps, on the other hand, it was providential that she had. Harriet’s senses were still swimming.
“Harriet, Ferrington,” Cecelia replied. She might be hiding a smile, but she was very good at being unreadable. She waited. Harriet thought she was interested in what might be said next. So was she. What was there to say about blatant kisses?
“We were discussing the wedding,” said the rogue earl, taking the bait Cecelia had dangled.
“Were you? It seems it will prove an interesting ceremony.”
She was certainly laughing inside, Harriet concluded.
“Before…” Ferrington seemed to realize he had nowhere to go with that sentence. “Fine day for a walk in the garden, eh?”
Cecelia looked up. Clouds were gathering. “Do you think so?”
He shrugged and offered one of his beguiling smiles. “You told me once, when in conversational doubt, fall back on the weather.”
“Conversational doubt?” The duchess’s smile escaped this time. “I can’t remember using any such phrase.”
“That was the gist,” he answered. He held out the parasol, like an actor covering flubbed lines with a bit of business.
Harriet took it in the same spirit and snapped it open. “Have you come to see me?” she asked Cecelia.
“Yes. Though if you are occupied…”
“Lord Ferrington was just going.”
“Oh, is that what he was doing?”
“A…uh…fond farewell,” said the rogue earl. He grinned at them, bowed, and took himself off.
Cecelia laughed.
Harriet turned to walk in the opposite direction, half hiding behind her parasol.
“I keep coming upon you kissing Ferrington,” said Cecelia, falling into step beside her.
She might have said Cecelia seemed to appear whenever it happened, but she chose not to.
“And giving every appearance of enjoying it?” The duchess made this a question, and she gazed at Harriet like a lady who would have an answer.
The silence stretched. Finally, Harriet murmured, “Yes.”
“Well, that’s good.” Cecelia nodded and smiled. “Passion is an important part of a marriage.”
Cecelia would know, Harriet thought. She’d seen the way the duke looked at her. And vice versa. She could imagine…all sorts of things she mustn’t think about. Because in her case, there wasn’t going to be a marriage. She had to set things right very soon. Even though she had no alternate plan. And the thought of relinquishing her rogue earl was becoming more and more distressing.