She swallowed her disappointment and shook her head. “I shall claim the horse for tomorrow and ride over when the weather is fine.”
“The weather is never fine. I vow I have never seen such a chilly and wet summer. I have a better idea.” He smiled down again and Harriet’s heart leaped with joy. “We’ll ride together on Talos.”
“Together? How on earth?”
“You can ride pillion. Surely you’ve seen it, if your father had any medieval manuscripts.” Then he added, with a soldier’s air of authority, “It is the most sensible solution.”
Harriet nodded reluctantly. “How do we manage it?”
“I’ll get on first. Then you can put your foot on mine and swing yourself up behind me.”
Harriet swallowed. “All right.” She made a mental apology to her mother and Sophie, who would be horrified if they ever found out. When Captain Brookes was settled, she placed her foot on his in the stirrup and he tossed her up behind the saddle. Riding astride left nothing to the imagination, she realized in embarrassment. Her skirt hitched up much too high.
“Ready?” he called over his shoulder.
“Y-yes,” Harriet stammered. He wheeled Talos around and started back up the hill.
Harriet’s cheeks flamed. She leaned forward a little, against the taught smoothness of his back. Though she was precariously perched on Talos, Harriet was cherished and safe, like Mama’s jewels nestled in their leather boxes at Handley Hall. She closed her eyes, relishing the security that radiated from Brookes’s broad shoulders. Mercifully, he could not see the expression on her face.
A light rain began falling. “Hold on tight. I’m going to speed him up so we can get out of this wretched weather,” Brookes called.
Obediently, Harriet tightened her hold on his waist and squeezed her legs around Talos’s flanks. Her heart fluttered wildly in her chest. She must stop any nonsense right away. Any affection she felt was simply because she had never been this close to any man. He was her sister’s intended, after all. Remorse washed over her, and a heaviness settled in the pit of her stomach. Once, when she was a little girl, she had taken one of Sophie’s hair ribbons without asking, and then lost it when she was riding. The mortification she felt long ago was nothing compared to her shame today. A hair ribbon could be replaced. A man such as Brookes—well, he was one of a kind.
Harriet bounced from one shelf to the next, exclaiming in delight. Brookes watched her closely, folding his arms over his chest. This room, so isolated and lonely before her arrival, now burst with vivid life. Harriet had completely ignored the sumptuous tea tray pulled near the fire. Apparently, tea meant little when she was faced with stacks upon stacks of books.
“I have never seen you so animated.” Brookes chuckled.
“You have hardly seen me at all.” She laughed.
As their gazes locked, a need to make her happy suffused him. Her smile intrigued him most—he wanted to see it again. “You can borrow them all, if you want.” A mischievousness threaded through his voice, designed to provoke a response.
“Oh, Captain, thank you!” Unshed tears filled her eyes. “Truly, you have no idea how happy you’ve made me.”
“Think nothing of it. Come have some tea.” He unfolded himself from his deep leather chair and pulled a velvet wingback closer to the fire. “What do you like to read, Miss Handley?”
“Please call me Harriet. Miss Handley sounds ridiculously formal.” She sat gracefully.
“Very well, then, Harriet. What do you like to read?”
“Anything I can,” she replied. “Before Papa lost his library, I had so many to choose from. It was his weakness, you know, collecting books. It led to our downfall, I’m afraid. I gravitate toward the classics. I salvaged the few you saw today. They are my old friends.”
“Homer? What do you like about his works?”
“‘Wherefore I wail alike for thee and for my hapless self at grief at heart, for no longer have I anyone beside in broad Troy that is gentle to me or kind, but all men shudder at me,’” Harriet quoted promptly. “Helen, Paris, the fall of Troy—it’s all so heroic and romantic.”
Brookes gazed deeply into her dark eyes. “Not all wars are heroic or romantic. After all, thousands of innocent people were slaughtered because of Helen’s fickleness and her beauty.”
She colored under his gaze, staring at the floor. “I suppose that’s true,” she said quietly.
He had gone too far, blundering and lecturing like a stern schoolmaster. “I’m sorry,” he muttered.
“No, I am the one who should apologize.”
“Not at all.” He studied her a bit longer, mesmerized by the pretty flush warming her cheeks. He attempted a lighter tone. “After being in battle, one realizes there is very little romance in war.”
“I’m sure.” She looked up at him, her eyes darkening to a deep, fathomless blue. “Someone should write a realistic novel about war.”
Drowning in those dark eyes, he had to tear himself away. “I doubt anyone would read it.” He cast a rueful grin her way. They sat together in silence, which was broken only by the chime of the mantel clock.
“I should be going. Mama will be wondering where I am.” She stood and brushed off her skirts with a practical air.
“Let me order my carriage,” Brookes replied, and pulled the bell pull. “It’s raining in earnest. Do take a few books home.” She selected a volume of John Donne, he noted. He would read the book when she returned it.
“This should keep me occupied.” She smiled again, and a warm glow flowed through him.
“Come back whenever you wish.” Then, remembering his manners, he added, “Bring your sister, too.”
Her smile faded. She was all business and practicality again. “Of course. Thank you for a lovely afternoon.”
The carriage was ready; in an instant, Harriet was gone. Brookes stood at the window, mulling over his daily obligations. His afternoon was completely wasted. He was late to see his mill manager, and he needed to speak with his steward about this spring’s crops. But it was worth it. He hadn’t enjoyed himself this much in years.
He prided himself on his reputation as a career soldier, not easily flustered by anything, especially a pretty face. Rarely did anyone cause him to change his purpose or his mind. But the trained tactician in him sensed a problem.
What if he had chosen the wrong sister?
Chapter Four
Harriet stabbed her spade savagely into the dirt. She reached into the moist earth and tugged, pulling out a small potato. Shaking the dirt off the vegetable, she tossed it into the basket by her feet. She promised to help Sophie, but she found herself in dangerous territory. If only she could dig out her devotion to Brookes as easily as she dug out roots here in the family garden.
Harriet shifted from kneeling to squatting back on her heels. Falling in love with Brookes simply was not allowed. Ridiculous, too. After all, he was the first young man that she had come into close contact with. That was the reason for the attraction, and nothing more. Her visit to his library, and the warm companionship that had settled between them bespoke nothing more than a friendly acquaintanceship. So just like a spinster perilously near to the shelf, she attached too much significance to her visit. He provided her with the first challenging conversation she shared in ages—that was all.
She needed a plan. If there were some way she could keep her promise to Sophie while keeping the captain at arm’s length, she could protect her own heart. A strictly platonic arrangement,