‘Where are you going now?’ He reached her in two strides and put his hand on her elbow, bringing her against his body. ‘I didn’t think you were given to false modesty, Hattie.’
‘Stephanie will have created a small camp for us near the black-faced sheep. She worries about my brother-in-law becoming lost and so they go back to the same place every year.’ Hattie jerked her arm away. To think how close she had come! Poor deluded Hattie had nearly done it again. Been swept away on the romance and forgetting the cost. ‘They will be wondering where I am. It was bad of me to go off like this.’
The dimple shone in his cheek, highlighting his lips. ‘Your brother-in-law gets confused?’
‘It is the one day of the year that he spends time in the ale tent. Stephanie refuses to go in, but always waits to take him home.’ Hattie gave a careful shrug, but she was aware of how near he stood and where his hands were. Her sister and brother-in-law were very different but they did seem to have a happy marriage, something that was for ever going to elude her. All she wanted to do was to find a quiet place and regain control of herself. She’d been so close to giving in to temptation. It had been seeing the longing in his face when he held the jumping-jack in his hand which had nearly undone her and made her think that he might want something else. ‘It is an arrangement which has served them well.’
‘Shall I walk you there? Fairs can be notorious for drunks and others making a nuisance. Allow me to keep you safe.’
‘I can find my own way.’ Hattie used her reticule as a shield. ‘The fair has so much to offer. You must try the ale tent yourself. If you find my brother-in-law, remind him that we are expecting to go home at a reasonable hour rather than at eight when the fair finishes. Please let me go, Kit.’
‘Independent to a fault.’ He held up his hand and his eyes became steely grey. ‘I understand.’
Hattie didn’t flinch even though she was dying inside. ‘It is the way I like it. Independent but respectable. I can’t have it any other way.’
‘Because of your husband’s memory?’
‘Do not bring my late husband into this.’ A cold chill went down her spine. She couldn’t lie about Charles. Not to Kit. The thought stunned her.
‘Let me know if you ever feel lonely.’
‘I bid you adieu, Kit. I’ll understand if you have to go back to London suddenly.’ She made an expansive gesture as her insides wept. ‘I hope this is everything you wanted.’
His hand curled about hers and then let go. ‘Thank you, Hattie … for my jumping-jack.’
Hattie forced herself to walk away without looking back. It was one of the hardest things she had ever done, but she knew it was the right thing. Kit suddenly appeared to be taking liberties, to misunderstand why she’d purchased that stupid jumping-jack. She was safer on her own.
Walking away from Kit was the right thing to do, Hattie thought as she strode away from where he stood. To stay would mean giving in to temptation and starting to believe that there was something between them. She had nearly cried when he told her the story about the jumping-jack and then he became so cold, practically accusing her of trying to interfere. And then he’d made the suggestion and it changed everything. She was not going to tumble into bed with him. Ever.
Hattie pushed past the gawkers around the find-a-penny man and the farmers and their wives outside the exotic curiosity stall. She resisted the temptation to turn around and see where Kit was.
A gypsy cart had become stuck in the middle of a boggy bit. Hattie attempted to squeeze around the back, ignoring the gypsy woman who offered to read the pretty lady’s fortune. When she was a little girl, Mrs Hampstead used to tell stories about how gypsies spirited people away, over and over again because Stephanie loved being scared. Even now, Hattie was not entirely comfortable around them. They were harmless for the most part and a simple ‘no’ generally sufficed.
A gypsy man with a scarlet bandana and a gold earring loomed up in front of her, asking if she wanted a bit of lucky heather.
Hattie shook her head ‘no’, picked up and hurried off in the opposite direction.
By the time she’d recovered her composure, she realised that she was in completely the wrong place, close to the rough end of the fair where the cockfighting and bear-baiting happened, with no easy or straightforward way to get to where Stephanie had set up camp.
She wished she had taken Kit’s offer to escort her back but that would have only prolonged the agony. It was over and done. She could go back to her dull, unexciting life.
‘Hey, watch where you are going.’ a man shouted at her and she managed to duck before she was hit by a large metal trap.
‘That was far from my fault,’ Hattie muttered and turned down another row of stalls. These were devoted to all manner of farm equipment. She turned another way and heard the cries of a cockfight. She could never understand why anyone would think such a thing was entertainment.
She rubbed her hand over her face. Several painted women sauntered passed, with swinging hips and fixed expressions. The distinct odour of stale alcohol choked the air.
Hattie picked up her skirts and began to hurry towards the ale tent. It was early enough so there should not be too great of a problem. But once there, she’d get her bearings. Stephanie was going to be annoyed. She could handle Stephanie, but she knew if anything had happened to Livvy or Portia, she’d never forgive herself.
What could she have been thinking about, going off with Kit like that? She’d abandoned Livvy for nothing but her own pleasure. Hattie quickened her steps. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot. Her boots seemed to pound out the words. Hattie reached for a handkerchief and covered her nostrils.
‘What’s your hurry, my dear?’ A rough hand grabbed her elbow. Her captor sported a purple scar stretching from the corner of his right eye to his nose. Two more men stood behind him, egging him on. ‘We can have some sport with this one.’
‘I am not your dear.’ Hattie drew herself up to her full height and gave her most imperious stare. The last thing she wanted to show was fear, particularly not to a man who looked the worst for drink. It was all a misunderstanding. ‘Unhand me and allow me to go about my business unhampered.’
‘Pardon me for breathing.’ His hand loosened. He said something in an undertone to his loathsome companions.
A nervous trembling filled Hattie’s limbs. It was that easy. Mrs Reynaud was right. A positive attitude could work miracles. Her virtue was her shield.
She started to move on, slowly and sedately, but purposefully. The men were drunk. They’d leave her alone. Once she’d returned to Stephanie, she was never going to hanker after travelling or adventures again.
‘Give us a kiss. Proud lady.’ Another hand caught her upper arm. The stench of sour ale and tobacco filled her nostrils. This time she was pulled back against his fat chest.
‘Let me go.’
Kit let Hattie walk away into the crowd. It had all gone wrong when she’d mentioned the name Reynaud. Stupid, really. There were hundreds of people with that name. It wasn’t Hattie’s fault that his mother had abandoned him for a Frenchman named Jacques Reynaud. The woman in question was probably another innocent caught up in the mess his mother had left behind.
He’d taken the crude and insulting way out, using his seductive voice to make suggestions, making her unsure. He’d known that she’d leave. Coward that he was. And all because of a name from the past that should no longer have any power.