There was no hope for it. She refused to sit here and allow herself to become embroiled in one of Stephanie’s projects.
She would have to go and explain to Sir Christopher the dangers. He had to understand why the picnic and any hint of intimacy was an impossibility. And she had to do it before she lost her nerve.
Hattie clicked her fingers. ‘Moth, we are going.’
Her sister’s face creased. ‘Hattie, I am only doing this because I love you and want you to be happy. You need someone in your life. You looked happy when you arrived in the rose garden. Your cheeks were bright pink.’
‘I like my life with Moth, with Mrs Hampstead and with you and your children.’ She raised her chin. She refused to go back to that needy deluded girl who believed romance happened when two people’s glances met across a crowded room. Going on a picnic with Sir Christopher was not going to happen.
‘Hattie …’
‘It satisfies me. Do not tell me otherwise.’ Hattie hoped Stephanie believed her words because she was less than sure.
Hattie stood in the gloomy panelled hall of Southview Lodge. A variety of stuffed birds peered down at her. All the way here, she had planned her speech. Somehow it seemed right to explain the situation in person rather than writing a letter. Sir Christopher had to know what Stephanie was trying to do and why it would never work. The solution had come to her as she tramped home over the fields. Sir Christopher needed to know about her sister’s machinations.
She had deposited Moth with Mrs Hampstead before driving the governess cart to Southview. She intended on handling this problem on her own without interference from Moth and her penchant for investigating.
‘Mrs Wilkinson, what a pleasant surprise.’ Sir Christopher came out of his study. His stock was undone and he was in his shirtsleeves. His black hair swooped down over one eye. Despite her intentions of being aloof, a curl of warmth twined its way around her insides.
Hattie inclined her head and was pleased her straw poke bonnet shadowed her face. ‘Sir Christopher, I do hope you will forgive the intrusion.’
‘I wasn’t expecting any visitors. My uncle’s affairs are in a bigger tangle than I had anticipated. He appears to have used a code …’ He ran a hand through his hair, making it stand on end. ‘But as you are here, you must stay and have a cup of tea. Come into the drawing room.’
‘My sister was rude in proposing that Mr Hook lecture,’ Hattie began before she lost her nerve. ‘Take no notice of her. She became dreadfully confused and believes Mr Hook is a shy newt-fancier who needs bringing out.’
‘Is this a problem?’
‘Is he … a newt-fancier? A world authority? He appears awfully young for such a thing.’
The corners of his mouth twitched. Hattie risked a breath. She might not have to confess about Stephanie’s other machinations after all.
‘Rupert confessed. He misjudged the moment. Rupert shall be spending all his time studying the habits of newts until the lecture. He should know better than to lay false claim.’
‘He doesn’t know.’ Hattie clapped her hand over her mouth. ‘Oh dear. Just before I left the Dower House, Livvy arrived, looking for books on amphibians.’
Their shared laughter rang out.
His eyes turned sober. ‘You didn’t come all the way here simply to tell me about Rupert’s folly. Out with it, Mrs Wilkinson. What else was your sister attempting to do? Why must I be wary?’
Chapter Four
He knows. Hattie’s heart sank. Sir Christopher had known about Stephanie’s intention all along. She twisted the handle of her reticule about her fingers and wished she was anywhere but here in Sir Christopher’s hallway. She had made a mistake in thinking he was naïve or at best unaware. He was no fool, but a hardened and experienced rake. He must have foiled hundreds of marriage schemes in his lifetime.
Her first instinct was to slink away, but she had started so she had to continue—no matter how much she wanted the ground to rise up and swallow her.
‘My sister wishes to play the matchmaker. You and I.’ Hattie tried for a sophisticated laugh, but it came out strangled. ‘How ridiculous! Anyone can see how ill-suited we are. I like to speak my mind too readily and you … you … well, you have a certain appetite for life.’
A flash of something—sorrow, disappointment?—crossed his face, but it was gone before she could really register it was there and his face became a bland mask.
‘I would have used a different word,’ he said.
‘Stephanie refused the picnic invitation so that you would be forced to take me on my own. She knew I would never be rude and find a threadbare excuse to call it off.’
‘Why did she think her being there would be an impediment?’
‘My sister unfortunately recalled that I once used my nieces to sabotage her previous efforts.’ Hattie knew her words were coming much too fast, tumbling over one another like a cart picking up speed as it careened down a perilous slope. ‘A childish trick. I should have seen the possibility before it happened and saved everyone the embarrassment. What I was thinking … who knows?’
‘Perhaps you were thinking that a picnic with me would be a pleasant way to pass an afternoon.’ His grey eyes flashed. ‘A picnic, Mrs Wilkinson, is not an invitation to a debauched party. Nor is it a prelude to sticking your neck through the parson’s noose.’
‘The expedition should be called off. Immediately.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it will encourage Stephanie and her folly,’ Hattie said weakly, trying not to think about the way his mouth looked or how his eyes sparkled. A note giving a bland reason would have been simpler.
‘I’m more than delighted to be spending time with you, Mrs Wilkinson. The arrangement suits me very well.’
‘Does it?’ Hattie gulped. She refused to consider that Sir Christopher might actually be attracted to her. The notion was completely absurd. She lacked the attributes that men like him prized. He had an ulterior motive. He had to. Her head pained her slightly.
‘Had I thought you’d accept without your family for chaperons, I’d have proposed the current arrangement in the first place. For Rupert it was desolation but for me it is serendipity.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I take it you will bring your dog as a chaperon. It is always best to have a solitary chaperon … it provides cover.’
‘My husband died at Talavera, Sir Christopher.’ Hattie focused on a picture of an English castle which hung on the wall behind his right shoulder. It was easier to say the words when she wasn’t looking at his face. She tightened her grip on her reticule. She refused to tell him the truth about the sham of a marriage and her humiliation, but he had to understand that whatever game he was attempting to play stopped here. ‘I have no wish for another.’
‘Marriage has never been one of my aspirations, Mrs Wilkinson. My parents were exceedingly unhappy. I trust you understand me.’
Hattie gave a little nod. She had thought as much, but the plain statement caused a tiny bubble of disappointment to flood through her. Just once she would have liked to have been wrong and for Sir Christopher to have had honourable intentions.
A tiny voice in the back of her mind whispered that he was the sort of man to make a woman believe in romance. She ignored it. That sort of thinking belonged to another woman. She knew what her responsibilities were. She liked her life as it currently was. She knew what was important to her. Free love was for women like Mrs Reynaud and her sheikh, not her.
‘Thank