Of course Harry would come to call today. He came to call most days, but for some reason today seemed more significant than any other. Anna wondered if he’d felt it too, that spark, that flare of attraction as they stood together in the Carmichaels’ garden. For a moment she’d wanted to kiss him, wanted to fall into his arms and feel his lips on hers. It was ridiculous, worse than ridiculous, and now Anna could feel the butterflies in her stomach as she walked slowly towards the doors to the garden.
For a few seconds she stood and watched the scene outside. Harry and Beatrice had expressions of furious concentration on their faces as they hit the shuttlecock backwards and forward. Uncle Phillip was seated in the sun, shouting out words of encouragement. It looked like an idyllic family scene.
Harry was in good spirits as usual, his shirtsleeves rolled up to expose strong forearms and his eyes sparkling in the sunshine. He was a good-looking man, there was no denying it, but Anna knew that wasn’t the only reason she felt a tightening inside her as she watched him. There was more to him than a desirable exterior. There was a drive in Harry to look after people, to ensure they came to no harm. He quietly got on and made the important decisions without causing too much fuss.
Of course there was a bad side, too. Yesterday on the terrace he’d assumed control, taken over and made decisions that weren’t his to make. That was why she had to stop this reaction she had to him before it went any further. Never again would she give up her autonomy, not for anyone.
Pushing open the door, she stepped out into the sunshine.
‘Anna,’ Harry called as soon as he caught sight of her, ‘come join us.’
She hesitated, just for a moment, and then stepped off the patio and on to the grass, picking up a spare racket as she went.
‘Our record is twenty,’ Beatrice said, her eyes shining. ‘Lord Edgerton is rather good.’
Anna regarded her cousin out of the corner of her eye. If she wasn’t much mistaken, Beatrice was developing a little affection for Harry.
‘I hope you’re ready,’ Harry said, swinging his racket. ‘Whoever misses the shuttlecock first has to do a forfeit.’
‘What’s the forfeit?’ Anna asked.
Beatrice laughed and Harry hit the shuttlecock, powering it towards her. It had been years since Anna had picked up a racket, but she swung it instinctively, hearing the satisfying ping as the small shuttlecock bounced off the strings. It looped through the air towards Beatrice who hit it easily. Round and round the shuttlecock flew, faster and faster until Anna had to dive to reach it. The shuttlecock spun off the edge of her racket with a dull thunk, losing momentum and heading for the ground. Both Beatrice and Harry jumped forward, angling their rackets towards the small, tumbling object, but, before either of them could reach it, it hit the ground.
‘Congratulations,’ Harry said. ‘You won.’
‘What’s my prize?’
Harry stepped towards her, his eyes fixed on hers, took her hand and raised it to his lips. Anna shivered as he brushed the lightest of kisses against her knuckles. For a moment the rest of the world faded into the background and it was just the two of them on this patch of lawn. Then reality came tumbling back as Harry let go of her hand and stepped away.
‘An evening of entertainment. How do you ladies feel about the opera?’
Anna felt her heart sink. She hated the opera. All those people watching each other, their eyes fixed on the other spectators rather than the stage. It felt as though you were an exhibit in a museum.
‘I love the opera,’ Beatrice enthused. Anna had a sneaking suspicion her cousin would profess her love for any activity Harry suggested right now, even something as horrible as bear-baiting. There was a hint of adoration on Beatrice’s face every time she looked at Anna’s fake fiancé.
‘Anna?’
She almost lied, almost found herself professing a love for something that in truth she found disagreeable, but then she paused. After Lord Fortescue had died, after she had recovered from the rawest emotional and physical wounds she’d acquired in that marriage, she’d promised herself she would start to be true to herself. There was no need to do anything to please other people now; she could accept or decline invitations as she desired. No one could cajole or force her to do anything.
‘I am not keen on the opera,’ she said.
‘Anna,’ Beatrice said, her voice shocked and admonishing.
Anna shrugged. ‘I’m not. I see no reason to lie to Lord Edgerton.’
‘Harry,’ Harry corrected her. ‘And you’re right, there is no reason to lie to me.’
‘I would be delighted to accompany you to the opera, Lord Edgerton,’ Beatrice said.
Harry smiled indulgently, the smile of a big brother to a younger sister. ‘As much as I would enjoy that, we must find something that Anna enjoys, too.’ He turned to her, eyes narrowing. ‘What is it about the opera you dislike? The singing? The impenetrable language? The garish costumes?’
‘I find all that quite enjoyable. It is the audience I dislike, the feeling of being on display.’
Lord Fortescue had enjoyed the opera, often journeying to London for a performance. As always he’d required Anna to be exquisitely turned out for the trip, cataloguing any imperfection to punish her for later. Then he would spend most of the performance looking for signs Anna was flirting with other men. Of course it never happened, Anna wasn’t foolish—she kept her eyes fixed on either the stage or her husband—but the lack of evidence never deterred Lord Fortescue. It meant the opera had gone from a pleasant excursion to a place of fear and horror.
Harry regarded her, his blue eyes seeming to pierce through her protective layer.
‘Let me surprise you,’ he said eventually.
‘As you wish.’
‘Beatrice my dear, help your decrepit father inside,’ Anna’s uncle called from his spot at the edge of the patio.
Beatrice eyed her father reluctantly before bobbing a curtsy to Harry and gliding off to do as she was bid.
‘My cousin seems to adore you after just a few hours,’ Anna said as they were left alone.
‘She is a young woman of good taste,’ Harry said.
‘She is foolish and impulsive.’
‘Like all girls of eighteen.’ It was spoken as if he had personal experience with a foolish young girl.
‘You have a sister,’ Anna said as she slipped her hand through his arm.
‘I do.’
‘Is she the same age as Beatrice?’
‘She’s eighteen.’
‘Is she making her debut this year?’
Harry shook his head. Normally so easy to talk to, he was not forthcoming when it came to his family.
‘Next year, then?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Are you her guardian?’
‘In a sense. My mother is still alive, but she leaves most of the decisions surrounding Lydia to me.’
‘That must be difficult for you. The minds of young girls are impenetrable.’
Harry smiled stiffly, but didn’t answer, then, swiftly changing the subject, he said, ‘I thought we should discuss this house party I am arranging.’
‘Perhaps we should abandon the idea.’
‘No. It is the only way to get all of our suspects in