Harriet swallowed, knowing it was no such thing.
But Aunt Susan was sitting there, plotting and planning ways and means of getting him to propose to her.
Because, deep down, she thought her niece only good enough to marry a...wastrel.
Worse, said wastrel had no intention of marrying her. Had indeed scuttled away with his tail between his legs at the merest threat he might have to do something so abhorrent should their kiss become common knowledge.
* * *
She was still seething by the time they called for their carriage. Which was an utterly stupid thing to do, since their own house was not two hundred yards away. They could have walked home far quicker. But, no, in London, ladies waited for the horses to be put to and the carriage to be brought round, rather than do anything as prosaic as walk home.
Oh, how she hated London tonight. Why had she listened to Aunt Susan’s tales of balls and picnics and beaux? Why had she allowed herself to get swept along on the tide of Kitty’s enthusiasm at the prospect of them making their come-out together?
Because, she answered herself as she clambered into the coach behind her two female relatives, Aunt Susan and Kitty had made her feel wanted, that was why. It would never have occurred to either of her parents that it was high time their only daughter made her social debut. And if it had, neither of them would have wanted to oversee it. Papa hated London and Mama considered it all a ridiculous waste of time and expense.
She sighed, and in the darkness of the coach, reached out and took Aunt Susan’s gloved hand. It was not her fault Harriet had not, so far, found her feet in society. Her aunt had done all she could.
Nor could Harriet blame her for believing she was only fit to marry a wastrel. Not when she was so awkward, and...yes, rebellious, as Lord Becconsall had pointed out.
As the coach rumbled through the darkened streets, and Kitty prattled on about the many and various partners with whom she’d danced, Harriet wondered how she was going to break it to Aunt Susan that not even the wastrel looked on her as a potential bride.
Though time would probably take care of that. Since, after the way they’d just parted, he’d probably take good care not to come anywhere near her, ever again.
Jack couldn’t face returning to Becconsall House, the town house that now belonged to him. It was too full of ghosts.
Besides, he was still too unsettled after his encounter with Hope. Who’d turned out to be...of all things, the daughter of an earl. He certainly hadn’t expected that. To think that the owner of those sparkling blue eyes, that tart tongue, and those lush lips, was not only a lady, but a lady.
He shook his head as he strolled aimlessly along the street. What had she been thinking, going out at that hour of the day without an escort? If she’d run into anyone but him, in the park, she would have ended up getting far more than just a kiss.
She was so...naive, that was the word. And she had no idea of the effect she had on men.
Although, to be frank, if he’d seen her for the first time tonight, he wouldn’t have looked at her twice. If he hadn’t seen the other side of her, in the park, he would never have suspected she possessed anything to take a man’s interest, except for her rank. The silly gown, and the even sillier hairstyle, completely distracted a man from noticing the subtle curve of her mouth, or the determined set of her chin, or the intelligence and wit lurking in the depths of her eyes. Not to mention the lush curves of her body.
Lush curves he’d held against his own body and would very much like to feel pressed closely to him again. The urge to do something about it had taken him by surprise, several times, while they’d been dancing. Even though she’d been doing nothing to attempt to interest him. On the contrary, she’d been all bristles and spikes.
Which had soon stopped him from feeling sorry for her. Nobody could possibly feel sorry for a girl with as much spirit as that, not for long.
A reminiscent smile played about his lips. He’d really enjoyed the thrust and parry of the verbal fencing match they’d fought as they’d danced round the events of their first meeting. Right up to the end, that was, he thought, his smile fading, when she’d lashed out rather too cruelly.
Not that he could blame her, he supposed. He’d been unforgivably rude. Or so she must have thought. It was just that he’d thought he’d glimpsed the same sort of...hurt and rebellion, and desire to shock that he had lurking in his own heart, in her behaviour. Had thought he’d found a kindred soul. That she was doing what he was doing. Pretending to do as he’d been told, whilst making damn sure everyone thought he was completely ineligible.
He’d thought the way she dressed was due to a rebellion against what society expected of her. The way he’d rebelled when the lawyers had told him his best course of action would be to come to Town and find a respectable bride as quickly as he could, to ensure the succession. As if there was no worth in him apart from the blood which they wanted him to pass on to the next generation.
Instead of which, she’d admitted she just had no clue about fashion. Or taste.
He groaned as he thought of the sheen of tears he’d told himself he’d imagined, at one point during the evening. She’d made a swift recovery, but there was no doubt in his mind now that he’d hurt her. Rather badly, to judge from the way she’d lashed out at him towards the end.
He couldn’t blame her. Not when his own jibes must have seemed so cruel, to her.
Which left him no choice.
He was going to have to swallow his pride and tender an apology.
* * *
And so, the next day, he presented himself at Tarbrook House at the correct hour for paying visits, armed with a posy of spring flowers.
Though the room was full of visitors, Lady Harriet was sitting on her own, on a chair by the window, from which she was looking out on to whatever it was that was at the rear of the house. The other gentlemen who’d called were all clustering round another girl, who was wearing a gown almost identical to Lady Harriet’s. Only wearing it rather better. And the aunt, Lady Tarbrook, was keeping her beady eye on her own daughter’s visitors.
Lady Harriet gave a start when he stopped by her chair, so engrossed had she been by whatever she’d been watching through the window.
He craned his neck to follow her line of sight. But all he could see was a courtyard containing an ornamental fountain which sprayed water a few inches into the air.
So, she had been lost in thought, rather than admiring the view.
‘A penny for them? Your thoughts?’
‘They are not worth that much,’ she replied tartly. ‘And anyway—’
‘You would rather walk barefoot along Piccadilly than share them with me,’ he finished for her.
Her face turned a charming shade of pink.
Which was, to his way of thinking, the perfect moment to present her with the posy.
‘Oh,’ she said looking down at them with surprise. And then up at him with a touch of suspicion. And then, being the girl she was, she asked the question no other delicately nurtured female would ask.
‘Why have you brought me these? Why have you come at all, for that matter?’
‘Well,’ he said, reaching for a nearby chair and placing it closer to hers, ‘it is the done