Chapter 14
It was no surprise to Christopher when he found his carriage sans Har-ding. The lone hired driver remained, smoking a pipe, which he quickly tapped out on his heel when he saw Christopher approach.
“Departing so soon, m’lord?”
“Yes.” Christopher opened his own carriage door and mounted the steps without waiting for a helping hand. “We leave now.”
“Ah, your man, Har-ding—-he told me he had some business. I was to wait for his return.” The fact that Har-ding had insisted on accompanying Christopher in the role of footman for the evening now made perfect sense. The sly devil.
“The plan has changed,” Christopher said with steel in his voice. “We go to Grosvenor Square. Now. ” He so rarely barked orders that the words sounded stilted, as if he were reading lines from a play instead of speaking for himself.
“Of course, m’lord.” The driver swung up onto the seat and took up the reins.
Within moments the carriage was clattering down the cobbled lanes at a good clip. Christopher sat back against the plush velvet of the interior with his arms crossed over his chest, stewing over what he’d heard in the garden. How was Har-ding making his way to the meeting place, he wondered. It would take ages on foot. Perhaps he had hailed a hackney; his salary was generous enough to allow such an indulgence, but the sight of a man in full Winterthrope livery doing so in the middle of a ball . . .
It would draw attention, and that was the one thing Christopher abhorred above all else. He squirmed on the carriage bench, unable to get comfortable. After a moment, he realized it was not just his feeling of betrayal that was causing this, but a bundle of cloth wedged under him. He reached behind himself and pulled a lump of purple and blue silks from behind the cushion.
Ah. So Har-ding had at least swapped his garish livery for something more suitable to lurking, Christopher surmised. A small blessing, though it meant that the man had planned every step of this. Somehow, that rankled Christopher even more.
“Grosvenor Square, m’lord,” called the driver as they turned onto the lane that led to the finest, most expensive addresses in all the city. Christopher was only vaguely familiar with the houses that lined the square, but he spotted one lone candle in a third--story window, the only light to be seen. That had to be Lady Belinda’s window. All the other residents would still be at the ball.
He gave the order for the carriage to stop and told the driver to return to the stables. “The air is so fine,” he said between gritted teeth, “I think I will walk home tonight.” The last thing he needed was his coach driver catching sight of the scandalous scene that would soon unfold. The driver did not question this departure from the norm and wisely turned the horses, leaving Christopher alone on the pavement.
He glared up at the window with its single lit candle. As he watched, a silhouette passed by, long and thin with an enviable profile. Christopher recognized Har-ding’s shadow as if he’d known it his whole life.
His valet, upstairs, alone with the daughter of a duke! His blood boiled. He had to put a stop to this nonsense, and quickly. Christopher marched up to the front door, which was decorated with a brass knocker in the shape of the Greene coat of arms, but before he could grasp it and give it a thorough bashing, he stopped. His sense began to overtake his anger. What exactly would happen if he banged on the duke’s door in the middle of the night? Some sleepy servant would greet him, surely. And then what? Would Christopher demand to see Lady Belinda? Declare his intentions to halt a tryst? It would be the ravings of a lunatic. He’d be tossed into the street. No, he could not rely on the usual channels available to a gentleman visitor. He had to find another way.
He looked up at the window once more, the only rectangle of yellow light in the dark, and noticed that, unlike its neighbors, the facade of the duke’s home was covered in a trellis upon which delicate vines were trained. Christopher stepped off the front stoop to get a better look. Yes, the trellis reached all the way to the third story. A man could, if he was nimble, climb the thing to reach the window with the lit candle.
Christopher glanced furtively over his shoulder. The square was deathly quiet and still. No other people were about. If he was quick, he wouldn’t be seen. He might sully his faultless coat or snag the delicate fabric on a thorn—-a thought that gave him no little pause—-but there was nothing for it. The reputations of three people hung in the balance, and his ensemble, much as it pained him, sat on the lighter end of the scale.
“This is madness,” he muttered to himself even as he reached for the latticework of the trellis that was affixed beside the front entrance. He tested it gingerly and found that it didn’t immediately peel away from the brick facade. Having little experience in climbing trellises, Christopher could only imagine this was a good sign. He lifted his foot and stuck it awkwardly into a square of the lattice, clinging to some of the sturdier vines.
There was a slight creak of wood, and the vines tore away from the brick a jarring inch or two, but it held his weight. Christopher took a deep breath and began to climb, thanking his lucky stars that, for all his fears, a fear of heights was not among them.
As he left the safe haven of the earth and approached the lit window, Christopher realized he could hear voices, the very same from the garden. Har-ding’s soft tenor, Lady Belinda’s breathless whisper. As he struggled up the trellis, the voices coalesced into words.
“Nothing from you, not a word!” That was Lady Belinda. She sounded near to tears.
“You know such a thing was impossible.” Har-ding sounded full of regret. “I could not risk it.”
Christopher frowned as he grappled with an unruly strand of vine that had somehow twisted round his ankle. Once it was dispatched, he stretched his arm up, fingertips just barely brushing the windowsill. So close!
“Is this not a risk?” the duke’s daughter was saying. Christopher barely paid her any heed; his tongue was poking from the corner of his mouth as he attempted to go up on tiptoe. Damn his short legs.
“Under the circumstances, I thought the risk worth it. Bee, I think I know a way to solve most of our problems. If you would only listen—-” Har-ding’s voice was so serious, so determined, that Christopher was certain his valet was only moments away from sweeping the poor girl into his arms. He could not allow that to happen. He set his jaw and made another grab for the damned windowsill. His fingers found purchase on the ledge—-just as the trellis under his feet gave a terrific groan.
Christopher’s eyes flew wide.
He scrambled to drag himself up and through the thankfully half--open window just as the lattice and vines peeled away from the front of the house and crashed to the ground. The sound of the trellis splintering into pieces was somewhat drowned out by Christopher’s yell. It was the sort of yell any reasonable man might make if he thinks he might be about to plummet to his death from a duke’s windowsill. There was also the matter of the Queen Anne side table that was knocked over as Christopher made his appearance, scattering whatever unfortunate items had been sitting atop it. All in all, a downright cacophony.
Christopher found himself sprawled on a plush area rug. He lifted his face from where it had been mashed into said rug to find Har-ding and Lady Belinda staring down at him with matching looks of horror on their faces. That wasn’t all they shared; now that he saw them side by side, Christopher noted that they both were possessed of a similar dark--haired, dark--eyed beauty. Damnably unfair, the two of them making such a fine set.
“Right!” Christopher scrambled to his feet. He put a finger in the air and hoped it lent some authority to his stance. Then he noticed a leaf out of the corner of his eye where it was stuck in his hair. He dislodged it and let it fall to the ground before continuing. “Aha!” he added, since it seemed the thing to do.
“My lord,” Har-ding said as he valiantly tried to compose his face into something less shocked, “what on earth are you doing?”
“What am I doing? I could ask you the same question!” Christopher thrust his accusatory finger in Har-ding’s handsome face. “But I already know the answer. You’re conducting a . . . a . . . a tryst with this poor girl!” He flung a hand in Lady Belinda’s direction.
The woman had turned the shade of milk at Christopher’s appearance, but now she flushed as red as a warning flag. “What!” she cried. Then, lowering her voice to a hiss, “Who are you?”
Har-ding heaved a sigh and looked heavenwards. “Lady Belinda,” he intoned, “please allow me to introduce my master, Lord Eden.” He stooped to one knee and put the Queen Anne table to rights, gathering up all the bits and baubles that had scattered across the floor.
Lady Belinda did not seem to be in the mood to have the back of her hand kissed. She gave Christopher a shove just as he was getting his bearings. “You are lucky the servants of this house are such heavy sleepers, what with the racket you’ve made.”
“It wasn’t my intention—-” Christopher began.
“I don’t care. You must leave. Now!”
“Not without my valet,” he shot back. “I will not allow him to besmirch your good name and my standing.”
“Oh, for god’s sake.” Har-ding stood and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “This is no tryst, my lord. Lady Belinda and I are merely—-” He stopped then and glanced at the woman in question as if making a plea for help, but she didn’t seem to have the words either.
“Don’t you mean Bee ?” Christopher cut his eyes to the woman, who stood with her arms crossed angrily. “That is what he called you, is it not?”
“I did.” Har-ding strode in front of him as if to protect the woman from Christopher’s glare. “A slip of the tongue. I worked in the Greene household as a young lad, you see. In the stables.” He turned to the lady. “We grew up together. We’re practically brother and sister, so you will understand the informality in our conversation.” This was said in a soft, almost wistful tone that Christopher had never heard his valet produce. Then the moment passed and Har-ding bowed his head. “Please excuse my lack of etiquette, my lady.”
“No, don’t.” Lady Belinda swallowed. “It’s been ages since anyone’s called me by my childhood name; I admit I have longed to hear it.” She moved her gaze coolly to Christopher. “Your Lordship can call me Belinda, if you please. Since we’re all on such informal ground here anyway.”
“Then I insist you call me Christopher,” he replied with acid on his tongue.
“Of course.” The lady—-Belinda—-gave a textbook curtsy. “It would be my pleasure, Christopher. ”
“Now that that’s settled: can someone tell me what we’re doing standing in the duke’s home at,” he consulted his pocket watch, “ten past midnight?”
“Allow me to explain, my lord.” Har-ding stepped around him and sensibly drew the curtains. “I was about to tell Lady Belinda about your peculiar situation: that you are hoping to secure a promise of marriage this Season in order to fulfill the late Lord Eden’s will. As it happens, she requires a suitable husband before her next birthday as well. The duke demands it.”
“Oh. I see.” Christopher felt his face turning a wonderful shade of red. One could roast chestnuts on his cheeks, he was certain. He turned to Belinda. “Erm, my commiserations.”
“Yes,” she said dryly. “Quite.”
Christopher felt he might die of embarrassment, but he needed to be certain he understood the situation clearly. For once. He turned to Har-ding. “So you, ah, were going to propose that we . . . ?” He made a vague gesture between himself and the lady.
“Precisely, my lord. If Lady Belinda is amenable, I was going to suggest you two marry each other for the sake of convenience. That is why I needed to speak to her in secret.”
Christopher screwed up his face. “Not a tryst, then?”
“No, my lord.” Har-ding looked faintly ill at the prospect. “Not a tryst.”
“Could we please stop throwing around the word ‘tryst’?” Lady Belinda said. “It’s making my skin crawl.”
“My apologies.” Christopher executed a hasty bow in her direction. “I should not have leapt to such tawdry conclusions.”
“No, you shouldn’t have,” she agreed.
“And I am sorry for barging in like this,” he added. Her stormy look made him reconsider mentioning the broken trellis. He straightened. “So! Erm. Would you be amenable? To the marriage of convenience, I mean.”
“I’m not sure,” Lady Belinda drawled. “It’s difficult to say when you’ve made such an excellent first impression.”
Christopher could only gape at this ready display of wit. He’d rather been expecting a wilting wallflower in need of smelling salts. At least, that had been the impression she’d made from afar at the ball. Up close, she was much more . . . lively.
“Bee,” Har-ding said in a warning sort of way.
“Well, I’m sorry!” She huffed. “It’s simply—-”
Further argument was cut off by the sound of carriage wheels clattering in the street below and the voice of a footman calling out, “We have arrived, Your Grace.”
The three of them froze.
“The duke,” Har-ding said.
“That’s not good,” Christopher whispered.
Lady Belinda twitched a curtain aside and peeked out of the window. Their fears were confirmed if her pale visage was anything to go by. “If my father finds not one but two men in my bedchamber in the dead of night, I hesitate to give odds on any of us living to see the sunrise,” she cried. “Get out of here immediately!”
Har-ding, always the practical one, moved quickly -toward the window, but Christopher caught him by the elbow. “Erm, not that way, dear fellow,” he said. “The trellis has met its maker, I’m afraid. Unless you plan on jumping from the third story, we’d better find another escape route.”
Har-ding stared at him. “You broke the trellis?”
“Did you not hear it crashing to the ground earlier?”
“In all the commotion your entrance caused? I suppose not.” Har-ding dragged a hand through his hair. “Why in god’s name did you break the trellis?”
“I didn’t do it on purpose! I daresay it’s not designed to hold the weight of a fully grown man, no matter how petite one might be!”
“Gentlemen!” Belinda interrupted. “Time is short.” Indeed, there were footsteps already upon the stair. “If you cannot run, you must hide.”
“Hide?” Christopher gawked at her. “Surely you’re joking.” His pride demanded that he, the Earl of Eden, stand his ground.
Har-ding had no such compunctions, apparently. He crossed the room in two strides and opened the huge armoire that stood in the corner. Shoving dozens of hanging gowns aside as much as space allowed, he leapt into the maw of the thing and stuck his hand out, beckoning. “My lord, if you would follow me.”
“What, in there?” Christopher squeaked. His pride was shrinking by the moment.
“Just do it!” Belinda said, shoving him inside the armoire.
“Now see here—-” Christopher’s protest went unheard as the armoire door slammed in his face. He was mortified to find himself squashed rather forcefully against Har-ding. The armoire, which on the outside had appeared to be so gigan tic, somehow shrank to Lilliputian dimensions now. Christopher was trapped chest to chest with Har-ding in the absolute pitch--dark of the wardrobe’s interior, and beneath the scent of fresh fabric and the feel of silk swiping along his brow, he could sense far more of his manservant than he had ever intended.
He tried to turn his head aside so that they weren’t staring directly into each other’s faces, but doing so caused a lock of Har-ding’s hair to brush against his cheek, which in turn caused Christopher to shiver. Memories of his filthy dream flooded through him. He was achingly aware of every point of contact between their bodies. Christopher’s only saving grace was that, being a man of unique construction, he did not have to worry about a cockstand giving him away in such a position. Small blessings, as usual.
“Your elbow is in my side,” he murmured, trying and failing to put an inch of distance between them.
“If you could kindly move your leg—-” Har-ding replied, jostling Christopher where their limbs had become inexorably tangled.
“Move it where, exactly?” Christopher asked.
Before Har-ding could offer a no doubt scathing suggestion, the bedroom door creaked open, and they both froze.
“Belinda!” The booming voice could only belong to the Duke of Rushford. “Are you already abed?”
“Yes, Father,” came the softer reply, accompanied by some very convincing coughs. Christopher wondered if the girl had managed to throw a nightgown over her dress, or if the bedclothes were pulled all the way up to her chin to hide her finery. “I was just about to drift off. I am so sorry I had to leave the ball early.”
“Have you had anything to drink? A glass of milk? Lukewarm tea? I always have lukewarm tea when my stomach is upset.”
Christopher stifled a groan; he could hear the bedsprings squeaking in a way that meant the duke had perched on the edge of his daughter’s mattress. No doubt he intended to coddle the girl endlessly. Of all the fathers in London, Christopher seethed, must Belinda have the only one who cared about his child’s well--being?
Har-ding must have felt similarly, for he gave a silent sigh of resignation, and the puff of his breath lit across Christopher’s neck.
The voices of the two Greenes filtered through the armoire in a muzzy patter of conversation, up and down, back and forth. Christopher tried to block it out, but the only other thing that could hold his attention was Har-ding himself.
Har-ding, who was extremely solid for such a long reed of a man. It was too dark in the armoire to see anything, but Christopher couldn’t help but feel the press of lithe muscle against him. There was a scent, too, that he could detect through the lavender sachets of the wardrobe. Hair oil, he decided. Har-ding wasn’t the type to daub on cologne. It was very pleasant. Sandalwood, he would wager. Or perhaps frankincense.
Strange, that he had never noticed that before. Skin close and trembling, now he could notice nothing else.
His heart raced with more than the fear of discovery. He squirmed in the hot, close dark, trying to find a position that wasn’t too compromising. An accidental brush of Har-ding’s hand at his chest made him nearly jump out of his skin. He would have made a noise, possibly a loud one, if Har-ding had not clapped a palm over his mouth.
“Hush.” Har-ding’s voice was in his ear, caressing its way down his spine.
Christopher let his eyes fall closed. This was all too much. He couldn’t breathe; there was no air in the wardrobe. He gave something like a whimper against Har-ding’s hand, and something shifted between them. Har-ding’s touch gentled, as if he planned to uncover Christopher’s mouth, but perhaps he miscalculated in the dark. Instead, his fingertips ran along the warm seam of Christopher’s lips, and Christopher, swaying in his hold, opened his mouth to let them in. Two fingers settled atop his wet tongue like it was the most natural thing in the world. Christopher stopped fidgeting and kept his eyes squeezed shut, concentrating on the salt flavor of Har-ding’s skin.
“Hush,” Har-ding whispered again, this time against Christopher’s neck.
Christopher felt a shameful dampness in his trousers, and he prayed that Har-ding would not shift in such a way that it would become noticeable to him. He stayed as frozen as possible to ensure it. Only when Christopher was completely calm and still did Har-ding slip his fingers out of his mouth. He wiped them on his own trouser leg, and Christopher felt very strongly that he might expire from that gesture alone.
Finally, at long last, the duke left and the maids shut the door. Their footfalls faded as they walked down the hall, and then all was entirely silent. A long moment passed in which all breath was held. Then the armoire door opened, and Har-ding and Christopher tumbled out, gasping for air under the bemused gaze of Lady Belinda, who had been the one to free them. Christopher touched his own cheek and found it as hot as a coal. His only consolation was that Har-ding looked slightly affected as well. His hair was even a bit mussed.
Christopher hadn’t the faintest idea what the hell had just happened, but he found he wanted it to happen again.
“Apologies,” Har-ding said when he at last faced Lady Belinda. “The perfume sachets are . . . overwhelming in such close quarters.”
“Oh, be quiet.” She shut the armoire with a click. She was still wearing her ballgown, though it looked as though she had managed to take off her slippers before leaping into bed under the guise of rest. Her stockinged feet paced the floor. “Now what?”
Har-ding spoke in a low whisper. “The duke and duchess will go to sleep shortly. When they do, and the house is quiet once more, we will slip out the side door just as I came in. The only bedroom we will pass will be the housekeeper’s, and she sleeps like the dead.”
“You know the workings of this house quite intimately,” Christopher observed, still trying to catch his breath.
“As I said, I grew up here.” Har-ding cast Belinda a nervous look. “Will you lock the side door behind us so there will be no sign?”
“No sign save for the broken trellis,” she pointed out. “In the light of day, someone is sure to notice that.”
“Oh, these things break all the time,” Christopher said. “Everything in my own house is two minutes away from falling apart. Just say a very fat bird tried to sit on it.”
“A fat bird?” Belinda repeated incredulously.
Christopher shrugged. “Or something to that effect.”
The lady sighed and pinched at her nose just as Har-ding did when he was frustrated. They must have been very close as children, Christopher thought, to have picked up each other’s mannerisms like that.
“I can’t believe I’m going to marry you,” Belinda muttered.
Christopher blinked. “Oh! Erm, you don’t have to,” he said.
“No, I shall.” Her hand dropped from her nose. “James is correct. We both need to marry with speed, and I have no interest in marrying a man who expects me to fulfill the usual wifely duties.” She pinned him with a look. “You don’t expect me to carry out the usual wifely duties, do you?”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he stammered. “As long as you understand that I won’t be providing any of the . . . usual husbandly ones.”
“Then we are agreed.”
They shook on it. Har-ding watched this all with a pleased smile teasing his lips.
“I have to admit,” Christopher said as he retracted his hand, “I would not have thought that a lady such as you would be in need of suitors.” As the daughter of a duke, her dowry was sure to be sizable. Not to mention her striking beauty.
“Oh, I’m not,” she said. “It’s only, I don’t care to be married at all. Not in anything but name, not any longer.” Her eyes took on a faraway look. “Love is a cruel thing, Lord Eden, and I do not believe I shall have any part of it. If I cannot have what I truly desire then—-” She shook her head. “I may as well participate in this farce of yours. At least this way, someone will benefit.”
Christopher sensed there was a longer story behind this notion, but before he could ask, Har-ding pulled him by the arm to where he’d cracked the bedroom door open.
“The hallway is clear,” he whispered. “We should leave now.”
And so they did, exiting from the kitchen door at the side of the house and stepping carefully over the shattered bits of trellis that had landed on the pavement out front. It was strange, the way things could change over the course of a single conversation. Christopher had arrived at the duke’s home filled with rage and ill--formed assumptions, and he was leaving with his valet, an engagement, and a lingering slickness between his legs. Not the evening he’d expected, not by half. And although he was still mortified by his manifold missteps, he was, on the whole, pleased by the night’s events. He would need to take Lady Belinda fully into his confidence before the wedding, but if Har-ding trusted the girl, that boded well enough for now. Christopher cast a glance at Har-ding’s handsome profile. His man had certainly worked a miracle; he deserved a raise, if money could ever be reward enough for saving the master’s bacon.
“Again, apologies for my intrusion,” Christopher said as they walked in the direction of his townhouse, “but all’s well that ends well and all that. Thank you, Har-ding, for finding me a suitable wife.” And for sticking your fingers in my mouth, went unsaid, though the sentiment was there. Christopher wished he could broach the subject, but it felt like one of those things that men shouldn’t speak of aloud.
“The pleasure is all mine, my lord,” Har-ding said, and if Christopher detected a glimmer of a smile at his valet’s lips, it was surely a trick of the moonlight.