Chapter Three #2
At the entry stood a very concerned Philippa and an equally overwhelmed dowager, the Marchioness of Neddlesby.
Lady Neddlesby was not the biggest gossip of the ton by any means.
No, that distinction belonged to her dearest sister, Lady Swindon, a woman who treated private information like tea—something a good hostess would offer anyone who stopped by.
Lady Neddlesby was a lonely woman whose great loves were her rose garden and finding someone to entrap into conversation about her rose garden. And long visits with her sister.
Most ruination happens gradually, but every once in a while, something goes catastrophically wrong in an instant.
In those cases, the most acute pain comes in the first few seconds after disaster occurs, when “before” feels so close, so reachable.
In these early moments the new order of things seems quite literally unacceptable.
Why, I am in the same dress, the same slippers, the same room, the very same spot on the very same Axminster as I was before this happened, you might think to yourself. At least, that was what Harriet was thinking to herself when her life ended.
No, that was rather dramatic. In fact, being caught alone in a compromising position with Lord Alexander wasn’t going to end her life.
Unfortunately. Death would have been the simpler outcome: Her sisters could have gone into mourning for a year and reemerged woeful, tragic, but not altogether objectionable misses.
This, however? This was ruination. Obliteration.
“Oh dear,” Lady Neddlesby squeaked, rather unhelpfully, although Harriet gave her credit for being the first one to find her voice.
Harriet, who never before had frozen during a crisis, found herself utterly incapable of reply. Perhaps this was the experience of being the one to have caused said crisis. Interesting. Other people’s calamities were so much easier to iron out, she was rapidly discovering.
“Well, then!” Philippa exclaimed, thawing into her usual self and regaining her voice. “Lady Neddlesby, I’m ever so sorry we were unable to continue our chat about your hothouse. I should dearly love to see it someday!”
Lady Neddlesby stood rooted to the spot.
“Oh dear,” she repeated, just as unhelpfully as before. Philippa ratcheted her charm up even higher.
“I suppose their secret is out, then. I told Father we’d have to share the happy news sooner rather than later. It’s ever so difficult for young couples to keep a long engagement quiet. Young love is—”
Harriet didn’t wait to discover what young love was; she stopped listening after the word engagement. Or maybe she’d simply stopped hearing due to the ringing in her ears.
She had the twin urges to glance at Lord Alexander’s face to see if it betrayed any emotion and to never look at the man’s face again, for she feared she knew exactly what she would find: Contempt. Disgust. Regret.
Someone whispered, “I didn’t intend—” and midway through the utterance Harriet realized it was her mouth doing the talking.
What had been her mouth’s plan for ending the sentence?
I didn’t intend to be caught in a library with you with your hands on me?
I didn’t intend for Lady Neddlesby to intrude?
I didn’t intend for us to be shackled together for all eternity?
Clearly, her mouth was not to be trusted.
Her eyes were next to betray her as they wandered up, quite of their own volition, to Lord Alexander’s. There they discovered that “Oh dear” was actually quite an apt reaction, all apologies to Lady Neddlesby.
Lord Alexander had turned to stone. Unyielding, cold, immobile.
If Harriet had hoped to gain some insight into his mental state, she was sorely disappointed.
The worst of it was that his face was no less handsome for having shuttered.
Harriet truly understood the word stunning for the first time.
She felt as if she’d never regain full consciousness.
Perhaps noticing that neither half of the happy couple intended to address the situation at hand, Philippa decided to usher Lady Neddlesby from the room. “I do apologize for this small impropriety. Again, you must know how long engagements chafe young people.”
At this, Harriet became unstunned enough to let out a snort of laughter. She’d been out five seasons already with a sixth in mourning for Philippa’s husband, and surely Lord Alexander was eight and twenty if he was a day.
His head whipped to hers, the first movement he’d made since they’d been discovered. Harriet avoided his glare, fearful that what she might see would be worse than stone.
Lady Neddlesby was still at the threshold. Lord, but the woman was slow-moving. Philippa persisted: “I want to thank you for the privacy and discretion you’re affording our family. We’re all truly elated, but we still need to discuss the engagement announcement and some other … minor details.”
Even as Philippa began to close the door on her, Lady Neddlesby’s eyes remained on the “elated” young couple, who did not seem to be aware that they were still touching one another.
“Lord Alexander, I had no idea that this was why you requested my presence in the library. I must give you credit: It has been ever so long since a man has surprised me!” Philippa crowed, somehow having fun with the situation.
Harriet, whose gaze was firmly and bravely on the carpet, let out a strangled, “Philippa.”
“An engagement? To my sister? I was unaware that you two had spoken. Or had even been introduced!” Philippa trilled, gaining momentum.
“Philippa,” Harriet implored.
“And, Harriet? How could you keep such a thing from me?”
“Lady Ellerton!” Lord Alexander growled, finally cutting into her rant.
Something about his voice warmed Harriet from the inside, even as it terrified her.
Which was absolutely not the thing to be fixating on right now.
Her apparently impending nuptials to the son of a duke ought to have been her sole focus.
As if his own outburst snapped him back to reality, Alexander dropped Harriet’s wrist, pocketed his handkerchief, and abruptly left the room, with a simple bow of his head.
Harriet remained planted where she was. As soon as she moved, she knew the situation would become permanent.
It would have happened in the past tense, and the past tense was dangerous; there was no changing things that had already happened, only things that were still happening.
And as long as she stood in the same spot on the carpet, she felt as if all of this was still happening.
“I think perhaps it’s time to go, my dear,” Philippa gently implored. “Why don’t we head out from the garden, then I’ll return to the ballroom to gather Caroline and meet you in the carriage?”
Harriet nodded and slid her glove back over her wrist, determined to ignore what was on it and how words had led to this. For the first time in at least an hour she remembered something.
“Mr. Dawkins didn’t happen to show up tonight, did he?” she asked Philippa as her sister led her down a blessedly empty corridor. The look that Philippa gave her was full of pity. “I suppose it doesn’t much matter now, does it?”
Philippa shook her head, agreeing with the sentiment. They walked the rest of the way to the carriage in silence. Harriet climbed inside in silence. Then she waited in silence for her sisters to return.
She felt thoroughly done with silence by the time they arrived.
The feeling lasted only a moment.
“You’re engaged? To Lord Alexander?” Caroline asked, uncharacteristically upfront. Silence clearly had its benefits.
“I don’t rather know, do I?” Harriet responded, suddenly more exhausted than she’d ever been in her life.
“The blasted man left the blasted room before I could bloody well talk to him! And don’t say ‘language,’ please don’t say ‘language,’ Caroline.
I will wring your neck and then I’ll wring my own neck. ”
“He left the room?” Caroline asked.
“He left the room,” Harriet confirmed. Then she leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes.
“What does that mean?”
“Caroline, dear, let’s give Harriet some time.
” Her two sisters had, in the face of this crisis, seemingly switched roles—Caroline becoming blunt and Philippa softening into an almost comforting figure.
Even more bizarrely, Harriet herself was the one causing said crisis.
Surreal. No one was playing their correct part in their usual family play.
“Does she have time?”
Harriet’s eyes snapped open. “What do you mean by that?”
“Well, just that—” Caroline demurred at the trained attention of her elder sisters, one warning, one murderous.
“Let’s talk of something else until we arrive home. How was the ball for you, Caroline? Anyone of interest?”
Harriet did not want to hear about anyone of interest. She didn’t want to hear about balls for the rest of her life and certainly nothing about this particular ball.
She leaned back against the squab again, eyes closed, and allowed herself to think of the only comforting thing her brain had the capacity to think about: She knew a new word.