Chapter Seventeen
HARRIET LEFT WITH A PROMISE FROM CAROLINE AND FRANCES THAT they would write as soon as their father returned, or should they need anything at all.
She had asked only thirty times or so while packing if they were certain they could spare her before Caroline gently reminded her that she was only going across Mayfair and that they’d done quite well when she was in Scotland.
Alexander looked both a little pleased with himself and a little nervous, Harriet observed on the carriage ride to his town house. Strange that he’d appealed to her so rationally about coming with him. He could have simply ordered her to, as was his husbandly right. Her father would have.
His town house in the daytime was far less imposing than she remembered, but Presley was just as kind as he’d been before.
“Wonderful to see you again, my lady,” he said, bowing. Next to him was a tall, stern-looking woman, who had no doubt been a beauty in her youth.
“This is Mrs. Tanning,” Alexander introduced. “Mrs. Tanning, Lady Alexander takes her tea with two sugars and a splash of milk. She should be allowed free rein to make any changes to the house or the menus or the staff as she sees fit.” Harriet nearly swallowed her tongue at his announcement.
“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Tanning, and, Presley, it’s lovely to see you again as well. Thank you for your help that night.”
“I am entirely and eternally at your service, my lady. It’s not much, but marrying Lord Alexander must come with some benefit.”
“Presley!” Alexander warned, playfully. “You’re becoming entirely too impertinent.”
“You’ll have to dismiss me once again, won’t you?” Presley rejoined, and then to Harriet, he continued, “It’s become almost a quarterly occurrence. Almost a little ritual of ours.” Alexander ignored this.
“Mrs. Tanning will show you your rooms, and perhaps later, to the library. It has recently undergone some … reorganization. I think you will find it ripe for your influence. I’ve instructed my cook to prepare chicken fricassee and asparagus tonight, but please inform Mrs. Tanning if you’d like something else.
If you’d rather take dinner in your room, you may do that as well.
Of course you can. It’s your home. There is a maid for you as well, I believe?
Mrs. Tanning will introduce you, I’m sure.
And then to the rest of the staff tomorrow, perhaps?
And I can have a bath brought up for you, if you would like, or if you—” He was rambling, which was not at all something she’d seen from him before. It was almost sweet.
“Thank you,” Harriet interrupted, stopping herself from laying her hand on his arm in reassurance.
“A bath would be lovely, the menu sounds perfect, and I will take my dinner in the dining room with you tonight.” She turned to Mrs. Tanning and smiled, then followed the woman up the wide, elaborately carved staircase into a beautifully appointed bedchamber.
It required effort for Harriet not to gasp upon entry.
She’d never had her own room before. And this?
The bed alone would have taken up half of her room at her father’s house.
And one of the chairs would have likely paid his debts.
There was a fireplace on one wall, and the ceilings must have been the height of two men, with windows that looked out over the square and thick drapes to prevent daylight from disturbing the mistress of the house.
Which was her.
“Oh my,” Harriet let out as she took a turn about the room.
“Marvelous, isn’t it?” Mrs. Tanning asked with a shy smile. It transformed her face entirely and Harriet couldn’t help but like the woman.
“Unbelievable,” Harriet answered, her eyes trained on the ornate ceiling. Then they fell to the bedside table, where a small stack of books sat. She crossed over to them immediately. On top was a small card that said simply:
For you.
—A
“I’ll send Anne up to you, my lady, and a bath. Ring the bell for anything else you need,” Mrs. Tanning said from behind her, and with that, she disappeared.
Had she known this room awaited her, she would have put up far less resistance to moving in. Harriet suspected she was going to get the best sleep of her life that evening.
Alexander had gotten the worst sleep of his life that evening.
He woke the next morning, gripped with fear.
He’d dreamt a most concerning dream the night before: a dream of her, beneath him.
That part hadn’t been anything less than glorious.
It was the rest of the dream—the emotions he’d felt for her that lingered in the morning—that frightened him.
In turn she was, it seemed, entirely uncharmed by him, if yesterday’s confrontation was anything to go by.
He’d had to practically beg her to even entertain living here.
It was a most unusual occurrence, he mused.
One which only made her more tantalizing.
Of course, women had performed indifference before for him, hoping to beguile.
But Harriet’s disinterest seemed genuine.
He’d felt it in the library the night they met. She hadn’t been rapturous or flattering. He couldn’t remember a woman so unmoved by his presence. Well, he could remember one. But that had been ages ago and didn’t signify.
She wanted to be friends. If she could only see the dream he’d had the night before, she would dispose of the notion entirely.
Perhaps he might convince her of the foolishness of her vow of chastity.
One didn’t want to be immodest, but Alexander was certain she would enjoy his company.
The pleasure she was leaving on the table was significant.
Of course, it wasn’t entirely an unselfish line of thinking.
Having her—even once—would be worth almost any effort.
If anyone in the ton could win a woman over, surely it was him.
No. No.
Alexander had never had to persuade a woman of his appeal. It ought to be evident.
This was not that sort of marriage. She was not that sort of lady. Lord. One night with her in his house and he was starting to go mad.
He rose and dressed and packed himself into a carriage to be delivered to White’s posthaste. His previous habits needed to be attended to.
He stalked inside the club, nerves raw.
Unfortunately, his dark mood was not to be ameliorated.
His father sat in a corner, smoking a cheroot and holding court, at least seven young bucks hanging on his every word.
It was pathetic the way the duke soaked up admiration; baseless fawning seemed to be the only thing that fueled the old man outside of snatching up properties from vulnerable parties.
Miserable man. Lifting two fingers, his father summoned him.
Alexander braced himself, ordered a drink from a passing footman, and headed over.
Meetings with his father were never pleasant, but perhaps the public venue would forestall the duke’s worst impulses.
“You must excuse us, gentlemen. I need a word with my son,” the Duke of Belhaven instructed his admirers. “Come, let’s find a room,” he commanded Alexander.
Never mind about the audience then. This was to be a true confrontation.
He should have known; his father cared far too much for appearances to set down his son in the middle of White’s.
And far too much not to set him down in a private room of the club.
The blessed footman discreetly handed Alexander a scotch as he followed his father like a man sent to the gallows.
They reached a small private room, similarly appointed as the rest of the club in dark, comfortable leather, ideal for spending time away from one’s wife, opulent curtains to hide the time of day, and wood-paneled walls to maintain the power within.
Something about the forced masculinity of the room struck Alexander at that moment.
It was a room—a whole club—designed to assure men like his father of their virility, their belonging and influence.
It was an odd observation to come to after years of membership, and one he had the urge to share with someone, though he imagined his father might strike him if he did.
The duke gestured toward a chair across from him, as if he were “allowing” Alexander to sit before him.
In his own club. That he paid his own dues to be a member of.
Alexander fought to keep from rolling his eyes.
Everything his father did irked him. Whether the duke drank scotch or brandy, smoked or refrained, crossed his legs or his arms, Alexander was determined to loathe the choice. And to do the opposite.
“I understand you’ve married.” No preamble. The duke often seemed to go out of his way to avoid addressing Alexander, as if doing so would lend legitimacy to his birth.
“I have.” Two could play the game of withholding. One wasn’t raised as the Duke of Belhaven’s son without learning that information was an asset to be guarded.
“I must admit some surprise at your choice,” the duke sneered. He had a flair for eking out sentences like a snake. Me too, Alexander thought, but remained silent; his father wasn’t waiting on his words anyhow. “No doubt this was meant to punish me for something.”
“I must admit, Father,” Alexander began, the term of address meant as both an insult and a reminder, “you didn’t enter into the decision at all.”
“You compromise a mopsy wallflower and we’re all to believe …? What? That it’s a love match?” The man’s face was turning an even deeper shade of red than normal. Most unpleasant.
“I didn’t compromise her.” Alexander shrugged. The rest of his father’s sentence wasn’t worth addressing, since the one proper response would have ended with him in Newgate.
The duke’s eyes nearly popped out of his head at the suggestion that the marriage had not been strictly required.
Another shade of vermilion was achieved.
Alexander normally would delight in rousing so much ire, but he found himself strikingly bored.
“We were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“I’m expected to believe that bitch just happened upon a duke’s heir in Lady Dunley’s library?
” Alexander flinched at the slur, at the casual dismissal of his brother’s existence, at the amount his father knew about the situation, at the unfeeling laugh the man let out.
Despite years of practice in not reacting to his father’s outbursts, this moment tested him.
“What you do or do not believe doesn’t signify. If it did, I would assure you that Lady Alexander has an uncommon disinterest in my wealth and, in fact, in marrying me in general.”
“Perhaps she’s heard the truth of your parentage and worries for her own offspring.”
Alexander would have loved to see the look on his father’s face when he found out the marriage hadn’t been consummated and never would be.
Instead, he sat in silence, clenching and unclenching his fists.
It had been almost a decade since he’d let his father dictate his mood.
He felt all the worse for giving in now.
The duke had no need for Alexander’s input in the conversation, which was really more of a lecture, strictly speaking.
“I have hope that this marriage marks a new epoch for you. I was growing ever so fatigued by your attempts to confound me. Your rakehell reputation was starting to wear thin. Lord knows you meant to taunt me with your strumpets and your birds of paradise. An embarrassing display all around, and a rather unsuccessful one, wouldn’t you agree? ”
“I encourage you to disabuse yourself of the notion that I factor your opinion into any of my actions. Past, present, or future. Not once in the thousands of hours I’ve spent in the company of women have I given even a passing thought to you.
It would have been entirely antithetical to anyone’s arousal. ”
“Either way,” the duke continued, revealing no hint of displeasure at Alexander’s words, “marrying the girl was for the best. Being my heir can only buttress your reputation so much. It’s past time you make a gesture at respectability, even if it doesn’t come naturally to one such as you.
You may play at a disdain for aristocracy all you’d like, but you are the stain, not them.
You know as much. I’m glad you’ve chosen the mature path.
I can’t pretend to be happy you’re my heir, but I can decide what sort of dukedom you are left with. Be careful.”
His father was correct that the marriage would smooth over some men’s—men like Lord Holden—fears of engaging with Alexander.
It was uncouth enough being a bastard, one didn’t have to be so indecorous as to also be a debauchee.
Lord Holden was a shrewd businessman, but remarkably devout, and a great champion of the institution of marriage.
He answered to his wife first and God second. Harriet’s existence would go far.
Alexander said none of this to his father, who was instructing a footman on how precisely to pour his brandy, as if there was a method required.
It was as good a time as any to attempt escape.
The meeting could have no purpose other than criticism, which had been given already.
Alexander tossed back the rest of his scotch and stood.
“Your Grace,” he said with a stiff nod, declining to give a reason for his departure.
The trip to White’s had done nothing to ease his stress. His father had only sunk his mood lower. Alexander waved off his driver and began walking.
The bracing chill of the early March weather cleared his mind as he wandered through the busy streets, nodding at acquaintances, smiling at shop women. When his fingers finally protested the temperature even through his gloves, it became clear that he was going to have to return home.
Even if she was there.