Читать книгу Hattie Wilkinson Meets Her Match - Michelle Styles, Michelle Styles - Страница 11

He knows. Hattie’s heart sank. Sir Christopher had known about Stephanie’s intention all along. She twisted the handle of her reticule about her fingers and wished she was anywhere but here in Sir Christopher’s hallway. She had made a mistake in thinking he was naïve or at best unaware. He was no fool, but a hardened and experienced rake. He must have foiled hundreds of marriage schemes in his lifetime.

Her first instinct was to slink away, but she had started so she had to continue—no matter how much she wanted the ground to rise up and swallow her.

‘My sister wishes to play the matchmaker. You and I.’ Hattie tried for a sophisticated laugh, but it came out strangled. ‘How ridiculous! Anyone can see how ill-suited we are. I like to speak my mind too readily and you … you … well, you have a certain appetite for life.’

A flash of something—sorrow, disappointment?—crossed his face, but it was gone before she could really register it was there and his face became a bland mask.

‘I would have used a different word,’ he said.

‘Stephanie refused the picnic invitation so that you would be forced to take me on my own. She knew I would never be rude and find a threadbare excuse to call it off.’

‘Why did she think her being there would be an impediment?’

‘My sister unfortunately recalled that I once used my nieces to sabotage her previous efforts.’ Hattie knew her words were coming much too fast, tumbling over one another like a cart picking up speed as it careened down a perilous slope. ‘A childish trick. I should have seen the possibility before it happened and saved everyone the embarrassment. What I was thinking … who knows?’

‘Perhaps you were thinking that a picnic with me would be a pleasant way to pass an afternoon.’ His grey eyes flashed. ‘A picnic, Mrs Wilkinson, is not an invitation to a debauched party. Nor is it a prelude to sticking your neck through the parson’s noose.’

‘The expedition should be called off. Immediately.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it will encourage Stephanie and her folly,’ Hattie said weakly, trying not to think about the way his mouth looked or how his eyes sparkled. A note giving a bland reason would have been simpler.

‘I’m more than delighted to be spending time with you, Mrs Wilkinson. The arrangement suits me very well.’

‘Does it?’ Hattie gulped. She refused to consider that Sir Christopher might actually be attracted to her. The notion was completely absurd. She lacked the attributes that men like him prized. He had an ulterior motive. He had to. Her head pained her slightly.

‘Had I thought you’d accept without your family for chaperons, I’d have proposed the current arrangement in the first place. For Rupert it was desolation but for me it is serendipity.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I take it you will bring your dog as a chaperon. It is always best to have a solitary chaperon … it provides cover.’

‘My husband died at Talavera, Sir Christopher.’ Hattie focused on a picture of an English castle which hung on the wall behind his right shoulder. It was easier to say the words when she wasn’t looking at his face. She tightened her grip on her reticule. She refused to tell him the truth about the sham of a marriage and her humiliation, but he had to understand that whatever game he was attempting to play stopped here. ‘I have no wish for another.’

‘Marriage has never been one of my aspirations, Mrs Wilkinson. My parents were exceedingly unhappy. I trust you understand me.’

Hattie gave a little nod. She had thought as much, but the plain statement caused a tiny bubble of disappointment to flood through her. Just once she would have liked to have been wrong and for Sir Christopher to have had honourable intentions.

A tiny voice in the back of her mind whispered that he was the sort of man to make a woman believe in romance. She ignored it. That sort of thinking belonged to another woman. She knew what her responsibilities were. She liked her life as it currently was. She knew what was important to her. Free love was for women like Mrs Reynaud and her sheikh, not her.

‘Thank you for being frank, Sir Christopher.’ She met his gaze full on, never flinching or wavering. ‘I must also inform you that I’ve no intention of our acquaintance becoming more intimate. I enjoy my current reputation and wish to maintain it. In the circumstances …’

‘More intimate?’ His grey eyes became flecked with a thousand lights. ‘You do like putting the cart before the horse, Mrs Wilkinson. Most women wait to be asked. I shall allow you the opportunity to change your mind should the subject ever come up.’

‘I find my sister’s attempts at matchmaking intensely irritating.’ Hattie quickly concentrated on the black-and-white tiles of the entranceway, rather than giving in to the temptation to drown in his eyes. ‘Her schemes made my life a misery throughout the years until I found a way to halt them. Why should I have to seek another husband? There is no law against being a widow.’

He tilted his head to one side, his eyes coolly assessing her. ‘Your husband must have been a lucky man. To have someone so devoted after his death.’

‘He was a man in a million.’ Hattie attempted to look pious and sorrowful. She had already had her folly with Charles. She had swallowed whole the lies of instant adoration, love and eternal devotion that dripped from his lips that night in the summer house.

She had continued to believe in the false illusionary world where she was the very heart of his universe until she had sorted his private papers, which arrived after his death. The stark black ink tore the illusion from her soul.

It was then she learnt what he truly thought of her, how another woman had had his regard and his joy at the birth of his son, a son he’d fathered after their marriage. That had been the hardest thing—reading about his joy at the birth and knowing how much she’d longed to have a child.

‘I have no desire to change your mind. I only wish to go on a picnic with you.’

‘And I should accept your word?’ she asked. ‘Without questioning it?’

His eyes flashed. ‘I may be many things, Mrs Wilkinson, but I am no liar. Nor do I take advantage of unwilling women. Nothing will happen on this picnic that you do not desire.’

‘Then I have no choice but to accept your assurance that the picnic will be between friends.’ Hattie hated the way her heart jumped. The gloomy mood that had plagued Hattie on the way over vanished. Sir Christopher wanted to go on the picnic with her, despite knowing about Stephanie’s machinations. She swallowed hard. Stephanie would not give up. The picnic would only embolden her. ‘What am I to do about Stephanie? I’ve no wish for you to become burdened or embarrassed.’

He took a step closer. ‘A determined matchmaker needs to have a concrete reason to desist. You and I know of her intent and we can count er it … if we work together. If done properly, your sister might learn a valuable lesson. The world needs fewer meddlesome matchmakers. We will be doing a service to society.’

‘Why are you willing to do this?’ Hattie put her hand to her throat. She could see the sense in Sir Christopher’s scheme but … She shook her head. ‘You gain nothing.’

‘Except the pleasure of your company for a few hours.’ His eyes danced with a myriad of greys.

Hattie attempted to control the sudden fluttering of her insides. Mrs Reynaud had been completely wrong. Like most men of his ilk, he was probably attracted to sophisticated ladies of the ton or courtesans, rather than twenty-seven-year-old widows who were long on the shelf. ‘I hope the company will suffice, then.’

‘And now you have given me a further purpose. You need to be able to live your life free from your sister’s interference. You should not have to worry about her matchmaking simply because you wish to enjoy the banter and repartee.’

‘I welcome your assistance,’ she whispered and held out her hand.

‘You have it. To confounding the matchmakers, my intelligent friend.’ His fingers curled around hers. Strong and firm. She swayed toward him, lips parting.

Somewhere in the bowels of the house, a clock chimed the quarter-hour. She let go abruptly, aware that she had held his fingers for a breath too long. She forced her mouth to turn up. He thought her intelligent, but unappealing. It reminded her of Charles’s journal. My new wife is a sensible choice, but far too intelligent for my taste. Just once she wanted to be thought of as fascinating. A tiny piece of her had wanted Mrs Reynaud’s scandalous suggestion to be true and that he’d pull her towards him and kiss her thoroughly.

She had entirely misread the situation earlier. A small shudder ran down her spine. She had nearly kissed him under the cedar. And now again here—just after she had proudly proclaimed no interest in marrying again! When had she become forward? And what if he thought she was an advocate for free love?

How embarrassing would that have been! Poor silly deluded Hattie. Always gets it wrong. Another of Charles’s entries in his journal. She knew what she wanted from life and being one out of many women was not for her. ‘I thank you for the compliment.’

‘And you will come on the picnic with me? As a friend?’

He leant close and his breath laced with hers, doing strange things to her insides. He smelt of sandalwood and the faint tang of wood smoke. All she had to do was to lift her mouth a few inches. A slight tilting of her head was all it would take, except he wasn’t interested in her, not in that way. Hattie concentrated on breathing, slowly and steadily, controlling her desire.

‘I’d like that, Sir Christopher. True friendship is beyond price.’

‘Kit. We are friends and intimates, Hattie.’ His voice rolled her name.

‘Very well, Kit.’ Even saying his first name seemed intimate and wicked as if she was slowly but inexorably sliding towards the sort of woman who did indulge in serious flirtations. ‘It took me three months before I dared think of my husband by his first name, let alone call him by it.’

‘Then it is just as well that I’m not your husband.’

‘Until tomorrow.’ Hattie hated the way her blood leapt. She could stop any time she wanted. Going on a picnic did not mean she was going to become his mistress. It took more than a solitary picnic to ruin a reputation.

Kit made certain that he gave the appearance of relaxing back against an oak tree as he finished his share of the picnic, but his entire body was intensely focused on where Hattie Wilkinson sat, blithely eating strawberries. Her hair today was in a loose crown of braids with a few tendrils kissing the back of her neck.

The picnic had been far more pleasant than he’d anticipated. The conversation with Mrs Wilkinson had ranged from a mutual admiration of Handel and loathing of sopranos who added trills to arias to the games of chess and cricket. Mrs Wilkinson, he discovered, was a keen bowler and took pride in her ability to take wickets.

Having concluded the debate about the correct way to bowl off-side, Mrs Wilkinson reached for the few remaining strawberries in the dish.

‘How did you guess I adored strawberries? Normally Livvy or Portia eat their fill before I get a chance to have more than one.’

‘Another reason to be pleased you came without them.’ Kit pushed the dish towards her. He’d nearly accomplished his mission. Mrs Wilkinson had blossomed. Perhaps it was as simple as her needing to understand that life went on without her husband. He hoped the man had deserved her devotion. He wondered how any woman could be so devoted? He doubted if any woman would shed real tears for him. Crocodile tears because he was no longer picking up the bills, but not real ones that came from deep within.

‘One more, then.’

‘You mustn’t be shy. Take as many as you want. They are begging to be eaten.’

‘When you put it that way, how can I refuse?’ She gave a quick laugh and brought a berry to her mouth. Her teeth bit into it and the juice dribbled, turning her lips bright red. Kit silently handed her a handkerchief and indicated towards her chin.

She hastily scrubbed her face. ‘Honestly, you would think after all these years I’d learn. How long has it been that way?’

‘Long enough. You look delightful.’ He leant back against the tree, put his hands behind his head and savoured the moment. ‘This picnic is supposed to be about enjoyment.’

‘And you think eating strawberries in the sunshine is a suitable pastime?’

‘None better.’ He shifted so his legs were stretched and struggled to remember the last time he had felt so content. There again, he found it difficult to remember the last time he had taken a woman on a picnic. The women in his life were far more inclined towards intimate late-night suppers, silken sheets and expensive presents. He had rarely wanted to talk to any of them about matters beyond the bedroom.

With Hattie Wilkinson, he wanted to hear her views. He enjoyed debating with her and disconcerting her in order to win.

A tiny frown appeared between her brows. ‘I would have thought a man with your sort of reputation …’

‘Simple pleasures are the best ones.’ He reached across and popped the last strawberry into her mouth.

She half-closed her eyes and a look of supreme pleasure crossed her face. ‘Those are exceptionally good strawberries. Don’t you agree, Mr Hook?’

Full of more than his fair share of cold game pie, watercress sandwiches, fruit cake and elderflower cordial, Rupert sat with his head in a book about newts, mumbling about amphibians and their feeding habits and ignoring Hattie’s attempts to bring him into the conversation. Mrs Hampstead, Hattie’s housekeeper, likewise ignored the conversation and knitted.

It would be easy to do this every day.

Kit inwardly smiled at the thought—the great bon vivant Sir Christopher Foxton indulging in rustic pleasures. He could imagine the caustic remarks. He should end the flirtation now, before he was tempted to enjoy it or, worse still, repeat it and start to count on it. Counting on women for anything beyond the basics was a bad idea. He’d learnt that bitter lesson long ago. His mother had turned her elegant back on him and never attempted to make contact with him after she left.