To Wager with Love (Girls Who Dare Book 5) Page 8

  His expression darkened. “You act as though I offer you an insult,” he said, his tone cool. “Yet you’d be one of the most powerful women of the ton. I’ve known women behave very badly indeed for the slightest opportunity to be considered as my mistress.”

  “Then go and bestow your honours on them, my lord,” she said, sneering up at him, thankful for the reminder of exactly who he was and what he wanted from her. For a moment, in the relief of knowing he was alive, she’d forgotten, and that was an unforgivably stupid and dangerous thing to do.

  He stared at her, and she thought he’d speak, but then his jaw tightened and he gave a barely perceptible nod.

  “Good day, Miss Hunt.”

  Matilda watched as he turned his horse and rode away, ensuring he was out of sight before hurrying to the shelter of the house.

  Chapter 7

  Dear Aashini,

  What is it about that dreadful man…

  You never guess who I met today…

  I’m such a fool.

  I’ve been having a splendid time here at Holbrooke House, but I’m afraid poor Harriet is in rather a fix….

  ―Excerpt of a letter from Miss Matilda Hunt to Lady Aashini Cavendish

  31st August 1814. Holbrooke House, Sussex.

  Matilda stared into the flames that crackled merrily in her bedroom hearth. She was dry and warm, with a pot of tea on the table beside her and a plate of crumpets in her lap. The rain had started up again, but the sound of it pattering against the window glass was rather comforting when one was snug indoors. At least the storm had departed with as much speed as it had arrived. With an uncharacteristic surge of vindictiveness, she hoped that Montagu’s ankle was very painful indeed, and then sighed as her eyes settled on the beautiful orchid he’d given her. She knew she didn’t mean it. She ought to. If she had an ounce of sense, she’d wish it with all her might, but she didn’t.

  That she’d brought the blasted orchid with her rather than risk it dying in her absence said rather too much about her state of mind. Trust bloody Montagu to give her something so perfectly beautiful and horrifically expense that she’d feel like a monster if it came to any harm at her hands. She’d spent a fortune on books about its care, and hours reading about how to look after the blasted thing, for heaven’s sake. It was pitiful. Why couldn’t the man just send her roses and have done with it?

  A knock at the door sent her thoughts scattering, and she put the plate of crumpets aside.

  “Come in.”

  Matilda leapt to her feet as Harriet put her head around the door.

  “May I come in?” she asked, her voice not entirely steady.

  “Oh, love, yes. Yes, of course, come and sit down, Oh, Harriet….” she exclaimed as Harriet closed the door and promptly burst into tears.

  Matilda rushed forward, hugging the girl tightly.

  “There, there,” she soothed. “Come and tell me all about it. I promise you’ll feel much better when you’ve got it off your chest. I doubt it’s half as awful as you think it is.”

  She guided a sobbing Harriet to the chair she’d just vacated and bustled about, allowing Harriet a moment to compose herself whilst Matilda stirred the fire and poured out another cup of tea. Once the girl had regained some semblance of control, Matilda shuffled the armchair on the other side of the fireplace closer to her friend and sat down.

  “Now, then, darling. I think perhaps you’d better start at the beginning, don’t you?”

  Harriet looked at her for a long moment, her dark eyes owlish and vulnerable behind the dainty spectacles she wore, and then she nodded.

  ***

  31st August 1814. Tunbridge Wells, Sussex.

  “Heavens, but your aunt is dreadful,” Bonnie said, as the carriage rumbled away from the neat little cottage where Ruth’s aunt lived.

  “Bonnie!” Minerva exclaimed, appalled, but Ruth only laughed at Bonnie’s blunt assessment, a rather deep-throated chuckle that made Minerva smile despite her shock.

  “Well, it’s quite true, I’m afraid,” Ruth replied, her lips still quirking as she turned to Bonnie. “All the Stone women are formidable, to put it mildly, but Aunt Ethel is one of the worst.”

  “I nearly upset my teacup when she asked if you were trying hard enough to catch a husband,” Minerva admitted.

  She’d been rather terrified by the old harridan, truth be told, and had been full of admiration for Ruth’s quiet dignity. The young woman had not lost her temper once, despite some quite stunning provocations as to her lack of beauty and inability to catch a man, despite her outrageous dowry. Though, Ruth had also made it perfectly clear that she’d not be bullied.

  Minerva wished she had that kind of strength of character. She had always feared she was shallow, and rather silly, and had always known that she wasn’t terribly clever, not like her cousin Prue, who was a writer. That had rankled so much that she’d been quite foul to Prue, who’d always made her feel such a ninny, but only because Minerva feared she was right. Happily, they were close now, all such misunderstandings quite forgotten. Prue had even asked her husband, the duke, to give Minerva a handsome dowry and an allowance for both herself and her mother, such generosity that Minerva could never repay.

  Before, she’d only had her looks to rely on, as she’d never been witty or popular, but at least now she had that to help things along. It was actually rather depressing, wondering if some chap would marry her for her money if nothing else, but… oh, well, her looks would fade one day, and she didn’t want to live as her mother had for so long, scrimping and saving and worrying about bills. Her mother appeared blithely unconcerned by bills, but… one could never know if that was the entire truth. Minerva knew how to act, how to smile and laugh, and pretend one was having a jolly time when in truth you were tired, wretched, and wanted to go home.

  She turned her attention back to Ruth and Bonnie and smiled. It was so lovely to have friends. Prue had done her the greatest kindness of all by inviting her to join the Peculiar Ladies, and Minerva felt a little rush of happiness as she watched Ruth and Bonnie laughing over Ruth’s appalling aunt.

  “I think we deserve a treat for withstanding such a dreadful ordeal,” Bonnie said, looking out of the window as they passed through the smart and fashionable town of Tunbridge Wells.

  “What did you have in mind?” Ruth replied, her eyes lighting up.

  “Cream cakes,” Bonnie and Minerva said in unison, Minerva knowing Bonnie well enough by now to know that was her idea of heaven.

  Ruth laughed and gave a decisive nod. “Cream cakes it is, then.”

  ***

  After putting away a delicious and self-indulgent amount of tea and cakes, they pottered about the lovely shops on The Walks. Ruth bought a new bonnet, trimmed with fake cherries, which Minerva had tried tactfully to talk her out of as she thought it rather vulgar. Bonnie had been gazing so longingly at a length of dark blue ribbon that she could not afford but which Minerva, flush with her new allowance, had happily bought for her. There had been nothing that caught Minerva’s eye, which struck her as odd as, previously, when she’d had very little spending money, there were always a dozen things at once that she’d longed for.

  “Oh, a book shop,” she exclaimed, tugging Bonnie by the hand.

  “I never took you for a reader, Minerva,” Bonnie said in surprise, hurrying behind her.

  “Oh, I’m not,” she said cheerfully. “I’m asleep after a couple of pages, but Prue adores books, and I’d like to get her a present.”

  “A lovely idea,” Ruth agreed, as the three of them gathered to look in the shop window.

  “Oh, look at that one. What lovely illustrations,” Minerva said, pointing at a small book in the window, propped open to show the colourful pictures inside.

  “A poetry book, I think,” Ruth said, peering for a closer look. “Oh, drat. Look, that fellow is asking to look at it too. Come along, let’s go in.”

  The three ladies hurried inside, just as the shopkeeper pu
t the book into the fellow’s hand.

  “Oh, well,” Minerva said. “I’m sure there’s something else just as lovely. She turned quickly and walked straight into another customer who was balancing an uneven stack of books in his arms. He was a small, dusty looking man with the appearance of a scholar. Perhaps it was the books.

  “Bloody hell,” the fellow exclaimed, loud and irritated as the books in question tumbled to the floor, a rather large encyclopaedic looking volume hitting him square on the toe. “Damnation. You silly chit, don’t you ever look where you are going?”

  Minerva felt her face flame and gasped in shock, the sound echoed by Ruth and Bonnie behind her, all three of them too stunned to respond for a moment.

  “That’s enough,” came a sharp voice from behind Minerva. “I saw what happened, and it was quite accidental. You’ve no business carrying so many books if you’ve not the wit to balance them properly, and certainly no business abusing this young lady.”

  Minerva turned and looked up… and up, at her defender. Her heart fluttered. Good heavens. She stared, astonished, not so much surprised at the rapid beating of her heart—which had never acted in such a peculiar fashion before—but by the cause of it.

  He was as far from her vision of a romantic hero as she could imagine. Immensely tall and a little too lean with a sharp profile, he was certainly not handsome, until perhaps you got to his eyes. Those eyes were a deep slate grey with odd patches of green and utterly compelling. Minerva thought he was likely in his mid-thirties, an age she had previously considered ancient, but there was such vitality burning from this man that she shelved the notion at once. His coat was a little baggy, making her suspect he’d recently lost weight, and he needed a haircut.

  Her heart did the odd little fluttering thing again.

  How very strange.

  Forcing her eyes away from the stranger lest she be seen to be staring, she turned back to the man who had abused her to discover he had turned a startling shade of white. She supposed she couldn’t blame him. Her saviour had a rather forbidding aspect that would give any man pause.

  “Forgive me, M-Mr de Beauvoir,” the fellow stammered, looking up at the tall man with an almost deifying reverence. “I… I had no idea that… that…. Sir, please may I say how very much I admire and—”

  “No, you may not. Go away.”

  Mr de Beauvoir made an impatient shooing gesture and the fellow flushed, mortified, before gathering up his tumbled books and hurrying away.

  “Sycophantic fool,” de Beauvoir muttered, irritated, before turning back to Minerva. “I’m sorry for any upset he may have caused you, miss.”

  “Oh, Miss Butler,” Minerva said at once, though he’d not actually been soliciting her name. “And there’s not the slightest need for you to apologise. I thought you were rather wonderful.”

  The fellow looked a little surprised, and possibly revolted at her praise. There was a slight sniggering sound from behind her that Minerva recognised as belonging to Bonnie. It was quickly smothered; no doubt Ruth’s doing.

  “It was my pleasure,” he said brusquely, about to turn away until Minerva stalled him by laying her hand on his arm.

  “But still, you didn’t have to come to my rescue and… and I’m terribly grateful.”

  She sent him her most devastating look, perfected from hours before a looking glass, shy yet interested, all blue eyes from under long lashes. It had made many a young man sigh with longing.

  Mr de Beauvoir wrinkled his nose.

  “Good day to you, Miss Butler. Ladies.”

  He gave a rather stiff bow and Minerva watched as he left the shop. She let out a sigh as the door closed behind him.

  “Minerva… oh, Minerva…?” Bonnie whispered, waving a hand in front of Minerva’s eyes as though to bring her round from a trance.

  “Oh, stop it,” Minerva said, blushing a little.

  “Only if you tell me what on earth is happening in that head of yours,” Bonnie demanded, staring at her in wonder. “You looked at him like he was the sun and the moon and the stars all rolled into one, and he’s not even handsome, besides looking poor as a church mouse. Did you see that dreadful coat he was wearing? It was all worn at the elbows.”

  “He needs looking after,” Minerva said, nodding dreamily.

  Bonnie pulled a face. “Blech,” she said, looking at Minerva as if she’d run mad. “Ruth, you talk to her.”

  “What about?” Ruth replied, laughing now. “The fellow was very chivalrous, you have to admit, and there’s no accounting for taste.”

  “Clearly,” Bonnie replied, obviously bewildered.

  “Oh, excuse me.”

  The two women looked around, astonished as Minerva waylaid the fellow who had abused her so rudely. The man started, almost dropping his now neatly packaged books for a second time.

  “Please,” Minerva said. “Could you tell me who that man was? You obviously admire him a great deal.”

  “That was Mr Inigo de Beauvoir,” he said, with the same tone he might have said, that was the Duke of Wellington. There was reverence in his words, along with quite obvious contempt for her ignorance. “He’s one of the brightest minds of our generation, a remarkable scientist. I’ve listened to several of his lectures at The Royal Academy,” the fellow added, as though this was some achievement, which perhaps it was.

  He bustled off, looking as if he was bursting to tell someone exactly who had just torn him off a strip. Minerva wondered if the story would change somewhat in the telling.

  “A scientist,” she said, or rather breathed, feeling thoroughly awed by such intellectual prowess. “How….”

  “Dull,” Bonnie muttered.

  “Interesting,” Ruth said firmly, whilst Minerva stared at the door, pondering why wonderful was the only word she could think of.

  Chapter 8

  Honestly, Kitty, I don’t know what came over Minerva. If I was as beautiful as she is, I wouldn’t waste it all on some fusty intellectual. He didn’t look the least bit interested in her and how is that even possible? She’s gorgeous, and besides that I doubt he’s ever been to a ball in his life.

  ―Excerpt of a letter from Miss Bonnie Campbell to Mrs Kitty Baxter.

  31st August 1814. Holbrooke House, Sussex.

  “You spent a lot of time here as a child.” Matilda guessed, watching as Harriet stared into the fire, the picture of misery.

  Harriet nodded. “We practically lived here. The late earl and my father were very close friends, and my parents were often away with my father’s work, researching some long dead Egyptian king or an illegible papyrus. Father could go away quite happily, knowing Lord and Lady St Clair would look after us.”

  There was a certain amount of bitterness behind the words and Matilda wondered how much Harriet and her brother had seen of their parents.

  “So, you and Jasper were friends?”

  Harriet let out a little breath of laughter and took her spectacles off to wipe her eyes with a handkerchief before looking back at Matilda. “I’ve loved him for as long as I can remember.”

  “Oh, Harriet,” Matilda said, her heart aching.

  Harriet’s lip trembled, but she gave a resolute shake of her head. “No. Don’t be nice to me or I shall start the water works all over again and I refuse to. I’ve spent too many years crying over that man, and I swore I’d never do it again. Not… Not again,” she added, her voice quavering.

  “What happened?”

  It took a while for Harriet to reply and Matilda waited, allowing the girl time to gather her thoughts.

  “He never saw me, not really. All the time we were growing up he’d drag me here and there with Jerome and Henry, but… but I always felt like I was a prop. You know, like a toy gun if they were playing soldiers, or a telescope or treasure chest if it was pirates. I was rescued, fought over, captured, and kidnapped more times than I can count. Always a passive role, naturally,” she said rolling her eyes. “No matter how I protested. Not that it was so
bad; I just took a book with me and learned to ignore all the shouting.”

  Matilda’s mouth quirked with amusement, imagining an indignant little Harriet with pigtails and a boyish Jasper dressed as a pirate. Harriet caught her expression and laughed a little.

  “It was all rather idyllic if I’m honest, though I seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time covered in mud or falling in the lake. At least they fished me out again, I suppose.”

  “And then…?” Matilda prompted.

  “And then….” Harriet repeated, her eyes taking on a misty, far away expression. “I was sixteen, and more hopelessly in love with Jasper than ever before. Oh, Matilda, he was so beautiful, even then. Like some pagan god, all golden perfection. He was almost nineteen, and naturally a devastating hit with every female for miles around. They were all in love with him, from the kitchen maids to all the eligible young ladies. He need only crook his finger and they’d fall at his feet. They still do,” she added with a sigh.

  Matilda nodded, understanding how difficult it must have been for Harriet to watch Jasper grow up and grow away from her as he tumbled from one amorous adventure to the next. His reputation might not be the full truth of who he was, as his mother was adamant to prove, but neither had he gained it for no reason.

  “He’d refused to go to university,” Harriet said with a frown, her voice illustrating her perplexity.

  Matilda could understand that too, though she held her tongue. Harriet would have given her right arm for such a chance, but such things were forbidden for women.

  “His father was at his wits’ end with what to do with him,” she carried on. “He’d gotten into so much trouble during his last term and the earl worried what mischief such a young, handsome, and wealthy man could get himself into, if not given some guidance, something to occupy him. A Grand Tour was out of the question with the war raging, so he decided Jasper should go to Russia, to visit his mother’s family. His grandmother was Russian, you see.”