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‘You want to be kissed again. Immediately and more thoroughly.’

‘The question of whether or not I want to be kissed by you is inappropriate.’ She crossed her arms over her breasts and tried to ignore the way they felt. ‘Completely and utterly inappropriate.’

‘But you do want to be kissed.’ Kit cupped her cheek with firm fingers.

She fought against the impulse to turn her face into his palm.

‘It is in your eyes.’ His thumb traced the outline of her mouth. ‘And your lips.’

He lowered his head. This time his kiss was slow and coaxing.

Hattie brought her hands up and rested them on the solid broad cloth of his coat. His hand moulded her body to his. At the insistent pressure her lips parted slightly and she tasted the cool interior of his mouth. Nothing in her life had prepared her for the sensation rippling through her.

She allowed herself one more heartbeat of pleasure. She felt ridiculously feminine and pretty—someone to be cherished.

AUTHOR NOTE

On a cold and windswept day in March 2011, I travelled to the University of Birmingham with my daughter. We were early for her visitors’ day, so we went to the Barber Institute of Fine Arts. There in the foyer was a portrait of one of its main benefactors, Martha Constance Hattie Barber, with her dogs.

Instantly and most inconveniently—because I was trying to finish another manuscript—the heroine of this novel, Harriet Wilkinson, popped into my brain and refused to leave. Her appearance was swiftly followed by the hero, who took to whispering in my mind that I really needed to write their story rather than writing the other one. Luckily I have dealt with such characters before, and I promised—as long as I finished the other manuscript first.

They agreed, and I kept my promise. However, immediately I started to turn my attention to them they became coy and refused to tell me their story. I saw the days start to tick by towards my deadline. Was I going to have to abandon them?

Luckily the Hexham Courant happened to run a story about a long-ago incident at the Stagshaw Bank Fair, and I was intrigued to learn that the fair was once the largest one-day fair in Britain and took place every year on 4th July. The fair has since been replaced by the Northumberland County Show, and now takes place on the late May Bank Holiday. But once I had read about the fair I knew I had my story, and thankfully my hero and heroine agreed.

I do hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it—once my two stubborn and self-willed characters began speaking to me!

As ever, I love hearing from readers. You can contact me either by post to Harlequin Mills & Boon, via my website, www.michellestyles.co.uk, or my blog: www.michellestyles.blogspot.com. I am also on Twitter @michelleLstyles, and maintain a Facebook page.

About the Author

Born and raised near San Francisco, California, MICHELLE STYLES currently lives a few miles south of Hadrian’s Wall, with her husband, three children, two dogs, cats, assorted ducks, hens and beehives.

An avid reader, she became hooked on historical romance when she discovered Georgette Heyer, Anya Seton and Victoria Holt one rainy lunchtime at school. And, for her, a historical romance still represents the perfect way to escape.

Although Michelle loves reading about history, she also enjoys a more hands-on approach to her research. She has experimented with a variety of old recipes and cookery methods (some more successfully than others), climbed down Roman sewers, and fallen off horses in Iceland—all in the name of discovering more about how people went about their daily lives. When she is not writing, reading or doing research, Michelle tends her rather overgrown garden or does needlework—in particular counted cross-stitch.

Michelle maintains a website, www.michellestyles.co.uk, and a blog: www.michellestyles.blogspot.com. She would be delighted to hear from you.

Previous novels by the same author: THE GLADIATOR’S HONOUR A NOBLE CAPTIVE SOLD AND SEDUCED THE ROMAN’S VIRGIN MISTRESS TAKEN BY THE VIKING A CHRISTMAS WEDDING WAGER (part of Christmas By Candlelight) VIKING WARRIOR, UNWILLING WIFE AN IMPULSIVE DEBUTANTE A QUESTION OF IMPROPRIETY IMPOVERISHED MISS, CONVENIENT WIFE COMPROMISING MISS MILTON* THE VIKING’S CAPTIVE PRINCESS BREAKING THE GOVERNESS’S RULES* TO MARRY A MATCHMAKER HIS UNSUITABLE VISCOUNTESS

*linked by character

And in Mills & Boon® Historical Undone!eBooks:

THE PERFECT CONCUBINE

Did you know that some of the novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

Hattie Wilkinson Meets Her Match

Michelle Styles

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Victoria Parker, whose support and enthusiasm

for this story helped so much.

Chapter One

End of June 1816—the Tyne Valley,

Northumberland

A stifled noise, halfway between a giggle and an excited gasp, caused the Honourable Harriet Wilkinson to halt in her march back to the ballroom. Her entire being tensed. She knew what that sound signalled—in Summerfield’s small card room, someone flirted with ruin.

‘None of your business, Hattie Wilkinson,’ she muttered. When had she become a censorious busybody poking her nose into other people’s lives, rather than someone who understood a ball held the possibility of romance? Today was no time to start, and particularly not at a ball to celebrate the first anniversary of Waterloo.

Another trill of laughter sounded. ‘That is highly amusing. Why should I ever feel in danger with you?’

Hattie sighed. Turning her back on an unknown couple was one thing. Turning her back on her high-spirited niece during her first foray into polite society was quite another. Far too much was at stake. Livvy with her clear blonde looks, graceful manner and more than adequate dowry had the potential to be a huge success in the London marriage market … if she was allowed to make it that far.

Hattie leant forwards and rattled the door handle.

‘I wonder,’ Hattie declared in a voice loud enough to wake the dead, ‘where on earth have my gloves gone? I suspect I left them in the card room earlier. I had better check.’

She placed her lace gloves in her reticule, counted to ten slowly and flung open the door. The snug room with its artfully arranged tables, high-backed sofa and small fire in the marble fireplace was the sort of room that could offer privacy, especially as there was an unseasonable chill in the June air. In the centre of the room, her sixteen-year-old niece stood closer than strictly proper to a gentleman in evening dress.

Hattie pointedly cleared her throat. ‘Excuse me, but I have mislaid my gloves.’

The couple sprang apart. Hattie noted Livvy’s bright pink cheeks and mussed lace. Silently she thanked her guardian angel that it was she who had happened on the couple rather than one of the old cats who prowled the corridors searching for the latest tittle-tattle.

‘This is Mr Hook, Aunt Harriet. He and I …’ Livvy flushed scarlet. ‘That is—he’s a visitor to Northumberland and …’

‘I’m looking for my gloves. Have you seen them, Livvy dear?’ she asked brightly, ignoring the way Livvy quickly attempted to straighten her bodice and how young but dangerous Mr Hook appeared with his London-cut frock-coat and tousled Corinthian-styled hair. The time for a lecture on propriety, the necessity of maintaining one’s spotless reputation and not settling for the first man who pays you a bit of attention was due later after Hattie had extracted Livvy from this tangle.

‘You must know the ones I mean, Olivia,’ she continued. ‘The lace ones which your dear mama gave me for my birthday.’

‘Your gloves, Aunt Harriet?’ Livvy did an impression of a trout, repeatedly opening and closing her mouth.

‘I think they might be in here. I was …’ Hattie paused, trying to think up a reason why she might have been in the card room earlier. Her mind refused to yield the excuse. She opted for a brilliant smile. ‘Olivia dear, would you mind helping me to search?’

Livvy behaved like any sixteen-year-old and rolled her eyes. ‘If I must, Aunt Harriet, but honestly …’

‘I positively insist. I am all sixes and sevens. Balls and me … well, the least said about my nerves the better.’ Hattie waved a vague hand, well aware that Livvy had no idea about her normal behaviour at balls and quite probably considered a twenty-seven-year-old aunt bordered on senility in the general course of events.

A crease formed between Olivia’s brows and Hattie could see the desire to appear older warring with her natural inclination to stay with her new swain. ‘Yes, you are always like this at balls. When did you last have them? Think carefully now.’

Hattie’s shoulders relaxed. Livvy had taken the bait, even down to spouting the exact words she always used with her nieces. The next stage of operation commenced now—gently guiding Livvy back to the ballroom with no moonlit detours.

‘And you will do the usual and help me to look. Your sharp eyes are so much better at finding things than my ageing ones.’

Hattie waited for Livvy’s agreement. Slowly and steadily she would prise Mr Hook from Livvy’s life before he did any lasting damage. Unlike Livvy, she knew precisely the pitfalls of London gentlemen who made extravagant promises. Whilst she had avoided ruin seven years ago, she had been unable to avoid the heartbreak that goes with discovering one’s beloved had, in fact, been another woman’s beloved at the same time. Livvy would not suffer that fate. None of her nieces would. Silently Hattie renewed her determination.

‘Perhaps your aunt left them in the garden,’ Mr Hook said in a falsely concerned voice. ‘We could investigate, Miss Parteger.’

‘What a splendid idea.’ Hattie clapped her hands and fixed Livvy’s would-be seducer with a stern eye. ‘You may search the garden, Mr Hook, while dear Olivia and I search the library, drawing room and the card room. Make sure you leave no stone unturned in your quest to find my gloves.’

Mr Hook gulped twice and scampered out of the card room faster than a fox with the sound of a hunting horn ringing in his ears.

The sound of slow clapping filled the room.

Someone is here! Livvy mouthed, turning redder than a beetroot. A cold shudder snaked down Hattie’s back. She’d once been a carefree girl like Livvy. But after succumbing to the advances of a dashing soldier, she had been hustled into a quick marriage, a marriage she had considered romantic beyond her wildest dreams until she had discovered the sordid truth after his death. Even now the humiliation of her discovery caused the bile to rise in her throat. Livvy deserved better.

‘Bravo! Bravo!’ a rich masculine voice called out. ‘A truly stunning performance.’

‘What are you doing here, sirrah?’ Hattie demanded, brandishing her reticule like a sword towards the sofa. ‘Listening into others’ private conversations? Show yourself.’

The man rose from the sofa with a book in his hand. Hattie swallowed hard. He was the sort of man to make the pulse beat faster—crisp black hair with brooding dark grey eyes combined with broad shoulders and a lean frame. His face was saved from utter perfection by the presence of a nose which had obviously been broken several times in the past. ‘One could hardly help overhearing. You are the one who should be apologising for interrupting my reading and sending my godson on a pointless game of Hunt the Gloves, but I shall forgive you if you beg prettily.’

‘Aunt Hattie?’ Olivia tugged at Hattie’s hand as she started to back out of the room. ‘It’s Sir Christopher Foxton.’

Christopher Foxton. The name thudded through Hattie. The entire village had been gossiping about him for weeks, ever since it became known that he’d finally decided to visit Southview Lodge. About how he’d beat a man near to death over a game of cards and while the man lay recuperating had stolen his mistress and his fortune. How he was unbeaten in the ring, daring to fight bare-knuckled with the best of them. But mostly how because of his breeding, good looks and personal charm, every door in London was open to him and how various mamas predicted that they would capture him for this or that daughter, even though his mistresses were reputed to be some of the most sought-after courtesans in London.

The amount of sighing and speculation over him had reached such epidemic proportions that it seemed all anyone in the village could speak about was Sir Christopher and his exploits.

Hattie raised her chin a notch and met his intense gaze head-on. He had another think coming if he expected her to beg his forgiveness, prettily or not. She was immune from such men and their superficial charm.

‘Where are my gloves, then, if I have sent your godson on a pointless game?’ Hattie cried, exasperated. Confessing her rescue mission was out of the question. She’d rather face a gaggle of gossips dressed only in her chemise and petticoat than reveal her true purpose to this … this rake!

‘Your gloves are in your reticule.’ Sir Christopher held out an uncompromising hand. ‘Allow me to demonstrate, my dear lady.’

‘There is no need. And you will call me Mrs Wilkinson. I am not your dear or anyone else’s dear or any other endearment you care to mention.’ Hattie clutched the reticule to her chest. Panic clawed at her stomach. The gloves! How could he know? How would he twist the discovery?

‘There is every need, Mrs Wilkinson.’ Sir Christopher’s tone hardened to well-tempered steel. ‘Your reticule.’

Silently Hattie passed the beaded reticule over to him. Their fingers brushed and a single tremor of warmth ran up her arm. Ruthlessly, she suppressed it. A delayed reaction to all the gossip about his private life, that was all.

He weighed the reticule in his well-manicured hand as if trying to decide what to do. She prayed for a miracle and that he might suddenly reveal a handkerchief. He opened it and withdrew a pair of lace gloves with mulberry bows tacked to the cuffs.

‘Very pretty they are, too. Or perhaps you have another pair and keep these for emergencies.’

‘They are mine,’ Hattie ground out, silently wishing him, his dark brooding eyes and his infuriatingly superior expression to the devil. ‘I obviously forgot where I had placed them. I thank you for your assistance.’

‘Always happy to oblige a lady.’ He made an ironic bow. ‘But you owe me a forfeit for finding them.’

‘A forfeit?’

‘The next dance.’ Kit Foxton concentrated on Mrs Wilkinson. The woman with her carefully coiffured crown of blonde braids and severe dress needed to learn a light romance at a ball was something to be desired rather than condemned.

‘Olivia, close your mouth,’ the overbearing Mrs Wilkinson declared. Her skirts swirled as she turned, revealing surprisingly shapely ankles. ‘Sir Christopher found my gloves. We shall be returning to the ballroom. Behave as if nothing has happened. Say nothing about this incident. Ever.’

‘Such a simple stratagem, but I found your gloves.’ Kit clenched and unclenched his fists. Mrs Wilkinson appeared to believe that she had the right to pass judgement on others’ behaviour and to fashion the world how she wanted. He looked forward to proving her wrong. ‘You may have them back once the forfeit is properly paid.’

Mrs Wilkinson gave a pointed cough. ‘Olivia, the ballroom! Now!’

‘What are you afraid of, Mrs Wilkinson? Why are you running when it is you who started this game?’ he called out. ‘Your reputation being ruined? It takes more than a few moments of pleasant conversation to sully a reputation as you must know.’

She froze, slipper dangling in mid-air. ‘My reputation has never been in danger. Ever.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it.’

She slowly turned to face him with her hands balled on her hips, blue-green eyes flashing with barely suppressed fury. ‘It never will be. I would thank you to remember that.’

‘You want to dance with my aunt? But she is a widow of seven years!’ Miss Parteger clapped her hands together.

‘Dancing is not forbidden to widows,’ Kit said. A widow. Why did the knowledge not surprise him? The only shock was that she must have once experienced romance.

Kit frowned as Mrs Wilkinson turned her head to glare at her niece and he saw her long swanlike neck. The curious dead part of his soul that had been part of his existence for a year stirred and moved. Mrs Wilkinson had possibilities.

‘We appear to be in a bit of a tangle here,’ Mrs Wilkinson said, putting her hand on her hip. ‘You will cease your funning this instant, Sir Christopher, and return my gloves.’

‘They are safe in my care until the forfeit is paid. To the victor, the spoils.’

‘Just wait until Mama hears about this,’ Miss Parteger said, clapping her hands together. ‘She will be at sixes and sevens with excitement. Aunt Harriet has a beau. Finally.’

‘I would suggest, young lady, that you hold your tongue about this adventure.’ Kit gave a cold nod. Mrs Wilkinson had lost. He knew it and, more importantly, she knew it. She would yield to his suggestion.

Miss Parteger blinked rapidly. ‘Why?’

‘Because if you don’t, it will reveal you were somewhere where you shouldn’t have been and your trip to London might become a distant dream,’ Mrs Wilkinson replied without missing a beat. The colour drained from her niece’s face. ‘And, yes, Sir Christopher, I will dance with you, but it must be the next dance. I want this fanciful forfeit finished and this entire episode an unwelcome memory as soon as possible.’

Kit resisted the temptation to crow. There was no point in grinding one’s opponent into the floor like his father used to. Kit didn’t require abject humiliation, just total surrender.

Kit held out his arm and smiled at the overly confident Mrs Wilkinson. A waltz in this backwater would be too much to hope for. A simple quadrille which would allow him to put his hands on her waist was all he desired. Mrs Wilkinson needed this. She would thank him for it … later. ‘Our dance awaits.’

As Hattie set foot in the ballroom, flanked by Livvy and Sir Christopher, the music ceased and the mass of humanity seethed around the dance floor as people exchanged greetings and partners.

Hattie breathed deeply and released Sir Christopher’s arm. Tonight’s adventure was finished. A solitary quadrille with Sir Christopher to prove her point, and she’d be finished. The dance would prove useful if Livvy was unable to resist confiding her adventure. She would merely claim that Sir Christopher had requested a dance and she’d agreed. No one needed to know the precise circumstances.

‘Shall we?’ She gestured with her fan towards the middle of the dance floor, well away from the chandelier and its dripping wax.

‘This dance? Don’t you want to know which one it is?’

‘Why wait? Or are you a coward?’ she called out. ‘I wish to get this forfeit over.’

She was halfway across the dance floor when the master of ceremonies announced that the next dance would a German waltz. Hattie halted. A waltz? The next dance couldn’t be a waltz. They never waltzed at Summerfield. A waltz would mean being in Sir Christopher’s arms, looking up into his dark grey eyes. Impossible!

‘It would appear I was wrong. It isn’t a quadrille, but a waltz.’ Hattie shrugged a shoulder and attempted to ignore the ice-cold pit opening in her stomach. ‘Fancy that.’

‘Is a waltz problematic?’ he asked, lifting a quizzical brow, but his eyes gleamed with hidden lights.

‘Such a shame. We agreed to a quadrille.’ Hattie gave a falsely contrite smile. Escape. All she needed to do was to escape. He wouldn’t come after her. He wouldn’t create a scene. ‘It has been a pleasure, Sir Christopher.’

She dropped a quick curtsy and prepared to move towards where Stephanie sat, surrounded by the other matrons, surveying the dance floor.

Sir Christopher reached out and grasped her elbow, pulling her close to his hard frame. ‘Not so fast. We have an altogether different agreement.’

She tugged slightly, but he failed to release her.

‘Have you gone mad? What in the name of everything holy are you doing?’ she said in a furious undertone. ‘All I wanted to do was to rescue Livvy from your godson. Nothing more.’

‘You promised me the next dance, Mrs Wilkinson. A German waltz is the next dance.’ He tightened his grip, sliding it down her arm until her hand was captured. He raised it to his lips. ‘I hope you are the sort of woman who keeps her promises.’

Hattie hated the way his velvet voice slid over her skin, tempting her to flirt with him. Her traitorous body wanted to be held in his arms. But that would lead to heartbreak. She’d sworn off such men for ever. She concentrated on all the gossip about him—the women, the duels and the gaming—but her body stubbornly remained aware of him and the way his fingers held her wrist.

‘I implied, rather than specifically promised. There is a difference,’ she said, looking him directly in the eyes. ‘You of all people should know the difference.’

‘An implied promise remains a promise.’ His full lips turned upwards. ‘Consider what might have been, Mrs Wilkinson, before you reject me entirely.’

Hattie studied the wooden floor, scuffed with the marks of a hundred dancing slippers, and concentrated on breathing steadily. Her entire being longed to say yes. Charm, that’s all it was, just as it had been with Charles. Once she allowed herself to be swayed, she’d lose everything.

‘I suspect you say that to everyone.’ She gave a light laugh and her pulse started beating normally again. ‘You’ve never seen me waltz.’

‘Ah, you don’t know how to waltz. You should have said rather than stooping to subterfuge.’

‘Waltzing reached Northumberland several years ago.’ Hattie put her hand on her hip. Talk about assumptions. Did she really look like a frumpy wallflower? When had that happened? ‘I can and do waltz when the occasion demands. I simply prefer not to waltz right now.’

‘Unfortunately, we can’t always get what we want, Mrs Wilkinson. Here all I had intended to do was to dance with you. However, if you insist, we shall have a flirtation in the garden. My late uncle always said that northern women were bold, but until I met you, I had no idea.’

‘Do such remarks cause the ladies in London to swoon at your feet? Up here, you are more likely to get a slapped face.’

‘It is one of my more endearing traits. Impossible, but with a modicum of wit,’ he said, giving her a hooded look. ‘But will the lady waltz? Or is she a coward with two left feet?’

‘I’ll waltz with you, if only to prove you wrong about my dancing ability,’ Hattie ground out.

‘Hand on my shoulder now and we shall begin.’ His tone became rich velvet which slid over her skin. ‘I promise you a dance to remember.’

‘Are you a dancing master now? Is there no end to your many talents?’

‘I endeavour to give satisfaction, particularly to the ladies.’

‘Proprieties will be observed, Sir Christopher.’

‘Did I suggest otherwise?’ Kit stopped. The instant his hand had encountered hers, he’d felt an unexpected and searing tug of attraction. For over a year, he hadn’t felt any attraction and suddenly this. Why her? Why this widow with an over-developed sense of propriety and hideous hairstyle? He had made it a policy not to be attracted to respectable women ever since Brighton.

‘I’m pleased we hold the same view.’

‘What can I ever have done to result in your censure?’ he murmured, slightly adjusting his hand so it fit more snugly on her slender waist. Kit gave an inward smile as they circled the room. Mrs Wilkinson’s lesson was proving more enjoyable than he first considered. He inched his hand lower. She gave him a freezing look and he returned to the proper hold.

‘Your reputation preceded you, Sir Christopher.’

Kit could easily imagine what the village gossips were saying about him and his wicked past. There had been a time when he hadn’t cared or appreciated what life could offer. He had gambled and whored with the best of them. He fought bad men with his bare hands. All that had ended a year ago when his best friend gave up his life for him and he’d become one of the walking dead.

‘You have been listening to common tittle-tattle. That should be beneath you,’ he said.

She tilted her head to one side and gave an unrepentant smile. ‘When someone as notorious as you comes from London, his antecedents are discussed. It is the way of the world. Mr Hook is your protégé. He follows your methods, but fortunately for my niece, I happened along rather than one of the Tyne Valley gossips. Olivia will not suffer the fate of so many of your women.’

A blaze of anger went through Kit. She’d judged not only him, but also Rupert, on the basis of a few pieces of tittle-tattle. He renewed his determination to ensure that a full and complete flirtation happened. ‘I’m no saint, Mrs Wilkinson, but neither am I a black-hearted villain. I have never ruined a débutante or indeed participated in the ruining of a débutante. Neither have I ever seduced a woman from her children or her husband. It is against my creed.’

‘But they said … I’m sure … the stories …’

‘Yes, I know the stories, but more importantly I know the truth. Do you? Have you ever been misjudged?’

She dipped her head, showing her intricately braided hair. Only the smallest curl dared escape. ‘Perhaps I have been over-hasty in my judgement. I will accept your word that you would have said something if I had failed to come into the card room. And I’m wrong to punish you for another’s actions.’

‘Apology accepted. Shall we start again and endeavour to enjoy the dance?’

He pulled her waist closer to his body so that her skirt brushed his legs. Her hand tightened about his. His breath caressed the delicate curve of her shell-like ear. Her shoulder trembled under his fingers. He smiled inwardly. A little romance always brightened everyone’s life. He looked forward to discovering Mrs Wilkinson’s hidden depths.

‘Will you give me a chance to prove the gossips wrong?’ Kit asked quietly. ‘Will you dance with me again or, better still, take a turn about the garden where I can plead my case?’

He waited for her breathless agreement.

‘This is where the dance ends,’ she said in a voice that left no room for dissent. She gave a small curtsy. ‘We would hardly wish to cause a scandal. We are only strangers after all.’

‘I must become a friend and discover what sort of scandal you have in mind,’ Kit murmured. ‘Be reckless. Further our acquaintance. You intrigue me.’

‘One dance will have to satisfy you, Sir Christopher.’ She stepped out of his arms. ‘I bid you goodnight.’

She strode away, her hips agreeably swaying and her back twitching. Kit frowned. He had nearly begged for her favour. He never begged. His skills were rusty.

He patted his pocket where he’d placed the gloves. Their little romance was not over until he decided. Mrs Wilkinson had a lesson to learn and she would learn it … thoroughly. ‘Until the next time, Mrs Wilkinson. Sweet dreams.’

Mrs Wilkinson paused, half-turned, then, appearing to think better of a retort, she resumed her march in double-quick time as if the devil himself was after her.

Chapter Two

‘You left Sir Christopher Foxton standing on the dance floor even though the dance hadn’t finished!’ Mrs Reynaud said with a stifled gasp as Hattie reached the end of her highly edited tale the next morning. The sunlit parlour with its dimity lace curtains and artfully arranged ornaments was a world away from last night’s splendours of the ballroom.

‘It was the right thing to do.’ Hattie reached for her teacup. There was little point in telling Mrs Reynaud about how her legs had trembled and how close she’d been to agreeing to his outlandish suggestion of a turn about the garden. She knew what he was, why she couldn’t take a chance with him and still the temptation to give in to his charm had been there. Even after all she’d been through with Charles and his unreliability, a part of her had wanted to believe in romance and she refused to allow it to happen.

‘Do you know you were the only lady he danced with all night?’

Hattie set the cup down with an unsteady hand. She could hardly confess to have been aware of Sir Christopher in that fashion. ‘How do you know that on dit?’

‘My maid had the news from the butcher’s boy this morning,’ the elderly woman said. ‘Your waltz is the talk of the village. I’ve been in a quiver of anticipation. Thank you for telling me what truly happened, my dear. It makes my mind rest easier.’

Hattie kept her gaze focused on the way her papillon dog, Moth, was delicately finishing her biscuit, rather than meeting Mrs Reynaud’s interested gaze. The whole point of the story was to enlist Mrs Reynaud’s advice about Livvy’s behaviour and how best to approach the talk she knew she’d have to give, rather than discuss her near-flirtation with the village’s current most notorious resident.

Why was it that women lost their minds as soon as Sir Christopher’s name was mentioned? Her sister had gone fluttery when Hattie returned from the dance floor, demanding to know how Hattie was acquainted with Sir Christopher. Hattie glossed over the card-room incident and Stephanie appeared satisfied.

‘It was a waltz, nothing more,’ Hattie said finally, seeking to close the matter. ‘We had a brief verbal-sparring match. He dislikes being bested, but the game has ended. Honours to me.’

‘Do you know how long Sir Christopher will be in the neighbourhood?’ Mrs Reynaud handed Moth another biscuit. The little brown-and-white dog tilted her head to one side, waiting, but after Hattie nodded gobbled the biscuit up.

‘He failed to confide his intentions.’ Hattie stroked Moth’s silky ears. Moth had come into her life just after Charles’s death and for many months was the only bright spot. ‘It has taken him over a year to visit his inheritance. Our paths won’t cross again.’

‘Predicting the future is always fraught with danger, my dear.’ Mrs Reynaud brushed the crumbs into a pile for Moth. ‘It does my heart good to hear news of him after such a long time, even if it’s only for a short while.’

‘Are you acquainted with him, then?’ Hattie stared at the woman.

‘I knew the family years ago. His late uncle arranged for me to have the lease on this house.’

‘Perhaps he will call on you once he realises you are here.’

The colour faded from Mrs Reynaud’s face, making the pockmarks stand out even more. ‘My dear, I … I have changed a great deal since we last encountered each other.’

Instantly Hattie regretted her words. Over the last two years since Mrs Reynaud had taken up residency in the tiny cottage, she’d become accustomed to Mrs Reynaud’s ruined features. ‘An old friend never looks at faces. They are pleased to renew the friendship.’

‘I doubt that he will remember me, whatever the state of his manners,’ Mrs Reynaud said, raising a handkerchief to her face. ‘Pray do not bother him with an old woman’s remembrance of a past acquaintance. I was wrong to mention it. Ever so wrong.’

‘Very well, I won’t insist.’ Hattie buried her face in Moth’s fur. What was she doing, clutching at straws, searching for a way to encounter Sir Christopher again? Had her experience with Charles taught her nothing? A few minutes waltzing with a confirmed rake and she behaved worse than Livvy. ‘It is a moot point as our paths are unlikely to cross.’

‘Are you that ignorant of men? He forced a forfeit and waltzed with you and only you.’

‘He did that for … for his own purposes,’ Hattie explained. ‘They say his mistresses are the most beautiful women London can offer. Why would he be interested in someone like me and my few charms?’

‘You underestimate yourself, my dear, and that borders on foolishness.’ Mrs Reynaud held out her hand. ‘I merely wanted to point out that having done your duty to your fallen hero and mourned him properly, you can start to live again. But if your heart is for ever buried with your husband and you are one of the walking dead, then so be it. A pity with you being so young.’

Hattie swirled the remains of her coffee. Living again. She thanked God that Mrs Reynaud didn’t know what her husband was truly like. The extent of his perfidy and hypocrisy had only emerged after his death.

Before then she had considered that she had a blissful marriage with someone utterly reliable and steadfast. She’d had no idea about his other family or the debts he’d run up. Thankfully, the woman in question had been discreet and she’d managed to scrape together the required amount. But no one else knew. She had her pride.

Sometimes she felt as if she was still living a lie, but she couldn’t confess the full horror. Not now, not ever. It remained her problem and she didn’t want false sympathy.

She opted for a bland, ‘I hardly know what to say.’

‘A light-hearted flirtation never did anyone any harm. Allow a little romance into your life. You’re a handsome woman and should be aware of your power! You should celebrate being alive, rather than running from it.’

Hattie focused on the tips of Moth’s ears as Moth snuffled crumbs. Flirtations could harm people, if they believed in romance. That lesson was etched on her heart. ‘I’ll bear that in mind, should ever the question arise.’

‘Oh dear, I fear I’ve shocked you. It’s what comes from living abroad for such a long period.’ The corners of Mrs Reynaud’s mouth quirked upwards. ‘You’ll get over it in time and forgive me, I hope. I do so look forward to your visits. They are always the highlight of my day.’

‘I should go to Highfield and see how Livvy fares before I go back home,’ Hattie said, plopping Moth into the now-empty basket. Moth gave a sharp bark and placed her paws on the rim.

Although she loved her sister and nieces and nephews, Hattie maintained her own establishment—the Highfield Dower House at the edge of the Highfield estate. Her old nurse Mrs Hampstead served as her housekeeper. Close enough to be on hand if there was a crisis, but far enough to maintain her own life.

She had come to Northumberland shortly after Charles’s death was confirmed. Her mother had died of a fever a few months before and her father of a broken heart, a week before Charles’s things arrived.

She’d always been grateful neither of them knew of Charles’s perfidy. She couldn’t have hidden the truth from her mother.

When Stephanie’s plea for help came, Hattie had considered it better than staying in London with her brother, the new viscount, and his wife. She had discovered a peace in Northumberland that she hadn’t considered possible.

‘You spend far too much time running around after your sister and her brood. She uses you as an unpaid lackey.’

‘There may be flowers or notes,’ Hattie said at Mrs Reynaud’s look. ‘And don’t worry, I will tell you everything about Livvy’s progress when I next visit. I think you are right, a quiet word and then tales about the wonders of a London Season should suffice.’

‘Come tomorrow. I will regale you with tales about how I escaped from the harem. Lots of danger and excitement.’

A great longing to see far-flung places and experience life swamped Hattie. When she was a little girl, she used to watch the ships on the Thames and swear she’d go abroad some day. But the furthest she’d travelled was to Northumberland and now that had become home.

Now that Stephanie’s children were nearly grown, she could start thinking about travelling. Doing things for herself rather than for others, but she still had to be aware of how her actions could affect the family. Outward appearances were everything. ‘Did you really escape?’

‘I feel the sheikh desired me more than I desired him. I was a great beauty once, you know.’

‘You still have a beautiful soul, Mrs Reynaud.’ Hattie covered Mrs Reynaud’s hand and ignored the tear that trickled down Mrs Reynaud’s face.

‘You have no idea the mistakes I have made and how I’ve paid for them.’ Mrs Reynaud’s gnarled hands fumbled for a handkerchief. ‘Sir Christopher… Remember, I specifically want to know when he departs from the neighbourhood.’

Hattie firmed her mouth. She wouldn’t enquire into Mrs Reynaud’s reasons, but she suspected they would both be relieved when he went. ‘If I learn any more news about Sir Christopher, I’ll tell you. I promise.’

The gravel crunched under Hattie’s feet as she marched towards Highfield’s rose garden. Despite the pile of unopened cards and several bouquets littering the drawing room, her sister and nieces were entertaining gentlemen callers in the rose garden.

Hattie knew she should have come earlier, but she had wanted to visit Mrs Reynaud and get her opinion before she acted. Surely Stephanie could cope with Livvy’s high spirits for a few minutes? When the time was right, she intended to have a quiet word with Livvy. Romance at a ball was all well and good, but some day, you had to wake up and face the harsh reality of the morning after when the evening prince turned out to be an unreliable toad.

Moth gave a sharp bark, indicating she wanted out of the basket. Hattie set the basket down. Moth gave Hattie a quizzical look and wandered off to investigate the garden, but came racing back almost instantly and sat at Hattie’s feet. Straight behind her strode Sir Christopher, his black coat and tan breeches gleaming in the sun. A gentleman caller with a difference.

‘Ah, I had wondered if you were going to grace us with your presence, Mrs Wilkinson, before I managed to wear out my welcome.’

‘Sir Christopher.’ Hattie hoped any high colour would be attributed to her walk, rather than his nearness. Mrs Reynaud had put ideas in her head about flirtations. Not precisely true. Her sleep had been filled with dreams of them dancing where Sir Christopher spun her round and round as Charles stood in the shadows.

‘Is the miscreant dog yours?’ he asked. ‘I caught her attempting to dig a hole in the borders. She is hardly bigger than a cat.’

‘Yes, Moth is mine. She is a papillon.’

‘A trained killer, rather than a butterfly.’ Sir Christopher bent down and tickled Moth under the chin. Moth lifted her chin a notch higher before rolling over and exposing her belly. Moth gave a little whimper of pleasure as Sir Christopher obligingly stroked her belly.

Hattie belatedly realised she was staring and turned towards a stand of deep-blue delphiniums. ‘An unexpected pleasure.’

‘My godson was anxious to call on Miss Parteger, but my true purpose involves you.’

‘Me?’

‘The return of your gloves.’

Hattie winced. The gloves. How had she forgotten he had retained them until the blasted forfeit was over? ‘Where are they?’

‘Your sister has taken possession. She expressed surprise that you were so careless with her birthday gift.’

‘It was good of you to return them.’ Hattie kept her gaze carefully on the gravel path, rather than meeting his intense grey eyes. ‘I’m sure my sister will hand them to me. She is very trustworthy in that regard.’

‘I assumed they were precious to you. You were very concerned when you mislaid them earlier in the evening.’

‘That had a different purpose, as you rapidly guessed.’

‘I know, but you neglected to finish your forfeit and collect your gloves. What does this say about you?’

Hattie winced, knowing she’d been the one to make the mistake and leave the dance floor so abruptly. She’d been foolish to give in to her anger and to forget that he held the gloves hostage last evening. It wasn’t his fault that she’d once believed a night’s romance at a ball would last for ever. All Sir Christopher had required was light conversation during the dance and a polite goodbye, something seven years ago she’d have done without considering the consequences. Instead she had behaved like the worst maiden aunt, storming off as if he had attempted to make love to her on the dance floor. ‘The dance was over.’

‘We shall have to examine another forfeit for leaving me bereft on the dance floor.’

‘Have you spoken with your godson about his behaviour?’ she said more tartly than she intended as she tried to banish the sudden image of Sir Christopher kissing her. She would not be agreeing to any sort of renewed forfeit.

‘Rupert now understands the necessity of behaving properly if he desires to further his acquaintance with your niece. Your niece is very adept at the use of her fan. He had considered that she was older.’

A cold shiver went down Hattie’s spine. She could just imagine. She knew all about Livvy’s fascination with fan language for flirtation purposes. She’d warned Stephanie about it weeks ago. Obviously nothing had been done. The problem was how to discuss Livvy’s use of the fan without revealing where she had been. ‘Livvy is impetuous, but innocent. It was a game to her, to see if she could. Nothing more.’

His shadowy grey eyes locked on to hers. ‘And was it a game for you, bursting in on them? Attempting to find evidence of a flirtatious game gone too far? Or is any flirtation too far for you?’

‘My niece’s reputation is paramount.’ Hattie hugged her arms about her waist and tried to control the shiver. ‘And anyway, why are you wandering about the grounds on your own?’

‘Your sister is playing the chaperon while I attempt to find the cedar of Lebanon. As Rupert has decided he wants to do more than play infantile fan games with your niece, he needs to make a favourable impression on your sister.’

‘Have you found the tree?’ she asked brightly.

‘I was on my way when your dog discovered me.’ He checked his fob watch. ‘A quarter of an hour to make a good impression is all Rupert requires.’

‘You need to find the tree before your time is up. Truth in all things.’

‘We reach complete understanding at last, Mrs Wilkinson.’ A smile tugged at his features. ‘It is part of my creed.’

Hattie shook her head. His charm was lethal. She was certain most women discounted his words and only focused on the seductive warmth in his voice. Listening to him, it was easy to understand why he enjoyed such a reputation with ladies. But she knew the trick—the words, not the tone, were important.

‘You’re going in the wrong direction,’ she called as he started going towards the boating lake.

‘Am I? How remiss of me.’ A dimple shone in his cheek. ‘Perhaps you will be kind enough to show me the proper way, Mrs Wilkinson? Getting hopelessly lost could ruin the entire matter. Consider it a fair exchange for leaving me on the dance floor.’

‘When you put it that way, how can I refuse? Find the tree and all obligation will end.’

‘Something like that,’ Sir Christopher murmured.

Hattie placed her gloved hand on his arm. Every inch of her being hummed with awareness of him and the tantalising sandalwood scent he used. A pleasant conversation would not harm anyone, particularly as she remained in control. Mrs Reynaud was right. It was about time she started living, rather than hiding behind her widowhood.

‘We should take the left-hand fork here,’ he said.

She glanced at him under her lashes. His entire being radiated smugness. ‘You engineered this walk! You know precisely where the tree is. Stephanie gave you directions.’

‘Walks are more pleasant if there are two people, even if one of them has tendencies to be sharp-tongued.’

‘I’m not. What is the point of having a mind if I can’t speak it?’

‘Never apologise. Women fall over themselves to falsely compliment me. You make a change.’

‘Why were you in the card room?’ she asked to keep her mind away from the potential rocky subject of comparing her to other women. ‘You hardly seem to be the shy and retiring type. Were you waiting for a lady to appear? One of those who fall over at your compliments? Surely you can confess all to a sharp-tongued widow like me.’

He stopped abruptly in front of a spreading oak. All humour vanished from his countenance. ‘You continue to do me a disservice, Mrs Wilkinson. I only ever pursue one lady at a time.’

The butterflies started beating inside her. One lady at a time. He had sought her out after the dance when he could have sent the gloves.

The news made her blood fizz and tingle.

She removed her hand from his arm and took a gulp of life-giving air. She was not going to start to believe in the illusion of romance again. Charles Wilkinson had for ever cured her of that. Sir Christopher had an ulterior motive, but he would be disappointed. She would show him that at least one woman would not tumble into his bed with the merest crook of his finger or a seductive laugh. Two could play this game. He would learn a lesson.

‘Is that the only explanation I will get?’ She forced her voice to sound playful. You’ll trap more flies with honey than vinegar, she reminded herself.

‘You require more?’

‘The mystery intrigues me. Did you see the fan play between Mr Hook and my niece and know where the proposed liaison would happen?’

‘I was not playing an errant knight. Alas.’ Kit stopped and stared out into the garden with its low hum of bees and faint birdsong rather than at the soberly dressed woman who stood next to him. The scene contrasted so much with the thick mud and scent of gunpowder that had filled his nostrils a year ago. The feeling of being truly alive washed over him again.

The circumstances, rather than the company. Kit forced the brief panic down his throat. After his mother’s departure when he was four and his later experience in Brighton, he’d vowed never to care about a woman. In any case, Mrs Wilkinson was far too severe for his taste. She wanted an explanation, she would get it. That would be an end of the matter.

‘A year ago last Thursday, I attended a ball in Brussels. It was all gaiety, but like many other men I had to leave early. We went from the Duchess of Richmond’s ballroom to the mud and stink of war. I returned, but many of my comrades didn’t.’ He waited for her to take the hint and politely change the subject.

‘You were at Waterloo? As a soldier?’ she asked, her eyes growing wide and luminous under her bonnet.

‘I was at Waterloo,’ he confirmed.

‘No one ever mentioned you being in the Army. Not a single word.’ She turned her head and all he could see was the crown of her impossible bonnet and the back of her shoulder.

‘Does it bother you?’

‘It is unexpected. I have heard stories …’

Kit could well imagine what was said of him. And for the vast majority of his life, he hadn’t cared. It was far better to be thought heartless than to be ridiculed as someone whose mother couldn’t love him, who had left his father because of him.

After Waterloo, it had changed. Brendan Hook had thought him a good enough friend to die for. London and his former pleasures lost their allure.

‘It doesn’t matter what others think. It has never mattered,’ he said. ‘The battle only occupied a few hours of my life. Being in the Army lasted a few short weeks and then I went back to my usual haunts.’

‘You are wrong to minimise it,’ she said, turning back towards him. ‘Very wrong. You played a part in a great victory. People will be celebrating Waterloo for years and you can say that you were there.’

Kit regarded her earnest face with its English-rose complexion, gazing up at him. She possessed a delicate beauty, he realised with a start. He wondered how he’d overlooked it before. But the highly conventional widow was also not his type.

Kit was very strict about the women in his life and his rules surrounding them. They asked for no more than he was prepared to give. They were experienced and knew the rules without them being clearly stated. He always ended it before emotions were involved.

Mrs Wilkinson was trouble, but he was also loath to leave before this lesson in mild flirtation finished.

He turned the conversation to more mundane subjects as they continued towards the tree. To his surprise, the conversation about gardens was far more enjoyable than he had considered possible at the start of the journey.

‘Behold the tree. We can turn back now,’ Mrs Wilkinson said as they rounded a bend.

‘Yes, the tree. It is a magnificent sight.’

A gentle breeze moulded her skirt to her remarkably fine legs. Mrs Wilkinson possessed a far better figure than he’d first imagined. Kit struggled to keep his gaze on her face and not wonder why she had failed to remarry. None of his business.

‘You keep changing the subject.’ She laid a gloved hand on his arm. ‘Why keep your service a secret? Weren’t you supposed to be there?’

‘I rapidly acquired a lieutenant’s commission in the Life Guards once I heard of Boney’s escape and was lucky to get that. Everything was snapped up in days. The whole of London society seemed to be in Brussels last year. A number of friends couldn’t even get a commission, but they came anyway. They got out when the fighting got too hot and left it to the proper soldiers.’

The green in her eyes deepened. ‘But you stayed until the end. You didn’t run, even though you are determined that I should think the worst of you. If you had run, it would have been the first thing you said.’

‘I know how to be a soldier.’ Kit’s shoulders became light. Even without his saying it, she believed he’d done the right thing. He hated to think how few people ever believed that of him. It mattered. ‘Eton prepares one for it.’

The memory of those long-ago days swept over him. Back then, he’d thought himself capable of anything. In his final year, he’d believed himself in love and that Constance Stanley would marry him once he asked her.

His illusions were shattered when he’d arrived at her house unexpectedly with the engagement ring in his pocket. He’d overheard her assessment of him as the son of two wicked people and how her family needed his money and how she’d feared that she would have to marry a devil. He had stepped out of the shadows. Constance’s shocked face had said it all. All of his father’s warnings thudded into him. He bid her and her companion good day and gave the ring to the first beggar woman with a baby at her breast that he saw.

Never again had he allowed himself to contemplate marriage. Never again had he allowed a woman to get close, preferring to end the thing before it happened. Kit had a variety of presents he’d send—a bouquet to end a flirtation, a strand of pearls to end a brief but hugely enjoyable weekend, sapphires to end something longer.

Mrs Wilkinson turned her back on him and walked with quick steps over to the cedar. She stood there, unmoving for a moment, her brows drawn together in a frown. He waited for her to make a remark about the weather or society.

‘Why aren’t you down in London? With Rupert’s father?’ she asked.

He turned from her and stared towards where the great cedar towered over the garden. Everything was so peaceful and still, except for the distant cooing of a dove, calling to its mate. No danger here. This was the England he’d fought for, not the bright lights of London. He wanted that peace that had eluded him. He wanted to show that he had changed and that he did deserve a future, a future that he did not intend to squander. ‘Rupert’s father died.’

‘I didn’t know. I’m sorry for you and for Mr Hook.’

‘False sympathy fails to matter. You never knew him.’

‘You’re wrong. Any man’s death should be remarked on and he was your friend. You must miss him,’ she said with an intense earnestness. ‘When did you decide to come up to Northumberland?’

‘When I was on the battlefield, surrounded by men dying on either side, I swore that next year I would be somewhere which epitomised what I was fighting for.’ The words came from deep within him. He wanted her to understand that on the battlefield he’d decided what was important and how his life needed to change. She, of all the people he’d met recently, might understand and the very thought unnerved him. ‘I thought of the fair, the Stagshaw Bank Fair, and how it is held every year on the fourth of July.’

Her dusky-rose lips turned up into an incredulous smile. ‘You are asking me to believe that you decided to come to Northumberland when you were at Waterloo? I can think of a dozen other more likely places that should have sprung to mind.’

‘It seemed as good a place as any to my fevered mind. When I was a lad, my uncle brought me here. The day has long stood in my memory. He bought me a wooden jumping-jack.’ He shook his head.

There was no need to explain that it had been the first time since his mother’s departure that he’d received a gift or anyone had taken notice of him beyond cuffing him on the ear. He’d kept that jumping-jack for years, hidden in his handkerchiefs so that his father would not stumble across it and destroy it.

‘It seemed like a place worth fighting to see again. I said as much to Brendan, who was on my right—there will be time enough to reminisce as the years go by, but next year I would be up in Northumberland and would go to the fair. He agreed to go with me.’

‘And that is why you and Mr Hook are here,’ she breathed. ‘To honour your vow.’

Kit closed his eyes and said a prayer for Brendan’s soul. He had said enough. She didn’t need to know the rest. He’d asked Brendan to exchange places with him because he thought he’d get a better shot. Brendan had agreed with a laugh and a clap on his back. The next thing he’d heard was the soft thud of a bullet hitting Brendan in the chest. Brendan’s last words were about his son and his hopes for Rupert’s future. Kit had promised and he intended to keep that promise.

‘But he would have been here. We made a vow together.’

‘Is it why Rupert is with you? To fulfil his father’s vow?’ She tilted her head to one side. ‘It would appear that I misjudged Mr Hook. There are not many men who would have done that.’

‘His mother died soon after he was born.’ Kit stared at the grass. There was no need to explain that Rupert’s mother had been a courtesan and they had only married on her deathbed, at Brendan’s insistence. Seventeen and a widower with a baby. Brendan always claimed his heart had died with the woman. Kit tended to counter that at least he had a heart. ‘Rupert’s grandmother took charge of the boy, but she died shortly after hearing of her son’s death. I promised her that I’d make sure her grandson would become the fine man that his father wanted him to be.’

He willed her to understand his reasoning.

‘I hope the fair lives up to your expectations.’

He forced a smile. ‘I’m sure it shall. Anyway, I was invited along with Rupert to the ball, but I found I needed time alone to reflect, particularly as they had played a reel that I remember from the Duchess of Richmond’s ball. I went to the card room for a few moments and found a book. You know what happened next.’

‘I’m sorry for not believing you.’ She took a step closer to him. Her dark-red lips softly parted.

‘It doesn’t matter.’ He knew he lied. It mattered more than he wanted it to. ‘It is in the past. I rarely think about the past.’

‘It was my fault. I rushed away from the dance floor,’ she whispered, putting her hand on his arm. ‘We should have had the second dance. I would have if … if I’d realised about your past.’

‘Never do something because you feel sorry for a person.’ He covered her hand with his. Their breath laced. He knew that all he had to do was to lean forwards a few inches and her mouth would yield. He was surprised that he wanted to. But for the lesson in flirtation to be complete, the movement needed to come from her. He’d be magnanimous in the lecture which he gave her later.

‘Aunt Hattie, Aunt Hattie! I know you are here. Moth found me. We have visitors! You will never guess. Livvy has an admirer!’ a young voice called.

Mrs Wilkinson jumped back and her cheeks flamed bright red. ‘I need to see my niece. You do understand the propriety of the thing.’

Kit forced his hands to his sides. His little lesson in flirtation was proving more enjoyable than he’d considered. He would see where the game led. ‘No one is preventing you.’

Chapter Three

Hattie picked up her skirts and ran to the rose garden, not daring to look behind her and see if Sir Christopher was following. If Portia hadn’t shouted, she would have kissed him. Her lips ached with longing. It went against everything she had promised herself and yet she didn’t feel ashamed, only disappointed. The next time … Hattie stopped and pressed her fingers to her temples. There would be no next time. Sir Christopher had explained why he was in the card room. The matter was finished. She’d survived. Hattie picked up speed as if the devil himself was after her.

As she reached the rose garden, Portia hurtled into her, throwing her arms about her. ‘You will never guess who is here!’

Hattie disentangled herself from the hug and regarded her favourite niece who was four years younger than her sister, Livvy, and still far more interested in four-legged creatures than young men. Her pinafore had a series of smudges and a solitary wisp of hay clinging to the hem. Hattie knew despite her mother’s orders Portia had spent time in the stables, helping out.

She always kept a tit-bit in her pocket when Moth came to call. It was no surprise to Hattie that Moth had gone wandering off to find her treat, but a small part of Hattie wished she hadn’t and that she and Sir Christopher had remained under the cedar tree. Alone.

‘Sir Christopher and Mr Hook,’ Hattie answered, putting away all thoughts of kisses from Sir Christopher. It wasn’t going to start.

If she ever was attracted to any man again, it would be to someone who was steady, sober and scandal free, someone who was completely different from Charles Wilkinson. Not someone who lived and breathed sin. If Charles Wilkinson had a dark wild side which no one knew about until it was too late, then Sir Christopher was midnight-black wild through and through. She forgot that at her peril. Sir Christopher was not a man to be relied on. A man whose wit and conversation were to be enjoyed rather than to be thought of as a life’s partner.

‘Sir Christopher wanted to return my gloves from last night and Mr Hook came along for accompaniment.’

Portia’s plump face fell. ‘You knew? How!’

‘Aunts know these sorts of things. Little birds.’

‘I’ve the honour of being the little bird,’ Sir Christopher said, coming to stand by her, a bit closer than strictly proper. His stock was ever-so-slightly undone and she glimpsed the strong column of his throat. Hattie hurriedly pretended an interest in the roses. ‘Your aunt met me, Miss Portia, and kindly showed me the cedar of Lebanon’s location.’

Portia beamed back at Sir Christopher, her entire countenance lighting up under his voice’s spell.

‘There, you see,’ Hattie said, putting an arm about her niece’s shoulders and turning her away from Sir Christopher. ‘All is explained.’

‘How did you find the cedar tree, Sir Christopher? Does it approach the magnificence of your boyhood home or surpass it?’ her sister, Stephanie, called out from where she sat in the rose garden with a silver teapot by her side. On her other side perched Mr Hook, looking much like an overgrown schoolboy. Livvy appeared all young innocence in her light-blue muslin gown, but the tips of her ears glowed pink. Hattie hated to think how quickly that sort of innocence vanished.

‘I found what I was looking for, yes.’ Sir Christopher gave Hattie a searing look.

Hattie resisted the temptation to explore the renewed aching in her lips. No one could brand with just a look. She clenched her fists. She was not going to behave like a fool again. Heady romance was an illusion that she could ill afford.

‘I discovered Sir Christopher and kept him on the right path.’ Her voice squeaked on the word path. Hattie cleared her throat. ‘It was the charitable thing to do.’

Stephanie, who looked like an older and plumper version of Livvy, held out the gloves with a superior smile. ‘How clever of you to visit this morning, Hattie … particularly as Sir Christopher thought you’d be here. I wonder how that came about?’

A distinct air of accusation rang in Stephanie’s voice. She thought Hattie had arranged all this! Sir Christopher wore a smug expression as if it was precisely the outcome he’d hoped for. Hattie shifted uneasily. Why did he want anyone to think they had a flirtation? She could hardly be the type of woman with whom he generally flirted.

‘I’ll take possession of them. They have caused a great deal of trouble.’ Hattie plucked them from Stephanie. A faint scent of sandalwood caressed her nostrils. She hurriedly stuffed them in her basket. When she arrived back at the Dower House, she would put them in her bottom drawer, never to be worn again.

‘You really are too careless, Hattie. Those gloves were a gift. I spent hours getting those bows correct. First you mislaid them at the ball and then you place them in the basket all higgledy-piggledy.’ Stephanie carefully poured a cup of tea. ‘You were always the careless one of the family. When will you ever grow up and take responsibility for your actions?’

Sir Christopher cleared his throat. ‘I was grateful for the excuse to call.’

‘Will you and your godson be in the Tyne Valley long?’ Stephanie asked in a speculative tone.

‘It depends on a number of things.’

‘It will depend on Aunt Harriet, that is what Sir Christopher means,’ Portia said, bristling with self-importance.

‘What on earth are you talking about, Portia?’ Stephanie asked with an arched brow.

‘Aunt Harriet is in the midst of a flirtation with Sir Christopher,’ Portia burst out, her entire being quivering with excitement. ‘Last night in the card room at Summerfield as well as today beside the cedar. Livvy told me. She swore me to secrecy, but that’s why Sir Christopher kept the gloves. Why will no one tell the truth?’

‘Out of the mouths of babes,’ Sir Christopher said in a low tone.

‘Next time I want to go, Mama. Things happen at balls. Please, Mama. Pretty please.’

‘You are twelve, Portia,’ Livvy replied with crushing firmness. ‘You have years to wait.’

Portia stuck out her tongue.

‘Portia, you know it is wrong to repeat tales, particularly highly embroidered ones,’ Hattie said before either of her nieces uttered another damning phrase or their squabbling descended into all-out war. ‘Sir Christopher has returned the gloves and seen the famous tree. His time will be required elsewhere. Do not seek romance where there is none, young Portia.’

Sir Christopher showed no inclination to take her hint and to depart. If anything, he seemed to be amused at her discomfort. He sat down and accepted the cup of tea that Stephanie held out. ‘Fascinating place. Northumberland. My godson and I look forward to attending the Stagshaw Bank Fair.’

‘Oh, the fair. Of course, I should have guessed the reason for you being here.’ Her sister leant forwards. ‘Mrs Wrigglesworth said it true when we first heard of your arrival—Stagshaw Fair attracts all sorts of people. Everyone had wondered. But hopefully having seen the delightful entertainment Northumberland has to offer, you can be persuaded to stay longer.’

Hattie bit her lip. Stephanie was up to something. She could feel the sense of impending doom creeping up her spine. She dismissed it. Stephanie knew of Sir Christopher’s reputation. She’d never dare.

‘I’m sure Sir Christopher is fully capable of finding entertainment to occupy his time,’ Hattie said, seeking to end the discussion. ‘We mustn’t presume, Sister.’

‘My godson and I would be delighted to take a full part in the village life while we are here. The estate I inherited has been neglected for far too long. And the company is utterly charming.’ He inclined his head. The twinkle in his eyes deepened. ‘We should go for a picnic out to Stagshaw to see what it is like before the fair. A local guide would prove of great assistance.’ His voice became silken smooth. ‘Would tomorrow suit, Mrs Wilkinson?’

Hattie’s mouth went dry. There should be a thousand different reasons why she should refuse, but she heard herself say, ‘Tomorrow would be wonderful.’

‘Then it is all settled. Tomorrow at noon.’

‘We will all go.’ Hattie looked at Livvy, who suddenly straightened her back and blushed a violent pink at the hopeful glance Mr Hook gave her. Now that she knew Mr Hook was properly interested in making an honourable offer she was prepared to help. They did deserve a chance to get to know each other better, properly supervised. A picnic was hardly a debauched party. ‘Livvy and Portia love picnics. It will make for a splendid expedition. You were saying just the other day, Stephanie, how we ought to picnic more often now that the fine weather had arrived.’

‘Then it is settled. The day will be much brighter for the presence of all the ladies here.’

‘Oh dear!’ Stephanie banged her cup down. ‘Tomorrow is no good at all. Far too much is on. Livvy and Portia have their dancing class. And I will be required at the Corbridge Reading Rooms. Colonel Cunningham will be thrilled to learn that we now have the world expert on newts in our midst. An illustrated lecture must be organised before Mr Hook departs.’

‘Please, there is no need,’ Mr Hook said, turning a violent red. ‘It is nothing. My research is at an early stage.’

‘I disagree, Mr Hook.’ Stephanie raised an imperious hand. ‘You mustn’t be allowed to hide your light under a cloak of false modesty. You’ve informed me about your prowess and this must be shared with the neighbourhood. Immediately, before the schedule is cast into iron. There is a committee meeting tomorrow which I must attend.’

‘Stephanie!’ Hattie glared at her sister. Stephanie enjoyed the kudos of being on the village hall committee, but hated actually doing any work. She always produced the flimsy excuses to avoid the meetings where events like lectures were decided. ‘We’re talking about an invitation to a picnic, rather than this summer’s lecture series schedule, which was decided weeks ago.’

‘You must go of course, Hattie. You gave your word.’ Stephanie waved a vague hand in the air. ‘I feel certain that Sir Christopher and his godson understand why I must decline. Mr Parteger told the Colonel the other day that the lecture series was looking a bit thin. And the Colonel had the temerity to blame me. Schedules are made to be altered.’

Mr Hook turned a sickly greenish-yellow. ‘I’ve not lectured before. I’ve no plans.’

‘Then you must start. How else will you get on in this world? Mr Parteger has always said that we must have educated men as Livvy’s suitors.’

‘In that case, I … I would be honoured.’ Mr Hook mirrored a tomato for colour.

Hattie curled her fists and attempted to ignore Stephanie’s triumphant look.

‘Of course, I will go on the picnic.’ Hattie turned towards Sir Christopher. ‘I would be delighted to accompany you and Mr Hook. Mr Hook can plan his lecture there.’

The flecks in Sir Christopher’s eyes deepened. ‘The picnic will be all the more memorable for it.’

Kit relaxed against the carriage seat, going over the morning events. It had unfolded differently than he’d planned, but not disastrously. After the picnic, he decided, he would send the flowers. He wanted to see Mrs Wilkinson fully blossom and realise the error of her censorious ways.

If he stopped prematurely, she would revert and cause her nieces problems. The lesson needed to be learnt thoroughly. Kit enjoyed the sense of goodness which radiated from his decision to take Mrs Wilkinson on the picnic.

‘Do you care to explain precisely what happened while I was exploring the garden, Rupert?’ Kit asked to keep from thinking about the precise shape of Mrs Wilkinson’s mouth. ‘How did you end up with a possible lecture engagement for a subject that you have never professed an interest in? Do you even know what a newt looks like?’

Rupert tugged at his neckcloth. ‘Of course I know what a newt looks like. They are a type of amphibian, have four legs and a tail.’

‘Is there some reason for Mrs Parteger to suspect that you are a world expert on newts?’

‘I needed to say something to mark me out from the crush.’ Rupert’s ears turned pink. ‘Miss Parteger is an angel. Two more bouquets arrived when you were touring the garden. I was desperate. Then I remembered how Miss James’s father dismissed me as a know-nothing. It was not going to happen again. My tongue rather ran away with me. Newts were the first thing to pop in my brain.’

‘You are now committed to giving a lecture about a subject you know nothing about. How is that going to impress anyone?’

‘But I love her! I want to be with her. I know you will think me mad, but it is how I feel about her.’ He thumped his chest. ‘Sometimes, you know in here. The instant you see her. It was as if I had been waiting all my life and she walked into the room.’

Something inside Kit twisted. Rupert had no idea about love. It was calf-love like he’d experienced with Constance, something that burned bright and fierce and vanished. And when it went, it hurt like the very devil. Every boy goes through it in order to become a man. And now he was a man, he protected that vulnerable bit of him so he would not get hurt again.

‘You don’t know what you are saying, Rupert. You hardly know her. How long will it last? Do you remember what you said about Miss James?’

‘That was different.’ Rupert flicked his fingers. ‘I was merely a boy of nineteen.’

‘You are only twenty!’

‘What were you like when you were my age?’

‘Young and foolish. Luckily your father stopped me before the folly went too far.’ Kit shook his head. Never again would he allow a woman to share his secrets. All Constance had done was to mock him about his parents’ scandalous past. ‘I thanked him for it later.’

‘Do you ever see her?’

‘Who?’

‘The woman who broke your heart? The one my father used to mention in his cups.’

‘Your father was right. My broken heart lasted until the next dance when I found another lady who welcomed my attention.’ Kit forced a laugh. His heart had been broken long before when his mother refused to look at him, despite his pleading, as she went out the door and his life. He’d settled for something less and kept his patched-up heart protected.

‘Surely your heart was truer than that!’

‘What heart? Didn’t you know I’m heartless? How many women have despaired of taming me and thrown the accusation at me when I ended the affair?’

‘My father didn’t think that. He used to say—’

Kit held up his hand, stopping Rupert’s words. ‘Whatever he said, he said in confidence. Your father had a unique way of looking at life.’

‘I wish he was here,’ Rupert whispered.

‘Your father asked me to look after you.’ Kit glanced up at the carriage’s ceiling, regaining control. ‘I’m offering my advice. You keep your word. If you are determined to give this lecture, you study. My uncle did have an interest in amphibians and his papers and books are in the library. They should be enough to enable you to give an account of yourself. And you never make a false claim again. Lying never makes for a happy relationship.’

Rupert hung his head. ‘Now you are committed to going on a picnic with The Widow.’

‘Which I plan to enjoy.’ Kit frowned. The lesson in flirtation was going better than he’d hoped. It would be one that Mrs Wilkinson would not soon forget. She might not thank him for it, but her two charming nieces might benefit. ‘I could not have arranged matters better.’

‘You and Mrs Wilkinson … but she is so old.’

‘She is younger than I am.’

Rupert screwed up his face and stared out the window. ‘I had always thought … they tell stories about you and the beauties. Mrs Wilkinson will never be a toast of London.’

Kit tapped his fingers together. He refused to indulge in speculation about Hattie Wilkinson’s beauty. Rupert would not understand that it was precisely the point. Hattie Wilkinson possessed a refreshing charm that hadn’t been powdered and primped to an inch of its life.

‘One final lesson for today, Rupert. Never discuss a lady. Ever.’

‘What precisely is going on, Stephanie?’ Hattie asked once her nieces had been otherwise occupied with refurbishing their bonnets. For the first time in a long while, Livvy had expressed an interest in improving her mind, but the suggestion had been firmly quashed by her mother.

‘Whatever can you mean, dear?’ Stephanie looked up from where she was sorting out a variety of ribbons. ‘I do hope you are not going to be tiresome, Hattie, and ruin your chances again. Simply because you had a wonderful marriage that was cut cruelly short does not mean you will not find happiness again.’

Hattie sighed. Her decision not to tell anyone about the full extent of Charles’s betrayal did make for awkward moments. Stephanie refused to believe that her marriage was anything other than breathtakingly romantic. And this was the second lecture she had received today about making more of her life. Why didn’t anyone understand that she was content as she was?

‘This is Sir Christopher Foxton! Are you aware of his reputation? Marriage won’t be on offer, if he has anything beyond mere politeness in mind.’ Hattie clasped a hand to her chest and tried to regain control of her emotions. ‘There, are you satisfied? I’ve said it. He is notorious in the extreme. He will be after more than an innocent conversation.’

‘Why did he visit me and take pains to be correct?’ Stephanie rolled her eyes. ‘He brought the flirtation out in the open rather than hiding it behind closed doors. No man wants to remain a bachelor for ever.’

‘You are mistaken, Sister. Some men are determined to remain bachelors. They are far from safe in carriages or conveyances of any kind. And Sir Christopher is first amongst them.’

‘Sir Christopher seems very pleasant, rather sweet.’ Stephanie crossed her hands in her lap and gave one of her Madonna-like smiles, which always grated on Hattie’s nerves. ‘On the other hand Mr Hook was painfully ill at ease. He droned on about his blessed newts. I doubt he even knows what women are.’

‘You dislike Mr Hook’s shyness?’ Hattie stared at her sister in astonishment. She had anticipated Stephanie’s objecting to Rupert Hook on the grounds of his association with Sir Christopher, but not because of his timidity. ‘I believe you’re wrong about the man. He has an abundance of confidence.’

‘I dare say he will do for a chaperon for this picnic of yours or you can take Mrs Hampstead if you wish to have conversation on subjects other than amphibians. The man will not be moved. I did try.’

‘Surely it is better for Livvy to realise what a bore Mr Hook is rather than to sigh for the love of his fine eyes. You can allow Livvy to accompany me,’ Hattie said firmly, giving her final argument.

‘Hattie, I do despair. Livvy is too young for such things.’ Stephanie made a superior clucking noise. ‘Sir Christopher Foxton pursues you. You should allow yourself to be caught and then force the marriage. It is how it is done.’

‘You’ve muddled everything, Stephanie. The visit was about Mr Hook properly courting Livvy, rather than Livvy arranging clandestine meetings with her fan.’

‘Pshaw!’ Stephanie slammed her hand down on the table. ‘My little Livvy would never do such a thing. Besides, Mr Hook was not acquainted with Livvy until today. Sir Christopher formally introduced him.’

With a heavy heart, Hattie rapidly explained the events of last evening, emphasising that Sir Christopher had only danced with her to prove a point about making assumptions. A forfeit, nothing more and then she’d left him standing on the dance floor.

‘According to your tale, Sir Christopher was already chaperoning. Why was he there if not to ensure that nothing untoward happened to my dear girl? I do declare that people have done him a grave disservice in the past. He is the most perfect of gentlemen. I refuse to hear another disparaging word said against him.’ Stephanie leant forwards and gestured with her fan. ‘That is the end of the matter. Sometimes I worry that you became a walking ghost after your husband died. Why not enjoy the fun of a mild flirtation? After all, it is not as if you don’t know where the boundaries lie.’

Hattie pinched the bridge of her nose. The conversation was starting to spin out of control. She refused to confess after all these years. At first it had been far too hard and Stephanie had never enquired. Her throat had swelled every time she thought about Charles and how he’d used her, how she’d stood mourning at his grave, bereft, and then had discovered about his other family, the woman he’d loved. And she had felt so stupid.

Her whole idyllic life had been a lie. Never again would she make the mistake of loving someone who could not love her back. Her blood ran cold every time she considered it.

‘You would have to ask him why he was in that card room.’

‘And you should ask yourself why he chose to dance with you and then to invite you specifically on a picnic. Now shall we speak about the colour of ribbon you will wear on your bonnet to this picnic?’

Hattie ignored Stephanie’s peace offering. ‘Why do you want me to go on this picnic alone? Do you truly want me to ruin my reputation?’

‘You are a sensible widow of twenty-seven who learnt your lesson years ago. If it had been anyone but Charles in that summer house, I shudder to think what would have happened. He worshipped the ground you walked on back then … It was utterly romantic. Your wedding when you fainted at the altar was so … so special. Then he had to leave to go to the front and wrote you such beautiful letters. They made me weep when you showed them to me.’

‘Yes, I was lucky there.’ Hattie fought to keep the irony out of her voice.

Stephanie smiled. ‘I want you to have your last chance at a second marriage. Go on the picnic with Sir Christopher without distractions.’

‘Livvy and Portia are not distractions.’

‘I, too, remember last year when Portia put the lizard in Dr Hornby’s tea. He had planned to propose to you that day. Portia and Livvy never gave you that chance.’

Hattie hid a smile. It had taken her the better part of three hours to capture that lizard. ‘It happened for the best, Sister.’

‘Hmmph.’

Stephanie in these moods was insensible to reason and ever likely to come up with more transparent schemes for entrapping Sir Christopher into marriage. Hattie gave an involuntary shudder.

There was no hope for it. She refused to sit here and allow herself to become embroiled in one of Stephanie’s projects.

She would have to go and explain to Sir Christopher the dangers. He had to understand why the picnic and any hint of intimacy was an impossibility. And she had to do it before she lost her nerve.

Hattie clicked her fingers. ‘Moth, we are going.’

Her sister’s face creased. ‘Hattie, I am only doing this because I love you and want you to be happy. You need someone in your life. You looked happy when you arrived in the rose garden. Your cheeks were bright pink.’

‘I like my life with Moth, with Mrs Hampstead and with you and your children.’ She raised her chin. She refused to go back to that needy deluded girl who believed romance happened when two people’s glances met across a crowded room. Going on a picnic with Sir Christopher was not going to happen.

‘Hattie …’

‘It satisfies me. Do not tell me otherwise.’ Hattie hoped Stephanie believed her words because she was less than sure.

Hattie stood in the gloomy panelled hall of Southview Lodge. A variety of stuffed birds peered down at her. All the way here, she had planned her speech. Somehow it seemed right to explain the situation in person rather than writing a letter. Sir Christopher had to know what Stephanie was trying to do and why it would never work. The solution had come to her as she tramped home over the fields. Sir Christopher needed to know about her sister’s machinations.

She had deposited Moth with Mrs Hampstead before driving the governess cart to Southview. She intended on handling this problem on her own without interference from Moth and her penchant for investigating.

‘Mrs Wilkinson, what a pleasant surprise.’ Sir Christopher came out of his study. His stock was undone and he was in his shirtsleeves. His black hair swooped down over one eye. Despite her intentions of being aloof, a curl of warmth twined its way around her insides.

Hattie inclined her head and was pleased her straw poke bonnet shadowed her face. ‘Sir Christopher, I do hope you will forgive the intrusion.’

‘I wasn’t expecting any visitors. My uncle’s affairs are in a bigger tangle than I had anticipated. He appears to have used a code …’ He ran a hand through his hair, making it stand on end. ‘But as you are here, you must stay and have a cup of tea. Come into the drawing room.’

‘My sister was rude in proposing that Mr Hook lecture,’ Hattie began before she lost her nerve. ‘Take no notice of her. She became dreadfully confused and believes Mr Hook is a shy newt-fancier who needs bringing out.’

‘Is this a problem?’

‘Is he … a newt-fancier? A world authority? He appears awfully young for such a thing.’

The corners of his mouth twitched. Hattie risked a breath. She might not have to confess about Stephanie’s other machinations after all.

‘Rupert confessed. He misjudged the moment. Rupert shall be spending all his time studying the habits of newts until the lecture. He should know better than to lay false claim.’

‘He doesn’t know.’ Hattie clapped her hand over her mouth. ‘Oh dear. Just before I left the Dower House, Livvy arrived, looking for books on amphibians.’

Their shared laughter rang out.

His eyes turned sober. ‘You didn’t come all the way here simply to tell me about Rupert’s folly. Out with it, Mrs Wilkinson. What else was your sister attempting to do? Why must I be wary?’

Chapter Four

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.

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