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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 counter 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.’
