“Yes.”
“Yes, you mind?” Harriet looked at him rather oddly, which was warranted.
“No. Yes. Never mind. Turn around.” He knew he sounded terse, but he was merely attempting to survive the interaction. Weren’t there maids to do this sort of thing? Why had the blasted girl with the blasted food tray left? The buttons down Harriet’s back tauntedhim, more seeming to appear before his fingers every time he unbuttoned another. “There,” he said, an interminable amount of time later. She could need no more assistance than that. Surely. He hastily retied his cravat and stuffed his arms back into his tailcoat. Someone in the room needed to be dressed.
“Aren’t you hungry?” she inquired over her shoulder, glancing at the meal that had been left for them.
Ravenous.
“No, thank you,” he intoned before quitting the room. He’d find food below. And perhaps a tankard of ale to drown himself in while she soaked in the damned tub.
Harriet wasn’t sure precisely what had transpired that afternoon to make Alexander so taciturn, and she was doubly unsure how much she was meant to worry over it. Ever since the spectacle incident, he’d been quite withdrawn. Perhaps she shouldn’t have laughed at him. Men did seem to have quite fragile egos about such things. Or perhaps the man was predisposed to such fits of reticence.
Maybe it was not a particular event so much as the entire situation. Being forced to marry a plump bluestocking might do this to a celebrated rake, she supposed. The very idea of the two of them together twisted her mouth into a wry smile.
The Thompson boys had an old, fat donkey they called Barrel and the donkey’s dearest friend was their father’s stallion, Claudius.(Privately, Harriet thought it ridiculous to name your prized horse after an emperor who apparently had trouble walking, but Mr. Thompson wasn’t exactly the scholarly type.) Harriet imagined she and Alexander made a similar pair.
She shook her head and continued eating her much-needed but mediocre meat pie as the two maids returned to finish filling the bath. They left and she was, for the first time in days, alone. This was the farthest she’d ever traveled, the longest she’d gone without seeing one of her sisters, and the most danger she’d ever been in.
All to marry a man who didn’t want her.
Despite her best efforts, she wanted him plenty—in ways she didn’t fully understand or have words for. She’d have to ask Philippa when she got home.
The thought of her sister brought an uncomfortable truth to mind: Alexander wanted someone like Philippa. Philippa specifically, in fact.
Alas. There were things one could control and things one could not. Harriet could not become Philippa any more than Barrel the donkey could become Pegasus. Perhaps Alexanderdidwant a woman like Philippa. He could have as many of them as he wished when they returned to London. He could be having one now. Alexander was not hers, nor would he be; he’d made that clear. Their lives were to be separate.
There was nothing to attend, no one to manage—she might as well enjoy herself. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes,sighing at the warmth of the tub. Normally, she’d hurry through a bath so her sisters could get hot water, but Alexander seemed in no rush to return to her company.
Harriet woke with a splash sometime later when the door opened. She startled and covered herself, which was unrequired as the bath was behind a screen.
“Sorry!” she blurted, entirely disoriented. “I mean—I’m not … You didn’t. Oh gosh, sorry …”
He let out a soft, low half laugh from the other side of the screen. Harriet did her best to keep her gaze trained straight ahead of her, not wanting to find out how much might be seen through the flimsy separation. Thank heavens for the wall of the tub.
“I don’t know why I’m apologizing. I just—you startled me. I’m afraid I fell asleep. Probably not very safe. I won’t be long, I promise. I just need to finish … uh, well, washing up,” Harriet called out nervously. She went about the task rather more loudly than was altogether necessary. Somehow making noise helped to cut through the awkwardness of being nude while he was in the room. “Won’t be but a moment. I hope the water isn’t too cold for you. It still feels somewhat warm. I really didn’t mean to take so long! I do apologize for that. Oh dear, I’m nattering on again, aren’t I?”
“You are,” he replied plainly, although not unkindly. Harriet heard a chair scraping across the floor, and the metal clink of utensils, which sounded like him sitting down at the small table to his undoubtedly frigid meat pie. Her face burned from being naked so near to such a man. From what she could hear, he seemed terriblyunaffected by the situation, however. And he was still being frustratingly laconic.
“I am sorry, too, about your dinner. I hope it hasn’t gone too cold; if it’s any comfort, it wasn’t very good warm.” Why was her voice getting more and more high-pitched? “Sorry, too, about the prattling. My sisters are always telling me not to get started. With talking, that is. I just have a hard time stopping. It’s worse when I’m nervous.”
He let out a low chuckle again, which made Harriet’s heart leap a bit for unknown reasons.
“I make you nervous?” he asked after a moment. His speech had slowed, and he seemed plainspoken—artless, even—which was far more seductive than his ordinary attempts to charm.
Conceding this felt like a loss, but still she answered: “When you aren’t making me furious, yes.”
He laughed again, the sound halfway between honey and gravel. Harriet swallowed thickly and rewashed her left leg for perhaps the eleventh time. A towel and a robe sat on a stool a few feet from the bath and Harriet scrunched her nose at the distance. Perhaps after he finished his meal, she could ask him to leave again.
“Either way, Iamsorry for all the nattering; I’m always talking nineteen to the dozen. I’m aware it’s entirely unladylike,” she responded, hoping she sounded prim enough to balance out the rest of their conversation.
“Some of my favorite women haven’t been very ladylike,” Alexander replied. He picked up his drink then and quickly drained it, before settling the mug back down with a heavy thud. WhichHarriet should not have seen as she wasnotlooking through the screen. “Besides, I’ve come to like your prattling.”
“Have you been drinking gin?” Harriet inquired, rather meekly. Alexander didn’t answer for a moment, as if puzzling over a tough question. Harriet’s heart dropped. Her father had taught her well how men lie about drinking; here poor Alexander wasn’t even very good at it.
“Only a bit.”
“I see,” Harriet answered. The bath suddenly seemed colder than ever, and she was eager to escape its frigid waters. “Can you see through the screen, my lord?”
