“You cannot dance?” The duke was affronted. An ugly daughter-in-law was insult enough, but the inability to dance? It was beyond the pale.
“The instructor had his hands quite full with my sisters; my lack of innate talent was simply too much for him to undertake.” Harriet shored herself with a deep breath and then continued. She wouldn’t let this man cow her, no matter his rank or relation to her. “I couldn’t agree more with your assessment of my unsuitability for your son, Your Grace. I’m a wallflower. I had five unsuccessful seasons. My father is poor, which is about the kindest thing you can say about him.” She said all this in a treacly, biddable voice, the kind one used to present horrible men with the type of information they wanted to agree with. And if some of that information was false? Well. Harriet had learned the usefulness of dishonesty with violent men and felt no compunction about the lie she was about to tell.
“However, I can assure you that my sister, Lady Ellerton, has been very generous. My sisters and I aren’t at all in need, despite my father’s unfortunate situation. I know it’s unbecoming of a lady to speak of money, and I’m reluctant to do so, but I do want to assuage your concerns. The late Baron Ellerton left her quite a lot of land and other holdings. I’ll endeavor to keep out of your son’s coffers as much as possible. Although we might have to dip into them to find a dance instructor with enough patience and expertise.” And then shedidborrow something from Philippa. She winked at him.
Harriet felt quite satisfied with herself. She had hit all the points she needed to for this type of man—self-deprecation, demureness,recognition of etiquette, a general awareness of her own inferiority. The oily smile on the duke’s face suggested she hadn’t made a single misstep. Upon reflection, she might have brought up the bit about not speaking of money a little sooner in the speech. Or maybe even thrown in something flattering about the duke to stroke his ego. Ah, well, next time.
It was just then that Alexander arrived at her side. Had she been focused on anything other than calming her heart rate, she might have noticed how he’d rushed over immediately after his dance with the beautiful woman ended. Or that that exact woman had ended up on his father’s arm. As it was, she noticed neither.
“Congratulations, my son. I think you’ll be able to bring her to heel quite nicely,” the duke said by way of greeting. To Harriet he added, “Please let me know if you need help finding any tutors. We should like to represent the Belhaven line well at all times, no matter the cost. All one has is one’s good name and good breeding.” The dig at Alexander’s birth was rather obvious. “I’m sure you’ll agree.”
“Of course.” Harriet nodded with her widest smile yet, grinding her heel into Alexander’s boot to keep him from adding something that might undo all her simpering. “It was a true honor to make your acquaintance, Your Grace.”
Chapter Twenty
“WHAT THE DEVIL WAS THAT ABOUT?!”ALEXANDER DEMANDED ASsoon as his father sauntered off, pulling his boot out from under her foot. “Good Lord, I thought to spare my toes by not dancing with you, yet you still managed to find a way.”
“I met your father,” Harriet said, as if that weren’t obvious.
“My condolences,” Alexander said, offhandedly. Though his eyes were searching her face forsomething. She felt quite … examined. Harriet turned away, put her back up against the wall, and began watching the dancers again; it felt safer than looking at him. For some reason, she felt like she might cry, although she had no idea why.
“Are you all right?” he said, bending a bit to try to meet her eyes.
Lord, how she wished he’d asked any question but that. It was so much easier to pretend to be all right if no one inquired. She avoided his gaze, focusing instead on the buttons of his waistcoat.
“Was he rude to you? No, never mind, of course he was,” Alexander said, obviously frustrated. He dragged a hand through his hair and sighed, growing silent.
Alexander’s eyes were scanning the ballroom, probably hoping to find the company of anyone else. Harriet couldn’t even blame him,since she was being uncharacteristically irritable. She felt chastised and forgotten and useless. Tired. She felt tired.
He was clearly already bored standing with her. She wished he’d go and find another dance partner. Some small, sick part of her enjoyed how happy he looked while dancing, even if it wasn’t with her.
“Hell and damnation,” Alexander muttered at a sight across the ballroom, seeming for a moment to forget whose company he was in because he then quickly apologized for his language. Harriet followed his line of sight to see what had caused the oath.
Alexander had already taken off, tossing an “If you’ll excuse me” behind him. He was heading right for Philippa, who was, much to Harriet’s dismay, fawning over the Duke of Belhaven. Alexander cut in between his father and Philippa and then leaned low to whisper something in her ear. Philippa leaned back a bit and gazed up at Alexander a moment before answering; the pair seemed to be communicating with their eyes alone. Harriet watched as Alexander bowed to his father, reached for Philippa’s hand, and then steered her sister onto the dance floor. Of course he’d rescue Philippa from his loathsome father. God forbidsheendure a moment’s unpleasantness with the man.
It was one thing to watch a more beautiful woman dance with your husband; it was quite another to watch your more beautiful sister do so. Surely, Philippa meant nothing by it. You couldn’t quite decline a gentleman’s invitation to dance—at least, if you actuallycoulddance.
Harriet couldn’t decide which was more painful: watching or not watching. Not watching did appear to have its advantages, except anactive mind could fill in intimacies where none were. But watching? Watching was surely worse. In the end, Harriet decided that another glass of lemonade and imagined tenderness were preferable to whatever she might actually observe between her sister and Alexander. Plus, it gave her hands something to do. How she wished Caroline were here, or Frances. Or even Mr. Dawkins.
She’d never been so ready for a ball to end, and they had hours to go.
Alexander had never been so glad to leave a ball. He had no desire to watch the sun rise in the Hendersons’ ballroom. He’d been unsurprised by how agreeable Harriet had been about leaving; she hadn’t seemed to be enjoying herself.
For the first time in memory, he hadn’t either.
He’d danced half the evening with some of the most beautiful ladies of theton. The dances had been fine enough. Earlier this month, they would have amounted to a perfect evening. Instead, he couldn’t stop thinking about him and Harriet laughing behind a potted fern. Or, worse, about the look in Harriet’s eyes when he’d returned after dancing with her sister. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d caused her pain somehow. Asking about it seemed out of the question. How did onedothat?“Oh, have I hurt your feelings? Jolly sorry, dear.”He wanted to bang his head against the squab. These very emotions were why he’d so studiously avoided matrimony. That, and his duty to John.
Guilt shot through him. He’d barely thought of his brother in weeks, and he’d written to him even less. He didn’t know what to say. How did you write about your new, beautiful wife, the balls you were going to, life in the city—how did you tell someone that you were living the life they were meant to live? It was as if Alexander were biding the time until John died, just like everyone else in thetonwas. Time should have stopped when John fell ill.
Alexander felt sick to his stomach.
Suddenly, he felt a hand on his. Her touch was temperate and reassuring. It wasn’t erotic or romantic, she had simply reached out to … comfort him. Alexander felt something like shock. He looked down at their hands and then up to her. She shrugged weakly and smiled a small, almost sad smile, as if she’d given in to something.
Harriet leaned across his lap to open the window slightly. “Carriage sickness?” she asked, knowingly. Although, of course, she didnotknow. Sickness had nothing to do with why riding in carriages with her was ordinarily so intolerable. This time, it was his sentimental mood causing the problem. The gesture from her, the care, it only made things worse. She held his hand the entire ride home, which felt so kind it verged on punishment.
Alexander didn’t deserve someone who noticed his discomfort—even if they misattributed it to a swaying carriage—he didn’t deserve someone who held his hand. He didn’t deserveher.
She’d been right to avoid consummating the marriage. It would only make him want more. For the first time in memory, he felt like therewassomething more—some bigger, better, unnamed thing thatwent beyond charm, beyond dance floors, beyond fucking. With that frightening realization came another: Neither of them would ever have it.
