“It’s a well-appointed room, I only wondered that your style was so different from Harriet’s. Or perhaps, her taste runs similarly, and I have not given her enough opportunity.”
“Oh no, I can’t imagine Harriet would care to design a room. Even if she did, I don’t think it would resemble this one very much at all.” Philippa rang for tea and sat across from Alexander. She had the kind of natural social grace that made one feel entirely at ease, even when one called on her unexpectedly.
“I do apologize for—” Alexander couldn’t even finish his sentence before she waved him off.
“None of that. We’re family. Tell me why you are here. Is Harriet all right?” Alexander’s brows pinched in concern.
“Why wouldn’t she be?”
“Well, you are here calling on me in the morning. It seemed rather grave.”
“What I came here to tell you doesn’t concern Harriet. It’s you I came for.” Philippa’s gaze narrowed. “Not in that sense. I’m not—I’m sorry—I don’t—” Oh dear, he was bungling this. Philippa let out a sharp crack of laughter, one similar to Harriet’s in her unguarded moments.
“Nothing could have persuaded me further of your feelings for my sister than you stumbling over an apology about not wanting to bed me. How precious.” Philippa’s cheeks were stuck in a smile. “You have feelings for her,” Philippa pronounced. There was no question in her words whatsoever. Alexander didn’t think he needed to agree. Philippa had made up her mind, and he had the sense that when Philippa made up her mind, it was usually the final word on matters.
“I came here because of my father. I received word that my mother has died.” Alexander hurried through the sentence, hoping that would convey his lack of emotion about the matter. “That means that my father is free to remarry, finally. I have no doubt he intends to. And he knows you’re in a precarious position with your late husband’s estate reverting to the crown. A position that he can make even more dire with the sway he has. Your estate, and particularly some of the lands held up north, are valuable. I myself wanted to purchase them before you discovered what they held.”
“What do they hold?” Philippa asked, betraying nothing more than a casual interest in the topic.
“Graphite. You’re sitting on a massive graphite deposit, and with England producing the only pure graphite sticks in the world, you stand to make quite a bit of money. Germany is using graphite powders, but they cannot come close to what we have.” Philippa raised an eyebrow. “That’s unimportant. What is important is that my father will do anything—try anything—to get his hands on your estate. Marrying you is the easiest way in, I believe, and his path is clear now.”
Philippa was quiet for a moment.
“I appreciate your coming here, Lord Stirling. It is a credit to you that you are so concerned about my well-being. I do not want to insult your father …”
“Do not hold your tongue on my account.” Philippa laughed lightly.
“I assure you that nothing on this earth, not gold or diamonds or the promise of eternal life, could induce me to marry him. I would happily become destitute instead.”
“I assure you, I will not allow that to happen. I will speak to my man of business and inform him that he is to help you should you need anything at all. Money or otherwise. I’ll leave his card for you.”
Philippa looked close to tears. “Thank you ever so much. I don’t know what to say.” He should have done this earlier. Had he known she needed it so, he would have. The money meant nothing to him. He took his leave then and bid her farewell. That taken care of, he could return home to Harriet. And if that infernal Mr. Dawkinswasn’t there, perhaps he could persuade her to spend the day in bed with him again.
Harriet steeled herself for her father’s ire the entire carriage ride there. She expected him to be shouting and throwing dishes—a favorite pastime of his, and a rather expensive one. She did not expect him to be unconscious, slumped over his desk, drunk as a wheelbarrow.
Caroline and Frances, used to his ways, seemed relatively unbothered.
“You told us to write you, so I did,” Caroline said apologetically.
“He hasn’t been so bad. He’s spent most of the time in his study drinking,” Frances added, although the bruise forming across her cheek belied her words.
“I’m glad you wrote.”
“What do you intend to do?” Frances asked, blunt as ever. Harriet didn’t know yet, but she had some time to think before he sobered.
“Wait, I suppose.” And she did. Harriet sat at the kitchen table, twirling her wedding ring in nervousness, trying to think of something. She still hadn’t spoken to Mr. Dawkins about when she might receive her portion of the dictionary.Oh blast!Mr. Dawkins was meant to call on her today to work on the dictionary. Oh well, Presley would send him on his way with apologies.
While they waited, Harriet prepared a small meal for them, as respite from Caroline’s horrid cooking.
A few hours later, a loudthumpcame from the study, followed by a few curses. Harriet’s heart raced, but she tried not to betray that to her sisters. It was always easiest to perform bravery in front of younger siblings.
“Go to your room. I’ll speak to him,” Harriet said. Her tone brooked no argument. They scampered upstairs quickly, and Harriet stood, smoothing her skirt. She knocked on the door of his study and swallowed her nerves.
“What the hell could you want?!” her father roared from within. That was close enough to an invitation. She opened the door and entered carefully.
“I’m here to—”
“You’re back,” he spat, not standing from his desk.
