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“No.” The word burst from him. After a pause, Wynford spoke again in more measured tones. “I wish to continue our arrangement.”
“I can’t imagine why, your lordship. You appear to share the marchioness’s hearty disdain for governesses. Except for your deplorable taste in waistcoats, perhaps you are the best guardian of your sister in London society.”
“My habit of protecting my sister is of long standing, and old habits are not easily changed. I don’t wish Octavia to be...frightened.”
“Surely,” Harriet said, “your alarm is out of proportion unless you fear some danger other than a broken heart.”
She wondered at Wynford’s fears for his sister. Her own brother had been utterly indifferent to her once she refused to marry the man he had chosen. Something quite different had happened to Wynford, something that made him overcautious in regard to Octavia, who would remain weak and defenseless unless she had the freedom to choose her own path.
He did not answer at once, but Harriet sensed that he had regained his equanimity. “Perhaps only the danger in a brother’s imagination.”
“Then what are we to do? You must realize that Octavia will not sit by the fire sipping cocoa. She is determined to hunt a husband.”
“Do you object to letting me know where you take her and with whom?”
“Are you proposing to spy on your sister?” The word spy caused a curious look to pass in his eyes.
He shook his head. “Only to be near at hand if any danger arises.”
“And you suspect that Octavia may encounter this danger where? I assure you such plans as we have for the next lecture and a trip to the Burlington Arcade hardly seem fraught with peril.”
“You relieve my mind.”
“Do I? You appear to have not one jot of trust in my ability to see to your sister’s well-being.”
He studied her face with a slightly puzzled air. “What is it about you that every time we speak I end up putting a foot wrong? I am generally considered a man of some address.”
“Perhaps you do not often speak with those whose circumstances—”
“Stop.” He put a finger to her lips.
Harriet’s whole body stilled, focused on that touch. Not fair, she wanted to say.
His expression altered. “Whatever misfortune sent you to the Luxboroughs, whatever the world thinks of your position, we are cousins. We are equal in birth, and...more. In spite of my missteps tonight, I do trust you with Octavia.”
He removed his finger. Harriet’s lips tingled. Wynford complained that he felt awkward and unlike himself. What of her feelings? Why should her quiet body shake and pulse with awareness merely because he questioned her judgment as a guide for his sister? Absurd that she should let his words unsettle her. Her life was in order. It was precisely the way she wanted it to be.
“I beg you, Miss Swanley, whatever your opinion of me, do not abandon Octavia.”
“Tomorrow, then,” she said, speaking with all the steadiness she could command. “We go to the Burlington Arcade in the afternoon. I will do my best to see that your sister purchases a new bonnet in safety.”
It is the custom in our island to hunt each bird in its season. In the autumn months and into the early winter, shooters tramp our woodlands and moors in search of grouse, partridge, and pheasant. Naturally, the husband hunter imagines that there is a “Season” for the hunting of husbands. If, however, we consider the parish registry of each church as a sort of game book, we will find writ there in every season the names of husbands bagged by enterprising young ladies. Indeed, it is only in times of mourning or great distress that a single woman chooses not to hunt.
—The Husband Hunter’s Guide to London
Chapter 6
A heavy fog darkened the sky, obscuring the park and the tops of buildings, when the ladies descended from Lady Luxborough’s carriage in Piccadilly to enter the arcade. Shoppers escaping the gloom crowded the long, narrow passage bright with lamps and light cast from shop windows. Camille, Anne, and Octavia linked arms and led the way, stopping at each shop window to exclaim over piles of pale macaroons and displays of delicate ivory fans and gloves of every shade.
Harriet could see no danger in the situation. Though ladies and a few gentlemen crowded the long covered passageway between the shops, the presence of the uniformed beadles in their stately blue frock coats and top hats insured order. No whistling or singing was permitted in the arcade, to discourage pickpockets and prostitutes from signaling to one another when a victim had been spotted.
A lively discussion was in progress about the nature of the hat Octavia meant to buy. Octavia quoted her guidebook about the importance of a young lady’s being noticed and described the ribbons and feathers she had admired on the marchioness’s bronze silk bonnet. Anne and Camille were quick to offer contrary opinions.
“Oh, but you don’t want people to notice your hat. You want them to notice you,” said Anne.
“Besides,” said Camille, “your eyes are your best feature, so you don’t want a hat that distracts from your face.”
Octavia looked doubtful, but she said no more.
