Page 4

She opened the door to the yellow room, and a deeper cold hit her. She should not have left her shawl behind.

Viscount Lord Wynford knelt at the hearth, nursing a flame to life in a small pile of coals by the judicious application of a worn bellows as if he’d never depended on a servant in his life.

“I beg your pardon, Lord Wynford. Priscilla did not perfectly understand the protocol of receiving a gentleman of your…”

“…rank?” He rose to his full height, an amused glint in his hazel eyes. “Apparently, she considered your position rather than mine in directing me here.” He left it at that.

Harriet had never supposed him to be dim. A mortifying burn flared in her cheeks. She willed it away. It had been ten years since she’d embarrassed herself in his presence. He would not remember that winter’s day, and at six-and-twenty she would not disgrace herself again.

Those ten years had been kind to him. Manliness, she reflected, sneaking another glance at him as he put aside the bellows, was a hardier bloom than the mere prettiness of girls. At thirty-one, he was every bit as tall and solid and male as she remembered, his looks distilled by time to a lean, confident presence. He filled the small chamber and made its furnishings appear distinctly shabby.

“Would you prefer the morning room?” she asked. There she could put a table between them. “It is unoccupied at present.”

“No, thank you.” He glanced around. “A private room...suits my purpose. You see, I’ve come to ask a favor of you.”

She was aware she was gaping. He could hardly have said anything more surprising. “Of me?”

“We are cousins, are we not?” He moved a plain wooden chair close to the hearth, holding it and looking at her. “Unless you are in training for a polar expedition, I recommend a seat near the fire.”

His unexpected courtesy stirred wings of agitation in the pit of her stomach. They were cousins, she supposed, if one looked up the family tree for some great-great-great-grandfather in a periwig and silver-buckled heels. She gathered her wits and took the offered seat.

“Lady Harriet,” he began. He pulled the other chair close and sat, studying her face briefly, then turned to look at the weak fire. “I will put this plainly. My younger sister Octavia has unexpectedly joined me in London. She wishes...to find a husband, and I have no experience with such an enterprise.”

Harriet lowered her gaze to her lap. If she needed proof that he did not remember her, she had it, like a sharp jab in the ribs that momentarily stole her breath. A man who remembered the awkward, forward girl she’d been at sixteen wouldn’t ask this favor. Men knew nothing of husband hunting. They were the hunted, after all, not the hunters. “What made you think of me?”

“You may not know it, but you have a friend and admirer in Peregrine Pilkington. Perry assures me you are a woman of great steadiness and sense.” He spoke easily now that he had broken that first reserve. “Just the model Octavia needs.”

“She has no governess or companion?”

“A country woman has been her nurse ever since...but Alice knows nothing of London society.”

“Tell me a little more about your sister,” Harriet invited. The girl must be an orphan. The previous viscount had died shortly after Napoleon’s defeat at Waterloo, and his wife, years earlier, but Harriet could not remember what family history said about the late viscountess.

As Wynford spoke, she tried to concentrate on the flaws in his appearance. His face was too long, really. The brows above the deep-set hazel eyes were thick and dark as his hair, which fell from a rakish natural part over his left eye. Flaws and all, he remained handsome enough to flutter hearts more hardened than hers. She was, after all, apparently a woman of steadiness and sense, not one to arouse a handsome gentleman’s admiration or feel unsettled in his presence.

At a pause in his explanation of his sister’s longtime attachment to a neighboring squire’s son, she said, “You do wish her to marry, don’t you? It is expected of women.”

“Not by Christmas, which is what she says she must do.”

“Christmas! Oh my.” Harriet wondered what had changed for the girl. Wynford’s description suggested that Octavia had been living an uneventful country life with the expectation of marrying a near neighbor. It was not the desperate stuff of novels or high drama. “Do you know what precipitated this urgency?”

“She hasn’t confided in me. I have encouraged her to stay in London for a proper Season in the spring.”

“And?” He was holding something back. No doubt the reserve that had kept him from speaking easily at first still made it awkward for him to discuss his sister’s situation with a relative stranger.

“She’s got a book. The Husband Hunter’s Guide to London. Have you read it?”

“I haven’t.” Harriet could not help smiling a little and raising a brow at the title. Poor Emilie du Chatelet had written about the foundations of physics and translated the great Newton into French, when perhaps, if she’d written about finding a husband, she’d have had thousands of readers.

“Octavia claims that, having read the book, she doesn’t need any help to find a husband.”

“What makes you think she’ll accept my guidance then?”

“She’s always been...”

“Biddable?” Harriet could not help the sudden grim set of her mouth.

He cast her a sharp glance. “I’m her brother. I’ve protected her since she was a babe. She’s never...”