Page 5

“Crossed you or flouted you? She’s always needed you and depended on you?” Harriet’s stomach knotted. She could listen no more. He was a man and an older brother. He believed it was his prerogative to decide how his sister was to be happy. Without knowing his sister’s mind, he expected to be obeyed, as Harriet’s brother Lionel had expected her to obey him and marry the man he chose, even if that man was a monster. She stood and crossed to the door before habits of politeness stopped her. She drew a breath and looked back. He had come to his feet, as trapped in politeness as she. “Forgive me,” she said, turning to face him squarely. “I will be unable to help you.”

A single coal crumbled in the grate.

“I beg your pardon. I’ve distressed or offended you,” he said. His gaze did not waver. “Please tell me how and let me begin again.”

Harriet took a shaky breath. She had only to dismiss him, and the interview would end. A scratching and whimpering at the door interrupted the thought. “Excuse me,” she said. “I must see to the dog.”

Again, Lord Wynford did not move. Harriet could see that he would not be dismissed easily. From the other side of the door the scratching and whimpering turned to a deep howl, a long echoing note followed by three shorter cries.

“I must go,” she told her unmoving guest.

* * * *

The door closed behind her. The howling ceased. Charles heard her speak to the dog in a firm and friendly tone, and then the click of the beast’s nails on the tiles as it followed her off.

He remained standing by the weak fire in the frigid room. Perry’s description of Harriet Swanley as the steady unpaid governess to a large and careless family had misled him into thinking she would be the sort of woman no one noticed. He knew he had been introduced to a governess or two among the families of his acquaintance, and he supposed that he’d met such women with civility, but none had made an impression on him.

Lady Harriet Swanley did not fit the category. Instead of the neat and unassuming figure Perry’s words had conjured, Charles had looked up from the cold hearth in the bare room and seen a softly beautiful countenance enlivened by eyes full of barely contained spirit. If he had been pressed to say what struck him about her, he would have to say it was a sense of controlled passion. The coil of her hair at her nape and the unadorned simplicity of her gown did not wholly conceal the riches of her appearance. Her brow was clear and her cheeks smooth as silk with a curve that invited a man’s thumb to stroke. In her gray eyes he caught a silver glint of wit and a sense of the ridiculous.

He was grateful for the interruption provided by the dog. He could recover his wits and determine how to try again.

The door opened, and she stepped inside, her hand on the knob as if she would leave again. “I beg your pardon for the interruption.”

“You’re the dog-minder, too?” he asked. It spoke volumes about her state of absolute dependence on her relations that such tasks fell to her lot.

She laughed. “I suppose I am until Jasper returns from school. But you must not think the dog an imposition.”

She gathered herself. He anticipated another refusal, but he cut her off. “Don’t let me drive you from the fire, Lady Harriet,” he said, extending a hand. “If you stand by the door, you’ll turn into a block of ice.”

After a brief hesitation, she accepted his hand and let herself be led back to a seat. “You mustn’t judge my circumstances by this room. The Luxboroughs are kind, and...”

“Value you just as they ought?” He knew more about her situation than he would admit after a brief interview with Lady Luxborough, who had given him a rather shrewd look but had raised no objection to his request to enlist her governess’s aid.

“I want for nothing,” she said.

“Except, perhaps, independence? I know I’m speaking frankly, but I do need your help if Octavia is not to have her heart broken, or worse.”

“What do you know of broken hearts, Lord Wynford?” Her eyes flashed.

“Nothing,” he admitted.

Her gaze dropped to his boots, which she regarded with apparent fascination. He suspected she did not often look away. If self-control was the key to survival in London, she would be the very one to help Octavia.

“I will help your sister. Let us say that we are renewing our cousinly ties. But you must call me Miss Swanley, you know,” she said briskly. “I have given up being called Lady Harriet.”

He nodded.

She drew in a breath. “I know just the place where your sister can become accustomed to appearing in London society without feeling herself to be on display. Can you bring her to the Royal Institution on Monday afternoon?”

“The Royal Institution?”

“Yes. It’s where Perry and I have met. The Christmas lectures begin Monday.”

“Thank you,” he said. “Octavia will enjoy that. She has a scientific bent.”

She laughed. “Wait until Christmas to thank me, I think. Let me show you out, Lord Wynford.”

At the door, he turned to the young footman, waiting with his hat, gloves, and coat, but before he could take them, a black-and-tan hound with a lean body and long, floppy ears barreled past them, his paws slipping on the marble. He lowered his hindquarters to the floor, sliding toward the open door. At the threshold he came to his feet again and launched himself through the door and down the steps. Evading a passing carriage, he bounded across the street to nose a pile of leaves and branches against the railings opposite.