Chapter Six
There was still over an hour of minor details to attend to before Harriet could seek sanctuary upstairs in the room she was now to share with her “husband”.
By the time she’d checked the kitchen, had a last minute conversation with Cook—who beamed at the compliments—and made sure the stove was well banked down but still glowing, at least a half hour had gone. That was followed by a cursory check of the other rooms on the ground floor, retrieving mislaid or forgotten items to put out for the maids in the morning.
She discovered two fans, a pair of lace gloves and a pretty pink shoe.
The latter had her frowning, but given that it had to be a Tisdale shoe, Harriet knew she shouldn’t have been surprised. She could hear loud and raucous laughter from the parlor, and spared a moment of sympathy for Paul.
He must have attended such affairs in the past; he’d travelled widely, and did not seem to be a man to stay in his room reading a book if there was adventure and excitement to be had.
But the excessively loud noise, and the edge of unpleasantness she could almost detect…well, it was discomforting, and she doubted that Paul was enjoying himself. Not that he was supposed to, because butlers were above that sort of thing, but he had to be as invisible as possible.
“Noisy lot, aren’t they, Ma’am?” One of the young footmen came up beside her. “Not what you’d expect to hear in a gennelman’s residence, I’d say…”
She glanced at him, a clean faced lad of perhaps seventeen or eighteen years. “You might be right, but status has its privileges. They may do as they please.”
“Aye. True, that.” He nodded. “Anythin’ I can do for you, Mrs. Harry? I’m on me way up but if there’s aught you need…”
She smiled. “Thank you, but no. Run along to bed. We’re all going to need as much rest as we can get, I believe.”
“Yes’m.” He touched his forelock respectfully. “G’night.”
With a last look around the hall, Harriet sighed and started for the back stairs. She needed to take her own advice, she realized, because weariness was beginning to creep over her bones and make her muscles strain to lift her from step to step.
Finally reaching the door, she pushed it open. And it dawned on her for the first time, the magnitude of the masquerade in which both she and Paul were fully engaged.
There was one large bed.
One.
No couch or upholstered chair in which she could have curled up with a blanket. There was a small desk with a mirror over it on one side of the bed, and a screen on the other, with hooks on the walls either side for clothing. A bowl and ewer topped a low cupboard which stood near the tiny fireplace. And that was it. The one chair was wooden and looked fine for writing, but impractical for sleeping.
She closed the door and went to her bag, opening it and removing her nightgown. It was crumpled from the haste with which she’d repacked it, but it was warm flannel and covered her fully from head to toe. Scurrying behind the screen, she quickly undressed, her haste necessitated by the thought that Paul might enter at any moment, and also the fact that the room was far from warm.
She was more than aware that this night would ruin her completely if word ever got out. Pretending to be married was shocking enough, but actually spending the night in the same room, let alone the samebed…well, it would be disastrous and something from which she would never recover.
Fastening the last button, she stepped out from behind the screen and hung her dress and apron over her undergarments on a hook, making sure that everything was discreetly covered. It would not do to place one’s chemise on full display.
She sat on the side of the bed and pulled the pins out of her hair, sighing with relief as she started to brush away the dust and tangles of the day. Her mother had done this task for her when she was a little girl, and even now, Harriet could recall the affection they shared during those times; a mother and daughter, laughing sometimes, silent at others, but always enjoying the closeness.
What would her mother say now? Would she understand the circumstances that had driven Harriet to this room, this moment? How would she have felt if she’d known her only child had become nothing more than a bargaining chip in a greedy quest for money?
Harriet stretched her shoulders. Her mother would have been utterly horrified, of course.
However, she’d escaped, and that was the most important thing.
And she’d met Paul.
They’d kissed…it had been the first time Harriet hadwantedto be kissed. Oh my goodness, she’d enjoyed it, too. Even now a little shiver of delight curled through her innards at the remembered sensation of his lips on hers, his arms around her and his tongue gently teasing its way inward to taste her.
No, no and no. Rebuking herself, she reached for a small ribbon and began to braid her now-tangle free locks. She must not think about that enchanted stroll in the snow. They had enjoyed a wonderful evening with Letitia and James, and certainly imbibed freely and well of wine and brandy. She knew the liquors had little to do with her desires, though, if she were truly honest with herself, so that argument held no water whatsoever.
The truth had become impossible to ignore, and yet ignore it she must.
Paul DeVoreaux appealed to her on many unexpected levels, not the least of which was a purely feminine level. It was surprising, unexpected and in many ways exciting. She could imagine him touching her—and doing a lot more than that.
No man had ever caught her attention in this way before, so perhaps that was part of the fascination. She didn’t know. As she tied the end of her braid, she once again chided herself and did her best to shove away such improper thoughts.
