Chapter Eleven
Harriet found herself at loose ends.
Paul had not returned from the parlor, so she had to assume he was going to stay there until the gentlemen were done for the night.
The ladies were being tended to by their maids, the menu for Christmas Eve had been settled, and the servants were taking the time to enjoy a respite from their duties.
Which was all well and good, but it left Harriet with time on her hands, and she realized that she much preferred to be busy. Not only that, but there was an itchy sort of feeling shivering its way over her skin at the thought of marrying Paul tomorrow night.
It was a big step—for both of them—and one not easily undone if the case arose. In her heart, she knew this was what she wanted; that it was the right step for her. But Paul? He’dlived.
Shunned by society and exiled from England, he’d spent quite a few years roaming Europe. Those were turbulent years, too, so she doubted it was a simple matter of an extended Grand Tour. No, he’d lived, and worked, and probably loved many times over. He was so attractive, with a gentle charm that occasionally peeped out from beneath his handsome masculine exterior. How could he have avoided the fairer sex?
He couldn’t. One look at him, and Harriet could almost hear the stampede of shoes across the marble floors of Russian palaces, or the rustle of silks in the gardens and the ballrooms of Austria or Germany, or Italy.
Had he been in danger? Anywhere across the English Channel was dangerous at this time, and most likely Paul had come into contact with any of the various wars that seemed to be forever claiming lives. Napoleon still threatened, and the conflict had become a constant topic of concern for so many.
She sighed. At least he was back on English soil.
But would he be satisfied with a simple English girl as his wife?
Walking past the kitchen, she saw two buckets next to the fire, ones that had been used earlier to take water up to the Tisdales.
Well, why not? The idea formed, germinated and blossomed within moments. She was going to indulge herself with a leisurely bath and wash her hair. Tomorrow was going to be her wedding day, as well as Christmas Eve. She was going to look her best. She deserved that much at least.
Happy to have something to do, she set a pot of water over the fire to heat, and hurried upstairs. There was an old, small bathtub in a closet near her room, and this was the one she planned on using. Tonight, she’d even light a fire in the little fireplace, and hope nothing was stuck up in the chimney.
Fate blessed her with a clear chimney, and by the time she’d got a cheerful blaze going and the tub in front of it, she knew the first bucket of hot water would be ready.
It was work, physical labor, carrying the water up and down the stairs. But when she was done, she intended to empty the tub via the window. There were a few shrubs that might appreciate a drink, and she didn’t fancy carrying it all back downstairs. The tub was easy to manage without any water in it, so after bringing up four buckets, she was more than ready to remove her clothing and step into the warm pool awaiting her.
Oh, what luxury.
She soaped and washed and scrubbed her hair, humming to herself as the room warmed and the fire toasted the cloths she’d set beside the tub.
When done, they wrapped her in a heated cocoon, and the next half hour was spent relaxing with a comb and cooking her wrinkled toes on the hearth.
She let her mind drain of worries, or thoughts of the future, simply resting for once, something she hadn’t been able to do for a long time. Meeting Letitia and becoming part of the Ridlington family had started the process, but somehow, here, on this night, she could finally set her troubles aside. Tomorrow she would have a husband, and that fact alone would remove the burden of fear from her shoulders.
A tiny thrill danced low in her belly.
Tomorrow she would have a husband and share a bed. And at last she would experience things she had only read about in Letitia’s scandalous book.
Shecouldn’t wait.
Finally tucked beneath the covers, with the barriers in place for one last night, Harriet smiled. Warm, clean, her hair a soft cloud around her on the pillows, she was ready for whatever Christmas Eve might bring.
She was ready for Paul.
It was past midnight when Paul himself finally arrived upstairs, and by then Harriet was sound asleep.
He sighed. He would have liked at least a cuddle and maybe a kiss or two—if he were honest with himself, that was about all he had the energy for at this point.
But it was not to be. So he quietly prepared himself for bed, breathing in the scent of Harriet and soap, mixed with a dash of wood smoke.
The fire was welcome, since there was a clear bitter cold sky over the countryside, freezing everything beneath it. He hoped that everyone in the house was warm, then stopped on that thought, wondering when such a paternal consideration had become part of his thinking.
He was assuming responsibility for the house and its denizens, just as tomorrow—or today now—he’d be assuming responsibility for Harriet.
