Chapter Seventeen
It was cold but sunny a few days later, down in Ridlington Chase.
Harriet held baby Hugh, cuddling him with delight. He was at that stage where his world was full of curiosities; he babbled and touched and—recently—adored the way her cap tumbled down when he tugged on it.
“You’re spoiling him, you know,” Rosaline looked over her desk at the two of them.
“Of course. How can I help it?” Harriet grinned.
“I had a letter from Letitia.” Rosaline leaned back. “She is returning the day after tomorrow.”
“Oh lovely. It will be a pleasure to have her home.”
“Indeed. Hecate is staying on, it seems, having discovered a fondness for town life and a wish to experience it to the fullest.” Rosaline looked up. “There’s a man behind that statement. Mark my words.”
Harriet smiled. “Miss Hecate can handle herself. Such experience will do her good, I think.”
“Yes, you’re probably right,” agreed Rosaline. “So Letitia returns alone.”
“Does she have any messages or requests for me?”
Rosaline nodded and removed a folded sheet of paper from a pile next to her arm. “Better than that. She added a list of things she’d like you to procure before she arrives home.”
“Oh, that’s good. Now at least I feel like I can do something.” Harriet dropped an absent kiss on top of the future Baron Ridlington’s downy head.
“You are doing more than you realize, Harry,” smiled Rosaline. “Never doubt it. Nurse wouldn’t get her afternoon nap if it wasn’t for you, and I’d miss having someone to talk to while I’m doing these terrible housekeeping chores.”
Harriet nodded her thanks. Yes, she was good with the baby. And yes, her previous life made her a better conversationalist than Maggie from the farm, but even so, she felt underused at times. And that was followed by guilt.
She rested Hugh on his blanket on the floor, between his favourite cushions, and rose to take the paper from Rosaline. The room was warm thanks to a good fire, and the sun streaming in through the tall windows.
“I’m glad I picked this room for my study,” mused Rosaline, almost as if she’d read Harriet’s thoughts. “Even though it was a complete disaster when I moved in.”
“You chose well, my Lady,” agreed Harriet, returning to the sofa and leaning down to give Hugh his favourite toy, a soft piece of sheepskin shaped into a ball.
Opening the note, Harriet couldn’t help laughing at Letitia’s words. “Oh my goodness. She’d like me to see if I can find scented soap. Apparently she’s discovered a fondness for lavender.”
Rosaline tsk’ed. “I knew London would spoil her.”
“She’s also requested I look for a cerise ribbon to trim a bonnet she’s bought, and…and a couple of other sundries.” Harriet blinked. “I think you may have the right of it. A few days in the metropolis and she’s become a lady of fashion.”
Rosaline’s laugh rang out. “Our Letitia? Never.”
Harriet joined her with her own chuckle. “No, you’re right. Not Letitia.”
But the next morning, when she set out for the village, she wondered whether perhaps Letitia had changed. It was out of character for her to ask about ribbons and the like; and the last items were most unexpected.
Two silk nightgowns to be ordered from the local seamstress.
Silk.
One pink and one lavender.
Now why would a modest young lady who customarily preferred cotton nightgowns suddenly develop the urge to wear silk in bed?
Harriet could only come up with one reason.
It kept her mind busy during the walk, so busy in fact, that she failed to hear her name being called, and nearly jumped out of her skin when Paul DeVoreaux came up behind her and touched her shoulder.
