"You look dreadful," Agnes said.
"Thank you."
"So, tell me what this thing is that I am not going to believe."
"It's Lord Davenport." She fell silent as the maid brought in the tea tray and set it down on the ottoman between their two chairs. When the servant left the room again, Harriet took a breath. "He proposed to me."
Agnes's expression did not change. And she said nothing as if waiting for the rest of the sordid tale.
"He even went and spoke to Malcolm. What was he thinking?"
Agnes frowned. "That he wanted to marry you."
"No, do you not see?" Harriet stirred her tea absently. "He is toying with me. Tormenting me. He told me all these wicked things he wants to do to me." She whispered that last part despite the fact that they were alone.
She waited for her friend to be as appalled at the scenario as she was, but nothing came.
"Agnes, you are not helping. I came to speak to you because you are so pragmatic. Why would he do all of this? Why would he go to such lengths to tease me so mercilessly? Is he that cruel?" She did nothing to stop the tears that filled her eyes.
"Perhaps I am missing something." Agnes reached over and squeezed her hand. "I can see that you are upset. Hurting. And I am certainly being pragmatic. I'm not convinced I know how to not be."
"He is laughing at me." She silently cursed him for making her want more. Making her want for his words to be truth, that he did desire her and long for her to be his wife. But she knew that none of that was true.
"Did he?"
"What?" Harriet asked.
"Did he actually laugh at you?"
"Well, no. Not in front of me."
"Then the only logical conclusion is that he proposed to you because he truly wants to marry you."
Harriet rolled her eyes.
"Answer me this. Why has that option not even occurred to you?"
Harriet sucked in a breath. She allowed herself a moment to imagine such a thing, a world in which she'd caught that handsome giant of a man, that devilishly dashing man with a wicked tongue and eyes so haunted she wanted nothing more than to hold him until the dark shadows disappeared. But therein lay the problem. She knew herself. She knew precisely what would happen if she let herself believe such a fantasy. She'd lose her head and then her heart. Knowing that he'd never love her in return, she knew that she'd be forever ruined.
The Marquess of Davenport had the ability to destroy her completely. She refused to allow that to happen.
"That's preposterous," she said. She shoved away at the "what-if" thoughts that tickled at the edges of her mind.
What if he truly wanted her?
…
"Are you going to pretend I haven't heard by now what you did today?" his mother asked from the doorway of his bedchamber.
Currently he hung from his exercise bar that had been wedged in his doorframe to the adjoining bedchamber-the room where his wife would put her pretty things.
He'd learned quickly, after his accident, that if he did not keep his upper body at peak strength, he had a more difficult time moving around with the limitations of his leg. Sweat dripped off his torso, and he eyed his mother's petite frame. He let go of the bar and landed on his good leg before gripping his cane that leaned against the wall.
His mother had both hands on her hips.
"I'm assuming you spoke to Lady Lockwood?" he asked.
"Of course. She said you made your intentions known to Malcolm." She handed him a piece of cloth to wipe his face. "I'm certain you did so in pure Oliver fashion."
"What does that mean?" He rubbed the rag against his neck.
"Did you even ask Harriet yourself?"
"I did. She did not believe me."
"Of course she didn't. You rejected her six years ago. How is she supposed to believe that the years have changed your mind?"
"Because I asked her to marry me. I wouldn't ask if I didn't want her." Why was this so damned difficult? Half the reason he'd asked Harriet was so he wouldn't have to actually deal with any of this nonsense with any other woman.
"Harriet is a lady, Oliver. She has grown up expecting that certain things would happen before she married. You cannot barge into a room and toss her over your shoulder like some Viking. She needs to be wooed. Courted."
"That's ridiculous. Not wanting to deal with any of that nonsense is part of why I selected Harriet."
His mother rolled her eyes. "You're not purchasing a horse, my dear. You are selecting a wife, an actual person with whom you will spend the rest of your life."
"I thought you'd be pleased with my choice."
"Oh, I am. I'm delighted. Her mother is as well. Which is precisely why I'm offering you this advice. Because I want you to marry her."
He moved over to the chair and lowered himself down. He didn't have to explain to his mother that standing for long periods of time made his leg ache.
"You have a plan?" he asked.
"Only insomuch that if you're serious about marrying her, then you should be willing to court her. Every woman wants and deserves a little wooing, my dear."
He rolled his eyes. "I'll consider it. Tell me your idea."
"I suggest we host a country house party. A weekend at Brookhaven where you show Harriet your intentions as well as allow her to invite prospective bride choices for you. But, by the end of the weekend, you can announce your engagement-if she accepts."
His thoughts fired into action. He'd need to procure a special license, then they could simply marry before returning to London. He could have Harriet in his bed before a fortnight ended. "Allow her to believe that I'm still using her services as a matchmaker in the meantime?"
"You can tell her the truth; I even suggest as much. Not good to start a marriage on anything less than honesty. Simply tell her that she is your choice, but you're giving her the chance to prove you wrong, to give you alternatives."
He chuckled. "That's quite Machiavellian of you, Mother."
She smiled and lifted her shoulders in a delicate shrug. "I have my moments."
"You'll arrange this party with her, plan the entire ordeal?"
"Of course."
"How long will it take?"
Her brow arched. "My, you are eager." When he did not respond, she continued. "The party can begin a week from Thursday."
He nodded.
"Meanwhile, you should brush up on your courtship methods."
"I don't know the first thing about courting a woman. I find the entire scenario useless."
"Perhaps, but it is what we civilized people do. Besides, I do not think you don't know how, but merely have forgotten."
More like he'd realized the entire practice was a waste of effort. He'd courted Catherine for nearly six months, then she'd waited another six for him to heal after his accident. They'd exchanged letters during that time, and she'd assured him of her love. Yet she'd taken one look at his limp and cane and she'd bolted.
"What would you suggest I do to prove to Harriet my intentions are sincere?"
"Show an interest in her and things that are important to her. You have your skills with building and designing, certainly she has such things in her life."
He nodded. She did, indeed, have such interests. Secret interests, in fact. He could use that to his advantage.
"Oliver, I am pleased by your choice, but need I remind you that had you simply accepted my suggestion several years ago, you and Harriet would already be married and with children."
No, he didn't need that reminder. He'd thought of little else except the fact that had he not been so damned stubborn, he could have spent the last six years with Harriet in his bed. But if he had done that, he might not have accomplished everything he had since then. "I needed to make that money myself. I don't require a woman's dowry. I still don't. She can do what she wants with the money. I'll tell her as much."
His mother smiled. "I have no doubt you will." She turned to go, then paused. "You should get a trim and shave your face. Harriet should see how handsome you are."
He growled a response. He happened to like his beard, though he suspected his mother was right. About everything, it seemed. But she'd given him a brilliant plan to deliver Harriet straight into his bed, where she would stay every night for the rest of their lives.
Chapter Eight
Harriet started at the knock on her bedchamber door. "Come in."
Her mother poked her fair head in. "Care for a chat?"
"Always." They had a special bond, the two of them. Her mother was close to all her children, but there was something unique about their bond. She came inside and closed the door behind her, moving to sit on the small settee Harriet kept under the large window that overlooked the gardens behind their corner townhome.
Harriet joined her mother. She knew why she was here. And she'd been tempted to tell her no, that she didn't particularly care for a chat, but this was her mother. She'd never kept secrets from her before. Well, not until Harriet had joined the Ladies of Virtue. That she had to keep from her mother else Harriet would be forbidden to participate.