Her mother picked at a string that had come lose from a button on the settee. She wound the string around and around the button until it disappeared.
"I know what you want to discuss," Harriet said. She'd rather get this entire ordeal over with. She could kill Oliver for bringing this jest or whatever game he played into her family, into her home.
Her mother nodded. "Oliver has expressed his interest in marrying you."
Harriet snorted. "That is what he says, but it is not the truth. There is something he's after. I'm not certain if it's to humiliate me or what, but I'm on to him."
Confusion sparked over her mother's features. "I'm not so certain, my pet. According to Malcolm he was quite serious. Not even so much as seeking a blessing or permission as he was making a claim."
Those words seemed to rattle through her heart, shaking it up and starting it beating as if it had been still and silent in her chest for so very long. Making a claim. On her?
"You believe I should agree to his ridiculous proposal?" Harriet asked.
"I have always thought the two of you would be a good match, but you know that Claudine and I have been friends nearly our entire lives. Being connected by a marriage between our children has been a dream for us for many years. This isn't about me, though. This is about you and what you want."
Harriet stood and paced the small area of her room that wasn't crowded with furniture. "Everyone believes I should simply accept. That I should be thankful he lowered himself to offer for me, because this is the only proposal I'll ever get. That he's the best I can do, the only option for me." The words broke through as if she'd been holding them back for too long.
Her mother said nothing, merely nodded and listened.
"No one has stopped to ask what I want."
"What is it that you want, my pet?"
What did she want? For Oliver's proposal to be authentic? For this entire ordeal to not be a jest on his part?
"I want the love match that you and father had, the love that Helen and Bradley share. I would rather be a spinster than marry someone who could never love me. Do you know that's what he told Malcolm? I heard it with my own ears. That he could never love me." She did nothing to hide the tears that came then. "I am the only one to see this as some manipulative game he's playing. I am the one who will be hurt, no one else."
"You are quite right," her mother said. "I think wanting to marry for love is perfectly acceptable, but I do need to correct you on one fact. Your father and I did not start out in love."
Harriet stopped pacing and stared at her mother.
"I should say I did not love him initially. He professed his love for me for weeks before I even agreed to become his wife, and even then it took me another two years before recognizing that I'd fallen in love with him in return. He was very patient with me."
It didn't change anything, though, because her father had always loved her mother. And Bradley and Helen had married for love. It was what Harriet wanted, and it would keep her from the rejection and humiliation she'd felt six years ago when she'd offered herself to Oliver. "I never knew."
"Well, it hardly seemed important. By the time you children came around, we were both besotted fools, and we stayed that way until he passed, God rest his soul." She smiled wistfully. "I miss that silly man every day."
"I do too."
"You said that everyone believes you should accept his proposal," her mother said. "Who is everyone?"
"You and Malcolm and Agnes. My everyone is limited, but still … "
"You feel the pressure?"
"Yes." She'd had her heart set on a love match for as long as she could remember. Her parents had adored each other; everyone who had ever been in the same room with them could see it. And then she'd watched her sister marry for love, and it felt like a sign. But what if she never found her love match? Was she willing to be the favorite spinster aunt and live off her brother's good fortune the rest of her life?
"I believe you'll find that love you seek," her mother said, as if reading her thoughts. "It might not come precisely as you imagine it, though, and I want you to be open to possibilities. Love does not always look like what you're expecting." She grabbed Harriet's hand and squeezed. "Can you promise me that?"
Harriet nodded.
"In the meantime, Claudine has suggested that they host a ball at their estate, Brookhaven, and you can invite prospective brides for him to meet. If his proposal is nothing more than a jest, as you suspect, then introducing him to other women should solve that problem."
And if not … The unsaid words hung in the air as if living, breathing things. But she knew she was right. He'd had his chance to marry her, and he'd rejected her. Then he'd said plainly today that he could never love her. His proposal was a joke and nothing more.
"I'll find him a wife."
"And I believe you'll find the love you are seeking. Do not give up yet."
…
That evening, Oliver found himself back at Benedict's. He'd stayed away from the gaming tables longer than usual because he'd attended so many balls and parties as of late. Tonight, he would also skip the cards, as he'd returned for more advice.
He waited in Benedict's private offices, knowing his friend would find him eventually. As expected, it didn't take Benedict long to enter the room.
"Hiding back here drinking my good Scotch?" He poured himself a drink and took a seat on the opposite end of the large leather sofa.
"I'm tired of people," Oliver said.
"You have been far more social in the last few weeks," Benedict said, nodding.
"It turns out finding a wife is damned hard business." Oliver swirled the glass of Scotch, then took a swallow.
"I thought you'd already selected one," Benedict said.
"I have. She said no." He drained his glass. "In fact, she's said no more than once."
Benedict laughed a full belly laugh.
"I don't see the humor." He didn't understand any of it. If he didn't want Harriet so badly, he'd seriously consider retiring to the country.
His friend stood and grabbed the bottle of Scotch and brought it back to the sofa, pouring Oliver another two fingers. "What is your plan now?"
"Evidently, I need to court her." Oliver leaned his head back and pressed his neck against one of the buttons stitched into the leather.
"She is worth the trouble?" Benedict asked.
"She doesn't scream or flinch whenever I come near her. She's intelligent, well read, appreciates the aesthetics of architecture. She's so damned pretty that if she's in the room, she might as well be the only one, as none of the other women come into focus." He glared at the glass in his hand. "This Scotch is making me too damn sentimental. I want the chit in my bed. I know she wants me, too, but won't admit it." He scrubbed a hand across the back of his neck. "What can you tell me about courting?"
"What the devil made you come ask me?" Benedict asked.
"You watch people. See more than most." Oliver shrugged. "I thought it was likely you'd picked up on a few tried-and-true methods."
"Oliver, you know all about courting. You have forgotten only because the bitch ruined it all for you."
Oliver snarled. "I saw Catherine the other evening, from across a ballroom."
"Forget I mentioned her," Benedict said. "Have you taken your lady riding in the park? Or bought her any presents? Given her flowers?"
"I have done none of those. But they are all decent ideas and wouldn't require too much of me." Oliver considered his options. He could buy her practically anything she desired. "Flowers are a good starting place, I should think."
Benedict held up a finger. "Do not be hasty with your flower choices; you know there is an entire secret language behind each damned bloom, some differentiate by color. It's all quite tedious."
Oliver nodded. Yes, he'd heard about the flower meanings. He'd be certain to send her a message she would understand quite clearly. "What about books?"
"If she enjoys reading. Confections is another respectable choice," Benedict offered.
Oliver was silent for several moments.
"You know if you keep coming here soliciting my advice, I might have to start charging you by the hour." He nodded toward Oliver's hand. "Or at least by the glass."
…
"Lady Harriet, you have a caller in the front parlor," the butler said. Harriet looked up from her book and eyed her mother.
Her mother set her embroidery aside and stood. "Shall we see who it is?"
Harriet had a sinking feeling she knew precisely who it was, but she smiled and nodded. Following her mother into the parlor proved her instinct right when she saw Oliver's tall frame stand from one of the heavy buttoned chairs. He inclined his head.