Read To Dream of Love for Free Online Page A
Authors: M. C. Beaton
took to her bed.
And so Harriet, a lonely little figure, often went out on her own, walking miles through the streets and parks, trying to exhaust herself, to walk away all the bitterness she felt for her sister.
Things were made harder for her because her conscience told her they had no right to expect more from Cordelia.
Very early one morning, the Marquess of Arden, who was exercising his horse in Rotten Row, saw Harriet’s small figure striding along under the trees of Hyde Park.
He reined in his mount and swept off his hat. “Good day to you, Miss Harriet,” he said, swinging himself down lightly from the saddle.
Harriet was so disenchanted with him, that she was almost surprised his feet of clay did not make a clattering sound as he landed on the ground.
“Good day, my lord,” she said stiffly.
“I am disappointed not to have seen you about,” he said, his eyes narrowing as he surveyed her shabby appearance. “Lady Bentley tells me you do not enjoy balls or parties. I did not know you were a bluestocking.”
“I did not know it either,” said Harriet dryly, turning on her heel and beginning to walk away. He fell into step beside her, leading his horse.
“You should not be out walking without a servant,” he said.
“It is early,” said Harriet repressively. “There is usually no one about at this unfashionable hour.”
The blue sky arched above, and a blackbird in a tree above their heads sent down a liquid cascade of sound.
Harriet glanced covertly at the marquess. He looked tall and powerful in a black coat, leather breeches, and top boots.
The marquess was studying Harriet, from her plain hat to her dowdy black silk dress covered by a shawl, to her worn half boots.
“It is still quite cold in the early mornings,” he said. “Have you nothing warmer to wear?”
“You forget,” said Harriet. “I am used to the cold.”
“Are you in mourning?”
“No, my lord,” said Harriet, exasperated. “Black silk was a good bargain at the local shop.”
“Mr. Hudson and I inquired after you several times, but we were always told you were gone from home.”
“Indeed?” said Harriet, folding her lips into a thin line. She did not want to tell him Cordelia had lied. Like most besotted men, he would probably not believe a word against his beloved. On the other hand, if he did, he might tell his cousin, and that impassioned young man might tax Cordelia with it, and she and Aunt Rebecca would find themselves on the next stagecoach back to Pringle House.
Sometimes Harriet wondered why they did not just give up and leave. Things were not so bad in the country in the summer. There were plenty of vegetables, and she had kept one of her father’s guns and sometimes went out on midnight hunting forays, knowing the locals would be shocked to learn that a lady was potting game, even on her own property.
The marquess studied her averted face, suddenly remembering what she had looked like naked. He felt his pulses quicken, and his mind firmly, with a great effort, banished the vision of a nude and rosy Harriet with water streaming down her body from his mind. The girl was undoubtedly a virgin, and a lady, although he was sure she would not long retain either virtue if she continued to live with her sister.
He was well aware that Cordelia was hard and selfish. He also knew her reputation and was anxious to bed her without the ties of marriage. He felt sure Cordelia’s mercenary little heart would soon overcome her hopes of a respectable marriage, and he had dropped broad hints that he was prepared to be generous. His cousin Bertram had only lately come to town, having finished several undistinguished terms at Oxford University. Mrs. Hudson, his father’s sister, was a widow and in poor health. She had begged the marquess to sponsor her son and to keep him out of the claws of card sharps, ivory turners, and the ladies of the town. The marquess found Bertram a tiresome young man, but he was fond of
And so Harriet, a lonely little figure, often went out on her own, walking miles through the streets and parks, trying to exhaust herself, to walk away all the bitterness she felt for her sister.
Things were made harder for her because her conscience told her they had no right to expect more from Cordelia.
Very early one morning, the Marquess of Arden, who was exercising his horse in Rotten Row, saw Harriet’s small figure striding along under the trees of Hyde Park.
He reined in his mount and swept off his hat. “Good day to you, Miss Harriet,” he said, swinging himself down lightly from the saddle.
Harriet was so disenchanted with him, that she was almost surprised his feet of clay did not make a clattering sound as he landed on the ground.
“Good day, my lord,” she said stiffly.
“I am disappointed not to have seen you about,” he said, his eyes narrowing as he surveyed her shabby appearance. “Lady Bentley tells me you do not enjoy balls or parties. I did not know you were a bluestocking.”
“I did not know it either,” said Harriet dryly, turning on her heel and beginning to walk away. He fell into step beside her, leading his horse.
“You should not be out walking without a servant,” he said.
“It is early,” said Harriet repressively. “There is usually no one about at this unfashionable hour.”
The blue sky arched above, and a blackbird in a tree above their heads sent down a liquid cascade of sound.
Harriet glanced covertly at the marquess. He looked tall and powerful in a black coat, leather breeches, and top boots.
The marquess was studying Harriet, from her plain hat to her dowdy black silk dress covered by a shawl, to her worn half boots.
“It is still quite cold in the early mornings,” he said. “Have you nothing warmer to wear?”
“You forget,” said Harriet. “I am used to the cold.”
“Are you in mourning?”
“No, my lord,” said Harriet, exasperated. “Black silk was a good bargain at the local shop.”
“Mr. Hudson and I inquired after you several times, but we were always told you were gone from home.”
“Indeed?” said Harriet, folding her lips into a thin line. She did not want to tell him Cordelia had lied. Like most besotted men, he would probably not believe a word against his beloved. On the other hand, if he did, he might tell his cousin, and that impassioned young man might tax Cordelia with it, and she and Aunt Rebecca would find themselves on the next stagecoach back to Pringle House.
Sometimes Harriet wondered why they did not just give up and leave. Things were not so bad in the country in the summer. There were plenty of vegetables, and she had kept one of her father’s guns and sometimes went out on midnight hunting forays, knowing the locals would be shocked to learn that a lady was potting game, even on her own property.
The marquess studied her averted face, suddenly remembering what she had looked like naked. He felt his pulses quicken, and his mind firmly, with a great effort, banished the vision of a nude and rosy Harriet with water streaming down her body from his mind. The girl was undoubtedly a virgin, and a lady, although he was sure she would not long retain either virtue if she continued to live with her sister.
He was well aware that Cordelia was hard and selfish. He also knew her reputation and was anxious to bed her without the ties of marriage. He felt sure Cordelia’s mercenary little heart would soon overcome her hopes of a respectable marriage, and he had dropped broad hints that he was prepared to be generous. His cousin Bertram had only lately come to town, having finished several undistinguished terms at Oxford University. Mrs. Hudson, his father’s sister, was a widow and in poor health. She had begged the marquess to sponsor her son and to keep him out of the claws of card sharps, ivory turners, and the ladies of the town. The marquess found Bertram a tiresome young man, but he was fond of