Harriet glanced up from his muddy black Hessian boots and straightened instantly. Through the curtain of rain that shimmered in the open doorway, she could see his coachman conversing with the academy’s stablemaster. From the carriage, a silver-haired lady was waving a lace handkerchief at the house like a naval officer flagging down a ship in distress.
“I do apologize, your grace.” She darted toward the door. “I shall bring them in straightaway.”
He stepped in front of her. “Have a footman attend to the task. With umbrellas if possible.” His disgruntled gaze seemed to absorb every detail of her appearance. “I’m in no mood to hear another lady complain that the wretched rain has ruined her hair.”
A test, Harriet told herself, inhaling quietly.
This was one of those social trials that sooner or later a woman in her position must face. She would remain unmoved by his curt manner. She would stand, in her mentor’s words, as a beacon of civility when battered by a storm of rudeness.
What misfortune that Harriet had loved thunderstorms since her earliest years.
Despite living in the miserable garrets of St. Giles and Seven Dials for most of her life, she associated storms with the few moments of family closeness she had ever known. She and her half brothers had often been forced to huddle together for warmth, sharing ghost stories to distract one another from the perishing cold. On some nights they might hide under a blanket from their father, predictably too drunk to recognize the sniggering dark shape in the corner as his own offspring.
Occasionally, after begging a pie vendor for his unsold wares, she and the boys would sneak into a swell’s carriage or scramble over a garden wall to take shelter in a summerhouse. Harriet would dub herself the Duchess of St. Giles, while her halves would alternately laugh at her or pay her court. When the storm ended, it was every urchin to himself. Weeks would pass without Harriet knowing where they were or what mischief they had followed.
And now here she stood with another storm raging, having no idea what to say to this gorgeous young duke, who apparently wasn’t inclined to make the situation the least bit easier.
The cultured voice of Charlotte Boscastle floated down from the top of the stairs to rescue her. “Griffin!” she exclaimed warmly. “How sad we were to hear of Liam’s passing. And please excuse us for not giving you a proper welcome. We thought you wouldn’t be here until… Thursday next.”
The reluctant smile he gave in answer disappeared before Harriet could recover from its impact. What did she know, anyway? Perhaps grief over his brother’s death had turned him hard. To look at him, it was impossible to judge whether he had committed murder for an inheritance or not. Miss Peppertree often proved to be an unreliable source of gossip. And while Harriet could not envision the well-mannered Charlotte changing into a fancier gown to impress a killer, Harriet had known of stranger reactions.
“I shan’t be long, your grace,” Charlotte added, her disembodied voice fading away. “Have Miss Gardner take you to the red salon for fresh tea.”
Harriet felt a surprising tug of resistance. The two footmen crept around her, umbrellas sprouting open like giant mushrooms. She gazed up at the staircase, calling out like a coward, “Perhaps I should stay with the girls and ask Miss Peppertree to do the honors.”
The duke’s voice mocked her attempt to elude her duty. “What’s wrong with you? You are here. She is not.”
She pressed her lips together. His imperious stare irritated her. So did the giggling whispers that escaped the drawing room where she had been about to make her own debut. She turned to see Miss Peppertree peering around the door at the duke with the intensity of a barn owl. Twelve students twittered in the background.
“That is Miss Peppertree in the doorway,” Harriet said, lowering her gaze. “I assure you, she will be able to satisfy your grace far better than will I.”
“I doubt it,” he said in unconcealed amusement, his gaze flickering to the figure in the door.
Harriet felt her face heat. Duke or not, he deserved to be taken down a notch for that. The butler edged to her side, whispering, “You don’t want to tangle words with a man like him, miss.”
No, but she might want to strangle him.
“Whispering to a guest is common, Miss Gardner.” The duke peeled off his black gloves and unfastened his coat. “Furthermore, I dislike tea. I am, however, in grave desire of a brandy and a moment’s solace. And you, in my estimation, appear more than capable of meeting those needs.”
Chapter Three
My first care was to visit the fire. I uncovered it, and a gentle breeze quickly fanned it into a flame.
MARY SHELLEY
Frankenstein
“As you wish, your grace,” she said, straightening her shoulders. “The salon is not far. Walk this way.”
“I assume there won’t be another coven of schoolgirls lying in wait for me there,” he said as he followed her hurried steps through the hall.
She drew a deep breath through her nostrils. It must be hard on the poor fellow, having women hiding behind doors wherever he went. “I apologize if the girls have embarrassed your grace. I shall guard you against any such further intrusions on your privacy.”
“You shall guard me?” he asked, looking her up and down in interest. “You won’t need a shield or teaspoon to defend us?”
“I have other weapons at my disposal.”
He smiled. “Do you, indeed?”
She marched her fastest to lead him into the room at the end of the hall reserved for special guests. He outpaced her with ease, his manner infuriating. “And what is my guardian’s name again, if you don’t mind refreshing my memory?”
“Miss Gardner. Harriet Gardner.”
He stared at her. “And do you have a guardian? Or are your hidden weapons enough?”
Heat stole into Harriet’s cheeks. Had he just asked her if she had an arrangement as a mistress to another man? Who did he think he was, asking her such an improper question? Did being a peer give him the right to pry into her personal affairs? And on the first day they’d met, too. She bristled to think what he’d want to know next week.
“It was a joke, Miss Gardner,” he said, shaking his head with the rue of a man accustomed to being misunderstood. “I was trying to put you at ease.”
“At ease,” she echoed.
He frowned. “It appears that I make a fearsome first impression. I don’t know how I do it. It isn’t intentional. But… I do.”
She nodded cautiously. “Yes.”
“And I am hard to please.”
She swallowed. “Well, I do hope our brandy meets your standards.” She flung open the door to the private salon, which she had previously visited only as part of her academy training. She had never entertained an important visitor by herself before. However, as the daughter of a drunkard, she knew how to pour a measure of liquor when it was demanded. And she could bluff her way through most situations. “Does your grace-”
“Dear God!” he shouted, in a voice that took a year off her life. “The blasted room is on fire!”
Harriet gasped. So it was. She slipped around him to seek out the source of the noxious banks of smoke swirling around his tall form. The duke coughed, rather dramatically, in Harriet’s opinion, and rushed to open a window. Harriet winged to the fireplace, having quickly perceived the problem.
One of the academy’s staff, obviously terrified of displeasing the “Duke of Thunder,” had hurriedly lit a fire to warm the infrequently occupied room. In his or her haste, this well-meaning servant had tossed a wad of newspaper onto the grate as kindling, with disastrous results.