The Trouble With Harriet Read online

  A PRIVATE WALTZ

  Harriet sought refuge in polite conversation. “It was a very nice ball. The Hatterlees seemed pleased with their turnout.”

  “Yes.” Marcus nodded equally polite agreement.

  “The music was exceptional. I think I might have danced the night away.”

  Marcus set his glass down and rose, extending his hand. “Come, Harriet, dance with me now.”

  Laughing nervously, she allowed him to pull her to her feet. “But, Marcus, we have no music.”

  “We shall make our own music.” He took her in his arms and began to hum. “Come,” he encouraged her. “Join me.”

  She added her low voice to his in nonsense syllables of the piece to which they had danced earlier. She had no idea how long they danced about the room in tight but graceful little steps. She was lost in the sheer presence of this man. Had she really dreamed of this moment her whole life? Their feet slowed and finally stopped.

  “Harriet?” he whispered. He put a finger under her chin to lift her face to his. His mouth settled on hers in a kiss that was exquisitely sweet....

  Books by Wilma Counts

  WILLED TO WED

  MY LADY GOVERNESS

  THE WILLFUL MISS WINTHROP

  THE WAGERED WIFE

  THE TROUBLE WITH HARRIET

  Published by Zebra Books

  THE TROUBLE WITH HARRIET

  Wilma Counts

  ZEBRA BOOKS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  http://www.zebrabooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  ZEBRA BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  850 Third Avenue

  New York, NY 10022

  ISBN: 978-0-8217-7041-2

  Copyright © 2001 by J. Wilma Counts

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

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  Table of Contents

  A PRIVATE WALTZ

  Books by Wilma Counts

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Epilogue

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Copyright Page

  For

  Lynn and Ned Champagne

  Kathie and Phil Schmoll

  Boris and Marina Bolshakov

  Elena Kasarova

  and all the rest of our “Russian Connection”

  in America, Russia, and Germany!

  Prologue

  Autumn, 1802

  Miss Harriet Glasser tucked an errant curl behind her ear and took a last look at herself in the cheval glass. Peach-colored sarcenet draped loosely around her underdeveloped figure.

  “What do you think?” she asked her sister, Charlotte, who had flung herself across Harriet’s bed to watch with envy the “great preparations.”

  “It is a very pretty gown,” Charlotte said tentatively.

  “But ... ? You do not like it?”

  “The color is too bland for you. I am sure it suited Mama when the gown was new.”

  Trust Chal to say exactly what she thought, Harriet mused. Aloud, she said, “Well—beggars cannot be choosers. What if I add this green sash and a green ribbon in my hair?”

  “That would help,” Charlotte agreed. Then her face puckered into the pout she had worn off and on for a week. “I still do not see why Papa and Mama are allowing you to go to the Wyndham ball but will not condone my going.”

  “You know very well—because I am the older.” It came out more smug than she intended.

  Charlotte sniffed. “Three years!”

  “Three years can seem a long time from your eleven to my fourteen,” Harriet said more gently. “And even so, were this not a country affair, I doubt I should be allowed to go. The rules are more relaxed so far from London.”

  Charlotte returned to her scrutiny of the gown. “Perhaps if you stuffed handkerchiefs in the bosom, it would help.”

  “Certainly not! Mama would have the vapors.”

  “Then be sure to remember to keep your shoulders back.”

  “I just hope someone asks me to dance.”

  “They will.” Charlotte was reassuring. “The twins are home, and they brought Jason with them again—Melanie told me even before we saw them all at church.”

  Harriet did not say anything. It was not the twins, Trevor and Terrence, who dominated her days dreams—despite their being of an age with her—and devastatingly handsome as well. Nor was it their friend Jason. No. It was one of the twins’ older brothers with whom Harriet yearned to dance.

  Marcus. Marcus, whose mere presence on the street in the village would send her heart racing. Marcus who had caught her fancy some five years before when he had rescued her kitten from a tree. Marcus, who at seventeen had been young manhood in perfection and now seemed to have gone beyond perfection.

  Now that she was all grown up, surely Marcus would notice her. Surely he would sense the fateful tie that pulled them together. He would take her by the hand and lead her out to the terrace. He would tell her she was beautiful and then kiss her in a most tender and romantic way and ask if he might speak with her father....

  “She is at it again,” Charlotte announced with disgust to the maid, Maggie, who was tying the ribbon in Harriet’s hair. “Cinderella is dreaming of her prince again.”

  “And what prince would that be, Miss Know-All?” Harriet wondered if Charlotte did know. Somehow her younger sister always seemed to know far more than anyone wanted her to know.

  “Jason Garriton, of course. I saw you acting the mooncalf over him on Sunday last.”

  Harriet shrugged and smiled inwardly. For once nosy Charlotte had been fooled. Jason had been standing right next to Marcus.

  Charlotte climbed down from the bed. “Please do not wake me when you come in. I can wait until morning to hear all about a ball I am not allowed to attend. But—mind you, do not forget any of the details!” With that, she flounced out of the room.

  Harriet could hardly contain her excitement in the carriage as she and her parents journeyed the short distance to Timberly, the most majestic dwelling in all the district. Timberly, principal seat of the powerful Earl of Wyndham, had been a well-fortified castle in former times. Even now it conjured romantic notions of knights and fair ladies, Harriet thought. As she and her parents entered the Great Hall, where musicians already played softly, she was struck by the grandeur.

  The room was huge. Rising two stories to its beamed ceiling, it had a gallery at the level of the first story that ran the length of one long wall and was supported by large Greek-style pillars. Two large chandeliers of brass and crystal shed light to glitter from several mirrors, windows, and pieces of metal armor around the room. Tapestries dominated either end.

  The centerpiece of the hall was a huge painting that hung above the fireplace on the wall opposite the gallery. It was a portrait of
the present earl and his family made some years earlier. Each of the figures in the painting was life-sized. Harriet’s attention was immediately drawn to the image of the second son—Marcus.

  Then she caught sight of the earl, his wife, and two elder sons in a receiving line formed strategically beneath the portrait. Harriet wondered if the countess had planned it that way. There stood Marcus, tall and handsome. Her heart did a flip-flop, and she caught her breath.

  As the line of guests inched forward, she was aware of only one being in the whole room. Him. Then she was right before him and actually being presented to him. She raised her gaze to his blue-gray eyes as he took her hand ever so briefly and nodded politely. Did he, too, feel that lightning-like shock as their hands touched? She quickly lowered her gaze, and then she was rudely moved on by the person behind her as he greeted the next guest.

  Her father joined a cluster of gentlemen. Harriet and her mother took places with a group of women and young girls along the sidelines. Harriet noted that mothers and daughters alike seemed intent on being noticed while seeking to appear as though they had no interest in being noticed.

  When the receiving line broke up, the musicians swung into a stately dance and the earl led his countess to the floor. Soon other couples joined them to make up the figures of the dance. Harriet watched enviously as several young ladies somewhat older than she were asked to join the growing number of dancers.

  She continued to watch enviously through two more sets. Still, no one asked her to dance. She found it increasingly difficult to appear interested in the conversations around her—forced conversations on “made-up,” innocuous topics. She tried to keep a smile pasted on her face, though she felt it slip from time to time, especially when she saw Marcus Jeffries lead other women to the floor. She pretended to be watching—and enjoying watching—all the dancers, but she really saw only one of them.

  She was miserable and wanted more than anything to be back at home, where she could freely sob out her misery into her pillow. She watched stoically as the fourth set was forming, then she felt a movement at her elbow.

  “Miss Glasser? May I have this dance?” That voice. His voice. Unable to quell the joy she knew must show in her eyes, she kept her gaze lowered as she extended her hand. “With your mother’s permission, of course,” he added.

  Harriet felt rather than heard her mother’s acquiescence, and Marcus guided her onto the dance floor. None of the sparkling wit with which she had imagined herself capturing his attention and affection materialized. Her brain refused to function—though other parts of her anatomy seemed to have accelerated at his closeness.

  “Have you enjoyed the Harvest Festival this year, Miss Glasser?” His tone sounded surprisingly ordinary to her ears.

  “What? Oh. I beg your pardon. Yes. Yes, I have—very much, Mr. Jeffries.” She groped for a more suitable response—or for another topic. Ah. His studies. “I—I understand you have been studying law, sir.”

  “Yes, I have. For nearly two years now. I shall finish soon.”

  “So you plan to be a barrister or a solicitor?”

  “Probably neither. I am inclined toward the diplomatic corps.”

  “Oh, I see,” she said vaguely as the steps of the dance separated them. The diplomatic corps? What did she know of the diplomatic corps? Ah, yes. Travel. “Does that mean you would travel abroad?” She glanced at him only briefly as they came together again.

  “Possibly. I should hope to travel at any rate.”

  Both were silent for a few turns, then Marcus asked, “Do you still have that kitten I helped you rescue? Though it must be a full-grown cat now.”

  “Yes. I still have Petruchio.”

  “Petruchio? That is your cat’s name?”

  “Well ... yes. He is so very saucy and arrogant, you see.

  He laughed aloud, and suddenly it was over. He returned her to her mother and bowed.

  “Thank you, Miss Glasser.”

  “I enjoyed the dance,” she said, looking at him directly, and quickly away.

  Then he was gone. Oh! But he had remembered her!

  Later in the evening she was returning from the ladies’ withdrawing room. As she paused behind one of the pillars supporting the gallery, she was aware that Marcus and his older brother, Gerald, stood on the other side of it. She lingered, savoring the bliss of being even this near him.

  “Noticed you out there with Sefton’s chit,” Gerald was saying. “Doing the pretty with the wallflowers, were you?”

  Harriet drew in a breath, awaiting Marcus’s response.

  “Not exactly” was his terse reply.

  Gerald sniffed. “You do know, of course, that the Viscount Sefton hasn’t a feather to fly with?”

  Behind the pillar Harriet blushed with embarrassment at this bald assessment of her family’s finances.

  “And what might that have to do with my having danced once with his daughter?”

  “Perhaps nothing,” Gerald sad airily. “But you are aware that as our father’s second son, you will eventually have to hang out for an heiress?”

  “Oh, for—”

  Gerald interrupted with a mirthless laugh. “Unless you are looking for a bit of dalliance during your holiday. But in that case, you should not run the risk of trifling with someone of our own class who is so decidedly unsuitable.”

  “You allow your imagination to roam too freely, dear brother.” Marcus’s voice had an edge to it that even the eavesdropping Harriet recognized. “I merely danced with the young lady. Had I dalliance—or marriage—in mind, I would not be looking to a schoolroom miss for such.”

  “You always were one for picking up strays.” Gerald’s sneering tone was apparently meant to hurt.

  “There are worse things to be.” Marcus turned on his heel and left.

  Soon Gerald strolled off too, and Harriet remained seething behind the pillar.

  “Schoolroom miss,” indeed! Here she was—practically a woman grown, and the man to whom she had thought to bestow her heart merely felt sorry for a “stray.” What an amazing display of insufferable arrogance! How she regretted now all those months—even years—of dreaming of a grand passion with one Marcus Jeffries!

  I shall certainly contrive to forget you, Mr. High-and-Mighty!

  One

  October, 1816

  Marcus Quentin Jeffries, Earl of Wyndham, frowned at the sound of a knock on his library door. Had he not given strict instructions he was not to be disturbed until he had dealt with the papers piling up inexorably on his desk?

  “Come.” He forced a neutral tone.

  Heston, the butler who had served both previous earls—Marcus’s father and brother—stood in the doorway. “My lord, I apologize, but there is a woman—a lady—and her ... her charge—urgently requesting audience with you.”

  “Who is she? And what does she want?”

  “A Mrs. Hepplewhite. She says the girl with her is your ward.”

  “My what?”

  “Your ward, sir.”

  “Heston, do you know anything of a ward?” Marcus had, in the last few months, often found it necessary to have servants and retainers fill him in on his new responsibilities as earl.

  Heston shook his head. “No, my lord.”

  Marcus laid down his pen and sighed inwardly. “All right. Show them in.”

  A few minutes later Marcus stood at the entrance of the library as a middle-aged woman and a young girl were shown in. The woman was dressed soberly in a brown traveling outfit that was definitely not the first stare of fashion. The girl was young—fourteen or fifteen, Marcus surmised. Her hair was the color of rich honey, and she, too, was attired in rather unfashionable apparel.

  “Mrs. Winston Hepplewhite and Miss Annabelle Richardson, my lord,” Heston intoned.

  “Mrs. Hepplewhite. Miss Richardson.” Marcus gestured to two chairs in front of the desk and reseated himself behind it. He hoped to make short work of this interruption. “How may I help you?”


  Mrs. Hepplewhite cleared her throat. “I have come to deliver your charge back to you, my lord.”

  The girl sat rigidly with a defiant air, refusing to meet his gaze when he looked at her.

  “I fear there has been some mistake,” Marcus began. “I have no ward.”

  “It was an Earl of Wyndham who delivered Miss Richardson to us, and it is the Earl of Wyndham to whom she is being returned.” The woman’s tone was clipped, adamant.

  “We?” Marcus lifted one brow in what he hoped was an imperious manner.

  “I am headmistress of the Lady Adelaide Chesterton-Jones School for Young Ladies.”

  “I see.” Marcus glanced toward the girl again. “I assume Miss Richardson is a pupil in your school?”

  “Was.”

  He lifted the eyebrow again.

  “She was a pupil in our school. But her deportment is such that we no longer may tolerate her deleterious effect on the other girls, especially the younger ones.” Mrs. Hepplewhite emphasized this little speech by subtly but visibly distancing herself from the girl in the chair next to her.

  Miss Richardson rolled her eyes heavenward and shrugged.

  “I fail to see what this has to do with me,” Marcus began. “Surely her parents—” He caught himself and turned his attention full on the girl. “I beg your pardon, Miss Richardson. It is rude of us to be discussing you in such a callous manner.”

  He saw Mrs. Hepplewhite color up at this, but the girl turned a surprised pair of brown eyes on him, then dipped him a regal little bow of the head but said nothing.

  “Miss Richardson’s parents are both deceased, my lord. They were unfortunately killed when their ship was attacked by a French warship on their return from the West Indies.”