“Let’s sit on the porch.” Taking her hand, he assisted her up the steps and seated her on the wide swing. “Your suitors try to kiss you?” Smart men.
“Other men, too, but it’s the suitors who seem to think they must try.” She wiggled her nose as if that amply expressed her opinion, then expressed one anyway. “I’ll tell you frankly, kissing is not as agreeable as the romantical novels make it out to be.”
More fascinated than amused, he said, “Really?”
“For one thing, any reasonable looking man immediately becomes overly large at that distance, and one may view every fault.”
“You’re supposed to close your eyes,” Harry informed her gently.
“There’s a good idea.” Sarcasm dripped from her tone. “He’s already got me in a clinch, he’s pressing his lips to mine, and I’m to close my eyes so I can’t see what other tortures he has in store? Perish the thought.”
“You’ve been kissed by bunglers. Someone needs to kiss you correctly.” Ignoring her startled intake of breath, Harry went to the door and called his valet. “Dehaan, would you bring a glass of lemonade for my guest?”
“A guest? You have a guest?” Dehaan’s Dutch accent thickened with excitement, and he stuck his head out the door. In a tone of awe, he said, “It’s a woman.”
Harry gave him a push before he could say anything untoward. “Yes, and she’s thirsty.”
“Ya, ya, I will do it right away. And cakes, too, in case she is hungry. We don’t want her to run away and say we are not hospitable.” Dehaan frowned meaningfully at Harry. “Do we, sir?”
“No, we don’t. Now go and get the lemonade.” Damn the man! He had been Harry’s man of all trades for over five years, and he loved romance so well, he should have been a Frenchman. Now Dehaan’s eyes gleamed with matchmaking fervor, and as always, that meant trouble. Returning to the girl, Harry apologized, “Dehaan thinks I spend too much time alone.”
“Do you?”
The lady had a bluntness about her that took his breath away. “I have a lot on my mind.” Like what to do with the rest of his life—which might also be the reason his mother had insisted he come here.
Actually, if he really wanted to know why his mother had insisted he come here, all he had to do was read the letter. He’d found it packed in his clothing, but he hadn’t read it yet—these letters were his mother’s usual method of breaking bad news to him. Just so she had told him, the first time he went off to school, that she had asked his godfather to watch over him—and watch over him Lord Atlay did, much to the youthful Harry’s embarrassment. The first time he went abroad, she told him to bring her a damnable hat from Paris, and so he had, although he’d been forced to stuff a flower in the bullet hole near the crown. This time…there was no telling what she wanted this time, but it could wait while he relaxed with this girl.
And gave her advice. “Next time you have no wish to be kissed by a suitor, before he closes in, kick his knee—hard.”
“Ouch.” She rubbed her own knee in sympathy.
“Yes. That will discourage him. If he’s close, use the flat of your hand and smack his nose.”
“What does that do?”
“Breaks it, if you do it right. Allow me to introduce myself.” He bowed and gave her the pseudonym he’d used to check into the inn.“I’mHarry Windberry of Windberry Court, in Derbyshire.”
She rose and curtsied. “I’m Lady Jessie Macmillian, daughter of Viscount Macmillian of Suffolk.”
Harry lowered his brows. Macmillian. Macmillian. The name was familiar…Viscount Macmillian must be one of his mother’s many acquaintances, for somewhere back in the recesses of Harry’s mind, memory stirred. But the memory was old, and Harry could drag nothing forth except the sense of unpleasantness. Nothing treacherous, just…unpalatable.
“Please, may we be seated?” she begged. “I’ve been on the run all morning, and I’m exhausted.”
With a shrug, Harry gave up searching for remembrance, and returned his attention to Jessie. “On the run from Jenour-Redmond?”
“Yes, and he’s just the first of three.” She rubbed one slippered foot against the back of her leg, giving him a glimpse of her shapely ankle. “My father gave me an ultimatum. Choose one of them, or he’ll choose for me.”
Dehaan bustled out with two glasses of lemonade on a tray and a plate of the tea cakes they served at the inn, and with a bow and a gleaming smile, offered them to Lady Jessie.
“Thank you.” She took the glass and put it on the small table at her elbow. “Mr. Windberry, I know that, as a lady, I’m supposed to pretend to have the appetite of a bird and leave you the most”—she piled fully half the cakes on the small plate—“but I’m starving.”
This time Harry’s grin took over his face. “Please, take all you like. I’m not so great a fool as to judge a miss by the number of cakes she eats.”
“You’re very handsome when you smile. I do think it ridiculous that ladies are held to such an arbitrary standard. My stepmother scarcely touches a crumb in front of my father, but you s
hould see the trays she has sent to her bedchamber.”
Harry thought he detected a compliment in the gush of words, but he wasn’t quite sure, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. This woman had already despoiled his morning without even trying. What she could do if they discovered a mutual admiration, he didn’t dare imagine. So he seated himself in the chair against the wall, the one that gave him the broadest view of the grounds. He took the glass and two of the cakes. When Dehaan put the plate down at Jessie’s elbow and disappeared back into the cottage, Harry said, “Tell me about these suitors, and why they’re seeking your hand here rather than at a society party supervised by your parents.”