“They’ll keep their mouths shut if they know what’s good for them.” He entered the inn ahead of her and looked up and down the length of the empty dining hall.
His vehemence seemed to startle her, and she followed him, plucking at his sleeve. “What do you mean?”
“I mean I am not a man to be trifled with.” He heard her tiny gasp, swiftly swallowed, and turned on her. “Did you think I was?”
She held her hand over her heart, and she wore a solemn expression, one at odds with her usual merry demeanor. “No, I… no, I did suspect you could be a dangerous man.”
“But not with you, love.” Drawing her close, he tapped her nose. “I would never be a danger to you.”
“Of course not.” But she still looked troubled. “Are you really…” She swallowed. “Are you really a gentleman farmer from Derbyshire?”
“Well…” He did have a small estate in Derbyshire, and he could in all honesty assure her that was who he was. But he owed her at least part of the truth. “Let’s just say that’s not all that I am.”
Harry’s reassurance hadn’t comforted Jessie, but she’d clung to him like a woman in love and fervently kissed him good-bye, and within a few hours she would know all the truth.
In the meantime… “Dehaan,” he hollered as he entered the cottage overlooking the ocean. “Dehaan, come here!”
Dehaan bustled out of the small serving room at the back. He wasn’t grinning; he was too urbane for such a jubilant exhibition, but his eyes gleamed. “Ah, master, after so many years! At last! You’re looking happy this morning!”
“Yes, aren’t I?” Harry replied dryly. “Where’s my mother’s letter?”
“Your mother’s letter?” Dehaan pulled a long face. “The letter you told me you wished not to read?”
“That’s the one. Where is it?”
“You told me not to give it to you. You told me to burn it.”
Harry took a menacing step forward. “Where is it?”
Dehaan wisely scuttled away. “I will get it for you.” He plunged into the dressing room, then plunged out again. “Here.” He extended the folded, cream-colored sheets, sealed with wax and marked with the Countess of Granville’s ring.
Harry took them with a sigh, and weighed them in his hand.
“Will you dress now, my lord?” Dehaan asked eagerly.
“Yes.” Harry broke the seal.
“In your best.” Dehaan raced around like a small black beetle on a mission. “Black suit, maroon-striped waistcoat, black boots, sparkling white shirt!”
“Yes, fine.” Harry’s gaze fell on the first line of the letter. Dearest, most beloved of sons… Closing his eyes, he groaned. He knew from experience that the more effusive the greeting, the more he was going to hate the contents.
“Let me help you remove your boots,” Dehaan instructed, and pulled the scuffed boots from Harry’s feet. “Now step out of your trousers.”
Harry obeyed without paying a bit of attention. I have done the thing I should have bestirred myself to do many years ago. I have betrothed you to a lovely young lady.
“I’ll just bet you have,” he muttered.
“My lord?” Dehaan hesitated in the act of handing him the crisply pressed black pants.
“Give those to me.” Harry impatiently snatched them and donned them without ever releasing his grip on the letter. You met her once, she’s lovely, she’s demure and biddable—so his mother didn’t know Jessie at all—and she has a fortune, all the necessary components of a good wife. She is Lady Jessica Macmillian.
“Your shirt, my lord, if you please.” Dehaan helped Harry ease the rumpled shirt over his injured shoulder and off.
Now you may ask, why did your mother do such a thing without your consent?
Because, my dearest lad, you’re showing no signs of settling into the matrimonial harness.
“As if I were a horse to be bred,” Harry complained.