Page 147 of The Ladies Least Likely

Harriette squinted through the shade of an overarching tree to see who had addressed her. It was no less than Lady Cranbury, one of the ton’s reigning hostesses. Beside her stood Lady Bessington, casting a benign smile Harriette’s way and sparing a curious glance for Amalie.

Behind them trailed the girl Harriette had spotted sitting alone in the row of rout chairs at Lady Renwick’s soiree, a sternly beautiful dark face in a room of pale English blooms. The girl watched Harriette with a frank stare.

“Lady Cranbury. Lady Bessington.” Harriette grappled for her composure and sank into a curtsey, pulling Amalie along with her. “Oh. Er. This is Lady Amalie, Renwick’s sister. How do you do?”

Lady Cranbury had never deigned to notice, much less address her. And now these doyennes of the London scene, these pillars of Polite Society, were giving Harriette their full attention.

“We are very curious to hear how one goes from being plain Miss Harriette Smythe to Lady Harriette, daughter to the Duchess of Lowenburg,” Lady Cranbury simpered.

She wore a set of wide panniers that held out the sides of her fashionable gown, in the style à la anglaise, and her face was painted as white as her hair powder.

“You must pay me a call and tell us precisely how this elevation came to be. I know—I shall send you an invitation to my converzatione next week. A very small gathering, only the best people. You must come.”

Harriette’s head whirled at the strangeness of Lady Cranbury, one of the town’s most hard to please sentinels, classing her among the best people. She would pinch herself if it wouldn’t look gauche.

“And I would have you at one of my salons as well,” said Lady Bessington. “We speak of the usual things, politics, philosophy, art. We would be very interested in having you speak sometime, if you wish, on the growing power of Prussia and the ambitions of Frederick the Great.”

“But I am not the least bit qualified—that is to say, I know so little—and I—er, am to be married soon, and…” Harriette clung to Amalie for dear life, trying to order her thoughts.

Behind Lady Cranbury, the plain-gowned companion watched Harriette with a sharp, intelligent eye, listening to every word.

“I am grateful and honored for your attentions, my ladies,” Harriette finally managed in a breathless rush. “I should like nothing more than to attend you.”

If only she weren’t leaving London tomorrow with no notion of when she might return.

She had finally, finally been offered her entrée into society’s most elite circles—precisely what she had wanted from Ren when she climbed the tree to his balcony—and she had a ticket on a coach to leave London the next morn.

Leaving these invitations. Leaving everything.

Leaving Ren.

The hollow ache in her middle grew more acute as Ren disengaged from his coterie and came behind Harriette and Amalie. “Wah-Lady Cranbury. Lady Be-Bessington. You have met my—my sister?” he asked, tipping his hat in deference.

Lady Cranbury stared at him with the strangest petrified look, her eyes darting to his chest, his legs, his chin—anywhere but his face. Her companion leaned forward, giving Ren a full assessment. Lady Bessington smiled a small, amused smile, then turned a kind face on Amalie.

“Are you enjoying your time in London, Lady Amalie? I suppose it is strange to find your brother the latest on-dit . Those prints are quite striking,” she said, with an arched brow at Harriette.

Oh, Lord. Harriette wished a tree might fall on her.

Lady Bessington knew she was the maker of those prints.

Everyone knew she was the maker of those prints, including the gentlemen still posturing and preening in her wake.

It was best for all concerned that she was leaving London.

She would send Ren his finished portrait, and with luck, its display would prove she was a talented artist in truth, not just a producer of racy sketches.

It would avail her little, but perhaps it would redeem him.

“Renwick.” The rouge on Lady Cranbury’s cheeks stood out. “I must introduce you to my grand-niece Louisa. She is staying with me for the summer, and I cannot think you will meet a lovelier girl. The two of you might go on very well together.”

Harriette nearly choked on her jealousy.

Lady Cranbury, proposing her grand-niece as a prospective bride for anyone less than a duke?

It was no secret she had tried desperately to throw Louisa at the Duke of Devonshire’s head.

If the formidable, dour, disapproving Lady Cranbury suddenly regarded Ren as an eligible parti for her grand-niece, it was because of Harriette.

Because Harriette had shown everyone— everyone —his attractions.

“Oh, indeed, Renwick!” Harriette forced a bright, false tone. “What a lovely suggestion. You must call on Miss Louisa at once.”

The look he sent her said he wished to do such a thing even less than she wished him to do it. Lady Cranbury preened.

“We shall look forward to your call. You, girl, come along. Bess?” She sailed down the Grand Walk, towing her silent servant in her wake. Lady Bessington gave Harriette one last, considering look before she moved away.

“Lady Amalie, that is a most fetching muff. Lady Harriette—good day.”

Amalie let out a small whoosh of air and sagged against Harriette once they had left. “Well, that was terrifying,” she muttered. “I’m as limp as a noodle.”

“But you see they did not notice a thing,” Harriette said. “You look like every other girl here.”

“You finally have the invitation you wa-wanted, Rhette.” Ren looked down at her with darkened eyes.

“And you have the admiration of every girl here.” Harriette met his gaze, triumph warring with the longing to stake her own claim upon him. “Didn’t I promise I would make you more popular than the Graf von Hardenburg?”

“I should like to go home now,” Amalie said in a shaky voice. “I am afraid all my makeup will melt off my face, and this muff is exceedingly warm. Are all fashionable amusements this fatiguing?”

Ren took his sister’s arm to guide her down the Grand Walk toward the gates, and Harriette followed behind, keeping an eye out for Jack and Beater, trying not to dwell on the fine figure the two attractive siblings made.

Her last moments with Ren were approaching, and she wanted to draw out the time as long as she could.

All too soon they stood again before the gate of the garden of Renwick House.

Jock and Beater assisted Amalie into the house with all the pomp and fuss as if she were Queen Charlotte.

Harriette faced Ren beneath the dogwood tree, the mate to the one at the front corner of the house, the one she had climbed to his balcony.

In the warm shade his eyes were pools of indigo, and while the tree had passed the full bloom of spring, the scent hung thick in the air, somewhere between blossom and fruit. So was this between them destined to be: a warm beginning full of promise that they could not follow to its fruition.

She had her sketchbook and porte crayon in her pocket, as always, but she left them there. She drank him in with her eyes, memorizing his features to paint later, capturing them for herself alone. He gazed steadily back at her, his expression full of more than she could understand.

“I should like to know what you wrote to me,” she said. “Your sister said she found letters you never sent.”

“I didn’t suppose your mother would ever allow a young man to correspond with you. Or your school mistress, either.”

She moved closer to him, emboldened by the quiet of the natural space that dampened the bustle of the fashionable square beyond, by the memory of the women clinging and cooing in the pleasure gardens. By the deep, steady pull she always felt for him.

“No, they wouldn’t have allowed it. But there is no such interference now.”

He closed his eyes briefly and his hand slipped alongside her face, his thumb tracing the curve of her cheekbone. She leaned her head into his palm, into his warm, capable strength. She was no more able to keep from lifting her face toward his than she was able to halt the orbit of the sun.

His kiss was slow and exploratory, hesitant in a way none of his previous kisses had been.

She savored the taste of him, the warm tart they had shared at the pleasure gardens, an earthy rasp that reminded her of whiskey but that she suspected was all him.

He smelled of summer breeze and bleached linen and a spicy, elusive trace of sweat, no doubt brought on by all the strangers’ eyes upon him.

With a low throaty moan she melted against his body, chest, hips, thighs, all that strong splendid muscle.

He groaned in response and clamped his arms about her, his tongue delving into her mouth until her breath came short and her head whirled. Nothing existed but sensation and need, the intoxication of pressing this close to him, the eager, aching desire to be joined with him completely.

She gasped as he dragged her up against his body and her thighs met the firm evidence of his shared need.

She rode the fullness of him, rubbing herself through the layers of fabric against that part of him that she wanted to draw deep inside her, claiming him as her own.

She pulled at her skirts, trying to lessen the pesky barriers of silk and linen, when Ren went completely still.

She gasped for breath as he lifted his head. Her eyes took a moment to focus.

“What?” she panted, slipping a hand behind his neck. “What’s wrong.”

“We c-c-can’t.” His face held shock, longing, the same agony of unfulfilled passion that she felt. “I—” He set her away from him, peeling her off his body, averting his eyes. His voice was a husky rasp. “I c-c-c?—”

She didn’t press for more. From the way his jaw worked, his lips clamped together, she knew he was fighting to form words. She wanted to cry but she would not, could not shame him nor herself.

He didn’t want her. The shock was an icy splash that stunned her.

Ren was done with her .

Another rejection. Well, she was accustomed to that, wasn’t she?

“Of course.” She pushed at her skirts until they fell back into place. She tugged up the bodice of her gown that she hadn’t noticed until now had been shoved down by his hot, questing hands. She trembled with desire and humiliation.

“I-I—” His eyes flickered with misery and desperation.

“I know.” She wanted to turn and flee, howling, but she also wanted a proper goodbye. “I’m leaving. But—will you ever send me those letters?”

He shook his head. The shadow of the tree hid the expression that crossed his face, something she had never seen before, not for her. “Th-th-that’s over. P-p-past.”

He’d never stammered with her before. Now his stutter was here in full force, and he sucked air as if his lungs were empty. Harriette closed her eyes against the rush of pain.

She wasn’t special anymore. She was just another woman who terrified him.

And why would he dally with her when he now knew he could aim as high as he wanted—when any woman he looked at would fall willingly into his arms?

The future was opening up for the Earl of Renwick, while hers was closing to something dark and dreaded.

“I know,” she said again. She didn’t want him to see her bewilderment, the pain of his rejection. Her pride would sustain her to the end. “Goodbye, Ren.”

She turned and plunged through the garden gate to the mews and her coach waiting beyond, not waiting for his answer, unable to hear if he called after her. She was lying to herself. Nothing in her life had hurt more than leaving behind the man she loved and knowing she might never see him again.

She refused to look back. She didn’t need one last glimpse of him. George Matheson, the Earl of Renwick, was emblazoned into her brain for perpetuity.