Katie MacAlister: The Trouble With Harry

“No, there weren’t,” Harry said, slapping his leg with his riding crop as he looked around the quiet inn yard. “Not a single blessed one of them would do. Most of them were too young, a few were of the right age, but lacked the mental capacity I seek in a wife. I don’t expect her to be a genius, but I must have a woman I can converse with, one who has an interest in books and current events and such.” Harry noted a very pretty woman hurrying into the inn, the bottom six inches of her dark red gown covered in mud and filth as if she’d been tramping through the woods. “The remaining two qualified applicants were, to put it finely, a little on the homely side.”

“You said that you weren’t requiring your wife to be toothsome, sir.” Although the words were subservient, the tone was most defi nitely chastising.

“Toothsome, no, but I’d like to be able to look at her without thinking of bulldogs. One of the women today had a great hairy wart right in the middle of her forehead. I couldn’t stop staring at it. No matter where I looked, my gaze ended up back on her forehead. I couldn’t possibly have a wife whose forehead held such an unwholesome fascination for me. That woman who scampered into the inn just now — she’s the sort I’m looking for. Not beautiful, but pleasing, soft on the eyes, with a delicate oval face and lots of”—Harry made a gesture with both hands that was universally understood by all men over the age of fourteen—“curves. Why couldn’t one of my women have been like her? I don’t think that’s asking for too much.”

Thor charged out of the stable, snorting like a steam engine, his ears back as he hauled a young stable boy behind him. Harry grabbed the reins with the ease of long practice, thumped the horse on the shoulder in an affectionate greeting, and flipped the boy a coin before mounting the fiery bay. “Hurry up, Temple, I’ve a desire to get home before the children bring the house down about their ears.”

“Just coming, sir,” Temple said, looking warily at the new mare Harry had purchased to replace his old mount. The mare bared her teeth and narrowed her eyes at him. Just as he was about to take his life into his hands and climb into the saddle, a feminine cry reached his ears.

“Mr. Harris? Sir?”

Harry turned to watch as the curvaceous woman in the well-used red gown hurried out of the inn, her skirts held up with one hand as she dashed across the muddy yard. He admired the flash of ankle for as long as was gentlemanly (far too short a time since the woman dropped her skirts as she reached them).

“Mr. Harris?”

Temple turned his back on the mare as he faced the woman, an error Harry was about to rectify when it occurred to him that the woman must be the missing last applicant. He eyed her again, closer this time, appreciating not just her pretty face with cheeks bright with exercise but the raven-black hair that was visible beneath her bonnet, the slash of black eyebrows across her brow, and two dark eyes that had an appealing, almost exotic tilt to them. To Harry’s great mortification, he became instantly and fully aroused. Clamping the reins under his knee, he pulled his jacket off and laid it across his lap in what he hoped was a suitably nonchalant it’s-a-bit-hot-out-today manner.

“Mr. T. Harris? I’m Frederica Pelham. I apologize for being so late, but I lost my way a few times and had to ask for directions.”

The woman was speaking to Temple, having given him a glance that took in more of his horse than him. Harry wished he could dismount and speak to her, but his reaction to the sight of her had left him in the unenviable position of having to remain astride Thor. The thought of her noticing his bulging breeches had the unexpected (and lamentable) effect of making him even harder.

“I’m not too late, am I? You haven’t…er…filled the position?”

She caught her lower lip between her teeth, clearly worried and anxious. Harry wondered why such an attractive woman should be so desperate for a husband. She had no warts, no physical imperfections that he could see, and her voice was educated and well-spoken.

Temple cleared his throat and glanced toward him. Harry shook his head, then remembered he couldn’t stand before the woman with his breeches nigh to bursting, and nodded. Temple looked confused. “Er—”

“No, you’re not too late,” Harry said, fully enjoying receiving the attention of those dark, velvety eyes as they turned upon him. “Mr. Harris is my man of affairs. I am the one who is looking for a wife.”

“Oh, I see.” the woman said, and eyed him just as curiously as he had been examining her. She didn’t appear to find anything objectionable about him, although she must have wondered why he was so ill bred as to remain on horseback, sitting in his shirtsleeves while speaking with her. He damned his own lack of control, and decided that the interview would have to be conducted quickly.

“We were about to return home, but if you don’t mind answering a few questions here, I’m sure we can have this business over with quickly. You said your name was Pelham?”

She made an odd sort of flinching movement, but lifted her chin and stared him straight in the eyes while answering. “Yes, sir. Frederica Pelham, although my friends call me Plum.”

His eyebrows rose. “Plum?”

“For Pelham. It’s a pet name, you see. My father used to call me Plum. He was Sir Frederick Pelham, of Nottingham.”

Daughter of an impoverished baronet, no doubt. She had a niceness about her that did not allow her to look on him with scorn despite the fact that he was insulting her by remaining on his horse.

“Do you read, Miss Pelham?”

She looked startled by that question, but recovered quickly enough, although her high color remained. “When I have the opportunity to, yes.”

“Ah. Good. I have a large library.” Harry considered her, trying to separate the lustful urgings of his body from the less earthy desires of his mind.

“Do you?” Plum asked politely, reaching out to pat Thor’s long face. Harry grabbed the reins from under his knee, about to pull Thor back lest the stallion snap at her, but was surprised when his high-strung horse not only allowed her to caress his ears but bumped his nose into her, searching her person for treats. Plum laughed, a low throaty laugh that Harry found utterly sensual and erotic, a sound that seemed to stroke his skin, leaving him harder than ever, unable to keep from visualizing her lying in his bed, surrounded by all that glossy black hair, laughing that sultry laugh.

“He likes you,” Harry said as he dragged his mind back to the present.

“He probably knows how fond I am of horses. He’s very handsome. What’s his name?”

“Thor. Do you ride?”

A wistful look flickered through her eyes as she gave Thor one last pat, then gently pushed his head away. “I love to ride, but haven’t had the chance to in a long time.”

A very impoverished baronet’s daughter, Harry amended. Still, possession of a fortune was not one of the qualifications for his wife. Thus far, Plum had exceeded every expectation he had — there was just the one remaining. “Er…how do you feel about children?”

“Oh, I love them,” she said, her eyes lighting up, their midnight depths soft and compelling.

Harry could not help but believe her, as the truth shone like sunlight on a still pond within her dark eyes. He allowed himself a silent sigh of relief as he moved uncomfortably in the saddle, then waved toward Temple. “Just so. I see no reason that you will not suit. I must…er…return home. Temple will take down your particulars. Have you an objection to marrying the day following tomorrow?”

Plum didn’t even bat an eyelash. Harry wanted to smile, but knew in his present uncomfortable state, it would be likely to come out a pained grimace. There are few things that became a bridegroom less than grimacing at his bride-to-be.