Mary Brendan - Regency High Society Vol 1 - A Hasty Betrothal / A Scandalous Marriage / The Count's Charade / The Rake and the Rebel

The lake had been sunk many years previously and its banks were quite steep in parts. Both willow and aspen straddled the water’s edge and bulrushes grew in profusion. A small pavilion was situated on an island in the middle of the lake. This was reached, as far as Harriet could tell, by the rowing-boat that she could see tied up outside a boathouse on the far side of the lake and she began to make her way towards it along the path, which meandered around the lake.

Now shaded from the sun by the leafy branches of the trees on both sides of the path, she felt much cooler. Smiling at the sight of the mallard duck leading her almost-grown brood in stately procession across the water, she frequently strayed to investigate the various splashings and rustlings of other small water creatures exploring their habitat. These delays caused her to take much longer than she had intended but, when she eventually arrived at the boathouse, she was still determined to take just a little peek at the pavilion, judging that it would not take her many minutes to row the short distance to the island. She checked that the oars were in place and was beginning to untie the mooring-rope when she heard a cry. Startled, she looked around, fearing that she had, once more, broken some unwritten rule. The cry was repeated, this time louder and she realised that it was a cry of distress.

Someone was calling for help. Her eyes scoured the water and the banks, trying to identify the place from which the sound had come. Then she saw. A small boy, up to his waist in the water, was clinging to the roots of a willow tree that grew at the water’s edge. Picking up her skirts, she ran quickly along the path to the spot. She could see that the bank sloped steeply down into the murky water, which was thick with weeds. She could not tell how deep the water was at that point, but did not stop to consider it. Crawling on her knees, she edged her way downwards, stretching out a hand towards the grimy lad.

‘Reach forward,’ she said. ‘See if you can take my hand.’

‘Oh, miss—miss—I can’t do it,’ came the wailing reply. ‘I’m stuck fast in the mud.’

Harriet slithered further down, her hands on the roots of the tree and grabbed at the boy’s wrist. He suddenly jerked back and pulled himself away and, to her horror, disappeared beneath the surface. Scrabbling to regain her balance, she felt her body sliding sideways down the bank and, although she managed to keep hold of the tree root, she found herself up to her knees in the mud. Frantically, she looked about her for the child, who was nowhere to be seen, but a sudden sound from the water’s edge some distance to her right alerted her to the astonishing sight of a small, bedraggled figure climbing out of the lake and disappearing into the bushes.

‘What on earth … !’ Harriet exclaimed in rage, as she struggled to free herself, but, upon finding that her feeble attempts had merely caused her to lose one of her slippers, she held still and tried to apply her mind to her situation. Her feet were on firm enough ground as far as she could tell, but she could see nothing within her reach that would help her to extricate her legs from the mud’s tenacious grasp. She was eyeing the thin root she had managed to keep hold of, weighing up its ability to take any strain, when to her dismay she heard the sound of approaching hooves and then the unwelcome sight of the rider, Sandford himself, appeared on the path. He could not fail to observe her.

‘Good God!’ he exclaimed, reining in and leaping from his mount. ‘How has this happened? Here, take my hand …’ and, leaning his weight against the boll of the tree, he effortlessly hoisted Harriet to firm ground. She ignored the glimmer of laughter in his eyes as she tried, ineffectually, to sweep away the thick black mud from her clinging skirt.

‘You just can’t stay out of mischief, can you?’ he said, his grin widening.

‘This was not my doing,’ she said crossly. ‘Someone pulled me in. There was a young boy—I thought he was in trouble—but I slipped and he—he swam off and left me.’

Sandford regarded her with unconcealed amazement. ‘A boy? What boy?’ he said, looking about him.

Harriet stamped her unshod and mud-encrusted foot. ‘How dare you disbelieve me!’ she stormed. ‘I am not in the habit of telling lies! There was a boy, I tell you!’

Tears of fury began to prick her eyes, but she blinked them away and struck out at him with her muddied fists. He backed away quickly before she could touch him.

‘Whoa! Steady, there!’ He looked at her uncertainly. ‘We’d better get you back to the house before anyone sees you like that. Are you cold?’

Harriet shook her head, wearily controlling herself. ‘No, thank you. I will soon dry in the sun but—I have lost a slipper and it is a long walk back.’

‘I’m sure Pagan can cope,’ Sandford rejoined. Pulling a rolled-up blanket from his pannier, he wrapped it around her muddied skirts and proceeded to lift her effortlessly on to his saddle.

How tiny her waist is, he marvelled, holding her steadily as she attempted to find her balance. His senses quickened as he felt the vibrant warmth of her body through the thin muslin fabric. Warning signs immediately flashed in his brain. Abruptly, he withdrew his hold.

‘All set?’ he asked, with apparent cheerful unconcern. ‘See if you can steady yourself against the pommel. Hang on to Pagan’s mane.’

Harriet complied with his instructions in silence. Assuming that the viscount would climb up behind her, a mounting sensation of breathless confusion gripped her at the thought of the necessarily close physical contact.

Sandford had intended to ride with her but, for some unfathomable reason, now found that he was unable to trust himself with her tantalising nearness. He hesitated momentarily, then gathered the horse’s reins in his hands. ‘I’ll lead him in,’ he said, still feeling somewhat shaken. With a slight frown on his face he started back towards the house.

Harriet registered his hesitation and her heart seemed to shrivel, overwhelmed by feelings of humiliation and rejection. With difficulty she repressed these emotions as she tried to apply her concentration to keeping her seat and her replies to Sandford’s searching questions became curt and, for the most part, monosyllabic.

Sandford led his horse into the stableyard and Tiptree came running at the sound of his master’s voice. His eyebrows shot up at the sight of the dishevelled figure being helped down from Sandford’s mount, but he said nothing as he took the reins and the mud-stained blanket from the viscount.

‘Don’t put him away,’ Sandford instructed. ‘I shall need him again. Get Thunder saddled for yourself. I’ll be back presently.’ He escorted Harriet through the rear of the house to the foot of the staff staircase.

‘Come up this way,’ he said. ‘The kitchen staff will be at lunch. I’ll head off anyone who appears.’

Harriet reached her room unobserved and, as soon as she had closed the door behind her, she slumped down on to the nearest chair, regardless of the mess she was making, for she was utterly chagrined. What else could go wrong? she wondered. The morning had started so well and she had enjoyed her time with Beldale. The lakeside walk had been so pleasant until that incident. A puzzled frown creased her forehead. What was the meaning of it? It was no accident, of that she was convinced, but could see no point in what had occurred. Just a malicious prank? But, to what purpose? And, more infuriating, why had Sandford dismissed her story out of hand? Oh, if only her grandfather would reply to Lady Caroline’s letter! Harriet felt that she could no longer remain at Beldale under such a cloud and wondered if she could confide her troubles to Judith Hurst. In spite of Sandford’s instructions she was tempted to ask her new friend’s advice should a suitable opportunity arise.