Michelle Styles - Regency Bride - Hattie Wilkinson Meets Her Match / An Ideal Husband?

As she reached the rose garden, Portia hurtled into her, throwing her arms about her. ‘You will never guess who is here!’

Hattie disentangled herself from the hug and regarded her favourite niece who was four years younger than her sister, Livvy, and still far more interested in four-legged creatures than young men. Her pinafore had a series of smudges and a solitary wisp of hay clinging to the hem. Hattie knew despite her mother’s orders Portia had spent time in the stables, helping out.

She always kept a tit-bit in her pocket when Moth came to call. It was no surprise to Hattie that Moth had gone wandering off to find her treat, but a small part of Hattie wished she hadn’t and that she and Sir Christopher had remained under the cedar tree. Alone.

‘Sir Christopher and Mr Hook,’ Hattie answered, putting away all thoughts of kisses from Sir Christopher. It wasn’t going to start.

If she ever was attracted to any man again, it would be to someone who was steady, sober and scandal free, someone who was completely different from Charles Wilkinson. Not someone who lived and breathed sin. If Charles Wilkinson had a dark wild side which no one knew about until it was too late, then Sir Christopher was midnight-black wild through and through. She forgot that at her peril. Sir Christopher was not a man to be relied on. A man whose wit and conversation were to be enjoyed rather than to be thought of as a life’s partner.

‘Sir Christopher wanted to return my gloves from last night and Mr Hook came along for accompaniment.’

Portia’s plump face fell. ‘You knew? How!’

‘Aunts know these sorts of things. Little birds.’

‘I’ve the honour of being the little bird,’ Sir Christopher said, coming to stand by her, a bit closer than strictly proper. His stock was ever-so-slightly undone and she glimpsed the strong column of his throat. Hattie hurriedly pretended an interest in the roses. ‘Your aunt met me, Miss Portia, and kindly showed me the cedar of Lebanon’s location.’

Portia beamed back at Sir Christopher, her entire countenance lighting up under his voice’s spell.

‘There, you see,’ Hattie said, putting an arm about her niece’s shoulders and turning her away from Sir Christopher. ‘All is explained.’

‘How did you find the cedar tree, Sir Christopher? Does it approach the magnificence of your boyhood home or surpass it?’ her sister, Stephanie, called out from where she sat in the rose garden with a silver teapot by her side. On her other side perched Mr Hook, looking much like an overgrown schoolboy. Livvy appeared all young innocence in her light-blue muslin gown, but the tips of her ears glowed pink. Hattie hated to think how quickly that sort of innocence vanished.

‘I found what I was looking for, yes.’ Sir Christopher gave Hattie a searing look.

Hattie resisted the temptation to explore the renewed aching in her lips. No one could brand with just a look. She clenched her fists. She was not going to behave like a fool again. Heady romance was an illusion that she could ill afford.

‘I discovered Sir Christopher and kept him on the right path.’ Her voice squeaked on the word path. Hattie cleared her throat. ‘It was the charitable thing to do.’

Stephanie, who looked like an older and plumper version of Livvy, held out the gloves with a superior smile. ‘How clever of you to visit this morning, Hattie … particularly as Sir Christopher thought you’d be here. I wonder how that came about?’

A distinct air of accusation rang in Stephanie’s voice. She thought Hattie had arranged all this! Sir Christopher wore a smug expression as if it was precisely the outcome he’d hoped for. Hattie shifted uneasily. Why did he want anyone to think they had a flirtation? She could hardly be the type of woman with whom he generally flirted.

‘I’ll take possession of them. They have caused a great deal of trouble.’ Hattie plucked them from Stephanie. A faint scent of sandalwood caressed her nostrils. She hurriedly stuffed them in her basket. When she arrived back at the Dower House, she would put them in her bottom drawer, never to be worn again.

‘You really are too careless, Hattie. Those gloves were a gift . I spent hours getting those bows correct. First you mislaid them at the ball and then you place them in the basket all higgledy-piggledy.’ Stephanie carefully poured a cup of tea. ‘You were always the careless one of the family. When will you ever grow up and take responsibility for your actions?’

Sir Christopher cleared his throat. ‘I was grateful for the excuse to call.’

‘Will you and your godson be in the Tyne Valley long?’ Stephanie asked in a speculative tone.

‘It depends on a number of things.’

‘It will depend on Aunt Harriet, that is what Sir Christopher means,’ Portia said, bristling with self-importance.

‘What on earth are you talking about, Portia?’ Stephanie asked with an arched brow.

‘Aunt Harriet is in the midst of a flirtation with Sir Christopher,’ Portia burst out, her entire being quivering with excitement. ‘Last night in the card room at Summerfield as well as today beside the cedar. Livvy told me. She swore me to secrecy, but that’s why Sir Christopher kept the gloves. Why will no one tell the truth?’

‘Out of the mouths of babes,’ Sir Christopher said in a low tone.

‘Next time I want to go, Mama. Things happen at balls. Please, Mama. Pretty please.’

‘You are twelve, Portia,’ Livvy replied with crushing firmness. ‘You have years to wait.’

Portia stuck out her tongue.

‘Portia, you know it is wrong to repeat tales, particularly highly embroidered ones,’ Hattie said before either of her nieces uttered another damning phrase or their squabbling descended into all-out war. ‘Sir Christopher has returned the gloves and seen the famous tree. His time will be required elsewhere. Do not seek romance where there is none, young Portia.’

Sir Christopher showed no inclination to take her hint and to depart. If anything, he seemed to be amused at her discomfort. He sat down and accepted the cup of tea that Stephanie held out. ‘Fascinating place. Northumberland. My godson and I look forward to attending the Stagshaw Bank Fair.’

‘Oh, the fair. Of course, I should have guessed the reason for you being here.’ Her sister leant forwards. ‘Mrs Wrigglesworth said it true when we first heard of your arrival—Stagshaw Fair attracts all sorts of people. Everyone had wondered. But hopefully having seen the delightful entertainment Northumberland has to offer, you can be persuaded to stay longer.’

Hattie bit her lip. Stephanie was up to something. She could feel the sense of impending doom creeping up her spine. She dismissed it. Stephanie knew of Sir Christopher’s reputation. She’d never dare.

‘I’m sure Sir Christopher is fully capable of finding entertainment to occupy his time,’ Hattie said, seeking to end the discussion. ‘We mustn’t presume, Sister.’

‘My godson and I would be delighted to take a full part in the village life while we are here. The estate I inherited has been neglected for far too long. And the company is utterly charming.’ He inclined his head. The twinkle in his eyes deepened. ‘We should go for a picnic out to Stagshaw to see what it is like before the fair. A local guide would prove of great assistance.’ His voice became silken smooth. ‘Would tomorrow suit, Mrs Wilkinson?’

Hattie’s mouth went dry. There should be a thousand different reasons why she should refuse, but she heard herself say, ‘Tomorrow would be wonderful.’

‘Then it is all settled. Tomorrow at noon.’

‘We will all go.’ Hattie looked at Livvy, who suddenly straightened her back and blushed a violent pink at the hopeful glance Mr Hook gave her. Now that she knew Mr Hook was properly interested in making an honourable offer she was prepared to help. They did deserve a chance to get to know each other better, properly supervised. A picnic was hardly a debauched party. ‘Livvy and Portia love picnics. It will make for a splendid expedition. You were saying just the other day, Stephanie, how we ought to picnic more often now that the fine weather had arrived.’