Michelle Styles - Hattie Wilkinson Meets Her Match

‘I’d like that, Sir Christopher. True friendship is beyond price.’

‘Kit. We are friends and intimates, Hattie.’ His voice rolled her name.

‘Very well, Kit.’ Even saying his first name seemed intimate and wicked as if she was slowly but inexorably sliding towards the sort of woman who did indulge in serious flirtations. ‘It took me three months before I dared think of my husband by his first name, let alone call him by it.’

‘Then it is just as well that I’m not your husband.’

‘Until tomorrow.’ Hattie hated the way her blood leapt. She could stop any time she wanted. Going on a picnic did not mean she was going to become his mistress. It took more than a solitary picnic to ruin a reputation.

Kit made certain that he gave the appearance of relaxing back against an oak tree as he finished his share of the picnic, but his entire body was intensely focused on where Hattie Wilkinson sat, blithely eating strawberries. Her hair today was in a loose crown of braids with a few tendrils kissing the back of her neck.

The picnic had been far more pleasant than he’d anticipated. The conversation with Mrs Wilkinson had ranged from a mutual admiration of Handel and loathing of sopranos who added trills to arias to the games of chess and cricket. Mrs Wilkinson, he discovered, was a keen bowler and took pride in her ability to take wickets.

Having concluded the debate about the correct way to bowl off-side, Mrs Wilkinson reached for the few remaining strawberries in the dish.

‘How did you guess I adored strawberries? Normally Livvy or Portia eat their fill before I get a chance to have more than one.’

‘Another reason to be pleased you came without them.’ Kit pushed the dish towards her. He’d nearly accomplished his mission. Mrs Wilkinson had blossomed. Perhaps it was as simple as her needing to understand that life went on without her husband. He hoped the man had deserved her devotion. He wondered how any woman could be so devoted? He doubted if any woman would shed real tears for him. Crocodile tears because he was no longer picking up the bills, but not real ones that came from deep within.

‘One more, then.’

‘You mustn’t be shy. Take as many as you want. They are begging to be eaten.’

‘When you put it that way, how can I refuse?’ She gave a quick laugh and brought a berry to her mouth. Her teeth bit into it and the juice dribbled, turning her lips bright red. Kit silently handed her a handkerchief and indicated towards her chin.

She hastily scrubbed her face. ‘Honestly, you would think after all these years I’d learn. How long has it been that way?’

‘Long enough. You look delightful.’ He leant back against the tree, put his hands behind his head and savoured the moment. ‘This picnic is supposed to be about enjoyment.’

‘And you think eating strawberries in the sunshine is a suitable pastime?’

‘None better.’ He shifted so his legs were stretched and struggled to remember the last time he had felt so content. There again, he found it difficult to remember the last time he had taken a woman on a picnic. The women in his life were far more inclined towards intimate late-night suppers, silken sheets and expensive presents. He had rarely wanted to talk to any of them about matters beyond the bedroom.

With Hattie Wilkinson, he wanted to hear her views. He enjoyed debating with her and disconcerting her in order to win.

A tiny frown appeared between her brows. ‘I would have thought a man with your sort of reputation …’

‘Simple pleasures are the best ones.’ He reached across and popped the last strawberry into her mouth.

She half-closed her eyes and a look of supreme pleasure crossed her face. ‘Those are exceptionally good strawberries. Don’t you agree, Mr Hook?’

Full of more than his fair share of cold game pie, watercress sandwiches, fruit cake and elderflower cordial, Rupert sat with his head in a book about newts, mumbling about amphibians and their feeding habits and ignoring Hattie’s attempts to bring him into the conversation. Mrs Hampstead, Hattie’s housekeeper, likewise ignored the conversation and knitted.

It would be easy to do this every day.

Kit inwardly smiled at the thought—the great bon vivant Sir Christopher Foxton indulging in rustic pleasures. He could imagine the caustic remarks. He should end the flirtation now, before he was tempted to enjoy it or, worse still, repeat it and start to count on it. Counting on women for anything beyond the basics was a bad idea. He’d learnt that bitter lesson long ago. His mother had turned her elegant back on him and never attempted to make contact with him after she left.

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