She had escaped it so far, had rarely been forced to listen to others condemn her actions. If only she could bring a pistol to the dinner table; these days she found conversations far easier when they consisted of threats.
“Miss Groves?”
Warily, through her eyelashes, she gauged the major’s expression and found no suspicion there. Why would there be? She was Miss Groves, not a wanted criminal. I’ve made you a damned fool. With each word, gesture and glance, her strong will was unravelled. And I’m sorry for it. This was not what she had planned, this was – this was not her design. There had to be a way to achieve her aim and protect him in the process, to save him from humiliation. Tonight would have been far easier if she did not find him so interesting, so self-assured, so like herself.
Plus, he was rather nice to look at too.
Yes, she should have shot him when she’d had the chance. It would have saved her a greater grief.
“Major Roberts…” She trailed off, tongue darting out to wet her lips and conjure words to them. “Forgive me, for my earlier – ”
The dining room’s main door was slammed back on its hinges. A drunk young man stumbled through it, laughing obscenely, his fine clothes ruffled. Already, from where she sat, Harriet could smell the drink on him. The male dinner guests were on their feet and blocked the figure from view. He was shouting, raving, and when he spoke, Harriet’s sudden curiosity at the stranger’s identity was cruelly sated.
“Sister, dear Harriet,” said a blond man with similar features to her own, clutching the sideboard to remain upright, fingers skimming off and elbow making contact instead. “You’ve got… Look at you, all dressed up – who are these people? Wait, don’t tell me, I don’t care.”
Giddeon.
“You mustn’t say such things,” began Harriet, who glanced to her appalled Aunt Georgia. The young man should have been studying in Oxford, not here and certainly not drunk. “I mean, it’s good to see you, only – ”
“If it was, then you’d have invited me,” he slurred, stumbling round the room and grasping at stationary furniture as though it danced from his grasp the moment he neared it. “Where’s the wine?”
“I think you’ve had enough.”
“Giddeon,” Aunt Georgia said sharply, her guests appalled and amused in equal measure. “This certainly is an unexpected surprise.”
Harriet was soon at her brother’s side, attempting to stop him from toppling over, guiding him back to the door while embarrassment flamed in her cheeks. He was far stronger, despite his intoxication.
“I should’ve been invited, Harriet…”
“Now is not the time,” she replied hurriedly, struggling to stop him from toppling and bringing her down with him. Here it was, confirmation to all who knew them, that her brother was a wreck, a gambler, a drunk.
“It is never the time, is it? I – I need to talk to you, because father will not reply to my letters – not a single one, Harry.”
“Later,” she snapped, anger and shame boiling up inside. “We will talk later.”
Not here.
Not in front of them.
Not in front of him.
She had known he would ask for money and she could not have him voice it here and give weight to all the rumours that circulated about the Groves family. When one debtor crawled from the woodwork, others followed, and they would lose it all before she was able to secure it.
Giddeon was heavy and uncooperative, for Harriet’s brittle strength was not enough when he struggled against her. It was only when another presence joined them that the pathetic scene was ended and Harriet was able to hoist him up.
“God, thank you, I – oh.” Harriet’s humiliation was complete. “It’s you.”
Edward had gripped Giddeon’s other arm.
She spoke no further, teeth clacking together as she clenched her jaw. The pair quickly and efficiently pulled the limp man from the room, his shouting reduced to mumblings and then heavy breathing.
“The next floor,” instructed Harriet, as they manoeuvred Giddeon up the staircase with minor difficulty. “There is a guest bedroom.”
“Allow me.” Edward easily draped the drunk man across his shoulder, prompting a few curse words from Giddeon. “Is he usually like this?”
She shook her head, curls of hair escaping their pins as she followed. “Only since our mother died, a few years ago.”
Never once did Edward falter as he followed Harriet’s directions, before gently placing the man on a four-poster bed with more care than he deserved. It was a stuffy room that was in desperate need of airing, rarely used, though clean. A lamp, set down by Harriet, offered enough light to see by and painted their shadows against the patterned walls.
“Major, you didn’t need to step in,” began Harriet, shifting to the window with light steps. She busied herself with the latch to avoid facing the soldier, though her fingers fumbled and she bruised a knuckle on the fastenings. “But thank you, for – for helping him.”
It was growing increasingly difficult to hate Edward when he was being gentlemanly and courteous.
With a shaky exhalation, she confessed, “I have been more than unkind to you, sir.”
“You have,” Edward replied bluntly.
“It was unfair of me.”
“Yes, it was.”
She could feel his strong presence behind her and she closed her eyes, groping around in her skull for the right words to say. “I am sorry for it now.”
At the sound of his approach Harriet stilled, breath catching in her throat like shrapnel. His hands found her shoulders and she could feel the heat he radiated. Edward’s movements were slow and hesitant, as if asking permission, and she gave it without thinking, leaning back until his rigid, unyielding form was pressed against her, stubble brushing against her ear.
For all the dangers Harriet courted, this was another altogether – and she welcomed it. In the servant’s halls she’d heard about military men and their reputations, knew they were easy with their affections and that suited her well, for she could never truly return them; she was not one for a stable relationship, a binding marriage. This was a jump into an unknown world that would pull the ground from under her feet and just as easily place a grave there.
But this – the scarred hands along her arms, teeth upon her neck, hot breath in her hair – she could manage. Harriet shifted, twisted round, angled her mouth upwards, but she never made contact.
“It’s hard to fathom you,” he said, the words a rasp against her cheek. “Who are you, Miss Groves?”
The spell was broken; she drew back.
It was the way he said it, soft, easy, almost loving. She had never wanted to be a cruel person – then again, she had never wanted to be a criminal either – but this was cruel. To string him along, to manipulate his feelings like this after all she knew, all she’d done, was a game she could not play.
“I do not want to be fathomed, sir,” she managed to reply, tensing up, pushing her palms against his chest. “I only wish to be left alone.”
“I don’t understand.”
Edward’s hands stayed on her arms, rough against her smooth skin.
“Whatever it is you’re looking for, Major Roberts,” she said gently, but firmly, eyes down and unable to meet his, “it is not here.”
He released her. The absence of him against her