Was he mocking her? She must have sounded lonely, like an old maid with no one but seven cats to talk to. After all, Brookes certainly wasn’t her confidant. Harriet gave herself a brisk mental shake.
They continued slowly down the hill. Harriet halted, regaining her sense of decorum as they neared the cottage door. “My sister is away from home this afternoon, Captain. She is visiting a friend in Riber. But if you would care to call tomorrow, she will be home.”
“I shall be delighted to see all of your family. Until then?” He released her arm and touched his fingers to his brow in a brief salute.
“Until then, Captain.” She bobbed a curtsy.
He led his horse to the mounting block in front of the cottage, levering himself into the saddle with ease. But then, she reminded herself, he had made a career in the saddle and would always ride well, wooden leg or no. He clicked his tongue and the horse sauntered off, switching its tail. Harriet gazed after him, aware that a brief niggle of jealousy was working its way down her spine. Sophie possessed beauty that caused strangers to turn and stare, and a graceful manner that inspired poets. Harriet never resented her little sister. On the contrary, Sophie’s loveliness inspired pride. But now she held the heart of a man like Captain Brookes. Why, Sophie had everything—and she had nothing.
Chapter Two
Brookes shifted in the saddle, breathing deeply of the damp grass as he headed home. The first hurdle lay behind him. The visit went much better than expected. Nervousness flowed away from him. No, indeed. In point of fact, he had enjoyed his conversation with Miss Harriet more than he’d first imagined.
Had she changed so much in the space of just a few years? Brookes remembered her as a spinster, a bluestocking, forever locked in her father’s library. Sophie had captured his interest and later his heart with her bright beauty. Long golden ringlets, large blue eyes that twinkled with merriment, full rosy lips kissed with a dimple on each cheek—Sophie was the acknowledged beauty not only of the Handley family, but of Matlock Bath.
And yet…
An image of Harriet’s dark blue eyes, fringed with sooty lashes, flashed across his mind. He could still smell her scent—violets, was it? And something else, purely feminine—mingled with the late summer breeze. Some women grew harder as the years passed, especially women who were forced to live in poverty. But Harriet had blossomed. Now, she was a truly lovely woman.
And she spoke intelligently, too. Hers was not the silly prattle that other young ladies might attempt, frivolous girls like—well, like Sophie. Harriet’s conversation had spice to it—reminiscent of the gingerbread cookies that Cook used to make when he was a boy. When you devoured one, the ginger burned your tongue and made your eyes water a bit, but you couldn’t resist eating another, and then another. Refreshing, that’s what Harriet was.
He cleared his throat, which caused Talos to prick up his ears. It didn’t matter a whit what Harriet had become in his absence. His thoughts lingered on her and he still discerned her violet scent simply because he had been away from women so long. That was all there was to it. He should concentrate solely on pretty Sophie, his intended. If his visit with Harriet foretold anything, it was that Sophie was as beautiful as ever. That was all he needed to focus on. He would see her tomorrow, and within a year, they would be wed.
Suddenly tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough. Brookes kicked Talos into a canter, speeding toward the elaborate gates that marked his estate. He might ask Cook if she still had the family gingerbread recipe, and if she would bake a few. For old times’ sake.
The next day, rain streamed from a leaden sky. Sophie, still clad in her chemise while dithering between two gowns, pounced on Harriet for the millionth time that morning.
“He’ll never make it. Not in this weather. Oh, Harriet!”
“Stop, Sophie. A little rain won’t deter a man like Brookes. He slogged through the mud at Waterloo, you know. A sprinkle won’t keep him from you.”
“Is Brookes still handsome? Did he say he missed me?”
“Silly goose, he couldn’t have said that to me. But yes, he is handsome. More so, I think. The war made him…” Harriet cast about for the right word. “Distinguished.”
“And…his leg?”
“He limps a little, but I did not discern any real change in him. He still rides better than anyone in the county. If anything, Sophie dear, the war has improved him. He’s not so rowdy or childish anymore. He is a man now.” Heat flamed in her cheeks. She sounded too approving, betraying her careful study of his character.
Sophie’s eyes sparkled with mirth. “I am not used to hearing praise about young men from you.”
“So few young men deserve it.” Harriet pursed her lips, assuming a spinsterly manner to cover up for her earlier warmth. “Now, for goodness’ sake, go and finish dressing. You must be ready for his arrival. I’ll go sit with Mama in her room, and make sure she is all right.” With a gentle shove, Harriet sent her sister back down the hallway to the room they shared, then turned toward Mama’s bedchamber.
Harriet knocked softly on the door, but Mama slept. She leaned over and kissed her mother’s smooth brow. Harriet drew a chair close beside the bed and pulled out the shawl she was knitting for the winter. Perhaps she should change into a prettier dress, too? No, it was Sophie’s afternoon to shine. Captain Brookes would only have eyes for Sophie.
She glimpsed a movement out the window and spotted the captain picking slowly down the hill on his black horse. She sprang from her chair, heart hammering like a bird beating its wings against a cage. Compose yourself, she scolded silently. Tiptoeing across the room, she slipped through the doorway.
“Sophie? Sophie darling, he is here.” She dared not raise her voice, for fear of waking Mama.
Her sister collided with her at the top of the stairs. “You meet him, open the door—I can’t!” Sophie whispered fiercely. She stayed rooted on the landing, out of sight of the entry hall.
Harriet inhaled deeply to calm her nerves, but still jerked the door open with a lightning-fast motion. Captain Brookes, hand poised to knock on the door, fell back a step in astonishment. “C-Come in, Captain,” Harriet stammered.
He wore a heavy greatcoat that emphasized his broad shoulders, his Hessians still polished to a gleam even after the long ride from Brookes Park. Harriet opened the door wider, casting a tentative smile his way when he crossed the threshold. He stood in the hall, raindrops rolling down in rivulets from the brim of his hat, and gazed up. Sophie stood on the landing. How beautiful Sophie was, her lovely curls tucked up and glowing like a burnished cloud of gold in the dim hallway light. But when Sophie’s gaze fell on Captain Brookes, the color drained from her face. Two bright red patches glowed on her cheeks.
Why was Sophie behaving so strangely? Why did she stand so still on the landing? She must be in shock—of course, that was the only answer. To cover for Sophie, Harriet sprang into social action. “Please, Captain,” she burst out, in a voice a shade too loud. “Let me have your hat and coat. I’ll spread them out so they can dry by the fire.”
Captain Brookes, rooted in place beside the door, started at the sound of Harriet’s voice and tore his gaze away from Sophie. He allowed Harriet to guide him into the parlor, where a fire burned brightly.
“Sophie dear,
