Hattie Wilkinson Meets Her Match. Michelle Styles

      He forced a smile. ‘I’m sure it shall. Anyway, I was invited along with Rupert to the ball, but I found I needed time alone to reflect, particularly as they had played a reel that I remember from the Duchess of Richmond’s ball. I went to the card room for a few moments and found a book. You know what happened next.’

      ‘I’m sorry for not believing you.’ She took a step closer to him. Her dark-red lips softly parted.

      ‘It doesn’t matter.’ He knew he lied. It mattered more than he wanted it to. ‘It is in the past. I rarely think about the past.’

      ‘It was my fault. I rushed away from the dance floor,’ she whispered, putting her hand on his arm. ‘We should have had the second dance. I would have if … if I’d realised about your past.’

      ‘Never do something because you feel sorry for a person.’ He covered her hand with his. Their breath laced. He knew that all he had to do was to lean forwards a few inches and her mouth would yield. He was surprised that he wanted to. But for the lesson in flirtation to be complete, the movement needed to come from her. He’d be magnanimous in the lecture which he gave her later.

      ‘Aunt Hattie, Aunt Hattie! I know you are here. Moth found me. We have visitors! You will never guess. Livvy has an admirer!’ a young voice called.

      Mrs Wilkinson jumped back and her cheeks flamed bright red. ‘I need to see my niece. You do understand the propriety of the thing.’

      Kit forced his hands to his sides. His little lesson in flirtation was proving more enjoyable than he’d considered. He would see where the game led. ‘No one is preventing you.’

       Chapter Three

      Hattie picked up her skirts and ran to the rose garden, not daring to look behind her and see if Sir Christopher was following. If Portia hadn’t shouted, she would have kissed him. Her lips ached with longing. It went against everything she had promised herself and yet she didn’t feel ashamed, only disappointed. The next time … Hattie stopped and pressed her fingers to her temples. There would be no next time. Sir Christopher had explained why he was in the card room. The matter was finished. She’d survived. Hattie picked up speed as if the devil himself was after her.

      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,