Page 19 of The Duke of Scandal

CHAPTER 12

Harriet ran blindly. Panic had her by the throat. Gravel crunched under her feet and the garden around her grew darker and darker as she ran further from the house. Eventually, she stopped. There were no torches in this part of the grounds, or servants bearing silver trays. The house loomed behind her, glittering like a crown, and emanating the sounds of merry-making. She was out of breath and put her hands to her knees, sucking in the air.

The moment replayed itself in her head. Had he grabbed her first? Had the rakish Duke tried to make her his next conquest? No, it had been all her. She had kissed him. Taken his face in her hands and kissed him. It was appalling. She had no right. Had it been the other way around, Harriet would have been outraged at being touched without her consent. It should be no different because it was a woman who initiated the contact.

Around her, shrubberies bordered flower beds. Scents from those flowers wafted in the air which also bore the tinkle of moving water from a nearby fountain. She had to think about what she would do next. Had to think calmly and clearly. The Duke had returned her embrace, had matched her passion. So, she was relatively sure that he would not be outraged. He had seemed to enjoy it. She certainly had.

Harriet was shocked at the thought. But there was no denying it. Edward Bolton was handsome and strong, while his kisses felt expert. The passion with which they were delivered was enough to set her pulse racing, even from the memory alone. She smoothed her dress, checking as best she could for any sign of marks or dirt from the encounter. She patted her hair and when she was satisfied that it seemed to have remained in place, began to walk back towards the house.

The walk was at a sedate pace, though the instinct was to run. She could not return home unless Simon sent for the carriage. That meant a forced return to the ball, a mask of smiles and good fellowship on her face, while inside she was in turmoil.

Hoping desperately that she would not encounter the Duke, and all the while secretly wanting to, Harriet eventually arrived at the steps which led up to the patio.

Reaching the top, the first face she saw was Eleanor.

“Harriet! Why, wherever have you been? And what on earth have you been up to?”

Harriet applied a fixed, polite smile. “I went for a walk in the gardens. I’m not the only one out here. Why so concerned?”

Eleanor stepped closer and pointed to an area of Harriet’s dress just beneath her chin. Harriet looked down and saw several spots of blood, marring the light blue and yellow fabric. It had been invisible to her in the dark and she had not been looking for marks so high up, being more concerned with dirt picked up from the ground or the bench. For a moment, her heart stopped and she gazed at the stains, dumbfounded.

“Oh, that is so silly. I had not noticed. I pricked myself on a thorn, some of the roses they have here are vicious things. I must have touched the dress before realizing I was cut. How bothersome! Is it very obvious?”

“It is rather. It is the first thing I saw,” Eleanor said. “I asked Lady Olivia if I could see the famous Wrexham Rose Garden, she told me it was locked up, a private part of the grounds not being shared with the guests.”

Eleanor was not looking at the blood but directly at Harriet.

“There must be other rose beds outside the Rose Garden,” Harriet said.

Eleanor didn’t look away or change her expression. Harriet did not think she believed the story but it didn’t matter. She now had the perfect excuse for leaving the house.

“Would you send for Simon, please? I do not wish to go back inside looking like this. I will take the carriage and return to Erdington. I can always send the driver back for the two of you,” Harriet said.

At that moment there was a heavy tread on the steps behind them. Harriet quickly moved aside, stopping behind a large piece of sculpture in the shape of an urn overflowing with fruit. Harriet did not dare look at who was climbing the steps, recognizing a man’s step, and praying it was not the Duke. A heavyset man carrying a glass of wine appeared, puffing and harrumphing from the climb.

Eleanor looked with curiosity at Harriet.

“My goodness, but aren’t you jumpy? Who did you expect?”

Harriet wished her cousin would just stop asking questions and prying. “No one in particular. Since you pointed out this stain, I really do not want to be seen by anyone. Could you please inform Simon of what is happening?”

She tried to keep her voice level and light but feared that some of the desperation was leaking through. Eleanor pursed her lips and then nodded.

“Of course, cousin. I would not want to be seen in that state either. I quite understand. I will send for him right away.”

She turned and glided away, in no apparent hurry, even stopping once or twice to pass pleasantries with other guests. Harriet fumed in her hiding place, keeping one hand to her chest to cover the spots of blood. Perhaps this was punishment for her wanton behavior, divine justice.

“Are you quite well, my dear?” came a voice from behind her.

Harriet whirled, barely suppressing a scream. Her nerves were taut, feeling as though they were stretched to the point of snapping. The speaker was the woman who had interrupted her first conversation with the Duke.

“You seem to be somewhat on edge. I do hope nothing untoward has happened?”

“No, nothing at all,” Harriet said.

“Did I hear something said about blood? Forgive me, I was taking the air and your conversation with Eleanor Worthingham carried. I am Lady Olivia Bolton.”

“Of course. Forgive me, Lady Olivia. My mother has spoken of you many times but I have not seen you since I was a child. I did not recognize you.”

---