How to Treat a Lady by Karen Hawkins Page B

something appropriate.”
    She looked over her shoulder. “Appropriate?”
    â€œFor a limping, wealthy sea captain from the Indian Seas.” Chase flashed her a grin. “I’ve got an interview with a banker.”

Chapter 7
    Pride is the most persistent, most stalwart, most infuriatingly stubborn passion of all. But then you St. Johns already know that.
    Viscountess Brandford to her friend, Mr. Devon St. John while playing a game of billiards (which her ladyship promptly won)
    H arriet rushed downstairs, her heels slapping the worn wooden steps. She was glad to get out of the sickroom. The handsome stranger was certainly sure of himself, the braggart. Harriet hopped off the bottom step and glanced at herself in the mirror.
    Good heavens! How had her hair gotten into such a tangle? An instant image of herself sprawled over the lap of their guest flashed into her mind, heating her cheeks. Harriet met her own gaze in the mirror as she tugged out a pin and tried to fix her curls where they stuck out at odd angles.
    â€œBlasted man,” she muttered aloud. It was all his fault. Had he been a gentleman and not treated her as if she was a flirtatious upstairs maid or a loose woman intent on seducing him, then Mother neverwould have found them in such a compromising position.
    Not that he’d cared. He’d seemed rather amused by it all, the wretch. What was worse was that Harriet had almost been swayed by his wide smile and mischievous blue eyes.
    But as much as Harriet resented the stranger, she preferred his company to Mr. Gower’s. Harriet didn’t like the man one bit. Only slightly more advanced in years than Harriet herself, Mr. Gower acted much, much older. He’d first come to Garrett Park three years ago, when the bank had employed him. He’d been rude, demanding, and thoroughly annoying.
    Mrs. Maple, the housekeeper, came out of the sitting room, an empty plate in one hand. “Ye’d best get in there afore he asks fer another scone. I’ve none left, and there’ll be naught fer it but to give him the Sunday loaf if he requests more. He’s already eaten all of our apple tarts, too!”
    Wonderful. Not only had the unpleasant banker come to disrupt the entire family, but he was nibbling his way through their pantry like some huge, overstuffed mouse. Harriet wondered if perhaps that was why she always felt so uneasy around Mr. Gower—he seemed inordinately greedy. The man was a swine; there were times when he looked at Harriet in such a way that it made her feel as if she was a particularly fat acorn and he a huge pig.
    â€œI’ll make certain he leaves soon,” Harriet said firmly, hoping it would be that easy. She smoothed her skirts and patted her collar back into place.
    Mrs. Maple’s face softened, and she reached out to smooth a bit of Harriet’s hair from her forehead. “Ye look fine, Miss Harriet. Shall I announce ye?”
    â€œNo. I will announce myself.” She flashed a grinat the housekeeper. “It will save us at least half a minute of his time.”
    The front door opened and a loud clomping sounded. Harriet turned to find her brother Stephen making his way through the front door. His left leg was heavily wrapped, his crutches barely long enough to allow his feet to clear. He came to a halt when he saw Harriet. A distinctly guilty look flashed across his face before he managed to clear it away. “Oh! There you are! How’s the patient?”
    â€œHe’s fine except that he says he doesn’t remember who he is.”
    â€œSays?” Stephen’s brows shot up. “What do you mean ‘says’?”
    â€œJust that I wonder about him. He seems far too at ease to have forgotten his identity.”
    â€œYou always did have a suspicious nature, Harri. The man’s head wound seemed rather grievous to me, so ’tis entirely possible he is telling the truth. Besides, what reason could he