Page 43 of A Naughty Proposal for His Winter Countess
“It is,” Antony said. “And it was probably why my Mother slept through most of my childhood.”
After another sip, Harriet placed the glass on top of the pianoforte, “How is Martha? I regret not saying goodbye to her this morning.”
“Her nervous disposition grew a bit worse,” Antony said, a little too flippantly for Harriet’s liking, “I told her to rest all day. How was yours, Dear? Had a grand time with Lord Barkley?”
“A lovely time,” Harriet said as she played a few notes. “I saw a few of my childhood tormentors there, as sour and sullen as I remembered, but even worse now, as one of them has lost two engagements.”
“Why?”
“A misguided attempt to have her marry a Duke,” Harriet replied. “She is quite pretty on the outside, but horrid through and through on the inside.”
“Martha mentioned something of that to me once,” Antony replied, “said they taunted you about your hair and freckles.”
“They did,” Harriet replied. “Enough that I began to think they were right—that I was hideous and an aberration.”
“Such a shame,” Antony murmured as he sipped his wine. “I happen to think you’re quite pretty.”
The jarring sound of unharmonized chords had Harriet wincing as her fingers jammed the wrong keys. Antony had complimented her a few times, but never so outright.
Her wary eyes met his calm ones, “Is that…um, you believe I’m pretty.”
Lord Carrington shook his head, and he held her gaze, his eyes deep, heavy-lidded and warm with an expression that confused her a little. “Poor choice of words, you’restunning, Harriet. Any lord should count himself fortunate to have you as his.”
Unable to form a proper answer, she turned back to the instrument, “Thank you. I never truly believed Dan…er, Lord Barkley, when he said the same, but I suppose, you both cannot be wrong.”
“We’re not,” Antony said, as he rested the glass on the top and began to play a tune himself.
Surprised, at his proficiency, Harriet asked, “I wasn’t aware you could play.”
“Again, all the honors go to my Mother,” he replied. “I cannot carry a tune even if you gave me a lined basket to hold it, so I learned to play, in case my wife was a singer.”
“Fortunately, you do,” Harriet replied with a smile. “Martha would sing me to sleep when I was ill, and I believed her voice had healing powers. I always felt better when I woke.”
“She’s a treasure, isn’t she,” Antony replied. “But sometimes—”
Quirking a look at him, while reaching for her glass, Harriet asked, “Sometimes what?”
“I feel she’s too good for me,” Antony replied, deprecatingly.
Swallowing, Harriet shook her head, “Nonsense, My Lord. Why would you think so? If you’ve lost your senses, I can call Bedlam for you.”
To her growing surprise, the Baron reached over and held her cheek with his other hand, gently massaging over her cheekbone with his thumb. “Aren’t you sweet,” he leaned over and placed a light kiss on her forehead. “Don’t worry about me, Dear.”
With a smile, he stood and collected his glass, “I’ll see you on the morrow.”
“Good night,” Harriet managed to say through a thickened throat. As he left, she turned back to the instrument only to see her fingers trembling. She tried to focus on playing again, but the only thing she could think of was why Antony’s lips had lingered on her skin.
* * *
Tried as she might, Harriet could not get a hold of Martha the next day. Her sister seemed to be everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Eventually, Harriet stopped trying to intercept Martha, who was running here and there, and went to find the right dress for the evening.
Antony’s kiss still disturbed her—and the only thing she could count it to was that wine had addled his senses. She felt pressed to ask Martha about her marriage, and what Antony had meant by that awful remark. If he had said in a heated moment, or if it was something Martha had endured in silence.
There were three dresses on her bed, and while Harriet was having a hard time choosing one, a knock came on her door. Absentmindedly, she gave permission to enter and heard a well-missed voice from her doorway.
“I ammortallyinsulted that three dresses would be prioritized over me,” Lily Matthews sniffed.
Elated, Harriet ran to her friend and embraced her, “Lily, goodness, you’re here.”
