“If you are with me. Miss Harriet,” he said, “then you
are
suitable, no matter what you are wearing.”
The famous Gunter’s was founded in 1757 by an Italian pastry cook, Domenico Negri, who later took Gunter into partnership, making and selling all sorts of English, French, and Italian wet and dry sweetmeats, Cedrati and Bergamet chips, and Naples Divolini at the sign of the Pot and Pineapple in Berkeley Square. Gunter’s was also celebrated for its turtle soup, made from turtles killed in Honduras.
Gunter’s ices were famous, made from a secret recipe. But deliveries of ice depended on winds and tides. A small notice in the window stated: “Messrs Gunter respectfully beg to inform the nobility and gentry who honor them with their custom that this day, having received one of their cargoes of ice by the
Platoff
from the Greenland seas, they are able to supply their cream fruit ices at their former prices.”
The marquess secured a table in a dark corner at the back of the confectioner’s, ordered ices for them both, and gave instructions they were not to be disturbed.
Harriet had never had an ice before. She gazed in wonder at the strawberry confection placed before her.
“Where did you get that scratch on your face?” demanded the marquess.
But Harriet was dreamily beginning to eat her strawberry ice. She thought she had never tasted anything quite so delicious in her life.
What a schoolgirl she is, thought the marquess impatiently. I must be mad to even think of proposing to her.
“If you can tear your mind away from that ice you are worshipping,” he said acidly, “you might try to show a little curiosity as to why I wished to see you.”
“Why
did
you wish to see me, my lord?” asked Harriet, raising her eyes to his. Her gaze was caught and held by his amber eyes. Her spoon clattered nervously against her plate, and she laid it down carefully.
The marquess studied her, from her scratched face under her dowdy bonnet, to the drab black of her gown. He thought she looked a fright. He thought someone ought to take her in hand. He suddenly thought that someone really ought to be himself.
“Will you marry me?” he said.
Harriet looked at him in a dazed way. “Why?”
“Why! Why does one usually want to get married?”
“From what I have observed, for the lady’s dowry, her title, her connections, her beauty, so I ask you again…. Why?”
The only answer he could think of was that he did not want anyone else to have her.
“I don’t know,” said the normally articulate and urbane marquess. He began to eat his half-melted ice.
Harriet studied him. Her heart felt heavy. To her horror she realized that she would have thrown herself into his arms right in the middle of Gunter’s if he had but said he loved her.
In a slightly tearful voice, she said, “Since your feelings on this matter appear to be somewhat vague, I am sure my rejection of your suit will not trouble you overmuch.”
“It puzzles me,” he said equably. “I gather you are to be banished to the country.”
“How did you learn that?”
“From Miss Clifton. Did she not tell you she called on me?”
“No. I assumed you had sent a footman to Hill Street with a message. Oh, dear, now I have it. Aunt Rebecca asked you to marry me.”
“Yes.”
“How shaming! You must pay no heed, Lord Arden. Aunt Rebecca is a dear. She worries overmuch about me.”
“Miss Harriet, do I look like the sort of man who would propose marriage simply because someone’s maiden aunt asked me to?”
She looked at his hard, handsome face, his impeccable tailoring, his easy air of elegance and breeding.
“No,” she said baldly. “I do not wish to be insulting, but have you slept at all?”
“No.”
“Ah, that is the reason. You do not know quite what you are doing or saying.”
This was very near the truth. The marquess felt the whole scene had an air of unreality about it. He felt as if he were in a play. The lowering sky above
are
suitable, no matter what you are wearing.”
The famous Gunter’s was founded in 1757 by an Italian pastry cook, Domenico Negri, who later took Gunter into partnership, making and selling all sorts of English, French, and Italian wet and dry sweetmeats, Cedrati and Bergamet chips, and Naples Divolini at the sign of the Pot and Pineapple in Berkeley Square. Gunter’s was also celebrated for its turtle soup, made from turtles killed in Honduras.
Gunter’s ices were famous, made from a secret recipe. But deliveries of ice depended on winds and tides. A small notice in the window stated: “Messrs Gunter respectfully beg to inform the nobility and gentry who honor them with their custom that this day, having received one of their cargoes of ice by the
Platoff
from the Greenland seas, they are able to supply their cream fruit ices at their former prices.”
The marquess secured a table in a dark corner at the back of the confectioner’s, ordered ices for them both, and gave instructions they were not to be disturbed.
Harriet had never had an ice before. She gazed in wonder at the strawberry confection placed before her.
“Where did you get that scratch on your face?” demanded the marquess.
But Harriet was dreamily beginning to eat her strawberry ice. She thought she had never tasted anything quite so delicious in her life.
What a schoolgirl she is, thought the marquess impatiently. I must be mad to even think of proposing to her.
“If you can tear your mind away from that ice you are worshipping,” he said acidly, “you might try to show a little curiosity as to why I wished to see you.”
“Why
did
you wish to see me, my lord?” asked Harriet, raising her eyes to his. Her gaze was caught and held by his amber eyes. Her spoon clattered nervously against her plate, and she laid it down carefully.
The marquess studied her, from her scratched face under her dowdy bonnet, to the drab black of her gown. He thought she looked a fright. He thought someone ought to take her in hand. He suddenly thought that someone really ought to be himself.
“Will you marry me?” he said.
Harriet looked at him in a dazed way. “Why?”
“Why! Why does one usually want to get married?”
“From what I have observed, for the lady’s dowry, her title, her connections, her beauty, so I ask you again…. Why?”
The only answer he could think of was that he did not want anyone else to have her.
“I don’t know,” said the normally articulate and urbane marquess. He began to eat his half-melted ice.
Harriet studied him. Her heart felt heavy. To her horror she realized that she would have thrown herself into his arms right in the middle of Gunter’s if he had but said he loved her.
In a slightly tearful voice, she said, “Since your feelings on this matter appear to be somewhat vague, I am sure my rejection of your suit will not trouble you overmuch.”
“It puzzles me,” he said equably. “I gather you are to be banished to the country.”
“How did you learn that?”
“From Miss Clifton. Did she not tell you she called on me?”
“No. I assumed you had sent a footman to Hill Street with a message. Oh, dear, now I have it. Aunt Rebecca asked you to marry me.”
“Yes.”
“How shaming! You must pay no heed, Lord Arden. Aunt Rebecca is a dear. She worries overmuch about me.”
“Miss Harriet, do I look like the sort of man who would propose marriage simply because someone’s maiden aunt asked me to?”
She looked at his hard, handsome face, his impeccable tailoring, his easy air of elegance and breeding.
“No,” she said baldly. “I do not wish to be insulting, but have you slept at all?”
“No.”
“Ah, that is the reason. You do not know quite what you are doing or saying.”
This was very near the truth. The marquess felt the whole scene had an air of unreality about it. He felt as if he were in a play. The lowering sky above
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