To Dream of Love by M. C. Beaton Page A

the plane trees of Berkeley Square cast a greenish light into the dim, genteel recesses of Gunter’s. The air was still and heavy. The girl with the scratched face before him was probably the dowdiest-looking female he had ever entertained. And here he was, trying to persuade her to marry him. Ridiculous!
    “I have no wish to coerce you into marrying me,” he said. “Let us forget about the whole thing. I wish you well in your return to the country. How do you travel? By Lady Bentley’s traveling carriage?”
    “No, my lord. The stage.”
    “Then allow me to lend you mine.”
    “You are very kind, but I must refuse.”
    “Why? Your aunt would be glad of the comfort even if you are not.”
    Harriet bit her lip. She remembered that this man had been—or perhaps still was—enamored of her sister. She could not bring herself to tell him that she dreaded the scene that would ensue with Cordelia if her sister found out she was to use the Marquess of Arden’s traveling carriage. Harriet felt she had used up all her courage in defying Cordelia by dancing at the ball. She simply shook her head.
    “Would you like another ice?”
    Again Harriet shook her head.
    She felt sick and slightly dizzy. At least she could not be in love with the marquess. Love was supposed to be heady and tender and wonderful. It surely did not make one feel as if one had eaten something bad.
    She looked so forlorn that something made him try again. “Think on it, Miss Harriet,” he urged. “Last night you were prepared to wed for security. I am offering you that security.”
    “It is very gentlemanly of you,” said Harriet, “and it is very flattering to receive a proposal from such as you. There is no need to marry me. I have almost forgotten our intimacy in the garden at the ball. I am persuaded you were foxed.”
    “If it makes you comfortable to think so, please do,” he said coldly.
    The color drained from her face, leaving it looking thin and pale.
    There was no use prolonging this painful discussion. All he wanted to do was get to bed and forget that Harriet Clifton had ever existed. He could not even bring himself to think of Cordelia. Another man had lusted after her, a man he did not recognize. Harriet, with her large eyes and dowdy clothes, had taken away his taste for full-blown mistresses, and he did not know how she had managed to do so.
    He paid for the ices and escorted her outside. A heavy drop of rain struck his cheek.
    “You will get wet,” he said.
    “I have only a little way to go. Thank you, and good-bye, Lord Arden,” said Harriet.
    And then she was gone.
    The Marquess of Arden walked for a long time until it really began to rain in earnest. He realized he was cold, and his wet clothes were stricking to him. He would feel better after a few hours of sleep.
    Harriet found her aunt sitting at the window in their private sitting room. Through the open bedroom doors, Harriet could see that their trunks were packed and ready. She removed her hat and sat down wearily.
    “Well, what did Lord Arden say?” asked Aunt Rebecca eagerly.
    Harriet sighed. “He proposed marriage to me, just as you had asked him to do, and I … I refused.”
    Aunt Rebecca’s whole face seemed to crumple. “Why?” she wailed, beginning to sob. “He is such a fine man, and so rich and handsome. I do not understand you, Harriet. I am persuaded you are not indifferent to him. It would have meant a home for
me
. Oh, dear, dear. What shall I do? I cannot possibly face another winter of cold and loneliness. It is too much to bear.”
    Aunt Rebecca was not a saint and therefore subject to as much self-pity as any other human being. For the first time in her life, she thought bitterly that Harriet was a very ungrateful little girl.
    Before Harriet’s return, Aunt Rebecca had been indulging in rosy dreams. Harriet’s wedding would be the greatest affair of the Season. She, Aunt Rebecca, would be the envy of every matchmaking mama in town. They