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

would whisper behind their fans that Miss Clifton was a cunning old genius to have secured such a prize for her dowerless niece. Now all of her magic castles were tumbling about her ears, and she cried and cried.
    “Don’t, oh, please don’t,” begged Harriet. If Aunt Rebecca had gone into one of her famous bouts of hysterics, Harriet could have borne it; in fact, she felt she could have borne anything other than this desperate weeping.
    “I did not realize I had been so selfish,” she said, half to herself. She gave her aunt a hug. “Please don’t cry, Aunt. Everything will be all right.”
    The Marquess of Arden pulled his nightshirt on, settled his nightcap on his head, and climbed into bed. He would sleep and awake refreshed to a world that did not contain Harriet Clifton.
    A fire had been lit in his bedroom and the curtains tightly closed to shut out the wet afternoon. The sheets smelled of lavender. He stretched out with a sigh of satisfaction, his eyes already beginning to close. The clock on the mantel ticked soporifically.
    And then came a scratching at the door, and his valet entered the room.
    The marquess eyed him with one malevolent yellow eye. “What is it?” he demanded. “I told you I did not wish to be disturbed.”
    “It is a Miss Clifton, my lord,” said the valet. “She is downstairs. I would have sent her away, but she assured me that you would be furious if I did so. Miss Clifton said she had an urgent matter, to discuss with you.”
    “Damn the old fool to hell,” grumbled the marquess. “Oh, well, it will only take a minute. If she were younger I would show her the door.”
    “But—” began the valet.
    “Show her up,” snapped the marquess, staring in amazement at the look of disapproval on his valet’s face.
    He could not be accused of impropriety in seeing an elderly lady in his bedchamber. He climbed out of bed, pulled on a dressing gown, thrust his feet into a pair of red morocco slippers, and sat down by the fire.
    “Miss Clifton,” announced the valet in a hollow voice.
    Harriet walked into the room, a deep blush staining her cheeks as she surveyed the marquess in all the glory of his undress.
    “The deuce!” he said. “I thought my man meant your aunt had come back. Sit down. I will not eat you. In fact, I am quite sure I might even be glad to see you, were I not so confoundedly tired. Well, then, out with it. What brings you?”
    Harriet wanted to turn and run away. He had risen at her entrance. Now he sat down again and crossed his ankles.
    To her horror, she noticed his ankles were
bare
, and, not only that; he was only displaying several inches of
naked
leg under his dressing gown. She closed her eyes and prayed that she would not faint.
    “Sit down,” he barked.
    Harriet opened her eyes and, staring fixedly at the brass fender, sat down opposite him.
    “Well, Miss Harriet, I am waiting.”
    “I—I have decided to marry you,” whispered Harriet.
    “What? Speak up and stop mumbling, girl.”
    “I have decided to marry you,”
shouted the much-goaded Harriet.
    He leaned back in his chair, made a steeple of his fingers, and surveyed her cynically over the top of them. “So Miss Harriet confronts Auntie with the news she is not going to marry the rich Marquess of Arden, and old Auntie forcibly points out all the disadvantages of returning to Pringle House.”
    Harriet blushed and looked down. And all in that moment, the marquess—illogically, he thought—decided it might be rather fun to be married. She was delicious to kiss. No other woman had made him feel quite the same. It could not be love, since love did not exist. But it was probably the best he was going to find, and it was time he thought of setting up his nursery. Also, he would be doing a very good thing by rescuing her from a life of poverty. It would mean rescuing Aunt Rebecca as well, but his house in town and his mansion in the country were both large enough to lose her in. He felt a warm glow