With a sigh, he straightened and, holding the blanket over him to keep from embarrassing Mrs. Ward with a glimpse of her guest attired in her son’s nightshirt, he swung his feet over the side of the bed. “We don’t want your daughter to suffer from the importunities of—”

“Oh no! It’s more the other way around.” Mrs. Ward bustled to the wardrobe. “Harriet has a bit of a temper. Mr. Gower will be burned to a crisp if we do not rescue him soon.”

Chase almost smiled at that. Yes, the little brown wren had a flash of fire in her. He’d seen it several times already. He pictured her lying across his lap and he was surprised to find that the image stirred him.

Mrs. Ward’s voice emerged from the wardrobe, where she was busy stirring through the neatly hung clothes. “Derrick collected what he could find of your clothing from the forest. The thieves apparently tore through your cases, looking for valuables. Two of your shirts were beyond repair, but everything else seems fine.”

“I’ll trust that you’ll choose something appropriate.”

She looked over her shoulder. “Appropriate?”

“For 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)

Harriet 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.

“Blasted 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 never would 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!”