To Dream of Love Read Free

drowning out any sound, and blushed painfully.
    “And so,” went on the marquess, “after I learned of the murder, I returned and tried the door knocker instead, feeling sure the bellpull was broken. Here we are to make amends. We have two hens, dead, I am afraid, and a hamper of delicacies that we beg you to accept to show our true remorse.”
    Mr. Hudson sat up. “But that hamper was a pre—”
    The marquess’s steely voice cut across his.
“And
you will be paid handsomely for the loss of your birds.”
    “There is no need, no need at all to pay anything,” said Harriet. “Mr. Hudson made an understandable mistake.”
    “I was only having a bit of sport,” grumbled Mr. Hudson. “Thought the place had been deserted this age.”
    “I insist,” said the marquess. “Bertram, go and tell John and Peter to carry in the hamper.”
    Bertram Hudson slouched out with a lowering look.
    “I think if I had some dry logs, I might yet be able to build a blaze,” said the marquess.
    “Certainly,” said Harriet with a quelling look at Aunt Rebecca. “I will tell our butler to arrange the matter.”
    Aunt Rebecca emitted faint noises of distress from among her shawls, but Harriet marched firmly from the room.
    She had used up the inside stock of logs for the kitchen fire. She threw a shawl over her shoulders, tied on the apron that she had removed before going into the drawing room, and went out of the kitchen door. The pump stood there in the chilly light, a mute reminder of her indecency.
    She went around to the old pinking shed, which was filled with dead tree trunks that she had dragged into shelter.
    “Why did I not think to chop more logs this morning?” muttered Harriet, seizing the axe.
    She was chopping away busily when a calm voice behind her said, “Allow me, Miss Harriet.”
    Will I
ever
stop blushing? thought Harriet miserably as the Marquess of Arden’s broad shoulders filled the doorway.
    He shrugged himself out of his coat and hung it up on a nail, then took the axe from Harriet’s unresisting fingers.
    “I am afraid I had forgotten it was the servants’ day off,” lied Harriet. “Please do not trouble …”
    “It is no trouble,” he said, expertly wielding the axe.
    Harriet watched with something approaching envy as a neat pile of logs and kindling began to appear before her eyes. She wondered how he kept his hands so white, since he obviously knew how to use an axe, and the thin cambric of his shirt revealed the play of strong muscles in his back.
    “There!” He stacked a large basket with logs and kindling and nodded to her to lead the way.
    He stopped in the kitchen and looked slowly around. The kettle was singing on the hearth, steam whistling through a hole in its old iron lid. Brightly colored plates, very few of them matching. shone from a Welsh dresser. Aunt Rebecca’s knitting was lying on the kitchen table at one end and a little pile of Harriet’s favorite books was at the other.
    “We shall not stay very long, Miss Harriet,” said the marquess. “Perhaps we would all be more comfortable in the kitchen. Your servants do themselves very well.”
    But from the glint in his eye, Harriet was well aware that the marquess had not for a moment believed her lie about the servants’ day off.
    “I will fetch Aunt,” she said with a little sigh. The marquess was so tall and elegant and carefree that Harriet suddenly envied her sister, Cordelia, from the bottom of her heart. Cordelia belonged to the same world as the marquess, a world of scent and warmth, hot food, well-trained servants, and beautiful clothes.
    “Oh, and incidentally, Miss Harriet,” said the marquess. Harriet turned at the door and looked around. “I am notoriously shortsighted and I have quite an appalling memory.”
    Harriet looked at him intently, but the hazel eyes were grave and steady. “Thank you,” she said quietly.
    When she returned, she was followed by her aunt, Mr. Hudson, and the marquess’s