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Harry's brows rose repressively. "She will call you Mama and that is that. Now, then,
Meredith, where is your Aunt Clarissa?"
A tall, rawboned woman dressed in a soberly cut, unadorned dress fashioned of slate-
colored material appeared at the top of the steps. "I am here, Graystone. Welcome home."
Clarissa Fleming descended the steps at a stately pace. She was a handsome woman in
her mid-forties who carried herself with rigid dignity. She looked out on the world with
remote, watchful gray eyes, as if fortifying herself for disappointment. Her graying hair
was done up in a severe bun at the back of her head.
"Augusta, this is Miss Clarissa Fleming," Harry said, completing the introductions
swiftly. "I believe I may have mentioned her. She is a relative who has done me the favor
of becoming Meredith's governess."
"Yes, of course." Augusta managed another smile as she greeted the older woman, but
inside she heaved an unhappy sigh. There was not going to be any welcoming warmth
from this quarter, either.
"We received word of the wedding by messenger only this morning," Clarissa said
pointedly. "A rather hasty business, was it not? We were under the impression the date
was some four months hence."
"Circumstances changed abruptly," Harry said without offering either apology or
explanation. He smiled his cool, remote smile. "I am aware this all comes as something
of a surprise. Nevertheless, I am certain you will make my bride welcome, will you not,
Clarissa?"
Clarissa's eyes were speculative as she surveyed Augusta. "But of course," she said.
"If you will follow me I will show you to your bedchamber. I imagine you will want to
refresh yourself after your journey."
"Thank you." Augusta glanced at Harry and saw that he was already busy issuing
orders to his staff. Meredith was at his side, her small hand tucked in his. Neither of them
paid any attention as Augusta was led away.
"We understand," Clarissa intoned as she started up the steps and into the vast marble
hall, "that you are related to Lady Prudence Ballinger, the author of a number of useful
schoolroom books for young ladies."
"Lady Prudence was my aunt."
"Ah, then you are one of the Hampshire Ballingers?" Clarissa asked with a touch of
enthusiasm. "A fine family and one noted for its many intellectual members."
"Actually," Augusta said, tilting her chin proudly. "I am descended from a different
branch of the family. The Northumberland side, to be precise."
"I see," said Clarissa. The hint of approval died in her eyes.
Much later that evening Harry sat alone in his bedchamber, a glass of brandy in one
hand and a copy of Thucydides' The Peloponnesian War in the other. He had not read a
word for quite some time. All he could think about was his new bride lying alone in her
bed next door. There had been no sound from the adjoining chamber for some time now.
This was definitely not how he had envisioned spending his first night under his own
roof with his new wife.
He took a sip of the brandy and tried to concentrate on the book. It was hopeless. He
closed the volume with a sharp snap and tossed it onto the end table.
He had told himself during the journey that he was going to make a subtle point about
his self-control to Augusta. Now he wondered if he was being a bit too subtle.
She had as good as thrown down the gauntlet when she had flung the fact of his
reckless lovemaking in Sally's carriage in his face. As far as Harry was concerned, she
had virtually challenged him to prove he was not a slave to his physical desire for her. He
was not going to play Antony to her Cleopatra.
He could hardly blame Augusta for her assumptions, though. After the way he had
seduced her in Sally's carriage, she had every right to conclude that he could not keep his
hands off of her. No woman was above using that sort of power. And in the hands of a
bold, daring little chit like Augusta, such power was exceedingly dangerous.
Harry had therefore decided it would be best to take a stand early on in his marriage
and make it clear he was not lacking in self-control. Begin as you mean to go on, he had
told himself.
Last night when they had stopped at an inn, he had booked a separate chamber for
Augusta, making some excuse about her being more comfortable with her maid. The
truth was, he had not trusted himself to spend his wedding night on his own side of the
bed.
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