She held her chin high as her eyes flitted between her parents. She did the only thing pride allowed her to do: she turned on her heel and strode from the room with her back straight.
Sorry, Papa.
But she had made a vow she had no intention of breaking. Ever.
Harriet left the study only to be blocked by a large chest when she reached the foyer. The soft scent of leather assailed her senses before she quickly took a step back, taking in the broad expanse of shoulders and already suspecting whose face she’d find above them. Yet still her breath caught the moment her gaze collided with a pair of deep, golden eyes.
So handsome.
Not the point.
He was the last man on earth she had ever wanted to run into. But now that she had, she couldn’t help but give him a thorough look. Tall, impeccably dressed, with dark hair styled to fashion, he was indeed the quintessential man about town.
Her gaze lifted back to his, annoyed that he towered a full head over her. And, in a momentary lapse of judgment, Harriet noticed the strong line of his jaw and the heavy brows that arched over deep-set eyes that were framed by a layer of thick lashes. And such a man wanted to marry her? A man who could have any woman he wanted?
She might be plain, but she was not dim.
He stood before her, the picture of a stubborn, unyielding male, crowding her space, but there was something in his expression that gave Harriet pause. A look that conveyed the impression that he was determined to get what he had come for—her.
“Lady Harriet.”
Lady Harriet.
Cool. Measured. No inflection in that voice. None whatsoever. He stared at her without any noticeable expression. As if he and her father had not just sealed her fate. He could have been looking down at an ant for all the emotion in his features.
Knave.
Handsomeknave, true.
“He speaks,” Harriet said. “He also roams about others’ halls as though he belongs in them.”
That earned her a raise of a single brow.
“My lady.” Only when he spoke did Harriet notice the footman, who had been invisible in the presence of Leeds. “Your father is expecting the marquess.”
“So I heard.”
Leeds said nothing, his gaze flicking to the book she clutched to her chest before lifting back to her face. She grasped the book tighter. She enjoyed reading romances. There was no shame in that. Granted, she was probably one of only a few who would consider Charles Griffin’s new book a romance. Nevertheless,who was he to stare at her with such an odd, indistinguishable expression?
Given the current situation, where no one had even bothered to tell her about her impending nuptials—not her stepmother, not her father, and not the man before her—only she had the right to pass judgment here.
Her gaze caught on the folded document with an elaborate red seal stamped in the middle clutched between his gloved fingers. A hunch began to form. Her father had mentioned a special license. Was this it?
“You look lovely, Lady Harriet.”
Harriet blinked.This is what you have to say to me?Annoyance and, yes, disappointment nipped at her heart. Only a fool would believe his words. “Which part of me, my lord? My lips, my eyes, or my mouth?”
“Every part of you.”
She resisted a snort. Liar. “You must be here to collect the devil’s contract?”
“Devil’s contract?”
“Yes, the one where you rob me of my dreams and snuff out my happiness.”
Two lines appeared on his forehead.
Harriet stepped up to him, taking a bold stance. “If you do not wish to be humiliated beyond repair, my lord, I suggest you bow out of the betrothal agreement you so shamelessly negotiated behind my back.” Let’s see what he does withthat.
