Hattie’s thoughts stumbled as well. Marriage? Guy Hardy had entertained such a thought? Impossible! He was playing some sort of game, or trying to paint himself as the put-upon suitor, the one who’d been wronged in this situation.
She nodded at the dossier. “Until you read that. Then you changed your mind of course.”
“The information makes no difference to me. Can’t you forgive my clumsy curiosity?”
A Gladwell does not forgive or forget.
“No. I cannot. It was an unwarranted invasion of my privacy.” Hattie tightened the reins on the part of her that wanted to throw pride away and believe anything Hardy chose to tell her. She had gone the route of blind faith before and look how that turned out.
“I am through listening to your cajoling and so I take my leave. Please do not attempt to contact me again, Mr. Hardy. Do not send a note of apology or stop by my store to apply more of your charm and flattery. I am quite serious on that point. Leave me alone.”
She started toward the door, ears ringing as if she might faint. She realized it was because she was taking such shallow breaths. Would he come after her and try to stop her? She shouldn’t want him to. Still she listened for the sound of his footsteps behind her.
But he did not follow or call out to her.
A moment later, Hattie was outdoors, inhaling a ragged breath of fresh air that hurt her aching lungs. She let it go on a sob.
As she hurried away from the house, she bent her head and pulled her hat’s veil over her face to hide more tears. No neighbor or passerby should witness her pain.
A Gladwell is discreet and circumspect.
A Gladwell does not indulge in childish emotion.
With every step, Hattie banished more of the heat of anger from her body. By the time she’d walked the entire distance back to Providence Street, her core had become cold, forged steel. She would not deviate from that center of strength again for any man. Of that, Hattie was quite certain. She had lived so for years and could easily do it again.
*
Watching Hattie walk away and forcing himself not to stop her may have been the hardest thing Guy had ever done. He ached to grab her hand and pour out a torrent of words, words, words, until he’d washed away her resistance. He believed he could do it if he tried. But he must respect her request for distance. She knew her own mind and he should obey her command. Wasn’t that what she had taught him about women? What he wanted or needed at that moment didn’t matter. He had stolen Hattie’s dignity from her by asking Rumsfield to investigate her. To restore it, he must give her the respect she deserved.
Given time for her anger to defuse she might forgive him after all, Guy consoled himself as he slumped onto an ottoman and rested his head in his hands. He pressed his palms into his eye sockets, the pressure making him see black instead of Hattie’s dead expression when he’d looked into her eyes. He had seen no forgiveness there.
But if he sent round flowers in a day or two, perhaps her attitude might soften. The light might return to brighten her regard. Anger would ease and she would consider him more fondly. He would woo her until he’d won her and then…
There it was again, his manipulative nature treating this like a sporting match. Hattie was not his prize to win. He must leave her be as she requested. That was the only way to become a “better” man—to get on with improving himself.
What a bracing thought, a “new chapter” and all that. Guy hauled himself off the ottoman, determined to heed his own advice. But his mind was so restless and upset, and his beautiful house so empty that he could not bear to remain there.
He donned a jacket and hat and set out for his club. That was what a man did when he was unhappy, drank and licked his wounds in the company of his peers. Guy found the companionship he sought and the bottle as well. He got good and truly sozzled, sang a sad ballad to the delight of his equally inebriated chums, then went to Will’s house, where he passed out on a sofa at four-o’clock in the morning.
He remained so through most of the following day, before dragging himself home with a pounding headache by evening, only to begin the round all over again.
This time he started the evening at a party, progressed to an illegal gaming den where he gambled far too much, got further soused at a shady nightclub, and again arrived at Will’s place in the wee hours.
When a footman, startled from sleep, answered the door, Guy looked at him through bleary eyes then vomited on the front step. The fellow helped him inside and settled him on a chair in the entry hall with instructions not to fall off.
Will arrived in his dressing gown, hair in a wild turmoil, eyes angry as he settled his spectacles on his nose. “Don’t clean it up, Jenkins,” he ordered. “You may take yourself back to bed. I will deal with this.”
Guy lost time as his eyes drifted closed and he fell into a doze. But a rough hand shook him awake and handed him a pail of soapy water and scrub brush. Will demanded his unwelcome late night visitor wash the doorstep. “My servants should not be expected to clean up your mess. Sober up, do the job, and then we’ll talk. Don’t you dare pass out!”
Guy meekly obeyed, finding his head clearer now that his stomach was empty. Scrubbing away the mess he had created
