View this author's other titles

LENGTH: Full Novel
SENSUALITY: Spicy

Cover art (c) Eliza Black 2003
Trade Paperback ISBN 1-58608-680-4
Retail price $13.99
Our Price $11.19

(s&h not included in price)

"Five Stars! Ellen Fisher really outdid herself with this one, I read it twice and it was even better the second time around...This has to be on your "to read" list if you love a good love story." Hope Richardson, Romancefiction.about.com

"Four and 1/2 Hearts! Rich in historical detail, this is a well-written novel with suspense, mystery and love. Both Gwaltney and Cordelia had been hurt in the past and need to grow in order learn to trust and believe in each other. Ms. Fisher does an excellent job of bringing out their struggles and exploring the emotions and needs of the characters. Not only was Cordelia and Gwaltney's relationship well developed but the secondary characters were also delightful. The tightly woven plot and wonderful portrait of colonial life makes Love Remembered a memorable reading experience." The Romance Studio

"LOVE REMEMBERED is an entertaining historical romp in pre-Revolutionary America. Intriguing characters and electric chemistry make this one book hard to put down. In fact, this reviewer stayed up most of the night to just read it. Well worth losing some sleep over...This twist to the Shakespeare play Taming of the Shrew is highly entertaining... Ellen Fisher has written a real winner...LOVE REMEMBERED is the start to a bright future in romance." Fallen Angel Reviews

"LOVE REMEMBERED is sure to be a success with readers. Ellen Fisher weaves a delightfully enduring tale with unexpected twists and turns. The main characters, Cordelia and Gwaltney, leap off the pages with their memorable personalities and chemistry; they are feisty and honest and will have readers laughing out loud over their attempts not to fall in love with each other. LOVE REMEMBERED is romance at its best." Romance Reviews Today

"This is definitely a great read for fans of historical romance! This reviewer looks forward to reading more books by Ellen Fisher." Love Romances

“…A wonderfully written historical novel. Cordelia and Gwaltney have such great personalities. The chemistry between them leaps out to you as they both struggle not to fall in love… a thoroughly enjoyable read. Highly recommended to anyone who loves a good historical romance.” Pat McGrew, The Road to Romance

"Four and 1/2 Roses! Ms. Fisher has written a wonderful story not to be missed. The story pulls you in and doesn’t want to let you go until you come to the end. LOVE REMEMBERED is full of life and the trials one faces, and the ability to overcome the past and move forward." A Romance Review

"Ms. Fisher keeps the dialogue fresh and engaging as she weaves twists and turns into the romance and mystery of this well written novel." Romance Reader At Heart

"Ellen Fisher has done an excellent job of creating characters and a setting which meld together in a natural way. The plot is fully developed from beginning to end, with mild intrigue interwoven into the romantic story. Ms. Fisher's story moves along at a steady clip, not encumbering the reader with unnecessary details. The characters are believable and the story of the unfolding of their relationship pulls one along... It is a thoroughly enjoyable read." Round Table Reviews

“Ms. Fisher is an author to watch.” Robin Taylor, In the Library Reviews

Love Remembered

by

Ellen Fisher

(c) copyright October 2003, Ellen Fisher
Cover art by Eliza Black, (c) copyright October 2003
New Concepts Publishing
5202 Humphreys Rd.
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com

For Don--
My own romantic hero

When, in disgrace with Fortune and men’s eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state...
Haply I think on thee, and then my state
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven’s gate;
For thy sweet love remember’d such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
William Shakespeare

Prologue

Williamsburg, Virginia

1752

He was in hell.

Fifteen-year-old Gwaltney Harris cringed in a corner of his family’s small parlor like a trapped animal, watching in fascinated terror as flames leaped and danced with deadly grace around him.

Having finished his work for the day, he had gone upstairs to spend some time alone, away from his family. Ever since his mother had died a year before, his relationship with his father had become increasingly strained, and he found it easier to retreat from the older man’s presence whenever possible.

His long day’s labor assisting his father, a wheelwright, had left him too tired to bother taking off his coarse linen shirt, leather breeches, and buckskin apron. He had stretched out his lanky frame on his rough, straw-filled pallet and fallen almost immediately into a light sleep, which had rudely been interrupted when he smelled smoke. Dashing down the narrow stairs, he had found the front door all but concealed behind a line of flames.

Someone had carelessly dropped a lamp, spattering grease across the wooden planks of the floor, which had rapidly ignited. The small house was of clapboard, with heart of pine floors and a wood shingle roof. As a consequence, the resulting blaze had spread with incredible rapidity. As Gwaltney backed into the relative safety of the parlor and stood there blinking stupidly at the flames, his senses dulled by the smoke, he realized the fire had spread along a rag rug on the floor, and the flames were now behind him. There was no way back up the stairs.

Rather slowly, it dawned on him that he would have been better off in his small upstairs chamber. There he could have swung out of the window and dropped to the ground. At the most, he might have suffered a broken ankle. But, responding to instinct, he had fled for the door, and now he was trapped.

Struggling for air, he retreated into a corner and lowered himself to the floor. There the air was only slightly clearer, and he felt with terrifying certainty that he was choking. The smoke was so thick he could scarcely breathe, and the dark, billowing clouds of smoke created the horrifying illusion that the walls were closing in on him. He choked, fighting for every breath, his gaze roving wildly around the chamber as he sought a way out.

Suddenly there was a draft, and the flames jumped wildly. Through blurred eyes Gwaltney saw a monstrous figure lurching through the flames. At first he thought he had died in the fire and that the devil was coming for him. As the horrific apparition loomed closer, however, he saw it was wrapped in a multicolored quilt, and some of his apprehension eased. He was reasonably certain Satan did not come to collect souls clad in a patchwork quilt.

The figure reached him, yanked him up roughly, and hastily wrapped him in something. Despite his smoke-induced grogginess, Gwaltney managed to grasp the fact that it, too, was a patchwork quilt, and that it was dripping with water. The figure draped the corner of the quilt over his head to protect his face from the flames and led him toward the door. Feeling the tremendous heat of the fire even through the sodden quilt, Gwaltney paused, almost too frightened to pass through the flames, but the figure yanked impatiently on his arm, and he had little choice but to follow blindly.

And then he was outside. Staggering away from the heat and the flames, Gwaltney sank to the ground, gulping in the clean, fresh air and wondering how his lungs had survived so long breathing nothing but acrid smoke. The relief of being outside, in safety, away from the poisonous atmosphere, was enormous. Someone was pulling the heavy, water-sodden quilt away from his shoulders, and he looked up to see his older sister, Gladys.

She was still wrapped in her quilt, but she had thrown it back from her face like a hood, exposing her beautiful face and vivid green eyes. Despite the darkness, he could see perfectly well, thanks to the flames avidly consuming his home. In the flickering orange light, he saw that her face was smudged with soot, much as he supposed his own was, and the ends of her dark brown hair were singed. But, to his enormous relief, she did not appear injured. There were no burns marring her flawless face, so far as he could see.

He managed to sit up. “Why did you come back for me?” He coughed, feeling that his throat had been scraped raw by the smoke. “You could have been killed.”

Of all his family, Gladys was the one who meant the most to him. His two older brothers had long ago married and set up households of their own. His father, made colder than ever by the untimely death of his wife, rarely made time for anything besides harsh words for him. But he and Gladys had always been close. At nineteen, she had just become betrothed to a cooper, and when she wed she would leave her family. But she meant more to him than anyone else. The thought that she had risked her life in order to rescue him made his heart clench painfully.

His sister sat beside him in the dirt, smoothing his hair as though he were still a child rather than a tall and gangling young man. “I thought you were still outside, Gwaltney. I never would have let Father leave you inside otherwise.”

“You shouldn’t have come back for me.”

Gwaltney coughed again. Looking up, he saw his father watching him from a distance with cold, unemotional eyes. There was no joy in his face, no relief that his son had been spared a hideous death. With bitter resignation, Gwaltney recognized that his father had exerted no effort to save him.

Just then the roof of the dwelling collapsed, sending up a new burst of flames and sparks, and Gwaltney stared at it. He could have been killed. They both could have died. He remembered the strangling sensation of trying to gasp for air when there was nothing to breathe but smoke, and he shuddered convulsively despite the fierce heat of the fire. It had felt as though he was being buried alive in smoke.

And in five more minutes, he would have been buried alive in sober truth--by the roof and the collapsing walls.

He gasped for breath, drew in the clear evening air, and rasped again, “You shouldn’t have done it.” Obviously his father hadn’t thought he was worth the risk, he thought bitterly. Only Gladys could have been resourceful enough to formulate a hasty plan of borrowing two quilts from a neighbor and dunking them in water to use as a shield against the intense heat. Resourceful--and incredibly courageous. He was certain he wouldn’t have thought of it. Even if he had, he knew he would not have dared to brave that inferno.

“I couldn’t let you die, Gwaltney.”

“Of course not,” he agreed in a whisper that could barely be heard over the roaring fire. His throat was too sore to speak normally. “Who would torment you then?”

“Exactly. I wouldn’t want to be able to go to sleep without finding frogs in my bed.”

“I’ll remind you of that the next time you complain.”

Gladys smiled shakily and then, to his surprise, burst into tears. Gwaltney put his arms around her and let her cry against his sooty shoulder. He understood how she felt, for he was rather close to tears himself.

He stiffened his shoulders and gritted his teeth together until his jaw hurt, determined not to embarrass himself before the cold, watching eyes of his father. He was fifteen years old now--a man, not a boy. And he was damned if he would admit he had been frightened. He would not cry, confound it.

With an enormous effort, he managed to keep the tears that burned in his eyes from falling.

But no amount of determination could blot out the memory of being trapped in hell.

Chapter 1

Williamsburg, Virginia

1765

As Gwaltney Harris leapt from the back of his powerfully built gray stallion onto the busy main street of Williamsburg, he nodded courteously to a group of well-dressed men passing by. They ignored him. A silk-draped lady out for a morning stroll walked past him, and Gwaltney said a polite, “Good morning.” But she only drew her skirts aside and swept by without so much as a glance.

He might as well have been invisible.

Gwaltney sighed as he walked up to a large brick cube of a house, distinguished from the other houses that lined the street both by its enormous size and by the unusual chinoiserie fence that surrounded it, and knocked authoritatively on the door. It had always been this way. It would always be this way. Of all the gentry in Virginia, no one would so much as acknowledge his existence, let alone speak to him.

No one, he thought with affection, except Jonathan Powell.

The door was answered by a liveried black butler, who stepped aside respectfully and waved him into the house. “Come in, sir. Mist’ Powell ’as been waitin’ for ye.”

As Gwaltney stepped into the spacious entrance hall, Jonathan strode down the wide staircase. He was a handsome man of medium height. As was typical of men who often wore wigs, he kept his light brown hair trimmed extremely short, in sharp contrast to Gwaltney’s long and abundant hair, which fell to his shoulders when it was not gathered into a queue.

Jonathan’s dark brown eyes lit up as he grinned at his friend and caught him by the arms in a spontaneous display of affection. They had been friends for most of thirty years, growing up together in Williamsburg, although as a mere wheelwright’s son Gwaltney had hardly been fit to mingle with the son of a well-respected lawyer. But his lowly origins had never seemed to concern Jonathan, then or now. “It’s good to see you, Gwaltney. Come into the parlor.”

Gwaltney cast a dubious glance at the deep blue paneling of the parlor. “Must we?”

“For heaven’s sakes, Gwaltney, only for a few minutes. Sit down.” Jonathan all but dragged his friend into the chamber and pushed him into a chair, shoving a goblet of perry, a cider made from pear juice, into his hand. Gwaltney clutched it nervously but did not drink.

“You said you had some information for me,” he reminded his friend, eyeing the walls uncomfortably.

Jonathan grinned, looking pleased with himself, as he settled into a chair across from his friend. The excellent quality of the carved mahogany chair, as well as the other well-chosen pieces of furniture scattered about the chamber, showed clearly that he was as successful at his law practice as his father had been before him. “I’ve come up with a solution to your problem,” he announced cheerfully.

Gwaltney tore his uneasy gaze away from the walls of his friend’s elegantly appointed parlor. “My problem?” he echoed blankly. “What problem?”

Jonathan rolled his eyes. “You need respectability,” he explained. “And I have thought of the perfect solution. Gossip has it that Benjamin Ashton is desperate to marry off his daughter. She is of a highly respected family, you know.”

Gwaltney gave a small, nervous smile. “Surely you aren’t suggesting that I offer for the young woman. If she is so respectable, how in the world could her father be convinced to let her marry me?”

“Don’t you listen to gossip at all, man? She’s twenty-three, for God’s sake. Her family is respectable, there’s no doubt of that, but the fact is she’s a bit of a shrew. And decidedly on the shelf. Her sharp tongue has managed to drive off every suitor she’s had. And of late she has had none to speak of. The last one, I believe, was young Alexander Blair. From what I heard she managed to get rid of him by utterly humiliating him at a ball. I believe her father has despaired of ever seeing her married.”

“Even so,” Gwaltney said, returning his attention to the walls, “her father is unlikely to grant me the honor of her hand in marriage.”

“He’s desperate, Gwaltney. If you were to offer a bit of compensation....”

“Are you suggesting that I pay him a dowry?”

Jonathan shrugged. “It may not be necessary. As I understand it, she is exceedingly well dowered, and he’s despaired of ever seeing her wed. But I suggest you do whatever is necessary to win the young woman. You need a wife, Gwaltney. Without one you can never hope to be accepted in good society, given your, er, background. I’m sorry to speak so bluntly, but you know as well as I do that it’s true.”

Gwaltney’s gaze wavered from the walls to rest affectionately but briefly on his friend’s face. “You accept me, Jon.”

“Perhaps I should have said the rest of good society. With a wife of such excellent breeding--”

His words were cut off as Gwaltney jumped suddenly to his feet. “Let us go outside,” he suggested, a tinge of desperation in his voice.

“Gwaltney....”

“I would be very interested in seeing the new colt you were telling me about,” Gwaltney continued doggedly as a film of sweat broke out on his forehead. In his anxiety the words ran together until they were scarcely distinguishable.

Sighing, Jonathan put down the goblet of perry he’d been drinking and rose to his feet. Gwaltney strode quickly toward the door, Jonathan trailing at a more sedate pace. Once outside Gwaltney took a deep breath of the warm summer air and sighed with ill-concealed relief.

“You know,” Jonathan said, “if you are to offer for Ashton’s daughter, you will have to meet him inside. In his parlor, most likely. He’s unlikely to agree to meet you outside.”

“A rather good reason not to offer for the chit,” Gwaltney said. The panic that had filled his voice was gone. “I’d look rather a fool, wouldn’t I, going to the man’s plantation to offer for the girl and not being able to sit in his parlor for more than five minutes?” He shot Jonathan a wry grin. “Perhaps I could tell him I found his taste in decorating to be nauseating. That would certainly endear me to him.”

Jonathan frowned at his friend’s awkward attempt at levity. “This is an excellent opportunity, Gwaltney. You must see that. Surely you can manage it somehow.”

Gwaltney turned to look at him, his hazel eyes narrowing intently and a trifle suspiciously. “You are certainly bent upon my offering for the girl. Has Ashton been pestering you on the subject?”

“No.”

“You seem to have an unusual interest in my marriage to this young woman.”

“No, not at all,” Jonathan said hastily. “I simply want to see you established in good society, Gwaltney. You are my friend, after all.”

Gwaltney sighed. “Jonathan, I am not certain a wife, even one of impeccable breeding, will make me respectable. I very much fear I will never be welcome in Virginia society.”

“But you want to be respectable, do you not?”

“Of course. After everything I’ve done to reach this point, all the sacrifices I’ve made....” He broke off in angry frustration. Thanks to the lessons imparted by his educated mother, he spoke as well as any member of the gentry, and his manners were impeccable. Yet when the aristocrats of Virginia deigned to look at him they saw nothing more than a rough, uncouth laborer.

It was his greatest dream to become truly accepted by the people that mattered. It was maddening to have come so close, to have accumulated so much wealth and so much land, and yet know he would never be acceptable in their sight.

“Then you should at least try.” Jonathan paused. “If you can’t do it for yourself, then do it for Mary. After all, she is the reason you are so bent on making yourself respectable. Is she not?”

Gwaltney nodded, staring thoughtfully at his friend as they made their way to the stable. Everything he had done since he had obtained his plantation, River’s Edge, and returned to eastern Virginia had been for Mary. Jonathan knew that.

“Very well,” he said at last. “I will try.”

“I’ll come right to the point, Mr. Ashton,” Gwaltney said in his most brisk and businesslike voice, hoping it disguised his terror. He wanted to get this meeting over with as fast as possible. “I am interested in marrying your daughter.”

Benjamin Ashton, a portly gentleman whose round, fleshy face was framed by an elaborate powdered wig, stared at him with surprise. “Do you mean Cordelia?”

Gwaltney concealed his exasperation. He knew he was fortunate that Benjamin Ashton had condescended to meet with him at all. He had already spent several uncomfortable minutes standing in the entrance hall, where visitors of lesser status were obliged to await the master of the house, rather than being ushered into the parlor as a gentleman would have been, and his nerves were rapidly fraying. The damned gentry, he thought savagely, not for the first time.

He presumed Ashton was pretending to be shocked by his suit simply to express his contempt and to emphasize how very inferior he was to the Ashton family. He was, unfortunately, accustomed to such treatment from the gentry. And he was all too convinced of his own inferiority. As a wheelwright’s son and a longhunter, he had been virtually subhuman by the standards of the society in which he lived. He had not even possessed the right to vote, for men did not qualify for the franchise unless they owned at least one hundred acres of land. Moreover, men who earned a living with their bare hands, who sweated and struggled and fought for their meals, were considered inferior to the idle rich, who ate their meals off fine porcelain plates and sterling salvers.

The parlor in which he sat had twelve-foot ceilings with elaborately carved plasterwork, fine moldings, and expensive furniture upholstered in imported French silk damask atop an enormous Oriental carpet--a sharp contrast to the small, crudely finished parlor of his parents’ house. The young lady for whom he intended to offer had been raised amidst luxury. He had grown up in a family, which at times could barely afford to put food on the table.

He abruptly found himself aware of the calluses on his hands. Unconsciously, his hands clenched into fists, concealing the work-roughened fingers and palms.

“Yes,” he said curtly. “Cordelia.”

“Ah. Well, you’re a brave young man, Mr. Harris.”

Gwaltney felt his jaw drop. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’ve tried everything to get her married off,” Ashton said gloomily. “I keep forcing her to attend social events, though she can’t stand them, and she makes my life miserable for days beforehand. I make her dance with young men, but she steps on their toes on purpose. I have gentlemen to dinner, and they have soup poured in their laps. I send her out for romantic walks in the garden with suitors, and she leads them straight to a bees’ nest.” He fixed Gwaltney with a mournful gaze. “Young Blake Smythe came back with seven stings on his face. His eye was swollen shut. Looked for all the world like he’d been in a fistfight.”

Gwaltney had met Smythe and did not care for the way in which the arrogant young man had snubbed him. “One can only applaud Mistress Ashton’s excellent taste,” he said.

“It isn’t a matter of taste,” Ashton said heavily. “She hates men. All men.”

“Perhaps she hasn’t met the right man yet.”

The older man looked at him with surprise. “Surely you aren’t suggesting you might be the right man?”

Gwaltney felt his spine grow rigid. Automatically, he lifted his chin. “I know,” he said with stiff pride, “that I am not of sufficiently good birth to be worthy of your daughter. However--”

“Nonsense, Mr. Harris. Your background has nothing to do with it. Cordelia needs a man who won’t let her rule him, a man who won’t let her get her way and browbeat him into submission, a man who won’t give in to her temper.” He coughed, embarrassed. “A man, in short, as little like me as possible. I think....” He regarded Gwaltney thoughtfully. “I think perhaps you might be that man after all.”

Startled by the other man’s pronouncement, Gwaltney inclined his head slightly. “Thank you.”

“Oh, you won’t thank me when you meet her,” Ashton predicted gloomily. Gwaltney glanced nervously about the chamber. The paneled walls were painted an oppressively dark green, and they made him feel caged and apprehensive, no matter how much he tried to ignore them. He knew he could not bear to stay here much longer. Eventually his gaze would be drawn inexorably to the walls, and then the fear would consume him, closing off his throat and choking him until he fled in a panic. “I would like to meet her now, if you don’t mind.”

Ashton looked rueful. “Actually, Mr. Harris, I expected her here at three o’clock. I commanded her to be here, actually, as I knew you were coming and I gathered from your note that you might have an interest in her. But, I imagine she’s forgotten as usual. She has very little sense of time and even less of obedience.”

“Where is she?” Gwaltney inquired, standing.

“Most likely at the stable. In no condition to receive a suitor, I assure you.”

“On the contrary,” Gwaltney said, moving toward the door, “I would prefer to meet her and see her as she usually is rather than on her best behavior. Surely you can understand that, sir.”

Behind him he heard Ashton mutter something about the girl having no best behavior. He grinned. It sounded as though this young woman might be worth seeing after all.

But worth marrying? That was another question entirely.

He fled through the door of the parlor, trying to make his steps seem purposeful rather than panicked, and sighed deeply as he stepped out into the fresh air, letting the oxygen flood his lungs. It always seemed to him there was no air indoors and that he was in imminent danger of suffocating. Sometimes he even found himself holding his breath.

“Over that way,” Ashton said, pointing at a long, low building.

Gwaltney nodded and led the way from the brick plantation house. As they neared the stable, a red chestnut gelding came cantering up. It had barely come to a stop before its rider lightly vaulted off its back.

“Cordelia!” called Ashton.

The young woman looked around in surprise--whether real or artificial Gwaltney couldn’t tell. “Oh, Father,” she said. “Do we have visitors?”

Ashton strode up to her, clearly irritated. “I told you,” he said, “that we would have a visitor at three o’clock. Is this your idea of how to dress for a visitor? Clad in old clothing, reeking of the stables....”

The young woman lifted her head and stared at Gwaltney for a moment, her gaze raking him contemptuously from his plume-trimmed cocked hat to the tooled silver buckles on his shoes, then gave him a cold smile. “Truly, Father,” she said, “I think it’s quite appropriate, considering the visitor.”

Ashton sputtered. “Cordelia!”

“Well, Father,” she said tartly, “he is, after all, nothing more than a longhunter. He is only seeking a wife to bring respectability to his name.” She looked defiantly over her father’s head at Gwaltney. “Isn’t that true?”

Gwaltney felt his lips twitching involuntarily. Impudent wench. “If I were seeking respectability,” he replied politely, “I scarcely think you would make me a suitable wife, my dear.”

The young woman stared at him in surprise for a moment, then turned crimson and glanced self-consciously down at her old and wrinkled linen gown. Gwaltney permitted himself to grin. Clearly the chit was not accustomed to men who gave as good as they got. No doubt, he reflected with amusement, most men took to their heels the moment she opened her mouth and unsheathed that sharp tongue of hers.

She looked exactly as he expected a spinster to look--unfashionably tall, dark hair pulled back tightly into a serviceable but unattractive bun, her thin and angular body all but hidden in a shapeless riding habit. And nearsighted, apparently, judging from the spectacles she wore.

Yet despite her plainness, Gwaltney was intrigued. He had never met a woman who spoke her mind to the point of rudeness before. Everyone in Virginia scorned him due to his lowly origins, sneering at him behind his back, or simply ignoring him, but few people had ever dared to say such things to his face before.

He found it oddly refreshing.

Ashton directed a satisfied look at his blushing daughter. “Perhaps you’ll change into something more suitable and join us in the parlor.”

Cordelia lifted her chin. “I refuse to change into my best clothes for him, Father.”

“No doubt you are saving your best clothes for your myriad other suitors,” Gwaltney remarked calmly.

She shot him a look of loathing.

Ashton intervened. “Cordelia. Go change. Join us in the parlor in ten minutes.”

Apparently Cordelia’s father had at least some control over the wayward young woman, because she flashed one final, acid-filled look at Gwaltney and stalked away haughtily, her chin held at an arrogant angle. Ashton watched her as she marched away, then turned to Gwaltney.

“I’d like to apologize for my daughter’s words,” he said formally.

“No apology is necessary, sir. You gave me fair warning that Mistress Ashton can be a little difficult.”

“Actually,” Ashton confided, “she was relatively courteous to you.”

“Indeed,” Gwaltney said, intrigued despite himself. “What, pray tell, would you consider rude behavior on her part?”

“She called Charles Franklin fat in front of a hundred people,” Ashton said dolefully. “And she told John Greenhow that his wig made it look as if he were wearing a sheep on his head.”

Gwaltney firmly suppressed his laughter in deference to the distressed expression on Ashton’s face. “Your daughter has a way with words,” he said when he trusted himself to speak.

“Yes, she does. If only she had a way with people as well.” Ashton sighed heavily. “Shall we go back into the parlor and wait for her there?”

Gwaltney felt a stab of panic, but he could think of no reasonable excuse to remain standing safely in the sunshine. “Of course,” he agreed easily, hoping, praying the girl would not take ten minutes to get changed.

Naturally, she took twenty.

It was the longest twenty minutes of Gwaltney’s life. He sat staring fixedly at the cherry tea table, struggling to make coherent responses to Ashton’s attempts at conversation but completely unaware of whether he was succeeding or not. He ignored the certainty the chamber was shrinking, the horrifying sensation of the walls closing in on him, and focused steadfastly on the tea table. He thought of nothing but that table. He imagined the entire universe had shrunk until there was nothing left but the table.

He absolutely refused to look at the walls.

Just when he thought he must flee the chamber, Ashton’s spinster daughter reappeared. He could see little improvement in her appearance. She had exchanged an old shapeless gown for a new shapeless gown, and had taken down her hair, combed the straw out of it, and pulled it back tightly into the same unattractive and unfashionable bun.

She glanced at him. Despite the concealing spectacles, he saw immediately in her eyes that she was aware of his distress, although she could not possibly guess what had caused his anxiety. It was unfortunate she was so astute. She could surely see he was in no condition to continue their verbal warfare.

Cordelia sat down on the settee and gave him a long, measured look. “Mr. Harris looks uncomfortable, Father,” she said at last. “Perhaps he would like some more tea. Would you care for some more tea, Mr. Harris?”

“No,” Gwaltney croaked, feeling his heart hammering against his ribs.

She smiled serenely. “You’re right, of course, Mr. Harris. You aren’t fit to drink from our good porcelain.” Ignoring her father’s indignant look, she went on coolly, “A man of your lowly origins would be more comfortable drinking from pewter, I should think.”

The cool disdain in her eyes gave him strength. He forced a wooden smile onto his lips and counterattacked. “Considering your absolutely charming manners, mistress, it’s a wonder you aren’t already wed.”

“And are you an expert on proper manners, Mr. Harris?”

“Not at all,” Gwaltney drawled with as much contempt as he could muster. “But more so, apparently, than you are.”

Behind the spectacles, her eyes flashed, and he half expected her to pour the contents of the teapot over his head, given Benjamin Ashton’s description of her behavior with other suitors. But she only tilted her head and gazed at him. He thought he detected a flicker of respect in her eyes and even, perhaps, a touch of amusement.

“And yet you want to marry me,” she said. “Tell me, Mr. Harris, what do you find attractive about me? My ... how did you put it? ... ‘absolutely charming manners,’ or my dowry?”

“I have not yet decided that I wish to marry you, mistress.”

“Oh, come now, Mr. Harris. Let us be honest with one another. You would not be here if you did not wish to seek my hand in marriage.”

“You are a remarkable young lady,” Gwaltney said, forcing another smile despite his nervousness. “Egotistical as well as ill-mannered.”

He half expected Benjamin Ashton to rise to his feet and order him from the parlor at that remark, but he saw from the corner of his eye that Ashton was observing their confrontation with interest rather than anger.

Mistress Ashton’s lips tightened. The amusement, he noted, had drained from her expression. Her eyes were cold and hard. “How dare you sit here and call me such names?” she snapped.

“Let me remind you that you began the name-calling, Mistress Ashton.”

“Only because you are a ... a....”

“A guest in your father’s house?” Gwaltney supplied helpfully. “Are you always this courteous to your guests, mistress?”

Most planters, he knew, prided themselves on their hospitality. He noted with satisfaction that her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “I am courteous enough to gentlemen,” she returned.

“Ah, yes. Your courtesy to gentlemen is legendary throughout the colony.”

Her gaze flickered toward the teapot, and he had the distinct sense she was weighing the pros and cons of dumping it in his hair. Feeling that he had made enough of an impression for the day, and rather desperate to get outside, he stood up. “This has been an interesting visit, Mistress Ashton. Perhaps we will meet again at some point.”

“You’ll forgive me if I say I won’t be looking forward to it.”

Gwaltney grinned. “I will,” he said, and meant it. He inclined his head toward Benjamin Ashton. “Mr. Ashton, I am pleased to have made your acquaintance.”

He saw in Ashton’s warm gaze that the feeling was mutual. Shaking the older man’s hand, he turned and made his way toward the door, almost blindly.

Once safely outside, he stood for a few moments, breathing in the fresh air and enjoying the tremendous relief of being in the open. Suddenly aware that he was not alone, he turned and saw Mistress Ashton standing on the wide brick steps of the house, watching him thoughtfully.

He sent her a crooked smile. “I see you couldn’t bear to part with me, mistress.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she said coldly. “I followed you to speak with you privately. I wish to make certain you have no intention of seeking my hand.”

Gwaltney arched a brow. “Now you flatter yourself. Surely you can’t imagine I could be interested in marrying you after what you said to me in there.”

He saw satisfaction cross her face, only to be quickly wiped away. “I am pleased you realize we would not suit.”

“You made that more than clear, mistress.”

She regarded him intently. “I am glad we understand one another,” she said at last, and turning, walked back into the house. He watched her go.

Mistress Ashton, he thought wryly, would rejoice this afternoon, believing she had succeeded in ridding herself of another unwanted suitor. No doubt the young lady was already congratulating herself, believing she had won this battle.

But the war had just begun.