Lord Harry's Folly (20 page)

“You aren’t too cold, Melissande?”

Melissande had received so many passionate and ardent looks from gentlemen, she wouldn’t have cared if her teeth were chattering. Just as long as there was no gooseflesh on her face, she wouldn’t complain. She shook her head, allowing the arching plume to brush against her rosy cheeks, and smiled caressingly at Lord Harry.

By the time they had cantered nearly the full perimeter of the park, their presence had been duly noted by at least a dozen very interested ladies and gentlemen. Hetty slowed her horse as a phaeton with a gentleman riding alongside pulled onto the green. She glanced sideways at the driver and drew abruptly to a halt, handily catching Coquette’s bridle in her fingers. She looked into the smiling face of Kate St. Clair, the countess of March. She felt nothing but pleasure at the encounter until she realized that the gentleman on the black stallion was the earl, and he wasn’t happy.

Well, there was nothing she could do about it. “My lady,” Lord Harry said, bowing in the saddle, “I see that you have taken to more mild forms of exercise. Do you enjoy yourself sufficiently?”

Kate gave a trill of laughter, delighted to see Lord Harry. She looked at her husband, expecting to see his easy smile. She was surprised and confused at the sudden set look on his face, that tightening of his jaw, a very stubborn jaw, that happened only during their more ferocious arguments.

“How delightful to see you again, Lord Harry. Such a pity you couldn’t come with Harry to dine with us the other evening. Harry sang your praises until my lord here was ready to throw turtle soup in his face. Hitting the target from twenty feet at Manton’s is no small feat. Ah, how I should like to go there.”

“I should like to take you there, my lady,” Hetty said. She was well aware that the earl’s eyes were stark and narrowed on her face. He was furious. Excellent, just excellent. Let him gnash his teeth, for he couldn’t call her out, only the marquess could.

Hetty smiled as she looked squarely into the earl’s set face. “My lord,” she said. “It is an exquisite phaeton. I, myself, admired it at Tattersall’s. The countess drives it well. I imagine that she could also shoot well at Manton’s.”

“Indeed.” The earl said nothing more. He was now looking at Melissande, who was growing decidedly restive at not being the center of the conversation.

The countess misunderstood her husband’s behavior. “Oh, do forgive me, Lord Harry, but who is this lovely lady with you?”

“This is Melissande Challier. Melissande, this is the earl and countess of March.”

The countess gave Melissande a friendly smile and nodded. Melissande gave a toss of her plumed hat, never looked at the countess, but stared at the earl, saying, “Surely I’m honored.”

Hetty guided her horse away from the phaeton. “We will leave you now. It’s cold and I’ve no wish to see icicles growing off your nose, my lady. Do enjoy yourself. Perhaps someday, we can arrange for you to come with me to Manton’s.”

The countess stared after Lord Harry as he gently and with great care assisted Melissande’s mare into a slow canter.

She turned to her frowning husband. “Lord Monteith is a charming lad. Now, Julien, don’t be cross with me. I admit to my rudeness, though it was unintentioned. I was just so pleased to see Lord Harry again. Miss Challier is beautiful, but oddly, I wouldn’t have imagined her to be quite in Lord Harry’s style. But it’s amusing how opposites attract.”

The earl tried to smile, he truly did, but he couldn’t quite make it. He said, “Kate, I’m not at all angry at you. And, as usual, you are quite correct, the lady isn’t at all in Lord Monteith’s style.”

“Just whose style is appropriate to the lady?”

She knows something is wrong, the earl thought. He said, “Very well. Melissande Challier isn’t a lady. You’ve just been your most charming to Jason Cavander’s mistress.”

“Goodness. But Julien, if she’s Jason’s mistress, whatever is she doing with Lord Monteith? Surely it isn’t at all the thing to do.”

“No, it isn’t at all the thing to do. It’s insane, actually.” The earl followed the retreating figures of Lord Harry and Jason Cavander’s mistress. He was remembering his conversation with Jason but a few days before. What a fool he’d been to so blithely discount his friend’s story about Lord Monteith’s flagrant provocation. God, when Jason found out, as most certainly he would, about Lord Monteith openly flaunting Melissande with all society to see, the young man might very well find himself thrashed to an inch of his life. Why the devil was the young man doing this? Did he wish to be beaten soundly, or perhaps have a foil run through his gullet? He decided that it would be better that he himself tell Jason Cavander. Jason had the devil’s own temper when aroused.

“Julien, what is it? What are you thinking?”

She knew him far too well for him to lie to her. Thus, he spent the next hour relating to her all that he knew about this strange situation.

When he finished, his countess was silent for a very long time. “Come,” he said, “what are you now thinking?”

“I think,” she said in a very quiet voice, “that Lord Monteith is far too intelligent to embark upon such a course as you describe without an excellent motive. He’s an unusual boy, Julien. There is something very different about him. I would hate to see him cut down so young by Jason Cavander. Yet, you feel that he is purposefully pushing Jason until there is no choice but retaliation. Is there nothing you can do, Julien?”

The earl said frankly, “Probably not much. But I will speak to Jason on the morrow. Perhaps between us we can determine just what is driving the lad to such fatal extremes.”

Pottson was busily engaged in adding a dash more garlic to a steaming mutton dish upon Hetty’s return from her ride in the park with Melissande. She breathed in deeply, demanded a spoon, and dug in. “Oh goodness, Pottson, it’s wonderful. It’s much too good for Sir Harry and Mr. Scuddimore. We can save it for just the two of us. Haven’t we several apples we can give Harry and Scuddy?”

“Go on with you, Miss Hetty,” Pottson said, waving his own spoon at her.

Hetty was changing into Lord Harry’s clothes, when there came a knock on the bedchamber door. It was Pottson wiping his hands on his apron, looking like a man hunted. Behind him stood Millie.

“Oh, Pottson. You startled me out of my skin. What’s happened?” Hetty quickly pulled a robe about her shoulders. “Don’t tell me Sir John and Lady Louisa have returned to London? Oh no, that can’t be.”

“No, it’s not Sir John, thank the good Lord. The cat would have jumped out of the bag if they’d stayed any longer in London. No, it’s your father, Miss Hetty. He’s up and done it again. Lady Melberry has invited you to another party and Sir Archibald accepted on your behalf. He wanted to see you, Miss Hetty, but I told him you were resting. You must know that I had to tell him that you would be delighted to go, so as to keep him from suspecting you weren’t at home.”

“You did just the right thing, Millie. Drat Sir Archibald anyway. I doubt he even remembered that I asked him to consult me before he accepted any more invitations. Oh well, it’s done. Now, we must hurry. Quickly, Millie, fetch a pen and writing paper from Pottson. There is just enough time for him to pay a visit to Sir Harry and Mr. Scuddimore and cancel our evening together. Pottson, you’d better not eat all that stew by yourself.”

A scant two hours later, Miss Henrietta Rolland, the dowdy specimen who had made her debut but a week before, climbed into Sir Archibald’s carriage, pressing the green alexandrine cap against the top of her head to keep it from being whipped away by the harsh evening wind. As before, she didn’t balance the spectacles on her nose until she pounded the knocker at the Melberry town house. The Melberry butler again looked at her as if he prayed devoutly she’d disappear. She gave him a big swarmy smile and a bigger squint.

She quickly scanned the assorted ladies and gentlemen clustered in small groups in the drawing room. Her sense of wariness eased. She didn’t see Lord Oberlon. Miss Henrietta Rolland wished to avoid his grace to the same extent that Lord Harry Monteith wished to be thrown into his presence. She said all that was polite to Lady Melberry and quickly made good her escape to a far corner of the drawing room, there to observe, and hopefully, not to be observed by any of the other guests. Her gaze soon fell upon a lovely, dark-haired girl who was seated demurely beside her mama, looking for all the world as if she would yawn loudly from boredom at any moment. Hetty grinned. The vision of loveliness was none other than Miss Isabella Bentworth, the delight of Sir Harry Brandon’s heart. Lord Harry had met the young lady only briefly, and had exchanged only superficial civilities. Perhaps Miss Henrietta Rolland could make Miss Isabella’s acquaintance. She had a lively curiosity about the young lady who had captured Sir Harry’s devotion, though not as yet, a proposal of marriage.

As Hetty drew closer to Miss Bentworth, she began to believe Sir Harry mad. Isabella was indeed a beautiful girl, her deep brown eyes soft and warm. She looked kind as well as beautiful. Hetty wondered if Sir Harry deserved her. Her hair, glossy black with no hint of red, was swept high atop her head, with myriad small curls framing her ivory face. Hetty decided Sir Harry didn’t deserve Isabella.

Hetty was at the point of gaining Miss Bentworth’s wandering attention when she was drawn up suddenly by the grating voice of Miss Maude Langley.

“My dear Miss Rolland,” Maude said in that sticky sweet way of hers that set Hetty’s teeth on edge. “How very delightful to see you again. Do forgive me for not calling upon you, but I was invited to so many balls and routs that I scarce had time to purchase new gowns.”

Fat chance of that, Hetty thought, and took a deep breath, her only ambition to rid herself of the unwelcome Miss Maude. “I most readily forgive you, Miss Langley,” she said, raising her voice, thus forcing her vowels to be irritatingly nasal. “Where is your beautiful sister? Surely, the gentlemen will be howling soon if she doesn’t come.”

Miss Maude became less friendly. “Oh, Caroline is probably off in some corner flirting outrageously. Mama quite despairs that Caroline’s unladylike behavior will drive away the more serious of eligible gentlemen.”

“That’s difficult to believe, Miss Langley. Gentlemen adore lively, beautiful girls. She will probably have half a score of marriage proposals before the season has even begun.”

Miss Maude decided that Henrietta Rolland was as impertinent as she was homely. She looked down her long thin nose, taking in every aspect of the pea green gown that hung shapelessly on Miss Rolland’s shoulders, and gave a tittering, tight little laugh.

“You, certainly, Miss Rolland, need not concern yourself about being so bothered by the other sex.”

Hetty choked back a laugh, squinted at Miss Maude and said in that ghastly nasal twang, “Perhaps you can bear me company during the season, Miss Langley. We can criticize all the beautiful girls as we sit along the ballroom walls watching them dance.”

“Impertinent little twit,” Miss Maude said under her breath, but not under enough.

“Such an insufferable girl, isn’t she? However did you get rid of her so neatly?” Hetty turned about to see Miss Isabella Bentworth at her elbow.

“It’s not all that hard if you know how to insult her properly. Do forgive me, but I’m Henrietta Rolland. I wanted to make your acquaintance. You are quite the most beautiful girl in the room, you know. I’m sure Miss Maude could find ever so many awful things wrong with your person, your clothes, and your character.”

Miss Isabella Bentworth smiled, then grinned widely. “I haven’t met you before. Are you new in town?”

“Somewhat. I’ve seen you, Miss Bentworth, with a very handsome young gentleman. He’s tall and fair complexioned. Very dashing and princely I thought him.” That was going too far, she thought, with the princely part, but to her relief, Miss Isabella’s cheeks turned suddenly warm and she looked quickly down at the toes of her blue satin slippers. “I believe you’re speaking of Sir Harry Brandon.”

Hetty wasn’t deaf to the depression in Miss Bentworth’s voice. She knew she shouldn’t make a judgment of character on such short notice, yet she couldn’t help being drawn to Miss Bentworth. She said carefully, “I’ve heard of Sir Harry. He’s considered a very eligible bachelor, isn’t he?”

“I suppose so,” came a dull answer.

So Miss Bentworth did return Harry’s affection, Hetty thought, giving Sir Harry a mental kick for holding back from the young lady. Princely, ha. “You hold him in some regard, I gather.”

Miss Isabella eyed the sympathetic Miss Rolland, and said in a rush of confidence, “Oh, yes, Miss Rolland, but you see it doesn’t matter. My mama wishes to see me wed by the end of the season, for I have three sisters who must come out, and Harry blanches at the thought of marriage. He is all of twenty-four, yet he believes himself too young. That’s because his brother-in-law, the earl of March, was twenty-eight when he wed and that’s the age Harry agrees on, none other. He tells me I should only be fourteen-years-old right now instead of eighteen. He says it’s all my fault. He is sometimes more stubborn than my mama, which is a terrifying thought when one considers a lifetime with such a mate.”

It did indeed. And that sounded just like Harry’s logic, Hetty thought. She felt no sympathy whatsoever for the three unknown sisters and wondered fleetingly if her own mother, were she alive, would have pushed her to wed at the end of her first season as Isabella’s mama was doing. Goodness, and the season hadn’t even begun yet. She asked, “Does your mama have anyone in particular in mind, other than Sir Harry Brandon?”

“Yes, Sir William Filey. He’s very rich and a toad. He flatters Mama until I want to yell that she should marry him. They’re nearer the same age. He’s always polished, always says just the right thing, yet there’s something about him. I’m not at all certain that he is what he seems.”

“He’s old enough to be your father, just like you said. You’re right, have your mama wed him. It’s nonsense to think you should marry him. Surely, your mama couldn’t believe that such a match would prosper, surely she couldn’t believe you’d be happy with such a husband.” She wondered if Sir William had an affinity for young misses, at least very rich young misses.