Lord Harry's Folly by Catherine Coulter (read this if .txt) 📕

his grace, Sir William. Monteith is new to London ways, just today made a member here.”

Lord Oberlon said, “If it is a duel of honor you seek, Filey, turn your anger upon another man, not a mere boy. You know that I will most willingly oblige you. You have but to name your second and the time. Name your weapon.”

Sir William drew back, a glimmer of fear in his eyes.

“Ah, I see that you aren’t about to face me. By God, it’s your manners I find execrable, not the lad’s.” Jason looked toward the boy as he spoke. His face was pale, there was banked rage in his eyes, yet he held himself in excellent control. He was motionless, showing nothing of what he was feeling or of what he intended to do. The marquess was impressed.

Hetty felt as though someone had jerked the chair from under her. Damn Lord Oberlon for coming to her aid. She didn’t mind Sir Robert speaking up, but not this, not Jason Cavander being her knight, damn his eyes. Finally she’d managed to come face-to-face with him and what had it gained her? A damnable protector. This was her first opportunity. She couldn’t just let it slip by her. She uncoiled from her chair and rose to stand between Lord Oberlon and Sir William. Though her eyes were on a level with Sir William’s, she was forced to tilt back her chin to look into Lord Oberlon’s face.

In a calm low voice, she said, “I didn’t know your grace was a defender of all gentlemen who haven’t yet reached your exalted years. I’m not a callow youth who is in need of your protection, your grace. I shall fight my own fights, and find one bully much the same as another, no matter the guise. I do not wish or need your interference.”

There was a sharp intake of breath behind her, but whether it came from Sir William or Sir Robert, Hetty neither knew nor cared. She thought fleetingly of Signore Bertioli and his feigned optimism at her progress with the foil. Was she at last to be put to the test?

Not a flicker of emotion registered on Lord Oberlon’s face. He was very tanned, she thought, thinking of his time in Italy. She thought she saw a gleam of surprise in his dark eyes, but he looked down so quickly, she doubted what she saw. She found her hands balling into fists at her sides. Why didn’t he strike her?

With studied, almost indifferent movements, he flipped open the Sevres snuffbox, and with an elegant flick of his wrist, inhaled a pinch, then breathed deeply. He brushed a fleck of snuff from his sleeve, and to Hetty’s surprise, looked her full in the face and smiled gently.

He wanted to take the boy’s white neck between his long fingers and gently squeeze until he apologized for his unmeasured words. But he knew he couldn’t, at least not here at White’s. He wondered what was in the boy’s mind, why he was attacking him. For what purpose? It made no sense. He kept his own voice low, almost meditative. “It would appear, Filey, that Monteith has no use for either of us.” He paused yet again, his gaze roaming over Monteith’s face. “Your tongue is sharp, my boy, your words barbed. May I suggest that in the future, you temper your fits of arrogance and swagger, particularly in my presence.”

Sir William said, “You’d best heed his grace’s advice. You may be certain, callow youth or no, that you will pay for your insults.” Sir William sensed that young Monteith had so thoroughly offended Lord Oberlon that his own closing shot wouldn’t draw his grace’s wrath upon his own head. He glanced a final time with loathing upon the lad’s flushed face, turned abruptly and strode away.

Sir Robert, his mouth prim and disapproving, bowed with the slightest dip of his thin shoulders and retired to another table. Hetty found herself alone, facing her enemy. At last. She sensed his strength, his sheer physical power, and another power that was deep within him, that was part of him, that was, indeed, what made him what he was ruthless, utterly without morals, yet he’d defended Lord Harry Monteith, a perfect stranger to him. It made no sense and she refused to think about it, to grant him any credit. She thrust up her chin. A bullet or a foil would bring him to the ground. Let him be strong, let him be powerful, it mattered not. She was going to kill him. He deserved it.

He spoke again, the gentleness of his tone stark with naked warning. “You’re young, Monteith. Although I applaud your dislike of Sir William and indeed, find myself amused at your wit in felling him, you must take care. I don’t think you stupid, my lad, so attend me carefully. Know well your victim before you lash out with your cutting words.”

“Victim, your grace? How oddly that word sets upon your shoulders. I see you in the light of the predator, without conscience, without remorse. You may be certain that I will indeed know the predator before I lash out. I do heed your advice, your grace, with only the minor adjustment to your character.” She saw the smooth line of his jaw harden, the twitching of a small muscle beside his mouth. He will strike me now, she thought, bracing herself. An arrogant man as he is will never tolerate such insults.

Lord Oberlon slowly replaced his snuffbox in his waistcoat pocket. He gazed down at the boy standing stiff as a young sapling before him, not with anger, but with tolerance. Good lord, had he ever been so young? So arrogant? So utterly certain that he was invulnerable? Yet there couldn’t be more than seven or eight years between them. He supposed that he must have once been as great a fool. Most young gentlemen were. Of course, there’d been no excuse for the greatest