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

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.

Miss Bentworth said, “It’s true, he is too old for me. But if Sir Harry doesn’t wish to wed me, I fear that I shall have no other choice in the matter. My mama is strong-willed, you know. My papa quakes in his boots whenever she speaks. And there are my sisters, of course. All three of them. She’s even pushing me to marry before the Season begins, so she may save money, which is silly, since my father’s made of money.”

“Nonsense, Miss Bentworth, everyone has choices. You just must have some resolve.”

Miss Bentworth thought privately that the homely Miss Rolland could well afford to state her mind and have all the resolve in the world, for she couldn’t imagine any gentleman threatening to do away with himself if she didn’t wed him. How could Miss Rolland possibly understand?

Hetty misunderstood Miss Bentworth’s silence, and began to believe her spiritless. She knew she shouldn’t be meddling, but someone had to do something about these two. “As I said, Miss Bentworth, it just takes a bit of resolve, and a sound strategy. Listen and tell me what you think.”

Miss Bentworth obligingly bent her dark head close to the pea green cap. Hetty became so engrossed in weaving her plot and in gaining Miss Bentworth’s agreement, that she was unaware of Lord Oberlon’s arrival. Thus, when the sound of his deep rich voice came to her ears, not ten feet away from her, she jumped, the remainder of her words dead on her tongue.

Miss Bentworth was too involved in Miss Rolland’s daring plan to notice anything amiss. When Hetty grabbed her arm and pulled her into a corner, she believed merely that Miss Rolland had no wish to be overheard. It was some five minutes later when the orchestra struck up a lively country dance and two gentlemen were purposefully approaching her to secure the dance, that Miss Bentworth finally agreed. “You’re certain Lord Monteith will agree, Miss Rolland?” she asked yet again.

“Yes, I am. He’ll call on you tomorrow, Miss Bentworth. Remember, you mustn’t breathe a word of this to anyone.”

Hetty slipped even further into the corner, Miss Bentworth and her trial with Sir Harry for the moment forgotten, her eyes upon Lord Oberlon. He was laughing easily with Miss Caroline Langley. She glanced at a clock, saw that it was just after ten o’clock and realized with a sinking in the pit of her stomach that it would be quite rude for her to depart so early in the evening. She thought about a sudden, painful headache. Yes, that just might do it. So busy was she in planning her migraine that a light touch on her sleeve made her whirl about in consternation and stumble into a table.

“Did I frighten you, Miss Rolland?” Jason Cavander, quite eager to tease the spirited, outspoken young lady whose company the previous evening at the Ranleaghs’ masquerade ball he’d found stimulating, actually more than stimulating. He realized he couldn’t wait to see her again. But then she whipped about and his horrified eyes took in the hideous green cap, the squinting eyes behind wire spectacles, and the most ill-fitting gown he had ever seen in his life.

“You’re Miss Henrietta Rolland?” he asked slowly, praying that this daunting vision gaping stupidly at him was some errant relative of Lady Melberry.

Hetty, after her initial shock, was well aware of the effect of her appearance upon him. Without