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

shirt to the silent warning in the marquess’s dark eyes. It seemed the marquess had taken the matter out of his hands. Why? Pottson didn’t know, but now there was nothing he could do. He stared down at his mistress. He felt helpless and paralyzed.

The marquess used his body as a shield as he pressed the wadded handkerchief against the wound. “Now your neck cloth, Harry, so I can bind Julien’s handkerchief.” Gently, he slipped the wide band of material under her back and knotted it over the pad.

He rose, lifting her in his arms. “Julien, I require your carriage. I very nearly killed the boy and now I intend to take care of him.” He turned to the valet. “You will accompany me to Thurston Hall.”

“Now, see here, your grace.” Sir Harry stepped forward, uncertain of what he should do, but knowing that somehow he was the only one left to do anything. He was Lord Harry’s second. Lord Harry was surely his responsibility. But the world had taken a faulty turn. Lord Harry had disarmed the marquess. He could have killed him but he’d not done it, and that made no sense. Lord Harry’s foil was still gently swaying back and forth in the early morning breeze. And now the marquess was insisting upon taking care of Lord Harry, who hated his guts. None of it made any sense.

“No, Harry,” the earl said quietly. He looked searchingly into his friend’s eyes, then said evenly, “Lord Oberlon will do what is best, Harry. You may depend upon his word. I would trust him with my life. Surely you can trust your friend’s life to him.”

As Pottson threw the heavy greatcoat over Hetty, the earl asked, “Thurston Hall, Jason? It will take you an hour and a half to reach. Shouldn’t you come back to London instead?”

“I know how long it takes,” the marquess said, meeting the earl’s eyes. “It doesn’t matter. Once the bleeding is stopped, it makes no difference whether Monteith is abed in London or at Thurston Hall. It is better for the lad to be out of London.”

“You will keep us informed of his progress, Jason?”

“You both may depend upon it. Now, we must be off. I would cover as many miles as possible before the lad regains consciousness.”

“But a doctor,” Sir Harry said. “Lord Harry needs a doctor. The best doctors are in London.” No one paid Sir Harry any mind as he trailed after the marquess who was carrying his friend as gently as he would a babe in his arms.

Jason Cavander turned as he stepped into the carriage. “Don’t worry, Harry. I suffered a like wound several years back and I assure you that I will provide Monteith the best care.” He mounted the carriage steps, and said over his shoulder, “Julien, you will see to Monteith’s horse, won’t you?”

“Don’t worry,” the earl said. He took Harry’s arm and drew him away.

“Now you,” Jason Cavander said to Pottson. “What is your name?”

“Pottson, your grace,” he said, moving quickly to the carriage door. Lord Oberlon lowered his voice, for he had no wish that even Silken hear his words. “Now, Pottson, what is the young lady’s name, if you please?”

Pottson stared vacantly at his unconscious mistress pressed close to the marquess’s chest. His promise to her rang clear in his mind, yet, he knew at the same time that all had changed. What the devil was he to do?

“Out with it, Pottson. Don’t you see that I must know everything now if we are to pull through this mess without a scandal that would rock all of London? What is the girl’s damned name?”

“She’s Miss Henrietta Rolland, your grace.” Oh gawd, what would happen now? She’d kill him, Pottson knew it. He’d betrayed her, yet what could he do?

Henrietta Rolland, he thought blankly. That lovely young lady at the Ranleaghs’ ball who’d fascinated him and who’d liked him very much as well until she’d learned who he was. Sir Archibald’s daughter, Jack’s sister she’d left Sir Archibald’s house rather than dine with him. And the dowdy female at his aunt Melberry’s soiree who’d made his eyes cross just to look at her, yet she’d taunted him and mocked him until until she’d realized that to continue just made him all the more curious. Then she’d become a vulgar, obnoxious twit. And as Lord Harry she’d turned her attention to Melissande, she’d even taunted him that he wasn’t enough of a man for his mistress. A girl, no, a young lady of quality had said that to him. He didn’t understand any of it. Why the devil did she hate him? Had she assumed the identity of a young gentleman just to kill him? It was fantastic, utterly without sense to him. He pulled himself together. “Ride with Silken. I will see to her. Dammit, man, go now.”

He settled her in his arms and yelled out the carriage window, “Spring’em, Silken! If they’re blown, we’ll change them at Smithfield. Hurry, I want to be at Thurston Hall in an hour.”

Silken took his master at his word, and Lord Oberlon clutched her more tightly to his chest to keep her steady as the carriage lurched and swayed over the rutted ground. He gently pulled back the greatcoat that covered her and carefully eased up her shirt. The wadded handkerchief was nearly soaked with blood. He placed his fingers atop the wound and pressed down. He tried to cradle her as best he could with his free hand, and drew the greatcoat over her.

He stared down into her pale, still face. Henrietta was the beauty of the family, Louisa had said. His eyes followed the slender column of her neck to the firm smooth chin, a stubborn chin, he thought, bloody stubborn and determined. Just look at all she’d done. He looked closely at the high cheekbones, the straight, proud nose, the thick, fair lashes lying in wet spikes on her cheeks. How strange that looking down