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

at her now, everything made sense the myriad parts he had thought about so fancifully now fit perfectly together. She had Jack’s blond hair. Curling ringlets were working themselves loose from the black ribbon at her neck, and the thick pomade no longer held the curls back from her forehead. Were she conscious, he knew her eyes would be as light and pure a blue as the summer sky. He also knew she would stare at him with contempt and hatred. She would mock him. She would be more arrogant than he himself had ever been at her age. But she hadn’t killed him. She’d pulled up. He could still see the foil as it swung gently back and forth in the early morning breeze.

I think you were born a fool and will most certainly leave this world an equal fool, he told himself, shaking his head at his blindness.

It was often said that the clothes made the man. He was now inclined to believe, rather, that one saw what one expected to see. Lord Monteith dressed as a gentleman, talked like a gentleman and partook in all the gentleman’s sports. Everyone had accepted him as such. Now, gazing down at her undeniably female face, he was forced to admit with rueful admiration that she had pulled the wool over everyone’s eyes. Even Melissande. He laughed aloud at that. Melissande accepting all the flattery, the riding costume, the mare. It was marvelous, by God, bloody unbelievable and he’d been taken in like all the rest.

Ah, but why had she hated him so much as to force a duel upon him? Why Jack’s sister, in particular? It made no sense to him. He could bring Pottson into the carriage with him and demand the reason. Yet, somehow, he wanted to hear from her own lips why she’d planned and executed this outrageous charade. He realized, too, his hand covered with her blood, that his most pressing concern wasn’t to discover her motives, but rather to save her life.

The miles pounded by. He began to grow concerned that she didn’t regain consciousness. Minutes ago they’d bowled past the signpost for Helderton, a small village not many miles from the halfway point to Smithfield. He gazed down at her again and saw for the first time a dark purplish bruise forming over her temple. She must have struck her head when she fell. He quickly laid his hand over her breast to feel for her heartbeat. It was, he thought, rapid but steady. A blow on the head could keep her from regaining consciousness. He prayed silently that it wasn’t serious.

He found himself wondering if he was not a coward. Had he hidden her identity from the others to protect his own reputation? By God, who would want it known that he’d been challenged to a duel by a girl? That she’d managed to have him at her mercy, the tip of her foil against his heart? Was he, in fact, endangering her life to keep himself from being a laughingstock?

He looked up as the carriage drew to a halt in the yard of the Red Rose Inn, in the center of Smithfield.

Silken’s small, pointed face soon appeared at the carriage window. “The cattle are winded, your grace.”

“Change ‘em, quickly, Silken. Five minutes, no more.” As soon as Silken had bustled away to search out the ostler, Pottson scratched lightly on the carriage door to gain the marquess’s attention.

“Is Miss Hetty all right, your grace? Please, sir, she’ll live, won’t she?”

“Yes, Pottson. The bleeding has stopped. When she fell, she hit her head on a rock, and it’s that keeps her from consciousness. Now, what is it you want to say?”

“Miss Hetty wrote two letters, your grace. One to Sir Archibald and the other to Sir John. If something happened to Miss Hetty, I was to give the letters to her maid. You see, your grace, Miss Hetty always has luncheon with Sir Archibald at precisely twelve o’clock. If she’s not there, he’ll miss her. There’ll be hell to pay.”

“Damnation. Well, it must be dealt with. No, be quiet, Pottson, I must think.” He stared down at the unconscious girl in his arms. “I’ve got it. Listen, Pottson. You’ll rent a hack from the ostler and return to London immediately. Tell Miss Rolland’s maid to inform Sir Archibald that Miss Rolland has been invited by my sister, Lady Alicia Warton, to spend several days with her at Thurston Hall. She will then accompany you to Thurston Hall by this evening if possible, Pottson. I shall attend to my sister. Do you understand?”

“Yes, your grace. Lady Alicia Warton.”

“You may ask my butler, Rabbell, in Berkeley Square, the directions to Thurston Hall. Here,” the marquess added, reaching into his waistcoat pocket. “This should be enough money. You must pull it off correctly, Pottson, there is much at stake. You know it as well as I do.”

“I know, your grace, I know. It was a mad scheme, but once Miss Hetty had the bit between her teeth, there was no stopping her. I couldn’t blame her, your grace. After all, her brother”

The marquess interrupted him. “No, don’t tell me any more. Go now, there’s no time to lose. Don’t forget, Lady Alicia Warton. I fancy she and Miss Henrietta Rolland are going to become bosom pals.”

The marquess thought about Sir Archibald and his general vague perceptions of his family, and decided that his plan was likely to work. Moreover, Sir Archibald wouldn’t question an invitation from Lady Alicia Warton. He must remember to write to his sister this very evening, and warn her not to appear in London.

The marquess lifted her shirt again and saw with dismay that his hand was covered with her blood. The wound was bleeding again. He shouted to Silken to bring him several very clean napkins from the inn.

Gently, he laid her on the opposite seat and unfastened the soaked handkerchief.

He winced at the raw wound, remembering all too clearly the