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

at the Ranleaghs’ ball. No, he realized, it had nothing to do with Jack. Jack would have no idea. Unless she died. He shook his head at that. No way would he allow that.

He looked back at the bed. What kind of a woman was she anyway? A girl he would have said, but not now, not since he’d seen her look blank-eyed at the foils, overcome her shock and fear, and proceed to fence with him with all her skill. Hadn’t Jack said she was eighteen? He’d fought a duel with an eighteen-year-old girl. He would wager that no other gentleman either past or present or future, for that matter, would have come through what he had. He’d rarely in his twenty-seven years known a female who could even bring herself to discuss pistols and foils, much less known one who was so skilled in this, a masculine domain. She was brave, indeed, she’d shown herself fearless. It shook him, this girl who now lay in his bed, this girl who could die because of his sword thrust through her side. No, he wouldn’t let her die. He wanted to hear her tell him what he’d done to deserve such hatred from her, such hatred that she’d become a young gentleman and learned to shoot and to fence, all to send him to the devil, and yet at the last moment, when she’d won, she’d changed her mind. Yes, he wanted her to tell him and then He didn’t know. He strode over to his grandfather’s writing desk. He had to write Alicia and ensure that he needn’t have any worry from that quarter. Although he was fairly certain that his dashing, very feminine sister was carrying her child-swollen belly in the privacy of Sir Henry’s Devonshire estate, he intended to make doubly sure that she remained there. He thought of Henrietta Rolland in feminine ruffles and lace. He’d seen her in a mask and domino, her blue eyes glittering, her lovely mouth laughing. He remembered the feel of her in his arms as he whirled her about in the waltz, her gay laughter, he remembered all of it.

Damnation. She’d tried to kill him. You’re a stupid ass, he grunted to himself. He suddenly saw that ghastly, vulgar girl dressed in the pea green gown and ugly spectacles at his aunt Melberry’s soiree. Jesus, who had she been? Another role, obviously. She was very talented. And he was, after all, a man with many years’ experience and maturity. Surely he would be able to sort all of this out. He wanted to touch her blond hair, blonder than Jack’s hair, the curls soft and springy. He was becoming a half-wit. He quickly set himself to the task of writing to Alicia and then to Rabbell to cancel all of his appointments in London for the remainder of the week. Having finished, he rose and rang the bell cord for luncheon and went to his dressing room to change his clothes.

After eating thin-sliced ham, sweet garden peas, and crunchy warm bread, he returned to his vigil by her bedside. He allowed his mind to wander back to the various encounters he had engaged in with her. Whenever he caught himself either frowning or smiling at one particular memory, he gazed over at her. He was surprised to realize that the afternoon had melted away, and a frown settled upon his brow. She was sleeping overlong and he grew concerned. Perhaps he should fetch a doctor and damn the consequences.

The downstairs clock chimed six deep, resounding strokes. He saw her eyelashes flutter open. There was no awareness in her eyes this time. She stared unseeing at him. A low, aching moan came from deep in her throat. In a jerking motion, she brought her hand up to press against the swollen bruise on her temple, then with another gasp of pain, she dropped her hand and hugged her side.

He laid a damp strip of linen on her forehead, for he could not risk more laudanum so soon. He hoped, without much optimism, that it would relieve the pain in her head. He lowered himself gently down beside her. He pulled her arms away from her side, fearful that her frantic clutching would cause the wound to start bleeding again. She fought against him with surprising strength, but he tightened his grip until she lay still, moaning helplessly.

“Hetty,” he said against her ear. “You must try to lie still. I don’t want the bleeding to start again. Can you understand me?”

She tried to twist away from him. His arms began to ache with holding her down. Then he simply couldn’t stand her pain any longer. He measured a lesser dose of laudanum into a glass of water and forced it down her throat. She choked, doubling forward in a paroxysm of coughing. He pulled her against his chest and held her close, rubbing his hand on her back, until the racking shudders subsided. He began to rock her gently, until finally, he felt the tension in her gradually ease.

The laudanum was beginning to blunt the edges of her pain. She was seized by a sudden sense of urgency. She lurched up, saying, “Millie, where are you? What time is it? Please, we must hurry. Father will wonder where I am. I can’t let him suspect. Millie. Oh, hurry.” Millie didn’t come to her, but there was someone else near to her. A low, soothing voice. “Is that you Signore Bertioli? The vendetta, Signore. I mustn’t fail. I am nothing if I fail. You must help me, Signore, please, you must teach me. But it’s over, isn’t it? I was a fool, Signore. I went into battle with naught but a prayer and a foil. No pistols for me, just that damned foil.”

A soft shimmering light was shining in her eyes. A dark face was staring at her, dark eyes, deep and fathomless. “My God, it that you, Damien? Please forgive me. I