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

is that you, whom I believed to be a vicious, cruel devil, are the innocent one. You who are the kind one, the man who wants to see justice done. But that’s not possible. Damien is long dead, rotted on that damnable battlefield, and my father killed him, no matter how you slice the bread, that’s what happened. You want to leave, Jason. You can’t want me for your wife now.”

She felt strong arms enclose her, and for an instant held herself stiff and unyielding. The tears that were not far from the surface welled up and she collapsed against him. He held her until the hoarse sobs became rasping hiccups.

He pulled a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and pressed it into her hand. She clutched at him, burrowing against his shoulder. Finally she raised a tear-streaked face, her voice forlorn between the hiccups. “Whatever shall I do? I can’t remain in the same house with my father. Of a certainty, Lord Harry cannot challenge Sir Archibald to a duel.”

The marquess took the handkerchief from her unresisting fingers and efficiently wiped her face. “Of course, my love, I realize that you can’t wish to remain in this house. I want you to come with me, Hetty, for we can be wed as soon as I can procure a special license. It will take me just a day.”

To his utter bewilderment, she pulled away from him. “Listen to me, damn you. I told you that you won’t be held to your offer of marriage. I will have none of your pity, do you hear? I would now, your grace, that you leave and contrive to forget all that has passed here today. God knows I can’t do anything about it. God, how I wish it had been Filey.”

The marquess rose and clasped her arms, forcing her to face him. “That’s really quite enough, Hetty. You must have lost what few wits remain to you if you ever think I would take a wife out of pity. Hetty, can you not understand that I care very much for you? That I love you? That I held you on my lap and stroked you with my fingers until you gained your pleasure and cried out in my mouth?”

“No, don’t talk like that. How many women have you held like that, caressed like that? It can’t mean all that much to you. You have told me yourself that you felt no love for Elizabeth, yet, you offered her marriage. Wasn’t that from pity? From some sort of misplaced gentleman’s honor?”

“Damn you, it’s not the same thing and you know it.” He wanted to shake her. “Hetty,” he said, gentling his voice, “you must know how I feel about you. Stop being at cross-purposes with me, it serves no cause. We are what we are and Sir Archibald won’t change, ever. We must accept him. We must accept the situation. We will mourn Damien, the damnable waste of it, the tragedy of it, but we will do it together.”

She regarded him coldly, in dead silence.

He continued softly, “You can’t make me believe you don’t care for me, Hetty. I have gotten to know you quite well, you know. You cried out in my mouth. I gave you pleasure you’ve never had before, I’ve made you feel things you want forever. Admit it.”

He would have preferred to haul her over his shoulder and get her away from this house, from her father, this very moment. But he knew Hetty. She would very likely tell him to go to the devil if he became the least bit autocratic, even if it was for her own good. Yet he hated to leave her to deal alone with her grief and sense of betrayal. She had turned away from him, presenting a board-stiff back. He had no idea what she was thinking. It scared the hell out of him.

“Hetty,” he said. She didn’t turn, so he continued addressing her back. “I don’t want you to believe that I shall continue pressing you. I’ve told you how I feel, and I would that you think about my words. I also know that you love me, that you love me deeply. However, I know that you’re not thinking clearly right now. Neither am I. We both need some time, you especially. I will leave you now and if you wouldn’t mind, I would like to come for dinner this evening. Perhaps then we can more rationally discuss what we are to do.”

“Very well,” she said, and he had the impression that she wasn’t actually agreeing with him, merely acquiescing at the moment so that she could be alone.

Rabbell entered the library, his face set in deep worry lines. “Your grace.”

The marquess pulled his attention from a sheaf of papers that, in all truth, he’d been reading and rereading and he still had no idea what the content was. “Yes, Rabbell?”

“It seems, your grace, that an odd person has arrived knocked at the front door, he did urgently demanding to see your grace. He informed me, your grace, that it was a matter of the gravest importance, concerning a Miss Rolland.”

“What?” The marquess bounded to his feet. “Don’t just stand there, show the damned fellow in.”

But a moment later, the marquess was facing a pale, out-of-breath Pottson.

“Oh my gawd, she up and skuttled the pike, your grace.”

“She’s what?”

“Loped off, gone without a word, your grace, fleeced the rod. Millie’s fit to be green with worry, begged me she did, to come to you, seeing as how you’d know what to do.”

The marquess felt suddenly quite cold. Damn, but he was a fool for ever leaving her alone. “Why does Millie believe that Miss Rolland has run away, Pottson? It has been but three hours since I left her.” Even as he spoke, the marquess found himself gazing toward the windows. It was already dusk. Night was soon coming.

“She told me, your grace, that Miss Hetty was acting oddlike, not saying a