Lord Harry by Catherine Coulter

Melissande lowered her vivid green eyes demurely and fingered the silken folds of her peignoir. “His grace, the Marquess of Oberlon, doesn’t care for the entertainment one enjoys at the theater or say, Vauxhall Gardens. At least not often. I must practically beg him.”

Scuddy leapt up, looking like a fox suddenly corned by the hounds. “The Marquess of Oberlon? Oh my God. Oh goodness. Oh, Lord Harry, say it isn’t so. We’ll be dead by morning.” Several drops of sherry splashed on Mr. Scuddimore’s red cabbage roses. He sputtered to regain his breath.

Hetty said easily, “Didn’t I tell you that our gracious hostess is a close acquaintance of Lord Oberlon, Scuddy? Well, no matter. Do sit down, Scuddy, and control yourself.” She chose to ignore the horror on Mr. Scuddimore’s face and turned quickly back to Melissande. “How very odd, to be sure. Why, Mr. Scuddimore and I often see his grace at White’s and, of course, riding in the park. But that, indeed, isn’t my concern, is it? Do forgive me, Melissande. You asked where we had drunk in your ethereal beauty, it was two weeks ago, at Drury Lane.” Pleased with herself for sowing seeds of discontent, Hetty willingly turned the topic. From the corner of her eye, she saw that Mr. Scuddimore wore a hunted look. He looked ready to write his will. She would tell him later that since he didn’t have all that many worldly goods to leave, he didn’t have to bother with a will.

Hetty was gratified to her toes when Melissande said suddenly, a warm glow in her eyes, “I believe I do remember remarking on you, my lord. Weren’t you seated in the pit, looking up at his grace’s box? Didn’t you smile at me? Ah, yes, I remember your smile, so very adoring.”

“Oh yes, adoring is just what I feel whenever I look at you, Melissande. I’m honored you remember me, for there were so many gentlemen vying to catch your eye, all of them adoring.” Hetty looked up at the ormolu clock on the mantel. Goodness, they had to leave. There was no way of knowing if Lord Oberlon would come tonight after he’d left Jack and Louisa. She quickly rose, Scuddy, scared to his toes, followed suit. Hetty managed to look chagrined and guilty and charming, a look that Millie had evaluated for her many times. “It was wrong of me to seek you out, Melissande, very wrong of me, yet I couldn’t help myself. Cupid’s arrow has pierced my breast. I know his grace such a proud, disdainful man wouldn’t be gratified if he discovered that one of your many adoring admirers had visited you unattended” Hetty let her voice trail off in meaningful silence, praying silently.

Melissande was much touched, more by Lord Monteith’s declared admiration of her person than by his concern over the marquess. She gazed at him under her lashes. He was much too young for her, admittedly, yet he was so much like the hero from her novel. She was far too experienced to believe that she would ever live under his protection, but she could see no harm in a light flirtation. She thought speculatively about Lord Oberlon. Perhaps just such a flirtation with a gentleman some years his junior would make him realize her value. Maybe, she thought, he would purchase her the phaeton and pair to keep her delicious person all to himself.

“Don’t concern yourself about Lord Oberlon. You’ve committed no impertinence, my lord, by visiting me.” She rose and laid her hand lightly on Lord Harry’s sleeve. “What is your direction, my lord, so that I may send word to you when the opportunity presents itself? I do love to ride in the park,” she added on a small sigh, a gutless sigh that that damned heroine would make. She even managed to wilt just a bit, but not enough to lose the impact of her cleavage.

Once Lord Harry’s direction was written down in a thin white book, Hetty clasped Melissande’s hand once again and brought it to her lips. “Au revoir, my goddess,” she said. Melissande’s flesh was warm and soft. Hetty felt distinctly odd, kissing another woman’s hand.

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