Lord Harry by Catherine Coulter

Now, as she pirouetted in front of the raptly admiring young Lord Harry, she applauded her decision. The marquess never extolled her beauty in such glowing terms. Nor, she thought, forgetting momentarily the ruby necklace he had bestowed upon her after his return from Italy, had he ever bought her such an exquisite riding habit.

“Men will envy me today in the park, Melissande. They will want to slit my throat. They won’t understand why such a goddess as you lower yourself to be seen with me. Ah, you should ride Pegasus, not the mare I brought for you.”

Melissande could sit a horse beautifully, but that was about all she could do. Making a horse go or stop was beyond her. Hetty was profoundly thankful that the gentle Coquette was docile almost to the point of being unconscious. She led Melissande carefully through the London traffic and into the park. Few pedestrians were present, for the winter wind was sharp, and the air so chilly Hetty could see her breath.

But it didn’t matter. It was that time of day to be seen and to visit. Phaetons, horses, and carriages were in abundance. Hetty felt her heart jump into her throat as a gentleman astride a huge black stallion cantered toward them. It wasn’t the marquess. She had wondered just what she would do were they to meet Lord Oberlon in the park, had ruminated over possible scenes, then finally banished it from her mind. She wanted very much to confront him. She was prepared, she knew, with a limitless array of insults. But not here, not just yet.

They cantered past a closed carriage, and Hetty was delighted to see Lady Melberry’s face pressed against the closed window, her eyes fastened in surprise on the magnificent Melissande. Hetty raised her hand in polite salute, suppressing the smile on her lips. Even if Lady Melberry weren’t a gossip, Hetty thought, even the most sainted of persons would have difficulty keeping such a juicy tidbit to themselves. Of course, how could Lady Melberry possibly know who she was?

“You aren’t too cold, Melissande?”

Melissande had received so many passionate and ardent looks from gentlemen, she wouldn’t have cared if her teeth were chattering. Just as long as there was no gooseflesh on her face, she wouldn’t complain. She shook her head, allowing the arching plume to brush against her rosy cheeks, and smiled caressingly at Lord Harry.

By the time they had cantered nearly the full perimeter of the park, their presence had been duly noted by at least a dozen very interested ladies and gentlemen. Hetty slowed her horse as a phaeton with a gentleman riding alongside pulled onto the green. She glanced sideways at the driver and drew abruptly to a halt, handily catching Coquette’s bridle in her fingers. She looked into the smiling face of Kate St. Clair, the countess of March. She felt nothing but pleasure at the encounter until she realized that the gentleman on the black stallion was the earl, and he wasn’t happy.

Well, there was nothing she could do about it. “My lady,” Lord Harry said, bowing in the saddle, “I see that you have taken to more mild forms of exercise. Do you enjoy yourself sufficiently?”

Kate gave a trill of laughter, delighted to see Lord Harry. She looked at her husband, expecting to see his easy smile. She was surprised and confused at the sudden set look on his face, that tightening of his jaw, a very stubborn jaw, that happened only during their more ferocious arguments.

“How delightful to see you again, Lord Harry. Such a pity you couldn’t come with Harry to dine with us the other evening. Harry sang your praises until my lord here was ready to throw turtle soup in his face. Hitting the target from twenty feet at Manton’s is no small feat. Ah, how I should like to go there.”

“I should like to take you there, my lady,” Hetty said. She was well aware that the earl’s eyes were stark and narrowed on her face. He was furious. Excellent, just excellent. Let him gnash his teeth, for he couldn’t call her out, only the marquess could.

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