Lord Harry by Catherine Coulter

Hetty had always been rather proud of her stubborn streak, as Damien had called it, eyeing her several times like he wanted to smack her. But now she found herself silently cursing it, for her stubbornness came directly from Sir Archibald. She knew well enough that once his mind had grasped a certain course of action, there was no budging him. Indeed, it would take less effort to change the flow of the river Thames. She looked up, realizing that he hadn’t even paid her any attention. So much for her calm good sense approach.

Sir Archibald fixed Hetty with a patriarchal, benign smile. “You are such a good child, Henrietta. Trust me, my dear, to do what is best for you. Now, let us finish our luncheon, for I must meet with Lord Bedford, whom we have elected to whip Sir Edwin Barrington into shape for the upcoming election.”

“Which election, Father?” Anything, Hetty thought, to divert her father’s thoughts.

“The borough at Little Simpson. Up to this time, the wretched farmers have refused to listen to reason. But Sir Edwin is a popular man, though he hasn’t yet grasped the need to use whatever means necessary to achieve what is right. Political necessity is a concept that eludes him.”

“But if he isn’t the sort of political material you want, then why do you back him?”

Sir Archibald grinned indulgently at this errant bit of nonsense from his naive daughter. “Don’t worry your head about it, child. Sir Edwin will do well enough. I will teach him all he needs to know.”

Hetty thought fleetingly of Damien’s desire to enter the political arena. She wondered if he would have had an honored Tory member whip him into shape. Or would Sir Archibald have been his mentor? No, she couldn’t imagine it. According to Jack, Damien hadn’t even leaned toward Torydom, far from it.

Sir Archibald spoke no further of the marquess of Oberlon at lunch. Hetty sent a plea heavenward that once her sire got involved in his political activities in the afternoon, he would forget all about his matchmaking.

She excused herself shortly from the dining room, giving her father a hurried hug, and slipped out of the house to make her way to Lord Harry’s lodgings. She forced herself to be lighter of heart, for, even if Sir Archibald happened to approach Lord Oberlon, she was fairly certain that the damned marquess had found Henrietta Rolland such a repellent creature that he would never accept such an invitation to dine.

As she slipped into breeches, frilled shirt, and hessians, she quickly reviewed her schedule for the remainder of the day. First she would be meeting Sir Harry at Manton’s. Now that would be a most interesting experience. Lord Harry would start the worm of jealousy gnawing in Sir Harry’s breast. With any luck at all, that should make Sir Harry realize that Isabella was ripe for the plucking in more than one orchard.

Oh yes, Hetty thought as she bade Pottson a good afternoon, he must take a note to Melissande, inquiring if the fair lady would deign to ride again in the park with Lord Monteith.

At the thought of how she would be spending her evening, she grimaced in distaste. Impossible to extricate herself from going with Harry and Scuddy to that wretched cockfight.

Still, it was with a light step that Hetty strolled to meet Sir Harry at Manton’s, her face down against the winter wind.

As for the marquess, he neither felt light of step nor light of heart. Indeed, he was frozen with cold deadly anger as he listened to his friend, the earl of March.

“So, Julien, I’m now fast bidding to become a laughingstock of London, am I not?” His voice sounded so very calm that no one save his closest friends would have realized that his grace was ready to kill with his bare hands.

“Most likely,” the earl said.

“Now you will believe me that the young whelp wishes death by my hands?”

The earl paused an instant, seemingly intent upon removing a fleck of dust from his coat sleeve. “It’s all very strange,” the earl said at last. “I do agree that young Monteith wants something. Whether it’s death at your hands well, I must believe that a bit extreme.”

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