Sir Harry ground his teeth. “I won’t have it, damn you. Isabella is pure and innocent. She won’t let you flirt with her, she’s not that kind of girl.”
“Ah, so that’s it. Don’t mistake my intentions, Harry. I don’t intend to trifle with the lady. She isn’t a brief amusement. After sitting with her an hour this morning, flirtation was the furthest thing from my mind. She’s a glorious creature, so soft and gentle, so sweetly deferential to my wishes.”
“But that’s impossible, utterly ridiculous” Sir Harry’s voice trailed off. He stared at Lord Harry in baffled silence. He leaned over and very carefully fastened the clasp on his gun case. As he straightened he said heavily, “Then you’re thinking of marriage, Lord Harry?”
“Perhaps.”
“But you’re younger than I!”
Hetty replied with a laugh, “Neither of us is in the infantry, old fellow. If you wish to admire the fair Isabella from afar until you have reached the exalted age of twenty-eight, in keeping with what you believe to be your brother-in-law’s edict, then you’d best give her up right now. Don’t you know that fortune-hunting mama of hers is fair to forcing Isabella to wed Filey by the end of the Season? Mayhap even before the end of the Season, to save money. Really, Harry, as a gentleman, I can’t allow that lecherous old satyr to warm her bed. It turns my stomach.”
“Yes, of course I knew that. But it’s nonsense. Her harridan of a mother can’t force Isabella to wed Filey. These are modern times, not the thirteenth century.” Sir Harry didn’t like this, any of it. Of course he knew about Filey’s attentions toward Isabella, and it irked him. But still, surely she wouldn’t marry the old fool.
Hetty gave him a look of utter disgust. “Are you pleased to wear blinders, Harry? Are you content to throw Isabella to Filey? Listen to me, young ladies don’t have the choices you seem to think they do.”
“You really believe that Isabella will be sold to that old lecher, Filey?”
“Don’t forget, Harry, that Filey is titled and as rich as Golden Ball. It would take a gentleman of similar qualifications and much persuasion to convince Isabella’s mama differently. The old eagle was appraising me openly this morning. Her questions were impertinent in the extreme. I think I found favor in her mercenary eyes, but not as yet as much favor as you have.” Hetty paused a moment, then added lightly, “But I daresay that I shall bring her around. After all, old boy, it isn’t as though I were cutting you out. You’ve left the field wide open.”
Sir Harry suddenly turned on her. “I don’t want you to see Isabella. You’re a damned rakehell, Lord Harry, and I’ll not let you break the poor girl’s heart.”
“Ah, but it won’t be I who will break her heart.”
“Damn you for a meddler.” Sir Harry flung from the shooting range into the large outer parlor at Manton’s.
Hetty grinned at his stiff back and followed him slowly, not at all displeased. If only she could enlist the help of the earl of March. A few well-chosen words from that powerful peer would hang the icicle on the eave. She sighed, knowing such a conversation with Harry’s brother-in-law was out of the question. Still, she’d done quite well enough, she told herself. She left Manton’s whistling.
Her complacency grew when, upon returning to Lord Harry’s lodgings, she found awaiting another flowery note from Melissande, begging Lord Monteith’s charming company for another ride in the park. Sir Harry’s problems slipped from her mind as, not long thereafter, she cantered through the London traffic to Melissande’s apartment, leading the docile Coquette. She found herself shivering with a kind of frightening anticipation. Surely Lord Oberlon must have found out about her meeting with Melissande the day before. She knew that no gentleman would accept such an insult. It can’t be much longer now, she told herself. No, not much longer now.
Melissande stood arrayed in the green velvet riding habit Lord Monteith had presented to her the day before, peeking through the curtains onto the street. She realized that she had, in all honesty, accepted yet another invitation to ride with the young Lord Monteith because she was indulging in a fit of pique. Not that she minded all the languishing phrases that seemed to flow in an endless stream from the young gentleman’s mouth. Yet, Lord Oberlon seemed not even to be aware of her minor transgressions, for after that altogether delightful evening spent at the Ranleaghs’ masquerade, he hadn’t come to call, hadn’t even sent her a note, hadn’t even sent a servant with a note to her.