Lord Harry by Catherine Coulter

She said, “How very interesting that you mention Sir William, your grace. I had thought him the most vile of creatures when I first came to London, yet, I found readily enough that I was quite mistaken. Vile though he may be, he wears his villainy openly and doesn’t slither about like a snake, hiding his dishonor under his belly.”

“Your insults wander about in too many different directions, Monteith. They have no substance, and no ring of truth to them. Are you too shy to speak your mind? Perhaps you are afraid to say what you mean? If so, you may simply apologize to me and I shall gladly be rid of your irritating presence. I am finding you frankly annoying. I do not like to be annoyed.”

He spoke calmly and indifferently, as if she were naught but a troublesome boy. Frustration and anger mounted in her, words poured from her mouth. “I would as soon apologize to that monster, Bonaparte. You spoke of my seducing other men’s women I don’t think the fair Melissande quite thought of herself as belonging to a man. Indeed, she was so eager for my embraces, that, if I didn’t know of her intimacy with your grace, I would have thought she’d been marooned alone for many a long month.”

“God, Lord Harry”

“Shut up, Harry,” she said low and mean over her shoulder, her eyes never leaving Lord Oberlon’s face.

Finally, she’d succeeded. She saw rage in his eyes, saw the tightening of his lips, saw the pallor of his high cheekbones. Yes, she’d made him pale with rage. Soon now, at last. She stood proudly, stiff and erect, waiting for him to strike her. With his palm? With a glove? She didn’t care. She waited.

She felt as though someone suddenly whipped her feet from beneath her when the earl of March threw back his head and laughed loudly.

Jason Cavander unclenched his fisted hand. He blinked rapidly several times and turned to the earl. “Damn you, St. Clair, what the hell are you laughing at?”

The earl, amusement still lingering in his deep voice, said more to Lord Harry rather than to the marquess, “You pick the wrong barb, my boy. Cavander here has been so plagued by women that he must needs flee from them. As for his mistresses, it has been said that their sighs of pleasure can be heard from two rooms away. Now, Monteith, may I suggest that you either tell Lord Oberlon why you find him so abhorrent or simply apologize for your many unprovoked insults and be done with this nonsense. Like his grace, I, too, grow annoyed with your inconsequential chatter.”

“Yes, do, lad,” the marquess said, his temper restored. He stared a moment at the young man. “Come, Monteith, I hesitate to kick a bothersome puppy. What is it about me that sticks in your craw?”

“Lord, Harry, please, leave go,” Sir Harry pleaded in her ear.

Hetty felt helpless. More, she felt impotent. It wasn’t until she tasted her own blood that she realized she’d bitten her lower lip. She could think of no more insults, no more sarcastic taunts. She had vowed so long ago not to tell the marquess the reason for her hatred until he lay bleeding away his miserable life at her feet. She could see all the months of her careful charade as a gentleman crumbling into failure in front of him. It was her lack of years that made her look ridiculous. For an instant, she pictured herself as the marquess must see her an arrogant, foolish young boy. They could afford to be amused, these proud gentlemen. She was naught to them but a bothersome puppy, just as Lord Oberlon had drawled to her. Had Lord Oberlon thought Damien just as insignificant? So unimportant, in fact, as to send him out of the country with no self-recrimination? Only dimly did she hear Lord Oberlon give a crack of rude laughter, and say to the earl, “Come, Julien, the farce is ended. I need no apology from a young whelp who is scarce breeched, and who now appears to have lost his tongue. Bravado in the young should be discouraged, don’t you agree? There’s nothing behind it, nothing at all. It’s very trying.”

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