Lord Harry by Catherine Coulter

She was deeply asleep. He smoothed the covers over her. He turned away from the bed and strode to the long windows that overlooked the west lawn. The morning was gray and eerily silent. Even the peacocks that habitually strutted through the rose arbors, squawking loudly as they displayed their colorful plumage, were nowhere to be seen. As he stared out, her face rose in his mind, drained of color and laden with fear. They were to duel with foils, not with pistols as she’d so obviously anticipated. Yet her hatred of him had been so powerful, her determination so great, that she’d overcome her fear. Damnation, why? Jack was his friend. Indeed, Jack had sent him over to his masked sister at the Ranleaghs’ ball. No, he realized, it had nothing to do with Jack. Jack would have no idea. Unless she died. He shook his head at that. No way would he allow that.

He looked back at the bed. What kind of a woman was she anyway? A girl he would have said, but not now, not since he’d seen her look blank-eyed at the foils, overcome her shock and fear, and proceed to fence with him with all her skill. Hadn’t Jack said she was eighteen? He’d fought a duel with an eighteen-year-old girl. He would wager that no other gentleman either past or present or future, for that matter, would have come through what he had. He’d rarely in his twenty-seven years known a female who could even bring herself to discuss pistols and foils, much less known one who was so skilled in this, a masculine domain. She was brave, indeed, she’d shown herself fearless. It shook him, this girl who now lay in his bed, this girl who could die because of his sword thrust through her side. No, he wouldn’t let her die. He wanted to hear her tell him what he’d done to deserve such hatred from her, such hatred that she’d become a young gentleman and learned to shoot and to fence, all to send him to the devil, and yet at the last moment, when she’d won, she’d changed her mind. Yes, he wanted her to tell him and then He didn’t know. He strode over to his grandfather’s writing desk. He had to write Alicia and ensure that he needn’t have any worry from that quarter. Although he was fairly certain that his dashing, very feminine sister was carrying her child-swollen belly in the privacy of Sir Henry’s Devonshire estate, he intended to make doubly sure that she remained there. He thought of Henrietta Rolland in feminine ruffles and lace. He’d seen her in a mask and domino, her blue eyes glittering, her lovely mouth laughing. He remembered the feel of her in his arms as he whirled her about in the waltz, her gay laughter, he remembered all of it.

Damnation. She’d tried to kill him. You’re a stupid ass, he grunted to himself. He suddenly saw that ghastly, vulgar girl dressed in the pea green gown and ugly spectacles at his aunt Melberry’s soiree. Jesus, who had she been? Another role, obviously. She was very talented. And he was, after all, a man with many years’ experience and maturity. Surely he would be able to sort all of this out. He wanted to touch her blond hair, blonder than Jack’s hair, the curls soft and springy. He was becoming a half-wit. He quickly set himself to the task of writing to Alicia and then to Rabbell to cancel all of his appointments in London for the remainder of the week. Having finished, he rose and rang the bell cord for luncheon and went to his dressing room to change his clothes.

After eating thin-sliced ham, sweet garden peas, and crunchy warm bread, he returned to his vigil by her bedside. He allowed his mind to wander back to the various encounters he had engaged in with her. Whenever he caught himself either frowning or smiling at one particular memory, he gazed over at her. He was surprised to realize that the afternoon had melted away, and a frown settled upon his brow. She was sleeping overlong and he grew concerned. Perhaps he should fetch a doctor and damn the consequences.

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