Lord Harry's Folly, Catherine Coulter [paper ebook reader .TXT] 📗

log in the fireplace with the toe of his boot, sending crackling embers up toward the flue.

A knock sounded on the door. Lord Harry didn’t care who was there and didn’t bother looking up.

Pottson said, “Look at this, Miss Hetty. Why, it’s a message from a lady. The lass who delivered it wouldn’t tell me the lady’s name.”

Henrietta Rolland’s folly was promptly forgotten as Lord Harry raised the soft pink envelope and sniffed the heavy musk scent.

“Ah, this isn’t from a lady, Pottson,” she said, grinning shamelessly at him. She ripped the envelope open and pulled out a single sheet of pink paper, covered with a flowery script. Her eyes widened and she gave a shout of glee.

“What is it, Miss Hetty?”

“Now, I don’t want you to screech, Pottson. Here’s the way of it. I paid a visit to Lord Oberlon’s mistress as Lord Harry, of course. Her name is Melissande, and she is no lady, I assure you. It appears she’s free this afternoon for a ride in the park with me.”

“You what? Gawd, you visited Lord Oberlon’s mistress? Miss Harry no, I mean, Miss Hetty you can’t mean you’ll be riding with his mistress? If the marquess discovers it, he’ll be after your blood. He’ll want not just to thrash you, he’ll want to kill you.”

“I know,” she said quietly. “Now, if you will excuse me, I’m off to purchase a green velvet riding habit for my lady and secure a docile mare from Mr. Scuddimore. I just hope the mare is showy enough.”

It was a properly unassuming, yet charming young gentleman who strolled into Madame Cartier’s fashionable boutique and purchased a riding habit and matching bonnet at an outrageous price, for it had originally been destined for a Miss Caroline Busby. Mr. Scuddimore proved a bit more difficult, but after much wheedling and coaxing, Hetty secured a bay mare named Coquette a most appropriate name, Hetty thought. At promptly five o’clock in the afternoon, Hetty secured Coquette at the railing outside Melissande’s town house.

Melissande was a vision to behold when she glided into the small drawing room where Lord Harry had sat waiting for her for a good half hour.

“You wonderful naughty boy,” she said, dancing into the parlor. “However did you know my exact measurements? I vow I would have chosen no other riding habit myself.”

Hetty doubted that Madame Cartier would have let Melissande anywhere near Miss Caroline Busby’s riding habit. She was forced to admit that the green velvet riding habit, high cut, fitting snugly below her succulent breasts, couldn’t look better on another female. Row upon row of frothy white lace sprung from the green to touch her chin. An arched black plume swept in a high circle, framing the thick auburn ringlets about her face.

Melissande knew she looked glorious. She knew that this lovely young gentleman shouldn’t have given her such a gift, but after all, a girl had to enjoy herself. Lord Monteith was a charming boy, no more, and if she wished to spend a small part of her time with him well, where was the harm in that? If the marquess were to find out she drew up a moment with this rather daunting thought, then shrugged her white shoulders. Perhaps he would take her less for granted. Perhaps he would take her to more balls like the lovely masked ball the previous evening.

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