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

of the large ton parties, it concerns me that she’s not attended by anyone. It simply isn’t done.”

Finally, his wife got all his attention. Sir John put his rifle down for a moment and looked at her. “I don’t frown upon it. Do you mean that poor Hetty might have to forego the pleasure of having some elegant, worthless idiot asking for her hand in marriage? Really now, Lou, Hetty’s got a sound head on her shoulders. And I’ll wager she hasn’t even stirred much from the house these last four months, much less offended any of your great ladies.” He added on a sigh as he hefted his rifle over his left shoulder, “Maybe it would be better for her to kick up her heels and offend one of those stiff-butted old gossips. At least we’d know that she’s not still prostrated by Damien’s death.”

“My point exactly. The poor child should have someone with her. You know that Sir Archibald might as well be on the moon, for all the attention and comfort he offers her.”

“You said yourself, Lou, that Hetty hasn’t mentioned a word about the Worthington woman leaving. Shows you, doesn’t it, that Hetty is perfectly content not to have anyone with her.” He grinned and put down the now sparkling clean rifle again. “Got you there, old girl,” he said, grinned at her like a sinner and pulled her to her feet. “No need to worry about Hetty. We’ll be going to London next month anyway, you know. You can content yourself that your sister-in-law is feeling just the thing, before we continue on to” Sir John’s voice trailed mysteriously off.

“Oh, Jack, do you really mean it? You have arranged it? We’re really going to Paris? You’re not trying to get away with something, are you?”

“Give me a kiss and I’ll tell you the truth.”

Louisa gave him more than a kiss, she bit his earlobe, then hugged him until he groaned. He dropped a kiss on the chestnut curl that lay provocatively over her left ear, a delicious little ear that he loved to kiss. “Of course I mean it. Will you be satisfied to spend a few days with Hetty then?”

“Certainly. Hetty’s a lovely girl. I just hope she’s adjusting. I just want her to be happy.”

Sir John said quietly, his dark eyes hooded, “I doubt she’ll be happy for a very long time. Damien is dead now. When we saw Hetty at the funeral, the poor girl was so grief stricken that she barely spoke a word. Even without a chaperone. I don’t think you have to worry that she’ll get herself talked about. Lord, I just wish she would. I wish she’d go out and kick up her heels and make everyone stare at her. But she won’t. Damnation, I miss Damien, too. What a loss, what a damnable waste.”

“He died a hero for England, Jack. We must remember that. We must believe that he made a difference, that his death meant something.”

“To hell with England. Oh damn, now I’ve pulled us both down. Tell you what, Lou, let’s go see if Little John has driven Nurse to distraction.”

Less than a week before Miss Drusilla Worthington left Sir Archibald’s town house on Grosvenor Square to attend her sick sister, she had sat quietly in the drawing room across from her charge, Miss Henrietta Rolland.

She gazed up several minutes later to see that the young lady’s eyes were focused upon the brightly dancing flames in the fireplace. Yet, Hetty didn’t seem aware of the fire, much less the rest of her surroundings. Lady Louisa had told her that Henrietta was much affected by her brother Damien’s death at Waterloo. Miss Worthington had been with Henrietta for three weeks, but all her efforts to suggest appropriate amusements didn’t penetrate the shell of grief that enveloped her young charge.

Miss Worthington’s eyes clouded as she gazed at Hetty. All that unremitting black the girl persisted in wearing. What a pretty picture she would be if she but attended to Miss Worthington’s repeated, gentle suggestions. True, perhaps she was a trifle tall for society’s current whims, but regal in that straight, proud way she carried herself. Miss Worthington thought of Sir Archibald, a decided glint in her normally unassuming gray eyes. Probably off at some political gathering, all his mental energies focused upon his one passion. It seemed that there was scarcely a moment in the day when he was aware of the presence of his daughter, much less of Miss Worthington’s tireless efforts to provide a normal atmosphere in his home.

If the truth were told, Miss Worthington felt like a floundering fish in a fisherman’s net. It wasn’t that Henrietta was unkind to her or made her feel unwelcome in any way. But the only visitors to be seen were Sir Archibald’s political cronies, severely dressed gentlemen whose curt nods made Miss Worthington feel woefully inadequate and twittery as a caged chicken. To make matters worse, if Henrietta wasn’t sitting quietly in front of the fireplace, simply staring off at nothing in particular as she was now, she would take long walks by herself, an activity of which Miss Worthington disapproved. When she had very tactfully pointed out that a young lady walking about by herself was not at all the thing, Henrietta had merely cocked her head to one side and appeared to look straight through Miss Worthington. “You needn’t worry that I’m ogled by all the young gentlemen, Miss Worthington,” she’d said. “All these heavy black veils keep them at their distance.”

She saw that Henrietta’s hands were knotting and unknotting a handkerchief in her lap. She sighed and put down her needle. “Hetty, dear child, do look outside. The fog is lifting and I believe that the sun will be out soon. Would you like to accompany me to the Pantheon Bazaar? You haven’t visited there, you know.”

Hetty raised dark blue eyes, which looked suspiciously red about the rims, and slowly shook her head. “No,