Lord Harry's Folly Catherine Coulter (13 inch ebook reader TXT) 📖

Lord Harry, I want her virginity and her purity, it’s true, but I do want all of her and I want all of her forever. I’ll do it. Listen, Lord Harry, if Isabella refuses me, will you help me? I will kidnap her if I must, but will you help me?”

Lord Harry looked at him and smiled. “Of course I’ll help you. First, Harry, you must press your suit to Isabella. Be all that is romantic, mind you. If she refuses, well, of course then we’ll do what we must.”

“I have more horses,” Mr. Scuddimore said. “Horses are always helpful, you know.”

“Indeed they are, Scuddy. We will need horses, won’t we, Harry?”

“Eh? Oh yes, certainly.”

Hetty said to Sir Harry, “Send me a note here as to the outcome of your proposal to Isabella. If she refuses you, I’ll come by to see you at your lodgings and we’ll make plans.”

“I’ll be there as well,” Scuddy said.

When at last she had seen them out, she leaned heavily against the closed door. She admitted to herself that she was weary, the wound in her side was aching dully. Her thoughts went inevitably to the marquess. She found herself wondering if it were truly possible for a gentleman to love a lady who was also a gentleman.

She gazed down a moment at her breeched, booted person. Lord Harry Monteith had granted her the greatest freedom, had allowed her adventures that no lady would ever experience. Yet, she thought, she felt now that Lord Harry was trapping her, holding her prisoner in a role that she no longer desired. She wanted out.

She walked wearily into Lord Harry’s bedchamber, wondering just precisely how one went about eloping to Gretna Green.

Chapter Thirty-one

“Good morning, Grimpston. His grace is in the drawing room?”

“Yes, Miss Hetty. I offered him tea but he said he preferred to wait for you.”

“If you please, fetch tea now, Grimpston.” She went immediately to the gilt-edged mirror and looked at herself. Her blond curls were sparkling clean and brushed neatly into place. No pomade for Henrietta Rolland. She supposed she looked well enough. The blue muslin gown, though a trifle short, at least didn’t remotely resemble buckskin breeches. That in itself was an improvement over the last time he’d seen her.

She opened the door to the drawing room quietly and saw the marquess before he was aware of her. Bedamned but he was handsome, she thought, with the flavor of Lord Harry. She didn’t realize it, but the marquess had dressed himself with rather more care than usual this morning, the powder blue coat of broadcloth having just yesterday arrived from Weston’s, and his hessians polished to such a bright shine that he could see his reflection. He stood by the tall bow windows, his back to her, gazing out onto the square.

“Good morning, your grace.”

He turned quickly and for a long moment said nothing, but merely stared at her.

She stared back at him. “Good God,” he said slowly, whistling under his breath. “Louisa was really quite right.”

“Right about what?”

His dark eyes twinkled in amusement. “What is this? You sound as though it must be an insult. You’ll get no answer from me. You must ask Louisa. I do wonder, though, where your spectacles are. And do not let us forget that hideous pea green gown and cap. A lasting effect. If I close my eyes and think bilious thoughts, I swear I can still see it.”

He advanced upon her and lazily lifted her hand and kissed her fingers. “How are you feeling?”

“A little sore, that’s all. Your cravat is really quite well done.”

“It’s my own design. Lord Harry may disabuse himself of the notion of copying it.”

“I daresay Lord Harry does just fine for himself. Actually, it’s the Mathematical he aspires to. It’s not as easily achieved as it looks. My lord March does it nicely.” It didn’t occur to her to remove her fingers from his hand. His fingers were strong and warm and she wished they were on her arm, perhaps on her face, her throat. She sighed. It might even be nice to be back in his bed again.

Things seemed so very different now that she was a female and in a gown and in her father’s drawing room.

She retrieved her hand when Grimpston, bearing tea and morning cakes, loudly cleared his throat upon entering the drawing room.

“Ah, sustenance. Please set the tray upon the table. I shall serve his grace.”

Grimpston did as he was bid and during his placement, he managed to study the marquess quite thoroughly. Before he left, he nodded to Hetty.

“It appears your butler finds me acceptable husband material,” the marquess said blandly.

“You’re male, of the nobility, not doddering toward the grave, you have all your teeth, so yes, he approves of you.”

He grinned at her. “I don’t carry extra flesh either, though a butler would scarce consider that, I doubt. Grimpston has been with your family forever, am I right?”

“I sometimes think he’s been with the family since the seventeenth century. He seems to know everything about every ancestor. Cream, your grace?”

“Yes. Thank you for pouring it, Hetty. Is that a simper I hear? No, certainly not. Incidentally, do call me Jason. I don’t like this withdrawal of yours. It makes me feel insecure. It makes me feel like you no longer regard me as your white knight. It makes me think you don’t want me to kiss you again.”

“I feel the same way, sitting here just like a proper young lady.” She laughed. “My life has been so very odd for the past five months. Tell me, Jason, are we really betrothed?”

“Yes, but I will speak to Sir Archibald. We don’t want to shock him, Hetty.”

“I agree,” she said. “I should like to kiss you though whether you’re a Jason or a your grace. Perhaps at Thurston Hall it was just my weakness that made me want to kiss you so very much and all of the time. Do you think that’s