Lord Harry's Folly, page 13
part #4 of Historical Regency Romances Series
As she shrugged into her coat, she thought of Melissande. Indeed, an unforgettable name and an equally unforgettable woman. Hetty had seen Melissande only upon two brief occasions, neither of which had provided her with many clues as to the lady’s character. If Melissande happened to be faithful to her protector, then Hetty or rather Lord Harry would just suffer a wasted evening. But one never knew. She looked at herself in the mirror. She looked at Lord Harry and she winked at him.
Although Mr. Scuddimore frowned at the mention of visiting someone in Pemberley Street, he could think of no reason not to accompany Lord Harry, and thus climbed into a hackney alongside his friend.
“I say, old boy, who the devil does live in Pemberley Street? If it’s your mistress, I really don’t think I should be tagging along. Why, whatever would I say to her?” His protest was a halfhearted one, for he realized that Sir Harry would willingly give a guinea to be in his place. Were they really going to visit Lord Harry’s mistress? Scuddy couldn’t wait. He mentally tried to make room in his brain to store up all the memories this night would bring.
“Don’t worry, Scuddy. It’s not my mistress we’re visiting. But she is a woman and she is lovely. I just want to better our acquaintance, that’s all. You’ll enjoy yourself, you’ll see.”
Well, that wasn’t too bad, Scuddy thought. What woman?
The hackney creaked and swayed upon turning into Pemberley Street. Hetty perused the small, elegant town houses that lined the brick pavement, and dug the head of her malacca cane into the roof of the hackney when she spotted the small Queen Anne residence. The jarvey obligingly drew to a halt and Hetty jumped to the pavement, smiling. “Come along, Scuddy,” she said over her shoulder, after tossing the cabby a goodly number of shillings. “I promise you an interesting evening.” Had Mr. Scuddimore realized that this charming house was owned and maintained by the Marquess of Oberlon, Hetty with all her persuasions, wouldn’t have been able to extricate him from the relative safety of the hackney.
Since Melissande wasn’t expecting Lord Oberlon this evening, particularly given his excesses in her bed the night before, she was attired in a negligee, a frothy confection of green silk and gauze that revealed more than covered her delicious self. A slender red vellum book lay in her lap, and as her eyes traveled down the page, she sighed in boredom. Really, she was thinking, the heroine is such a stupid, whimpering little miss. She hasn’t a gut in her limp body. Must she fall into a swoon at the end of every scene? Lord, what would the young maiden have done if Lord Oberlon visited her as he had Melissande the previous night? Melissande grunted. The stupid chit would have probably screamed her head off and removed herself to a convent. But still, she thought, torn somewhere between envy and cynicism, the dashing hero appeared to cherish the heroine all the more for her frailty and feminine weakness. He appeared to adore her lack of guts. In a moment of pique, she flicked her finger against the thin volume and sent it spinning to the carpet. She wasn’t at all certain that she had any desire to be so cherished, but still it might be nice to be offered the choice.
She rose from the settee and stretched lazily. Her house was beautifully furnished, and she had, after all, most of what she desired. When Jenny, her maid, tapped on the small drawing-room door, her lips were pursed in deep concentration, her uppermost thought being how she could bring the marquess around to the idea that she would look most charming driving her own phaeton and pair in the park.
“There are two gentlemen here to see you, Madam,” Jenny said, so surprised she’d forgotten to curtsy. “His grace isn’t with them. Whatever shall we do, Madam? This has never happened before.”
“How very nicely peculiar,” Melissande said. She looked at her image in the mirror above the mantelpiece. Boredom slipped from her shoulders and she felt a tingle of excitement. Someone to visit her besides Lord Oberlon. It couldn’t be bill collectors. Lord Oberlon was generous. Men, she thought. No gentlemen a very different stripe of man. She felt like singing. “Don’t just stand there like a gutless heroine, Jenny, do show the gentlemen in. Oh, Jenny, your bosom is sticking out. Bow your shoulders a bit. Yes, that’s good.”
Chapter Fifteen
“Lord Harry Monteith and Mr. Thayerton Scuddimore, Madam,” Jenny said, trying to sound important as a butler in a grand house.
Melissande’s first thought upon the entrance of the gentlemen was that the infantry had just invaded her house. Why, they were but boys. She frowned ever so slightly before advancing toward her unexpected and uninvited guests.
Hetty was very aware of Melissande’s initial response, but wasn’t at all surprised or disturbed by it. Of course she and Scuddy presented a far less prepossessing image than the older, more experienced Marquess of Oberlon and any of his rakehell friends. Well, I can but try, she thought. She halted in her tracks and stood poised in rapt wonder, causing Mr. Scuddimore to bump into her.
“You’re much more beautiful than I could have imagined.” She breathed deeply, and hopefully, reverently. Then, as if gathering her scattered wits, she coughed in mild embarrassment. “Oh dear, do forgive our intrusion, ma’am, but both Mr. Scuddimore and I have worshiped you for many weeks now, always from afar. To be allowed to see you, to be in your divine presence but a moment it is all a man could desire, it is beyond what most men ever gain, it is the very elixir of pleasure.” She thought she’d puke if she didn’t stop, so she did.
Melissande wondered fleetingly if she had just stepped into the pages of her discarded novel. Though she had thought the hero rather asinine in his high-flown phrases to that silly fragile heroine, she wondered if she hadn’t been too abrupt in forming her opinion. She gave the young gentleman a dazzling smile and said, voice as sweet and encouraging as a virgin’s with her beau, “Fie on you, sir, such flattery, but it’s quite nice, I won’t scold you for it. Now, who are you?”
“Lord Monteith, ma’am, Lord Harry Monteith. And this is my friend, Mr. Scuddimore.” Hetty stepped forward, as if propelled by a powerful unknown force, and reverently clasped Melissande’s white hand. She turned it over and planted a moth-light kiss on her palm. “It’s beauty such as yours, ma’am, that launched the ships to Troy.”
Melissande arched a perfect brow, and Hetty rushed on, “No, it is too paltry to compare you to Helen. I should be flayed for my smallness of imagination. Ah, yes, you are Aphrodite emerged from the ancient myths to cleanse the jaded palates of Englishmen.” I will surely puke, she thought, and smiled.
Although such names as Helen and Aphrodite meant very little to Melissande, she was, nonetheless, able to deduce from Lord Monteith’s passionate tone that he was paying her high tribute indeed. None of the gentlemen she had ever known had compared her to an ancient myth. She smiled an enticing woman’s smile, and with an effort, turned her attention briefly to the plump gentleman were those indeed cabbage roses on his waistcoat? at Lord Monteith’s elbow. “Mr. Scuddimore,” she said only, one glance at his flushed countenance assuring her that dazzling compliments to her incomparable beauty would not be coming from his quarter.
“Yes, ma’am, but you may call me Scuddy. Everyone does, you see, even my parents.”
Melissande smiled and motioned for them to be seated. She ordered the staring Jenny to bring sherry for the gentlemen. She wanted gin, but knew it wouldn’t be wise of her to drink such a thing, not in front of gentlemen, not in front of this lovely young lad who had honey flowing from his tongue.
Melissande turned willingly back to Lord Harry, and was taken aback to see him gazing with a frown on his fair forehead about the small drawing room.
“My lord?” she asked. She felt a twinge of disappointment that he hadn’t continued in his praise of her person.
Hetty turned readily back to Melissande. She’d seen the novel lying upon the carpet and had made out its title a dripping, maudlin story. She smiled and said, “Oh, my dear ma’am, do forgive my wandering wits. It’s just that your parlor lovely though it may be doesn’t adequately reflect the loveliness of the person in its midst. It’s a palace you require, beautiful lady, with silken draperies and mirrors to cast your image to every corner. I would have a lutist to play for you whenever your heart desired it. I would have a minstrel sing to you of your loveliness and your goodness. I would feed you the finest of delicacies. Perhaps escargots from the finest French gardens, well cleaned and cooked, of course. One wouldn’t want to take a chance with your precious health.”
Had she gone too far? To her relief, Melissande sighed and seated herself in a graceful, languishing pose, and patted the chair beside her. Hetty cast a quick glance at Mr. Scuddimore, saw that his eyes were glazed in bewilderment, and said under her breath, “Come, Scuddy, sit down.”
“Nice house you have, ma’am,” Scuddy said. “I agree with Lord Harry. The draperies and furnishings are very nice. Er, maybe they’re not nice enough for you, but I’d take them, in a flash.”
“Thank you, Mr. Scuddimore. Ah, here is your sherry. Do allow me to pour for you, my lord.”
Hetty accepted the crystal goblet, her eyes never leaving Melissande’s face. “A toast to your eternal beauty, Aphrodite. But I am wrong. You’re a goddess in your own right. Aphrodite, bah. No, you’re now the goddess Melissande, goddess of beauty and grace.” She allowed the goblet to tremble ever so slightly in her hand, then raised it to her lips and sipped. She lowered the glass and gazed soulfully into the deep rich sherry. Her voice was intense with adoration. “But look at the depths of the color, ma’am, it glistens and glimmers with the lights of your hair. I beg you will forgive and understand my poor mutterings, dear Melissande, but these moments in your exquisite presence turn my very thoughts into water.”
Melissande made haste to reassure her slave.
“Oh no, my lord, your words are quite gratifying. Improvement would be nice, but you do well. It isn’t often that a gentleman such as yourself is so forthright and honest in his speech to me.”
It was fortunate that Hetty wasn’t sipping her sherry, for she would most assuredly have choked. So, my dear marquess, she thought gleefully, you don’t cozen your mistress with charming flattery. She is starving for it. A mistake, your grace. Now a woman will show you the way to your mistress’s heart.
“Beauty must always inspire truth, Melissande. Your face is the eternal food for gods, the gentleness of your person is the inspiration of the poets. Ah, dare I go on? No, I think not.”
Melissande was on the verge of placing herself in the slippers of the frail, weak heroine. For a brief moment, she even felt as though she could swoon in the most helpless fashion if this worshipful youth continued. If she swooned, she wondered if he would be strong enough to hold her. She controlled these fancies, and said, “Do tell me, Lord Monteith, you said you have viewed me from afar. Where, sir, was that? You see,” she added on a small sigh, “I’m not often out in company nowadays.”
“That is infamous. Dear ma’am, I cannot believe such a thing.”
Melissande lowered her vivid green eyes demurely and fingered the silken folds of her peignoir. “His grace, the Marquess of Oberlon, doesn’t care for the entertainment one enjoys at the theater or say, Vauxhall Gardens. At least not often. I must practically beg him.”
Scuddy leapt up, looking like a fox suddenly corned by the hounds. “The Marquess of Oberlon? Oh my God. Oh goodness. Oh, Lord Harry, say it isn’t so. We’ll be dead by morning.” Several drops of sherry splashed on Mr. Scuddimore’s red cabbage roses. He sputtered to regain his breath.
Hetty said easily, “Didn’t I tell you that our gracious hostess is a close acquaintance of Lord Oberlon, Scuddy? Well, no matter. Do sit down, Scuddy, and control yourself.” She chose to ignore the horror on Mr. Scuddimore’s face and turned quickly back to Melissande. “How very odd, to be sure. Why, Mr. Scuddimore and I often see his grace at White’s and, of course, riding in the park. But that, indeed, isn’t my concern, is it? Do forgive me, Melissande. You asked where we had drunk in your ethereal beauty, it was two weeks ago, at Drury Lane.” Pleased with herself for sowing seeds of discontent, Hetty willingly turned the topic. From the corner of her eye, she saw that Mr. Scuddimore wore a hunted look. He looked ready to write his will. She would tell him later that since he didn’t have all that many worldly goods to leave, he didn’t have to bother with a will.
Hetty was gratified to her toes when Melissande said suddenly, a warm glow in her eyes, “I believe I do remember remarking on you, my lord. Weren’t you seated in the pit, looking up at his grace’s box? Didn’t you smile at me? Ah, yes, I remember your smile, so very adoring.”
“Oh yes, adoring is just what I feel whenever I look at you, Melissande. I’m honored you remember me, for there were so many gentlemen vying to catch your eye, all of them adoring.” Hetty looked up at the ormolu clock on the mantel. Goodness, they had to leave. There was no way of knowing if Lord Oberlon would come tonight after he’d left Jack and Louisa. She quickly rose, Scuddy, scared to his toes, followed suit. Hetty managed to look chagrined and guilty and charming, a look that Millie had evaluated for her many times. “It was wrong of me to seek you out, Melissande, very wrong of me, yet I couldn’t help myself. Cupid’s arrow has pierced my breast. I know his grace such a proud, disdainful man wouldn’t be gratified if he discovered that one of your many adoring admirers had visited you unattended” Hetty let her voice trail off in meaningful silence, praying silently.
Melissande was much touched, more by Lord Monteith’s declared admiration of her person than by his concern over the marquess. She gazed at him under her lashes. He was much too young for her, admittedly, yet he was so much like the hero from her novel. She was far too experienced to believe that she would ever live under his protection, but she could see no harm in a light flirtation. She thought speculatively about Lord Oberlon. Perhaps just such a flirtation with a gentleman some years his junior would make him realize her value. Maybe, she thought, he would purchase her the phaeton and pair to keep her delicious person all to himself.
“Don’t concern yourself about Lord Oberlon. You’ve committed no impertinence, my lord, by visiting me.” She rose and laid her hand lightly on Lord Harry’s sleeve. “What is your direction, my lord, so that I may send word to you when the opportunity presents itself? I do love to ride in the park,” she added on a small sigh, a gutless sigh that that damned heroine would make. She even managed to wilt just a bit, but not enough to lose the impact of her cleavage.
Once Lord Harry’s direction was written down in a thin white book, Hetty clasped Melissande’s hand once again and brought it to her lips. “Au revoir, my goddess,” she said. Melissande’s flesh was warm and soft. Hetty felt distinctly odd, kissing another woman’s hand.
No sooner had the front door closed behind them than Mr. Scuddimore nearly tripped over his tongue with outrage. “Damn you, Lord Harry. Have you taken leave of your senses? That lady is under the protection of the Marquess of Oberlon. His grace, the Marquess of Oberlon. Jason Cavander. Good God, he would slit your throat without a second thought if he found out. Are you lost to all reason? By God, after your argument with the marquess at White’s” Mr. Scuddimore drew to a sudden halt, his brain having finally leaped to an obvious conclusion. “You’re doing this on purpose,” he said slowly. “You planned it. All that damned flattery to that empty-headed woman, all that praising of her eyebrows, all that silly mythology, all of it was a lie. You want to provoke the marquess. You want to enrage him, you want What do you want him to do, Lord Harry?”
Hetty poked him in the arm. She laughed. “Scuddy, you’ve misread the entire situation. I find Melissande lovely. I told you and Sir Harry that I don’t like to be bored. Melissande pleases my eye. So what if the Marquess of Oberlon is currently her protector? Things change. Who knows?”
“You’re being blind, Lord Harry. Unlike you, I wish to reach my thirtieth birthday. Powerful man, the marquess, powerful and ruthless. Not one to cross, that’s for sure. Ask anyone, he’s one of the best swordsmen in England. Come, Lord Harry, what is this all about?”
But Hetty only smiled and shook her head. “I just find his mistress lovely and to my liking,” was all she would say.
“No good will come of this, you’ll see.”
“Don’t fail me now, Scuddy. Now, I need a mare to escort the fair Melissande to the park. You will oblige me?”
Mr. Scuddimore drew up, mouth agape. He nodded his head from habit.
“Excellent. My thanks, Scuddy, and stop your worrying. All will be fine. Now, the mare has to be a bit showy perhaps white so Melissande can quite think of herself as a fairy princess. Yes, she would like that. Now, let me see, I think an emerald green velvet riding habit, with a dashing plumed hat, of course, would be just the thing to set off her beauty. Well, don’t stand there, Scuddy, it grows late, and I, for one, have much to do tomorrow. Don’t forget, a showy mare.”
Chapter Sixteen
Sir John didn’t waste any time. He yelled at his sister across the breakfast table, “Just where the devil were you, Miss? Damnation, it’s bad enough that Lord Oberlon knew you refused to be in the same house with him, but to boot, you stay out until all hours then sneak in the servants’ entrance. Damn it, Hetty, I won’t have it.”
She tried not to smile, but she could just picture herself telling her giant of a brother that she’d been visiting with Jason Cavander’s mistress, tell him that she’d insulted his grace in his own club, but that hadn’t done any good, so what was poor Lord Harry to do?
“I won’t have you grinning at me, damn you.” He pounded a fist onto the table, making the eggs jump. “Where were you? What were you doing?”
