Insist upon having Harriett! Oh, she didn’t like the sound of that at all. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, Mathilda, that every mama in London is determined to make her daughter the next Countess of Prestwick, and Christopher doesn’t have the first idea what to do with any of them.”
“But Harriett doesn’t have to have him! She can refuse his hand.” Oh, dear. She’d gone a bit shrill.
“She can, yes, but she may well find herself labeled a jilt if she does. As much as we may wish otherwise, Christopher is right when he says Harriett is promised to him.”
“But the promise was made years ago, before he became an unconscionable rake!” For pity’s sake, why didn’t anyone else seem to realize what a dreadful scoundrel Lord Prestwick was?
“That will make no difference to theton, I assure you. I suppose we’ll just have to hope for the best.” Lady Fosberry rose to her feet and made her way to the door. “Goodnight, Mathilda.”
Once she’d gone, Tilly dropped back down onto the settee, her head whirling.
What if Lady Fosberry was right? What if Lord Prestwick grew impatient with the chaos fluttering around him, and decided the quickest way to put an end to his misery was to wed Harriett?
She thought of Harriett’s dreamy smile as she’d looked into the glass tonight, the pretty flush in her cheeks as Lord Wyle twirled her around the ballroom this evening. She was well on her way to a happy-ever-after, but it would all come crashing down in an instant if she were labeled a jilt.
Dear God, they were only a week into the season, and already they were teetering on the edge of disaster. Whatever else happened, Harriett could not be left at the mercy of Lord Prestwick.
Something must be done, and quickly.
But what?
ChapterEight
Kit mounted the front steps of Fosberry House and gave the door a smart rap just as a single faint chime from a grandfather clock struck the one o’clock hour.
He’d timed his arrival perfectly. Calling hours had just begun.
The door opened, and Watkins, Lady Fosberry’s butler appeared on the other side, flawless in his dark blue livery, and offered Kit a bow. “Good morning, Lord Prestwick.”
“Watkins.”
“This way, my lord. The ladies are in the drawing room.”
Kit followed Watkins down the corridor, cursing under his breath as his heart began to flop wildly in his chest with every step he took toward the drawing room.
Really, the heart was the most ridiculous organ imaginable. One of the advantages of being a rake was never having to bother with the blasted thing.
If he’d been madly in love with the lady he was promised to, he might have endured it calmly enough, but all this absurd flopping about wasn’t because of Lady Harriett.
Oh, he’d done just as an eager swain was meant to do the morning after a ball. He’d sent Lady Harriett an impressive bouquet of white damask roses and lilies from the Prestwick hothouses, and he was dutifully presenting himself at her doorstep, but it wasn’t Lady Harriett who occupied his thoughts this morning.
No, it was Mathilda Templeton, damn her. Mathilda Templeton, who’d doused him with absinthe, spoiling an exceptionally fine linen shirt in the process. Mathilda Templeton, who could hardly contain her glee when Lady Henry and Lady Arundel had thrust their daughters upon him at the ball last night.
He’d been obliged to dance with all of them, God help him.
The only young lady he hadn’tdanced with was Mathilda Templeton.
Well, and Lady Harriett, of course. Perhaps if she’d been bedeviling him since he’d arrived in London as Mathilda Templeton had, he wouldn’t keep forgetting her.
He didn’t evenlikeMiss Mathilda, but as it happened, a man didn’t need to like a lady for her to creep under his skin, and damned if she wasn’t burrowing deeper with every moment that passed.
It was most uncomfortable.
But he wouldn’t permit her to distract him this time. He wouldn’t leave the drawing room until he knew whether or not Lady Fosberry approved of his courtship of Lady Harriett.
Surely, he could do that much? He’d been charming enough, once upon a time.
