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Glaring at him, Cat speared another piece of ham. “If I am to spend my morning galloping about in the rain, I shall need a hearty breakfast. So unless you wish me to take my fill at Sandwich’s table and shock all in attendance with my appetite, I shall do so here. Besides, I’ve heard tell the Earl of Winchilsea’s nephew is partial to a lady with a healthy figure, and I’ve been told he is to be at today’s event.”
“Yes, well just don’t get too healthy,” he admonished, picking up the Gazette. “Winchilsea’s heir isn’t the only fish in the sea, after all. You’ll not wish to burst a seam tonight at the ball.”
The moment his face disappeared behind his papers, Cat leaned close to murmur in Harriett’s ear: “Unless of course that seam belongs to Winchilsea’s heir.”
A mouthful of tea went down the wrong way and set Harriett off coughing. “You are truly incorrigible,” she whispered once her eyes had stopped watering. Her appetite returned along with her good humor, and she motioned for the bacon to be brought back around. Cat was right. She’d need a good deal of fortitude to get through this day.
Sandwich’s house bordered Hyde Park, where the hunt was to be held by gracious permit of the king. The journey there was blessedly short. When Harriett disembarked, she was disappointed to see that Lord Russell’s carriage had arrived ahead of her. Had he gotten her letter before leaving?
“Lady Harriett!”
She whirled to see Russell coming toward her from the house, and her worries were instantly dispelled.
“Lady Harriett, I’m so glad you’ve come!” the fiery-haired man said in a rush. “I received your invitation just as I was leaving. I would be delighted to call on Monday.”
Harriett enjoyed for a moment the stunned look on her father’s face before answering. “I am equally pleased to know it, my lord.”
“May I escort you inside?” he asked, offering his arm.
Taking it, she let him lead her in. Heads turned as they passed, and eyebrows rose. Everyone present knew the history between them. “You’ve decided against wearing a beard this Season,” she commented as they walked.
His free hand leaped to his face. “I thought I might try it, but if you don’t like it—”
“I think you look most handsome,” she interrupted, giving him a demure glance. “I have never been very partial to beards.”
“Then I shall never wear one again,” he vowed at once. His expression became pensive, as though he were wondering whether his beard had been a determining factor in her choice two years prior.
“I was sorry to hear about Nanette.” Better to clear the air now.
“You were?” he asked, looking puzzled.
“What I mean to say is that I was sorry for her,” she amended. “She seemed quite distraught when last I saw her.”
“Oh, ah…” A flush rose from beneath his collar. “Well, the truth is we weren’t all that well suited to one another. She is of a different temperament than I, and we had very little in common.”
“A shame, truly. Still, it is better to know such things before it is too late, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Yes, yes. Quite.”
“And being set free is not always a tragedy. In some instances, it can be a gift beyond price.”
Wild hope sprang to life in his eyes, and he opened his mouth as if to speak. But then he closed it and looked away, fidgeting.
That’s more like it. Just then, her gaze fell on a familiar and all too unwelcome face. “George’s chamber pot,” she breathed, panicking.
“I beg your pardon?” asked Russell.
Harriett turned her back on Manchester and looked up into Russell’s face. He really did look a lot better without the silly beard. “I know it is bold of me to ask it of you, but would it be a terrible sacrifice if you stayed behind with me today during the hunt?” She just knew Manchester was coming up behind her. She could feel it.
Russell’s face alternated between shock and elation before settling on the latter. “Of course not. I would be honored.”
Suffused with relief, Harriett turned back around to see that her bête noir had indeed come to stand behind her. “Oh, good day to you, Your Grace. A fine morning, is it not?”
“Indeed it is,” answered Manchester. “Or it would be, had I not managed to have my foot crushed by my horse this morning. The beast was in a foul temper for some reason. Actually bit at my groom. He’s calmed since, of course, but I’m afraid the damage is done.”
She looked down at his booted foot, which showed no evidence whatsoever of having been trod upon. “I don’t suppose you’ll suffer too much. You’ll be riding, after all, and have your weight off it.”
“I’ve already told John—forgive me, Sandwich—that I won’t be riding today.”
