Lord Harry's Folly Read Free Page B

an entire brain amongst the lot of them.” He jerked his head up. “Eh? Oh, Hetty? My dearest child, I trust you slept well?”
    “Excellently, Father,” she said fondly and dropped a kiss on his smooth forehead. “And you, my dear?”
    “Like a top, my dear, like a top. I wonder where that odd saying came from? Why a top, I ask you? Well, I suppose it’s far less important than the Corn Laws. If it were not for these infernal, cursed Whigs, I’d sleep even better than a top. How I’d like to send the lot of them to perdition.” He chuckled at the thought and Hetty smiled, somewhat surprised that her father could joke about the Whigs, the bane of his political existence.
    “Sir Archibald, may I now serve the soup? Would you prefer the turtle or the potato?” Mrs. Miller’s very matronly face was nicely matched to her patient voice.
    “I say, Mrs. Miller,” Sir Archibald said, giving a start. “You really ought not creep up on one like that. Ah, turtle soup, did you say? Yes, the turtle soup will be fine, Mrs. Miller. Cook has a fine hand with the turtle. Not at all the thing with the potato soup, though, thick fleshy things, potatoes are. Come, dish it up. We mustn’t dawdle all afternoon. Man wasn’t meant to live by bread alone. Ah, my dearest Hetty, you do look lovely, my child, but your gown is rather short, isn’t it? Is that a new fashion? Or have you grown again? Aren’t you rather old to be still growing?”
    She just smiled at him, biting her tongue so she wouldn’t blurt out that she was thirteen years old and still growing. She wondered if he had any notion as to how old she was. But he had noticed her gown was too short. That was something she didn’t like. That was scary. She would have to be very careful around him.
    She shook her head and thought her father’s condemnation of the potato soup had naught to do with Cook’s inability, but rather with the circumstance that potatoes had the disadvantage of being a vegetable. And that, she decided, grinning to herself, reminded him of the Corn Laws. Not wishing to sound like a reprehensible Whig, no matter how farfetched her vegetable comparison, Hetty hastily concurred with the turtle soup.
    As Mrs. Miller suffered from arthritis in her knee joints, Hetty, as was her habit, dismissed the housekeeper. After standing ten minutes by Sir Archibald’s chair, unnoticed, Mrs. Miller wanted nothing more than to take the weight off her aching legs. She dipped a stiff curtsy and left father and daughter to their luncheon.
    As Hetty spooned a mouthful of turtle soup to her lips, she thought about her activities for the afternoon. Sir Harry Brandon had insisted that they ride to Cowslip Hollow to see a local mill. She had no particular liking for prizefights. Yet, not to show a tad of enthusiasm for one of the most popular of the gentleman’s sports would surely not hold her in good stead with her companions. At least, later, they would ride in Hyde Park. In all likelihood, Lord Oberlon would be among the glittering ton that made their daily appearance during those fashionable hours of four to six in the afternoon. She smiled, her turtle soup for the moment forgotten. How very grateful she was that Mr. Scuddimore did not possess the most awesome of intellects. He’d offered her the use of a hack without the slightest hesitation, and more importantly, without questioning her feeble story that her father needed her own bay mare for stud purposes.
    “Studding, eh? Laudable solution. England has need of more bay horses. Mares love it, my papa told me.”
    Hetty looked up to see her father smiling at her in that vague way of his. He surprised her by saying, “I trust poor Drusilla’s sick sister hasn’t hampered your activities, my dear child. Your first trip to London and all that I would not wish you to be bored.”
    She could but stare at him. He’d noticed her gown was too short yet he’d not realized that poor Drusilla Worthington had left London