Lord Haversham Takes Command Read Free

farewell and made his way out the door, she wanted to run after him and force him to explain — to tell her where he had taken her Harry — but something held her back, and he was soon mounted and had cantered away.
    Mira returned to the drawing room in time to hear her father’s reaction. “Lord save us, he’s the spitting image of his mother!”
    “Whatever can you mean?” Lady Crenshaw cried. “He’s precisely like his father!”
    Sir Anthony dragged a shaking hand across his face. “Ginny, surely you saw how his hands were itching to come together in a resounding clap just like that infernal Lady Avery, and incessantly, I might add.” He collapsed into his chair by the fire, for all the world like a man harassed past bearing. “I’ll be hanged if there wasn’t a lisp hovering about waiting for the perfect moment to be unleashed as well.” He looked up at his wife. “You know what this means, don’t you?”
    “No! Surely you don’t mean it! He wasn’t as awful as all that, was he?” she asked in a voice that quavered just a trifle.
    Mira felt a new and unfamiliar sensation grip her. “Papa, what are you saying?” she demanded while doing her best to hide her fear. “How does Harry’s bizarre metamorphosis into Bertie have anything to do with you?”
    Her mother turned haggard eyes to her daughter. “Only that you shall be expected to marry your cousin after all.”
    “Who?” Mira demanded. “Not George!” An uncomfortable silence ensued. A bit deflated by their lack of reply, she carried on. “You
can’t
mean that I should marry George. He’s the most despicable, needle-nosed tyrant who ever walked the earth! Besides, I still have no idea what this has to do with Harry.” She blinked back a sudden onset of tears. She didn’t know what her tears had to do with Harry either, but she refused to examine that question further.
    Her father sighed and took her hand in his. “Mira, my love, we have often thought you had feelings for Harry.”
    “Well, yes, I suppose I might have had,” Mira said in spite of her hesitation. “But you know that we have always been nothing but friends. Besides, he is
miles
older than I.”
    He is a mere three years older, very close to the number of years between your father and I,” her mother pointed out. “The two of you have always gotten along so well, and Harry has been almost one of the family. I can’t say, however, that I have always favored the match; his parents are so … well, I suppose I have said too much already.”
    “His parents?” Mira conjured up an image of Lord Avery, Harry’s corpulent father, with his long locks of gray and those tiny eyes pinched between the fat of his cheeks and that of his brow. He was forever gushing over the ladies as if he were the most eligible bachelor on the town and regularly recited the most appalling poetry. True, he was an earl, but that in no way compensated for the constant creak of his corset.
    Of course Mira’s father was correct with regards to Lady Avery. She had a most annoying habit of clapping her hands and never at a time that remotely warranted it. She once clapped her hands as giddily as a schoolgirl when supper at Prospero Park was announced. It had not been an interminable wait nor was it a special occasion, merely a tedious Tuesday meal of bread and mutton, but Lady Avery had clapped her hands as if it were Father Christmas come to call. It caused Mira to wonder if perhaps Lady Avery was not in possession of an average intelligence. In short, there wasn’t much either of his parents had to say or think or opine that she would favor with a moment’s credit.
    “Yes, well … ” her mother hedged, “it isn’t as if they are any great friends of ours, and naturally it isn’t only because he is an earl and she a countess,” she added with what Mira felt unnecessary emphasis. “It’s just as your father said; we always thought you fond of him. And,” she added in a small voice, “he