The Bolingbroke Chit: A Regency Romance Read Free Page A

particular, seemed delighted with the turn of events and pledged to guide Miss Harlow through her first meeting, which would coincide with an exciting lecture from an American naturalist who would arrive from New York on the morrow.
    Sir Charles applauded his friend’s generous offer and urged Miss Harlow to accept it. “We in the society take much pride in our protocols, of which we have dozens to provide order and efficiency. I don’t doubt a young lady such as yourself might get confused trying to follow all of the rules, and Moray can be relied upon to ably translate complex ideas into simple terms. I will also be on hand to help make your first meeting a pleasant experience.”
    “I cannot imagine a more gracious offer,” Miss Harlow said. “Of course I’m happy to accept. Thank you.”
    “Naturally, my sister is pleased to return the favor, for she’s quite adept at understanding complex ideas, as well. Just this afternoon, in fact, she perfected her invention of the Brill Method Improvised Elasticized Hose,” the duchess explained. Then she looked at the two peers with bright blue eyes wide with innocent curiosity. “What devices have you gentlemen recently invented?”
    Sir Charles coughed awkwardly while the earl pulled out his fob and pointed to a knot securing the red-and-gold ribbon to his watch. “This bow is of my own creation. I call it the Moray Maneuver. If you like, I shall demonstrate it for you.”
    The duchess was saved from responding by the arrival of Mr. Edward Abingdon, yet another member of the British Horticultural Society who felt compelled to assure Miss Harlow of her welcome.
    Observing the scene, Agatha couldn’t decide if she was amused or disgusted. It was embarrassing to witness so many accomplished gentlemen—Mr. Abingdon, for example, was a noted whipster—making a cake of themselves over an assertive female who had elbowed her way into their private club. What flattery! What fawning! What absurd currying of favor!
    Truly, she’d never seen anything like it.
    At the same time, however, there was something irrefutably hilarious about watching her father’s beloved and esteemed institution devolve into a miniature marriage mart for the use and benefit of Miss Lavinia Harlow. The British Horticultural Society was clearly prime husband-hunting ground, and Agatha could not entirely blame Miss Harlow for working so tirelessly to gain entry into it. She was, after all, four-and-twenty years old and had already lost one fiancé to an unfortunate accident—suffocated by his own corset, if the rumors were to be believed. A woman of her advanced years could not have many options left, especially if she had scholarly interests such as inventing things. Yet now, suddenly, her life was rife with possibilities, for if she failed to catch the Marquess of Huntly, the Earl of Moray seemed happy to impale himself on the hook.
    If Lady Bolingbroke had realized the society’s potential for securing a spouse, she would have petitioned for her daughter’s inclusion years ago.
    Agatha’s gaze sharpened as an image took form in her mind. She pictured the society’s stately lecture hall, where the great Sir Joseph Banks himself once gave a presentation on the uses of eucalyptus, redecorated to look like Almack’s. Amid the crystal chandeliers, large wall mirrors and orchestra, she envisioned the twenty-six members of the society tripping over each other to sign Miss Harlow’s dance card.
    She would call the tableau the British Wedding Society.
    No, she thought, shaking her head. The cadence wasn’t right. The title of the drawing had to sound more like the organization it was ridiculing. Perhaps the British Matrimony Society. It was a vast improvement, no question, but it still fell short of capturing the rhythm. She closed her eyes for a moment, the image so clear in her head she felt as if she could touch it, and saw the perfect name write itself along the bottom of the picture: the British