Page 15 of The Scottish Duke Tames the Bluestocking
The two friends shared a warm chuckle and Harriet leaned closer to her friend, allowing Caroline to pat her head in a comforting manner.
“I am so glad you are here,” she said softly. Caroline hesitated, her hand stilling on Harriet’s head.
“There is... something I ought to tell you, I suppose. About Benedict and me,” she said hesitantly and Harriet sat up quickly, looking at her worriedly.
“What is the matter?”
“Oh, no,” Caroline laughed, though her eyes were wrought with sympathy. “It’s just... Benedict’s business affairs require us to return to our country estate for the foreseeable future. We will be departing London tomorrow in the morn.”
The admission hung between them, weighty and unspoken implications swirling through the air in its wake. Harriet pressed her fingertips to her lips, struggling down to tamp the anguished sense of dread swelling within her.
The thought of carrying on through this trying time without Caroline’s steadfast presence by her side was an unspeakably bleak prospect - so much so that she could scarcely give it credence. How would she possibly navigate the treacherous waters of her impending disgrace without her dearest confidante and friend to buoy her?
“Oh, Harriet...” It was clear that Caroline sensed her inner turmoil, for she hastened to assuage it, blinking rapidly as she settled herself on the wrought iron bench and patted the space beside her invitingly. “Now, now,” she admonished softly. “Let us have none of that dreadful gloom just yet. I’ll always be there for whatever you need, even if I am in the country. And I will expect letters often - detailing every new scandal of mischief that you contrive.”
Harriet sniffed softly at this and shook her head. “Me? Contrive mischief? What a mad thing to say.”
Caroline laughed softly and leaned forward, giving Harriet’s hand a soft squeeze. Harriet swallowed hard against the lump of tears constricting her throat and she shot Caroline a shaky smile. “Perhaps you are right,” she managed. “I shall simply have to come up with an idea to continue terrorizing the unfortunate bachelors of thetonuntil you return to reestablish order.”
Caroline chuckled softly and leaned in to press a gentle kiss to the top of Harriet’s head. “That is my brave friend,” she murmured, then gave her hand one final, comforting squeeze before rising gracefully to her feet. “I do hope, Harriet, that you and Frighton can manage to speak.”
Harriet rose too, tears forming in her eyes. It would have been easier, she knew, to manage all she had to do with Caroline by her side. But she also knew that her friend would not leave unless she knew full well that Harriet would be all right.
“You ought to pack,” Harriet insisted and sniffed. “Take care of yourself, my dearest friend - and please... write to me. Often.”
“I will,” Caroline promised and Harriet nodded at her before making her way out of the orangery and back to the waiting carriage. She looked at the driver impulsively, then flashed him a smile.
“Go,” she encouraged the man. “I will walk. Thank you.”
The driver nodded, albeit hesitantly. A lifetime of working for Jennifer Lourne, however, had taught him that the Lourne women were not bound by the expectations of society and he rode off without a word.
As she made her way slowly along the winding pathways, she could not quite shake the melancholy that had settled over her at the prospect of Caroline's imminent departure.
So lost was she in her own gloomy reverie that she failed to register the hushed whispers and sidelong glances until she was nearly halfway home. Only then did she notice the loose knot of matrons attired in all their sartorial finery, fans fluttering incessantly as they darted judgmental looks in Harriet's direction.
Her steps slowed instinctively, shoulders stiffening beneath the weight of their open scrutiny. Chin lifted in defiant refusal to afford them an ounce of satisfaction, she swept past, perfectly composed except for the telltale flush that stained her cheeks.
“The scandal,” one whispered as she passed. “Lady Harriet Lourne. Can you believe that she dares show her face in thetonafter being caught with the Scottish duke?”
“Has she no shame?” whispered another - the words drifting towards her. Harriet froze as the last woman addressed her, her voice far sharper than those of the women around her.
“You ought to hide away,” she exclaimed cruelly and Harriet pivoted slowly, regarding Lady Granfouly with a cool stare. The aging matron's face was a pinched mask of disdain, her sharp nose wrinkling in distaste as she appraised Harriet from behind the lace veil of her bonnet.
Before Harriet could formulate a withering response, Lady Granfouly's granddaughter sidled up beside her, a sly smile curling her youthful lips. “Now, now, Grandmother, that's hardly fair,” she chided with exaggerated sweetness, dark eyes glinting with barely concealed malice. “Poor Lady Harriet is doubtless quite overwhelmed by the... circumstances surrounding her recent, ah, indiscretions. I am certain she is merely not thinking, by being out in polite society.”
The younger woman trailed one pristine-gloved finger idly along the satiny material of her spencer as she spoke, letting the innuendo-laden words linger in the air with pointed implication.
Harriet opened and closed her mouth, a thousand responses running through her mind. Then, without a word, she turned on her heel and made her way back to her own home.
CHAPTER8
“Harriet.”
William’s scathing voice greeted her the minute she stepped into the manor and Harriet sighed deeply.
“What?”
His eyes darkened at her petulant tone and he looked at her with pursed lips. “I need you to follow me. To my study,” he intoned coolly and Harriet glanced up at the heavens for a second before duly following him.
