Page 5 of The Scottish Duke Tames the Bluestocking
“The cows, sir!” Harriet exclaimed, as though it was a perfectly normal statement. “Surely you have stables full of the blessed beasts?”
The baron’s frown deepened. “Why yes, I do keep cattle at my country manor, but I fail to see what that has to do with...”
“Excellent,” Harriet crooned, cutting him off. “My deepest admiration to your cowhands then. I have always found it fascinating, how they sway those milking stools and of course how they tend the beasts.”
Lord Elsbury’s mouth opened and closed like a fish pulled from water as he struggled to find a proper response. Harriet merely beamed at him, her eyes adopting a slightly unhinged look.
Clearing his throat, the baron soon attempted to steer the conversation back to more conventional matters. “Your gown is lovely, if I may say so, my lady,” he spoke and Harriet lifted a surprised brow.
“Why thank you, sir,” she said quickly, firmly sticking to her plan. “Though I must admit, I feel far more comfortable in something less formal, something like... the rags of chimney sweeps. There is something so comfortable and chic about it.”
The baron could only gape at her in utter bafflement, whilst Harriet made sure to step on his toes at least twice in the dance. By the time the music ended, Lord Elsbury looked decidedly rattled -his carefully crafted coiffure askew from repeatedly running his fingers through it in bewilderment.
“I... thank you for the dance, my lady,” he muttered as they stepped away from each other, and he scurried off at once.
Giggling to herself, Harriet scanned the crowd smugly - her gaze landing on her brother where he stood surrounded by esteemed gentlemen and ladies, his booming laughter filling the hall.
A slight sense of disappointment filled her. He had not noticed how the young baron had been chased off, and thus she knew she had no choice but to continue the charade. Her eyes glinted with mischief as she scanned the dance floor in search of her next quarry. A grin appeared on her face as her gaze landed on the lanky figure of the Earl of Derbyshire, who was lingering awkwardly by the punch bowl.
Perfect.
Squaring her shoulders, Harriet painted on her most winsome smile and began weaving through the crowd in his direction. The poor earl's eyes widened almost comically as she approached, clearly not accustomed to being sought out by eligible young ladies.
“Lord Derbyshire, is it not?” Harriet purred as she came to a halt next to him. “It is an absolute honor to make your acquaintance.”
The earl flushed scarlet, his long fingers fiddling nervously with his cravat. “L-Lady Harriet,” he stammered with an uneasy bow. “I confess I'm surprised you'd wish to speak with me.”
“Surprised?” Harriet's brow arched in exaggerated astonishment. “Why, I've been absolutely dying to engage you in conversation!”
The hapless earl's flush deepened until his pallid skin bore an uncanny resemblance to a ripe tomato. “You...you have?”
Harriet responded with a tinkling laugh, fluttering her lashes demurely as she sidled closer. “But of course! I simply must hear your thoughts on the merits of mustard plasters versus leeches for treating the congestive humors.”
Lord Derbyshire's expression morphed into one of utter bewilderment. “I... beg your pardon?”
Undaunted, Harriet pressed on eagerly. “You see, I myself am a fervent supporter of the leeches. There's just something so delightfully visceral about the little nippers, don't you agree? Although, one does have to be cautious about letting them get too overindulgent with their bloodletting. Drained the under-gardener just last week and the poor dear hasn't been able to lift a trowel since!”
The confused earl could only gape at her, his mouth working soundlessly as he visibly struggled to process her nonsensical stream of words. Harriet watched his internal war with rapidly dimming patience before abruptly switching conversational tracks with no preamble.
“But enough about leeches! I'm simply dying to hear your opinion on the best hay for properly muddying the nostril cavities before consumption.”
That proved to be the final straw for Lord Derbyshire's tenuous grip on sanity. With a strangled squeak, he hastily excused himself and nearly flew across the room, his pallid face a mask of visceral horror. Harriet watched him go with a self-satisfied smirk, entirely unperturbed by her companion's abrupt retreat.
Her gaze slid sideways as she registered the tall, imposing presence of the Duke of Frighton hovering nearby, his expression utterly inscrutable. Their eyes locked for an endless moment, a subtle challenge flaring to life in the electric silence that stretched between them.
Then, just as abruptly as he'd appeared in her periphery, the duke inclined his head in a shallow nod and turned away, leaving Harriet more than a little curious.
CHAPTER3
By the time Harriet had thoroughly befuddled and alienated her fourth dance partner of the evening, she was riding high on a sense of smug satisfaction. Her ridiculous conversation tactics had proven exceptionally effective at driving off each hapless gentleman, leaving them reeling in stunned bewilderment.
As the mortified Lord Plumley beat a hasty retreat, abandoning Harriet on the dance floor without so much as a backward glance, she couldn't stifle the peal of laughter that bubbled up from her throat. Throwing back her head with unbridled mirth, she relished her small rebellion against the suffocating societal conventions.
“You think this is amusing, do you?”
The harsh words, hissed in clipped tones, instantly smothered Harriet's frivolous humor. Whirling around, she came face-to-face with her brother William, his expression contorted into a rictus of barely contained rage. His eyes were cold and angry, his jaw ticking with barely restrained fury.
Harriet felt a sliver of trepidation slide down her spine, but she quickly rallied her defiance and lifted her chin boldly. “I'm simply having a bit of sport, William,” she replied with feigned nonchalance. “Surely that is not a crime?”
