Page 6 of The Scottish Duke Tames the Bluestocking
Her brother's nostrils flared as he struggled to regulate his temper. When he spoke again, his voice was a low, venomous hiss that sent an unwelcome frisson of unease trickling through her.
“You're making a mockery of our family with your juvenile antics,” he seethed, his words clipped and precise. “These gentlemen are from highly respected families -- families I was hoping to curry favor with on your behalf. But now they'll be too busy gossiping about what an errant fool you are to even consider...”
“Consider forcing me into a loveless match, you mean?” Harriet couldn't resist interjecting hotly.
William's jaw clenched until the muscles danced with strain. “This behavior is unacceptable, Harriet. You will cease this idiocy at once and conduct yourself with the poise and decorum befitting a lady of your station. Do you understand?”
Anger and indignation swelled in Harriet's chest, cresting in a furious wave that crashed through her carefully cultivated propriety. “Or what?” she challenged, her tone saturated with reckless defiance. “What consequences will you dole out to discipline me, dear brother? Shall I be sent to the nursery without supper?”
“You insolent child...” William's face was nearly purple with apoplectic rage.
“Or perhaps you'll forbid me from marrying at all?” Harriet barreled ahead, unable to stem the tide of resentment that burst forth in a torrent. “Relegate me to spinsterhood like some hideous crone to be pitied and reviled?”
“Enough!” William hissed, his words a ferocious whiplash that startled Harriet into momentary silence. “I will not be subjected to your childish hysterics any longer. You shame us both with this disgusting display!”
Before Harriet could muster a retort, her brother had already whirled on his heel and stormed off, disappearing into the crowd with sharp, angry movements. She could only gape after him, suddenly bereft in the wake of his scathing reproach.
Emotion swelled and clogged her throat until she felt in danger of choking on it. Tears of humiliation and fury stung her eyes as she wheeled around, desperate to escape her mortification. She needed air. Quickly.
Barely aware of where her feet carried her, Harriet hurried across the ballroom and slipped through the glass doors that opened onto a secluded veranda. The brisk evening air was a balm on her flushed, heated skin as she gulped it greedily, struggling to regain her composure.
So consumed was she in her emotional turmoil that she failed to register the lone figure lounging against the stone balustrade until the telltale flare of a match illuminated it in stark relief. Harriet froze, her breath catching in her throat as she recognized the towering silhouette.
“Your Grace,” she acknowledged stiffly, inwardly cursing her rotten luck. Of all the people to stumble across, this was the last man she wished to see. His presence was far too cloying.
The Duke of Frighton straightened languidly, transferring his cheroot to his other hand as he exhaled a plume of pungent smoke.
He regarded her with hooded eyes that glinted green as a cat's in the dim glow of the veranda's lanterns. “Evenin', lass,” he greeted, his deep brogue rich with sardonic amusement. “Seems ye've had a tryin' night.”
Harriet stiffened, her chin lifting defensively even as her cheeks flushed with lingering chagrin. “I don't know what you mean,” she retorted, averting her gaze from his knowing stare.
Hugh chuckled, a low rumble that shouldn't have sounded quite so indecent. “Come now, nay need for pretense between us,” he cajoled. “I saw ye fetchin' yer dance partners earlier. Seemed ye were havin' a grand time sendin' the poor lads fleein' for the hills.”
Despite herself, Harriet felt her lips twitch upwards at his wry observation. Of course the infuriating Scot had witnessed her mischievous conversational ploys. She could not help but be amused by his referring to the various nobles gathered here as lads.
“So my ruse was transparent, was it?” she asked, aiming for a blasé tone that likely missed its mark.
Hugh's grin widened, brightening eyes that gleamed with barely suppressed mirth. “As glass,” he confirmed cheerfully. “Though I'll give ye points for creativity, lass. Nae many women would dare spin such outrageous yarns about leeches and hay and the like.”
Harriet sniffed disdainfully, though she was rapidly losing her grasp on her righteous indignation. “Well, when one is subjected to the dreary prattle of society gentlemen night after night, one must find ways to enliven the proceedings,” she claimed, though the crimson shade of her cheeks made it quite clear that she had other intentions.
“Aye, I can see how that might drive a lass to drastic measures,” Hugh allowed with a rumbling chuckle. He took another lazy pull from his cheroot, the end flaring bright orange as he inhaled deeply. “So tell me, did yer little plan unfold as ye wished? Did ye succeed in scandalizin' the entire Parliament of Britain's bachelors?”
There was no censure in his tone, only genuine curiosity laced with that ever-present, maddening amusement. Somehow, Harriet found she didn't feel quite as defensive in the face of his easy irreverence.
“I'd say my efforts were quite successful,” she replied primly, jutting out her chin. “Those poor saps likely won't be able to unhinge their jaws for a week.”
Hugh threw back his head with a rich guffaw, the uninhibited sound startling a flock of birds from their roost in a nearby tree. “Oh lass, ye are a rare one, that's for certain,” he said admiringly, his eyes crinkling at the corners with mirth. “The laddies of thetonwill not know what hit them by the time yer finished with 'em.”
Harriet made a show of examining her nails in feigned indifference, though she couldn't quite smother her pleased smile at his praise. “Well, it serves them right for their stuffiness and pomposity,” she said loftily. “Someone has to keep them humble, after all.”
“Is that so?” Hugh countered, his tone taking on a silky, challenging edge that she didn't trust one whit. One dark brow inched upwards in an expression of practiced nonchalance. “And I wonder, d'ye plan on deployin' those same...unorthodox tactics when ye set yer sights on snarin' a husband for yerself?”
The words hit Harriet like a harsh dousing of cold water, effectively smothering the playful repartee between them. Her smile withered, shoulders going rigid as she sucked in a sharp, offended breath.
“I beg your pardon?” she bit out acidly. “What makes you think I have any intention of 'snaring' some poor sod, as you so indelicately put it?”
Hugh shrugged one broad shoulder, utterly unbothered by her pique. “Just assumin', based on yer brother's overly enthusiastic efforts to flog ye off to the highest bidder in there.” He jerked his chin towards the ballroom even as artful streams of pale smoke wreathed his head. “It was just an idle observance.”
