Free To Dream of Love by M. C. Beaton Page A

with a round neck higher than was the current fashion and with little puff sleeves. It had one flounce at the hem.
    Behind it, swaying slightly in the draft, were the other gowns Cordelia had lent her.
    Harriet took out the ball gown and then two of the other gowns, fetched her workbasket, and began to work busily through the night.
    The next evening, Agnes, still rather red about the eyes, burst into Harriet’s bedroom. “Lady Bentley is in
such
a taking,” she said, gasping. “She says you are too late to go with us and must follow in a hack. Oh, my dear, you look beautiful.”
    Harriet turned from the glass and smiled. The white muslin gown now had a floating overdress of green silk. The bosom was fashionably low, and a delicate wreath of green silk flowers was entwined in her glossy black hair. The remains of one of Cordelia’s green silk gowns lay on a chair.
    “Very well,” said Harriet. “Present my apologies to Lady Bentley, Agnes, and tell her I will join her at the ball.”
    Agnes hesitated. “Lady Bentley will not be pleased when she sees you, Harriet. You will outshine her.”
    “I have already decided to return to the country,” said Harriet calmly, “so I do not care what she thinks.”
    “Agnes!” Cordelia screamed from downstairs.
    “I must go,” whispered Agnes. “Good luck!”
    Harriet went into the sitting room, where Aunt Rebecca was patiently waiting for her.
    “The plan worked,” said Harriet. “She has gone off in the most awful miff.”
    “Oh, my dear,” said Aunt Rebecca. “You look so very beautiful. What a pity …”
    “Don’t go on, Aunt. Confess that you yourself will be glad to be quit of here.”
    Aunt Rebecca looked mulish but did not say anything.
    Resplendent in Weston’s tailoring, the Marquess of Arden stood at the top of the graceful staircase in his town house in St. James’s Square to receive his guests. Beside him, looking smaller and less sulky in formal evening wear, was Bertram Hudson.
    The marquess was glad to notice that Bertram’s enthusiasm for Harriet Clifton seemed to be on the wane. The conventional side of his character felt a certain distaste at the thought of any alliance with a family that contained Cordelia, Lady Bentley. The only trouble was that Harriet’s sweetness and innocence had quenched his dishonorable intentions toward Cordelia. Besides, he preferred his mistresses to have no claims to respectability whatsoever.
    He almost regretted his decision, however, as Cordelia floated up the staircase toward him in all the glory of gold tissue and blazing diamonds. She looked ethereally beautiful.
    “Where is your sister, Lady Bentley?” he asked as she curtsied before him.
    “La! She will soon be here, if she comes at all.” Cordelia laughed. “I left her to make her own way. She is such a goose. So vulgar to be late,” said Cordelia, who was rarely on time for anything herself and had only made a special effort because she was worried by the recent coolness of the marquess.
    Agnes made her curtsy as well and followed Cordelia into the ballroom. Agnes saw Mr. Prenderbury’s scholarly figure in the far corner and her heart lightened. “Now, I expect you to see to it that Harriet remains seated,” breathed Cordelia. “I do not need to worry about
you
making an exhibition of yourself, Agnes. No one
ever
asks you to dance.” And, with a malicious little laugh, Cordelia floated away.
    Agnes took a seat next to the dowagers and looked down at her hands in her lap. She felt tired and miserable. Her pleasure at seeing Mr. Prenderbury had been destroyed by Cordelia’s cruelty. She sat scowling horribly as dance followed dance, while the marquess surrendered his post at the door to his butler and joined the dancers, and still Harriet did not come.
    And then all at once she was there. Agnes felt a ripple of interest running through the ballroom and looked up.
    Harriet was standing at the entrance with the squat bulk of Aunt Rebecca behind