Free The Indomitable Miss Harris by Amanda Scott Page A

never having sparred with anyone quite like him before. She couldn’t believe he had simply capitulated.
    Nor had he. He patted her hand. “I shall want your word that you will make proper use of your chaperone, my dear. And once I have it, I think we should find my sister. She will be dashed unpleasant later if we fail to do the pretty.”
    “Can you not trust me, my lord? I would promise to be more careful.”
    “I know you would,” he admitted. “But you are not yet up to snuff, and I admit candidly that this ‘Harris Heiress’ business worries me. I had heard nothing about it before, which means it has not yet reached White’s betting book. But I dare not let it escalate. Once there are heavy wagers laid, anything might happen. On the other hand, if it is seen that you are under my strictest protection, it should scotch matters before they get out of hand.”
    Gillian stared at him in astonishment. “You can’t mean that someone might attempt to abduct me!”
    “I mean exactly that. It has happened before, and will no doubt happen again. But not to you. Not if I have anything to say about it.”
    She could not believe that such a thing might be possible, but she could tell from the set of his jaw that further argument would be useless. Consequently, she allowed him to lead her to his sister. Mrs. Periwinkle had already joined Lady Harmoncourt, and the two were deep in conversation when Landover and Gillian approached.
    “Landover, how nice to see you,” her ladyship observed dryly, extending a plump, beringed hand in his general direction. He bowed over it obediently.
    “Abigail, you are looking well. That gown suits you.”
    “It does, does it not,” she agreed with a complacent look down the length of clinging emerald silk. “Claudette Moray did it. I expect her real name is Ethel Quince, or something equally common,” she added in a caustic aside to Mrs. Periwinkle, “but she is handy with a needle, and her designs are all the rage just now. I must say,” she went on with another glance downward, “she does know how to display one’s assets to advantage.”
    It was true. Lady Harmoncourt was no longer the slender beauty who had taken London by storm at her coming-out, but she was by no means decrepit either. Her skin was still glowingly translucent, and a good deal of it was revealed by Mademoiselle Moray’s creation. Her breasts were high, plump, and edged in Alençon lace. Her arms, still firm if a trifle rounder than they had been in those earlier, golden days, emerged triumphantly from tiny puffed sleeves that many of her contemporaries, in Gillian’s opinion, might well have envied. And if the rest of her body was unable to compete, Mademoiselle Moray had disguised the fact admirably amidst cunning folds and draperies of the shimmering green silk. With her abundant chestnut hair piled atop her head and a magnificent emerald collar encircling her throat, Lady Harmoncourt presented an ideal advertisement for her dressmaker’s expertise.
    “Ah, here is Sybilla,” her ladyship pronounced unnecessarily as an ethereal blonde in sprigged muslin approached, accompanied by a young gentleman who promptly made his bow and effaced himself. Sybilla curtsied to her uncle. “You will no doubt wish to dance with your niece, Landover,” her ladyship pronounced grandly. “Give him your card, Sybilla.”
    “Oh, but …” The blonde, smiling shyly, seemed reluctant to relinquish her card. Glancing at it, Landover eyed his niece a bit searchingly. Her color heightened, and she looked nervously at her mother.
    “Well, what are you waiting for, Benjamin?” Lady Harmoncourt demanded. “Her next partner will soon be along.”
    Landover smiled at Sybilla and returned the card. “Your daughter is too popular, ma’am. Johnny-Come-Lately can’t sign where there is no space. I shall have to make do with Miss Harris’s card. Hand it over, Miss Harris. The next dance is a waltz, and in my new role as