Read Online Lady Adventuress 02 - The Education of Lord Hartley by Daphne du Bois - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Daphne du Bois
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certainly made him look the cake.
Soon, he would have to write Frederick and inform him that the search had still not proved the least bit fruitful, and he was determined that it should not come to that. Upon his honour he would find the girl, and he would bring her safely back to London. He had given Frederick his word, and as far as the Marquis of Hartley was concerned, his word was sacrosanct.
His aunt had been vaguely intrigued by his frantic search for a mysterious lady, though she seemed more preoccupied with her own social calendar: since returning to Paris less than three days earlier, she had taken great pains to cart him around to many of her social engagements. The marquess had not the heart to refuse the elderly countess, though he knew that she only put on the airs of a lonely old woman to wrap him around her finger.
Marie-Josette was his mother’s youngest sister and she had always been a force of mischief and fun. It was because of her that he found himself seated in this fashionable chocolate house on the bustling rue Saint-Honoré. He did not care for such establishments.
Hart was awaiting the arrival of the august lady, along with some new friend of hers which she felt he simply had to meet. It was very much like his aunt to be fashionably late: he thought fondly that she was the only person for whom he was prepared to wait for two thirds of an hour.
Finally, he saw his aunt’s elegant carriage drawing up outside the shop. The black lacquered vehicle was emblazoned proudly with her coat of arms and a footman jumped down to help the countess disembark.
The countess was, as ever, a paragon of fashion, dressed with all the splendour of the Restoration. Her gown was a sweeping afternoon dress of rose pink taffeta, trimmed with ruffles along the hem, and a delicate lace fichu. The lady’s coiffeur was completed by a daringly floral straw bonnet. Hartley was once again struck by her resemblance to his late mother. He found that he was utterly pleased to see her, even if she had forced him to wait on her.
Having handed down the countess, the footman turned to assist her companion, and it was then that Hart found himself quite speechless.
The creature that emerged in the wake of his aunt was attired in the first stare of fashion, easily a match for the older woman’s magnificent ensemble. But it was not the merits of her modiste or her milliner that had so caught his attention.
Indeed, it was not even the fashionably daring cut of her gown, revealing a full, pale bosom that could easily drive a swain to distraction. Nor was it the plumed confection that rested atop her rich honeyed locks.
Hart felt a stab of impatience because the resemblance was unmistakable: the lady was none other than the elusive Miss Margaret Dacre. Surely it was not she whom his aunt had so wished him to meet! The marquess searched his memory for a name and title but came up blank.
But that did not matter in the least: this was Maggie, as he had never seen her before. She was polished and utterly a la mode – every inch a modern Parisian lady. She had all the style of a fashion plate, and all the natural grace of a true arbiter of fashion. She could have effortlessly turned the head of every man in town.
It took Maggie longer to spot Hartley because she was engaged in some amusing discussion with his aunt. She did not glance at him until they had almost reached his table.
If Hart had entertained any doubts concerning coincidental resemblances, he could no longer do so once he’d seen the bewildered flash of panic in her eyes.
It was gone quickly, but not quickly enough.
Hart gave his quarry an indolent smile, before rising to his feet politely.
“Hello, Aunt. I had just about decided that you had thrown me over,” he greeted the older woman with a polite bow, before looking with curious enquiry at her lovely companion.
Maggie did a beautiful job of failing to show the least sign of recognition.
Her hair was different,
Soon, he would have to write Frederick and inform him that the search had still not proved the least bit fruitful, and he was determined that it should not come to that. Upon his honour he would find the girl, and he would bring her safely back to London. He had given Frederick his word, and as far as the Marquis of Hartley was concerned, his word was sacrosanct.
His aunt had been vaguely intrigued by his frantic search for a mysterious lady, though she seemed more preoccupied with her own social calendar: since returning to Paris less than three days earlier, she had taken great pains to cart him around to many of her social engagements. The marquess had not the heart to refuse the elderly countess, though he knew that she only put on the airs of a lonely old woman to wrap him around her finger.
Marie-Josette was his mother’s youngest sister and she had always been a force of mischief and fun. It was because of her that he found himself seated in this fashionable chocolate house on the bustling rue Saint-Honoré. He did not care for such establishments.
Hart was awaiting the arrival of the august lady, along with some new friend of hers which she felt he simply had to meet. It was very much like his aunt to be fashionably late: he thought fondly that she was the only person for whom he was prepared to wait for two thirds of an hour.
Finally, he saw his aunt’s elegant carriage drawing up outside the shop. The black lacquered vehicle was emblazoned proudly with her coat of arms and a footman jumped down to help the countess disembark.
The countess was, as ever, a paragon of fashion, dressed with all the splendour of the Restoration. Her gown was a sweeping afternoon dress of rose pink taffeta, trimmed with ruffles along the hem, and a delicate lace fichu. The lady’s coiffeur was completed by a daringly floral straw bonnet. Hartley was once again struck by her resemblance to his late mother. He found that he was utterly pleased to see her, even if she had forced him to wait on her.
Having handed down the countess, the footman turned to assist her companion, and it was then that Hart found himself quite speechless.
The creature that emerged in the wake of his aunt was attired in the first stare of fashion, easily a match for the older woman’s magnificent ensemble. But it was not the merits of her modiste or her milliner that had so caught his attention.
Indeed, it was not even the fashionably daring cut of her gown, revealing a full, pale bosom that could easily drive a swain to distraction. Nor was it the plumed confection that rested atop her rich honeyed locks.
Hart felt a stab of impatience because the resemblance was unmistakable: the lady was none other than the elusive Miss Margaret Dacre. Surely it was not she whom his aunt had so wished him to meet! The marquess searched his memory for a name and title but came up blank.
But that did not matter in the least: this was Maggie, as he had never seen her before. She was polished and utterly a la mode – every inch a modern Parisian lady. She had all the style of a fashion plate, and all the natural grace of a true arbiter of fashion. She could have effortlessly turned the head of every man in town.
It took Maggie longer to spot Hartley because she was engaged in some amusing discussion with his aunt. She did not glance at him until they had almost reached his table.
If Hart had entertained any doubts concerning coincidental resemblances, he could no longer do so once he’d seen the bewildered flash of panic in her eyes.
It was gone quickly, but not quickly enough.
Hart gave his quarry an indolent smile, before rising to his feet politely.
“Hello, Aunt. I had just about decided that you had thrown me over,” he greeted the older woman with a polite bow, before looking with curious enquiry at her lovely companion.
Maggie did a beautiful job of failing to show the least sign of recognition.
Her hair was different,
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