Page 15 of Harpy of the Ton
Herorders…
Bitch.
“Where isshe?” he asked.
There was no need to ask whoshewas. The footman’s eyes widened in recognition.
“I-I don’t rightly know, mister.”
“Never mind—I’ll find her myself.”
“Now, don’t you go and…” the footman began, but, in a swift, smooth movement, Lawrence swung his arm down and back, then drove it forward, smashing his fist into the underside of the man’s chin. The footman made no sound, except for a small sigh, then he crumpled to the ground.
Through the crackling of the fire, Lawrence could swear he heard a sharp intake of breath.
“I know you’re there!” he cried. “Come out where I can see you!”
Silence.
“The least you can do is face me after what you’ve done—or should I say, instructed another to do!”
He lowered his gaze to inspect the blistered skin of his fingers where he’d tried to retrieve the rake. Then he turned it over to see the broken skin of his knuckles where they’d connected with the footman’s jaw—an infinitely more satisfying injury.
Then he heard a rustling of foliage, and he glanced up to see a flash of pink silk disappearing behind a hedge.
Not content with getting a servant to carry out the deed, she chose to relish the sight of his despair on seeing his life—and hopes—turn to ash.
A bitch, and a coward.
No doubt she’d lived her spoiled, indulged life dealing out her particular style of cruelty on those she considered beneath her, and believing she could escape unpunished. But not this time.
What had the cook said?
I’ve often seen her running off to the stables to hide from the duke.
He gritted his teeth in a grim smile.
This time, Miss Haughty, you’ll not be able to hide.
*
As the stablescame into view—a building that looked in a worse state of repair than the house—Lawrence slowed his pace, taking care not to make a sound. His quarry would be easier to catch if she believed she’d eluded him.
Where was she?
Let the prey reveal itself.
That was what his da had said when they’d gone hunting rabbit. Lawrence smiled to himself at the notion of that haughty creature skinning a freshly killed cony. It would serve her right to have her hair mussed up, hands deep in guts and gore—faced with the choice of starvation or survival.
A man can but dream.
He settled himself in a secluded position at the corner of the building and waited.
At length, she appeared. Like a rabbit—albeit a particularly spiteful rabbit—she emerged, tentatively at first. A delicate slippered foot appeared from behind the stable door, followed by pink silk skirts—then the rest of her.
She was close enough for him to discern her expression. But rather than vindictive triumph, he saw only sorrow in her eyes. A horse’s head appeared at a stable door, and she curved her mouth into a smile.
A tender enough smile to breach his heart and break his resolve.
