Miss Darby's Duenna Read Online Free PDF Page A

a frown of such ferocity that one young lady, passing at that moment into his line of vision and supposing herself to be the object of his disapproval, fled to the safety of her mother’s arms. He had not spent his entire adult life cultivating an air of jaded sophistication only to have it destroyed in an instant by an impudent young pup still wet behind the ears. Not, he considered, that the pup in question had intentionally emptied his wineglass over the marquess’s head; in fact, he doubted the young man possessed that much bottom. No, young—what was his name? Harley? Hawley? Hawthorne? Whoever he was, he was merely trying to catch the eye of the beauteous Violetta, the same as every other male present at Covent Garden on that fateful evening. But far from deriving consolation from this knowledge, Lord Mannerly felt doubly humiliated. It was, after all, more enviable to be the object of a rival’s jealousy than merely a hapless victim of circumstance. At any rate, there had been nothing the marquess could do, since to call the young cub out would only have lent him consequence. And so he had quit Covent Garden without further ado, his fashionable Titus crop raining Madeira down his hitherto immaculate shirtfront. He had then made haste to Paris, where he might stroke his wounded amour propre, and where shortly thereafter he had heard that the fair Violetta had bestowed her considerable favors upon the Duke of Islington.
    “Why, Selwyn, I had no idea you had returned to town,” remarked a rather dashing young matron, playfully rapping the marquess’s sleeve with her fan. “Have you come to inspect this year’s hopefuls? But you do not dance! Shall I help you find a partner?”
    “Ever the matchmaker, eh, Emily?” he replied, raising Lady Cowper’s gloved hand to his lips with practiced grace. “An exercise in futility, as you surely must know by now. Nevertheless, in order to remain in your good graces, I will do my duty. You may introduce me to—” he paused, raising his quizzing glass to inspect the rainbow of pastel-clad young ladies whirling about the room.   At length his sweeping gaze settled on a dark-haired damsel in a gown of purest white shot with silver threads. “—That one.” He pointed his glass at the fortunate chosen.
    “Miss Darby? She is something out of the common way, is she not? But,” added Lady Cowper, dimpling up at him, “I think it only fair to warn you not to entertain any matrimonial hopes where she is concerned. Miss Darby is already betrothed to Sir Harry Hawthorne.”
    Lord Mannerly’s quizzing glass checked ever so briefly before he let it fall. Sir Harry Hawthorne? This, surely, was the intended bride of the young cub who had precipitated his abrupt departure from London. For the first time in many weeks, the marquess’s spirits lifted, then soared. How absurd, to think he had spent the better part of a year pouting over a blow to his pride! Selwyn St. George, fifth marquess of Mannerly, sulking over the loss of a bit of muslin who was no better than she should be! His Mannerly forebears must have been setting the family crypt awhirl! But no more. He was a Mannerly, and Mannerlys did not get embarrassed; they got even. As he eyed the dark-haired beauty in white, a plan began to form in his mind—a cunning, clever, brilliant plan. By God, he would teach the impudent young pup to make a fool of the marquess of Mannerly! He would have his revenge, and this nubile nymph was the key. Turning back to Lady Cowper, he flashed his most charming smile.
    “Having done your duty by delivering this caveat, my lady,” he said, offering her his arm, “lead on!”
    * * * *
    “What time is it, Mama?” asked Olivia, fidgeting in the elegant but uncomfortable chair situated along the wall.
    “Ten fifty-two,” replied her parent placidly, consulting the ormolu clock concealed from her daughter’s view by her own plumed turban. “Precisely two minutes later than it was the