The Pride of Lions Read Online Free PDF Page A

whatsoever that she would have a rose in her hand by midnight. Hamilton might well be fiercely protective of his bachelorhood, but the time was ripe for him to mend his ways. It was a perfect match for both of them. Just the thought of the commotion it would cause when their engagement was announced sent a delicious thrill down her spine, for her peers would be seething with envy. Each and every one of them had watched and waited, hoping she would fail as they so miserably had. Jealous, the lot of them. Jealous because they could not hold his interest. Jealous because they knew there wasn’t a man alive who could escape a net as fine as the one she had cast for Lieutenant Garner.
    She spied him instantly, even though the room was awash in crimson tunics, bewigged heads, and gowns in every shade of every color known to man. He was standing with her father, smiling at something that had caused Sir Alfred’s many chins to quiver with laughter.
    “Good,” she mused. “He is already ingratiating himself with his future father-in-law. Sweet merciful heavens, but doesn’t he look magnificent?”
    If ever there was a man suited to wear a uniform, Catherine decided, it was Hamilton Garner. His shoulders filled the scarlet tunic with a power and grace that rippled clearly from every taut inch of muscle; his legs, long and lean, stretched the snow-white nankeen of his breeches in such a way as to turn a lady’s heart faint. It could only be a bonus that he was exceedingly handsome— indecently handsome, with a squared, angular jaw and large, seductive eyes the color of warm jade. He had seen service with King George’s brother, the Duke of Cumberland, and had returned from Fontenoy a hero.He had recently been given his own company of dragoons and was expecting a full captaincy any day now.
    Standing with Hamilton and her father were several other wigged and powdered gentlemen, among them her uncle, Colonel Lawrence Halfyard, a short-tempered, gruff man who spoke in staccato sentences that sounded like gunfire. He was Hamilton’s commanding officer, and as such was sure to be encouraging his protégé into a union with his niece.
    “It could not be more perfect,” Catherine murmured. “Now remember—you must keep Damien away from Hamilton until I give you the signal.”
    Harriet offered up a small groan. “That might be rather difficult. He is talking to Hamilton now.”
    “What? Where?” It was proof of her single-mindedness: she had not even noticed her brother standing slightly to Hamilton’s left.
    “You don’t suppose—”
    “No. I don’t,” Catherine said flatly. “Not with Uncle Lawrence and William Merriweather standing in their tawdry little group. If they aren’t discussing Charles Edward Stuart again, I will eat every feather in my fan!”
    Harriet groaned again, this time with genuine dismay. “Politics, again ? I swear if I have to listen to one more argument about Stuarts and Hanovers and who rightfully belongs on what throne—” She looked down at her own fan, which was made of painted lace and seed pearls, and grimaced. “I may seek out Pelham-Whyatt myself.”
    “The Stuart line is finished,” Sir Alfred said loudly, trumpeting his nose into a linen handkerchief. “Why the deuce these papists cannot seem to grasp the idea, I do not know. Y’d think they would be tired of fighting a losing battle, tired of defending a cause that has nowhere to go but the bottom of the sea. England is not going to stand for another Catholic king on the throne, and certainly not one who speaks with a Highland brogue.”
    “Ek-tually …” William Merriweather was a neighborand friend of the family, as short as Sir Alfred and equally stout, making the pair of them resemble two round balls of dough when they stood together. He liked to play devil’s advocate and to argue just for the sake of arguing, regardless of the topic. “James Francis Stuart speaks as clearly as you or I. If anything, he leans more