The Fortune Hunter Page 0,46

a man to get the wrong idea about Clytemnestra Ashby.

Harry felt the same concern, but it was all brotherly. He could not imagine taking Clyta to wife.

As he held hands with her and danced down the line, he remembered how hard it had been to pretend to merely brotherly fondness with Amy de Lacy, the excitement he had felt at merely being in the same room as her. Would he ever feel that way about anyone else? Then he cursed himself for this weakness.

"What?" asked Clyta, missing a step. Her eyes were wide with alarm. "Did I do something wrong?"

He'd sworn aloud. "No, of course not," Harry said with a reassuring smile. "I... er... I just remembered something I've forgotten to do."

She looked at him dubiously as they settled to their places at the end of the line.

"Truly," he said across the gap.

She was reassured and smiled as they stepped together and joined hands. It turned into something twistedly seductive. "Not very flattering," drawled Clyta with a sultry look worthy of the demimonde. "Your thoughts should all be of me, sir."

Harry suppressed a groan. "Do stop that, Clyta. Just be yourself."

She flushed again. "But I am." They danced around each other. As they separated, she added anxiously, "I think."

Harry gave thanks he didn't have to steer Clyta through her first Season.

Other than Chart's sister, Harry followed his usual policy and worked his way methodically through the most eligible young women. He was determined to meet as many as possible so as to give himself the greatest chance of encountering a tolerable one. Amy de Lacy couldn't be the only charmer capable of stirring his blood. He had no fixed criteria and tried whatever presented - pretty or plain, witty or shy, tall or short. But he tried the rich ones first. Might as well marry a fortune as not.

There was not a one he felt any desire to share his life with. When he danced with the pretty Miss Frogmorton, who was quite an heiress to boot, he found himself wondering what this pattern card of perfection would do if caught in a deluge. It was impossible to imagine.

And why the hell was Amy de Lacy fixed in his mind like a family ghost?

It was all so depressing that when Randal's wife boldly asked him for a dance, he agreed.

"Are you so short of partners, Sophie?" he asked.

"Not at all," she replied. "I merely thought you deserved one dance of pleasure."

"And what is that supposed to mean?" he demanded.

She gave him a saucy look. "You know perfectly well. If you want my advice - and you don't, of course - you'll stop looking so hard."

"If I just ignore the problem, my future bride will appear one day like a genie from a bottle?"

Sophie laughed. "What a lovely thought!"

He couldn't help but laugh with her. It was a great relief to be with someone simply for the pleasure of it. "For some reason I doubt that a bride from a bottle would be suited to life at Hey Park."

This time he could dance without ulterior motives, and by the time the set was over he was feeling relaxed and more like himself than he had in weeks. As they strolled over to join Randal, Sophie asked, "What of Amy de Lacy? Do you still think of her?"

It was like a dash of icy water. "No," Harry said sharply. "Why would I?"

"Merely to rejoice in such a lucky escape," said Sophie lightly. "After all, I doubt there's a lady in this room who would reject your suit, never mind slap you for it."

Harry handed her over to her husband and stalked off without a word.

Randal looked down at his wife and raised a brow. "Distinctly frosty," he said. "Why do I have the feeling you've been meddling again, minx?"

She dimpled. "Because you know me so well? Harry's never going make a good choice of bride until he clears Amy de Lacy from his head."

"And you intend to help him with his spring cleaning? Sophie, from whence do you get this lamentable tendency to interfere?"

"I don't know," she said unrepentantly. "But I'm very good at it. Did I or did I not bring about the happy union of Ver and Emily?"

"I think they would have managed well enough on their own."

"Ha! There speaks the man who would have let me marry Trenholme out of a misguided sense of nobility."

He laughed. "Perhaps. I would probably have snatched you away at the altar like Lochinvar."

"Would