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standards, and she knew her looks were attractive, if her skills and her bank notes could not win her a position. She would study hard and become a designer of distinction, an arbiter of English elegance, a businesswoman with a future. She might not have a name to call her own—she would find another, in France—but she would be somebody. And then she would begin to repay her debt of conscience to Lord Carde and his brother Jack…and Lady Charlotte.

Chapter Three
    1816
    Harlan Harkness, Lord Harking, hated London. Oh, the viscount liked the camaraderie of the clubs, the lectures at the Agricultural Society, the bookshops, and Tattersall’s. Harry, as he was universally called, appreciated having his tailor, his bootmaker and his hatter all close by, and all knowing his preferences. What he disliked was the dirt and the smell, the crowds and the crime. And the matchmaking mamas.
    The whole society business irritated Harry: the wearing of uncomfortable formal dress to make uncomfortable conversations with young females who would be more comfortable in the schoolroom—while their Machiavellian, maneuvering mothers tried to snabble every available bachelor.
    What was wrong with a chap of twenty and nine staying unwed? Harry had plenty of time to create an heir, and if he did not, his cousin would make an admirable viscount. Leonard already had two sons, and a shrewish wife. Besides, Harry was no prize on the matrimonial market that he could see. His face would not frighten dogs or small children, but he was no Adonis. His hair was an ordinary brown, his eyes an ordinary brown, and his cheeks took on a silly schoolboy blush in the cold, the heat, or in ballrooms. His physique was nothing out of the ordinary for a big man who worked along with his tenant farmers. He was not slim and graceful like the Town tulips—not when he had to help repair bridges and fix roofs after storms. In fact, he was clumsy on the dance floor, clumsier at light flirtation, and an outright clod when it came to courtship—to which it had not yet come, thank goodness. His fortune was not even large enough to raise eyebrows, or expectations, although Harking Hall was a handsome pile, if he had to say so himself. The Hall was attractively set amid parks and profitable farmland with a racing stable, oval course and paddocks, all in sight. He loved the place. He wished he were there now.
    The London ladies did not care about fine horses or fertile farms or fine, old architecture. They cared about filling their dance cards, fittings for their fancy clothes, being seen at the right parties, catching the best
parti
. The most advantageous match, the highest title and deepest pockets, seemed to matter more to the misses than affection, respect or mutual interests.
    They sure as the devil could not be interested in a plain country lumpkin like him. Yet they were setting out lures everywhere he went. Hell, they were digging mantraps for Harry, in Town less than a week.
    He was staying at the Grand Hotel, rebuilt after the fire, where at least he could see Green Park from his suite’s windows, imagining himself back in Lincolnshire. Invitations somehow found their way to him, for everything from Venetian breakfasts—after noon—to waltzing parties. Hah! Were the wallflowers so desperate they were willing to sacrifice their toes for his minor viscountcy? Then there were the invites to six dinners, routs, debutante balls, and theater parties—each and every night, even now in late winter before the height of the Season, with half of Society at their country homes, where Harry longed to be.
    Harry thought that might be what he most disliked about London and the
ton
, the mad rush to fill every hour with the pursuit of pleasure. What was wrong with sitting by one’s own fireside with a good book and a good dog after a day of satisfying accomplishment? Harry found plenty of pleasures in his life, without having to leave his