If Wishes Were Earls by Elizabeth Boyle

keeping such company and the spark that said the earl knew all too well that her heart was his.
    Anytime he wanted to claim it.
    But now, that spark barely had a chance to flicker before he extinguished it. “No worries, my good man,” Roxley told the viscount. “A bit of a crush tonight.” Once again all glib manners and foppish cares.
    Harriet wanted to dash him over the head—she glanced around for something well and good for dashing—but spying nothing of weight or value, had to make do with the hope that someone would wander by with a rather large vase.
    “Probably hoping to catch another infamous scene,” Fieldgate was replying. “Willing to provide one, Roxley?”
    “No, not I,” he demurred. “My scandalous days are over.”
    His words rang with a warning, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking, or rather planning.
    She bristled a bit. He thought she meant to ruin his plans? How could he? Her indignation gave way to the realization he had every right to think thusly, especially given that she’d been having a rather delightful fantasy of seeing a chinoiserie vase crack over his thick skull.
    Then there had been her behavior earlier. When she’d interrupted him and Miss Murray.
    Well, in her defense, how could she have known that he was about to pledge his future to such a whey-faced cit ?
    Harriet straightened, her indignation returning. She’d show Roxley she wasn’t some bothersome little scamp who followed him about. She, Miss Harriet Hathaway, the daughter of a gentleman, could spend the evening as the epitome of good manners and ladylike demeanor, who is utterly and completely above reproach.
    Even if she was being partnered by the rather scandalous Lord Fieldgate.
    On cue, the viscount leaned over and said, “Miss Hathaway, I had forgotten how devilishly pretty you are.”
    Behind her, Roxley shifted in his seat, and usually she’d use such a perfect moment to say something equally shocking, some quip that would have the earl out of his seat and protesting, demanding satisfaction, but . . .
    Oh, bother! This was going to be harder than she’d realized.
    Composing herself, Harriet smiled blandly at the viscount’s compliment, sitting with all the precision that Lady Essex had drilled into the Kempton Society members.
    Posture , Lady Essex liked to say, is what marks one a lady even when a situation is most dire.
    She supposed this evening counted as “most” something.
    Aggravating, perhaps? No.
    Horrible? Getting there.
    Heartbreaking? Decidedly so.
    She pressed her lips together. Roxley just couldn’t marry this Miss Murray.
    She stole a glance over her shoulder where her adversary sat, all excellent posture and precise manners, the markers of a miss with a superior education.
    And an heiress to boot. Harriet glanced down at her own gown, remade from one of her mother’s, and sighed. She might not have even noticed such a thing once, but it came with being friends with Daphne. Eventually the difference between a made-over gown and one sewn of fine silk by a London modiste became evident even to Harriet.
    And much to her chagrin, Miss Murray wore what could only be described as a perfect gown. Harriet grimaced as she glanced again at the fine point lace and the little brilliants sewn into the sleeves.
    Make that very well off.
    Harriet shifted in her seat as jealousy wiggled down her spine like a worm. An heiress . Bath educated. All the requisites of a future countess.
    Of course, he loves you not , that horrible voice of doubt whispered at her.
    Yet when she stole one more look at her adversary, something about this perfect nonpareil seemed wrong. Not that Harriet could put her finger on anything precisely, but everything about Miss Murray was too right.
    Harriet shook off such a musing, for it was nothing more than her envy talking. Leaning toward the viscount, she whispered, “My lord, tell me more of Roxley’s misfortunes. I had no idea—”
    The man brightened, because