Under Enemy Colors Read Online Free

upon her myself, at two of a morning, amid a swarm of candles, her face buried in a book, her feet propped up on a sleeping hound she has christened Boswell.” They all laughed at this.
    Mrs Hertle glanced Hayden’s way and he hastily withdrew his gaze from the fair speaker. They were seated around the table in the Hertles’ dining room, the sound of horses’ hooves, like dripping water, passing by on the comparatively quiet street outside. The bustle of London was a distant hum, not even remarked by anyone at table—as unnoticed as one’s own heartbeat.
    Hayden had heard many stories about the charms of Miss Henrietta Carthew, but had never expected to respond to her presence as he did. She should not be called beautiful, if the truth were to be admitted. Or perhaps it would be more true to say he had never met a woman in whom the line between “beautiful” and “peculiar-looking” was so fine. Considered individually, the features of her face were all beyond criticism, but taken as a whole there was something amiss, as though the elements were disparate, dissonant. Her nose, though straight and finely formed, appeared to have been made for a different face. The eyes, brown, bottomless, and flecked with amber, were just slightly too wide apart. But then she would smile, and all that appeared disharmonious would be swept away and he would understand why she was thought so handsome. The overall effect was utterly unknown to Hayden—he struggled not to stare.
    “I don’t know why you visit that madhouse,” Robert observed, breaking into Hayden’s reverie.
    Henrietta appeared surprised. “There is no place like it. The beauty of the countryside is unrivalled, and you are left to your own devices from morning until dinner, Lady Endsmere arranging no amusements during the day. It is near to Heaven in that alone…”
    Her voice drew Hayden’s eyes back again: pearl-smooth skin, hair the colour of new-sawn mahogany: auburn, chestnut, copper, bronze.
    “…at night, the same disregard for convention is apparent. The conversation around the dinner table is of politics and art, natural philosophy and poetry. All the ladies take their cue from Lady Endsmere and freely offer their opinions upon any subject. There is no other house like it in all of England, I think. Only the most substantive gentlemen and ladies visit. The table is not decorated with those frivolous ‘wits’ so valued in London—”
    “There is very little wit at our table,” Mrs Hertle interrupted. “Are we fashionable?”
    “You are quite the thing, my dear,” Henrietta assured her, a smile like a cresting wave on a sunny day.
    Another glance Hayden’s way from Mrs Hertle, making him wonder if she realized how Henrietta’s voice pierced right to his core. But how could it not? musical, nuanced, assured, able to subtly colour the meaning of words, reveal shades of feeling, or hide them utterly.
    In her presence he felt as though he stood upon a cliff edge. The height stole his breath away, his head spun. But even so, he could not will himself to step away from the edge. Some unseen force drew him nearer.
    Henrietta lifted a fork to her lovely mouth. “This is exquisite. Have you a new cook?”
    “Did I not tell you? Charles found us a French cook who had served a noble family before all the troubles began in that country.”
    “I approve of your taste, Lieutenant Hayden,” Henrietta pronounced.
    “Charles has many such areas of specialized knowledge,” Robert interjected. “Tell me what you think of the claret, Charles? From Spain, I was assured…”
    “It is not from Spain, as you well know,” Hayden stated, seeing his friend suppress a smile.
    “Where is it from, pray?” Robert asked innocently.
    “It is a finely smuggled wine from the French Pyrenees,” Hayden said. He turned to the other guest. “Do your family keep a house in London, Miss Henrietta?”
    “No longer, though my father did for many years. We are so close to