The Keys of Love

BARBARA CARTLAND

www.barbaracartland.com

Copyright © 2009 by Cartland Promotions

First published on the internet in July 2009 by Barbaracartland.com

The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent.

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As soon as Romany was well out of earshot, Lady Butterclere leaned menacingly towards Henrietta.

“Now you just take heed, Miss Reed. I know your sort only too well. You intercepted that note. You aim to set your cap at the Duke and distract him from Romany.”

“I c-can assure you, such a thought was n-never on my mind.”

“Was it not?” asked Lady Butterclere sarcastically. “Then would you explain to me why you were on your way to see the Duke
in that provocative condition?
”

For a moment, she was horribly confused. What did Lady Butterclere mean
in that provocative condition?

With dawning horror, she remembered that she had not been able to hook up her dress she had rushed out of Kitty's room without asking for help.

Now she glanced into the mirror on the stairs and almost burst into tears at the sight that met her eyes.

Her hair had come loose and now fell over her face untidily. Her dress had slipped off, exposing an alabaster shoulder and the tip of a heaving breast.

What was more, she had forgotten to put on any stockings or shoes and was standing there in her bare feet.

“Oh. Oh. Oh,” she cried.

“I should think so too,” said Lady Butterclere with grim satisfaction. “You look like a
a common harlot!
”

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Barbara Cartland, who sadly died in May 2000 at the grand age of ninety eight, remains one of the world's most famous romantic novelists.  With worldwide sales of over one billion, her outstanding 723 books have been translated into thirty six different languages, to be enjoyed by readers of romance globally.

Writing her first book ‘Jigsaw' at the age of 21, Barbara became an immediate bestseller.  Building upon this initial success, she wrote continuously throughout her life, producing bestsellers for an astonishing 76 years.  In addition to Barbara Cartland's legion of fans in the UK and across Europe, her books have always been immensely popular in the USA.  In 1976 she achieved the unprecedented feat of having books at numbers 1 & 2 in the prestigious B. Dalton Bookseller bestsellers list.

Although she is often referred to as the ‘Queen of Romance', Barbara Cartland also wrote several historical biographies, six autobiographies and numerous theatrical plays as well as books on life, love, health and cookery.  Becoming one of Britain's most popular media personalities and dressed in her trademark pink, Barbara spoke on radio and television about social and political issues, as well as making many public appearances.

In 1991 she became a Dame of the Order of the British Empire for her contribution to literature and her work for humanitarian and charitable causes.

Known for her glamour, style, and vitality Barbara Cartland became a legend in her own lifetime.  Best remembered for her wonderful romantic novels and loved by millions of readers worldwide, her books remain treasured for their heroic heroes, plucky heroines and traditional values.  But above all, it was Barbara Cartland's overriding belief in the positive power of love to help, heal and improve the quality of life for everyone that made her truly unique.

“We all seek love, but never never try too hard to find the keys of love, because love will find you in the end and often in the most unexpected way.

Barbara Cartland

Henrietta Radford stifled the urge to yawn.

Straight above the head of Count Majstorovic, who was kneeling passionately in front of her, she could see her reflection in the mirror across the room.

An eighteen-year old girl with long blonde tresses and sea-green eyes in a grey dress and pretty red boots.

She gave a start as the Count suddenly grasped her hand and dragged it to his fervid lips.

His minute kisses made her think of mosquito bites and she disengaged her hand with a barely disguised flinch.

The Count looked at her questioningly.

“You do not like me?”

Henrietta swallowed.

There was nothing at all particularly wrong with the Count, but there was nothing particularly right either. His jowls quivered when he became heated and his hands were large and ungainly and the colour of smoked ham.

And she did think that large sword he insisted on wearing as part of his Bulgarian Army costume was rather preposterous.

He looked so like a figure from feudal Europe when this was Boston, United States of America, 1890!

“Miss Radford, my cherub, won't you answer me?”

Henrietta sighed.

“I'm so sorry, Count, but you see you are suitor number four this week and I get rather muddled!”

The Count bridled.

“There are others?”

“Oh, yes,” replied Henrietta mournfully. “
Many.
”

The Count rose majestically.

“Then I salute you and withdraw. When a young lady does not see the virtue of a Bulgarian, she is blind!”

The Count bowed, clicked his heels and was gone.

Henrietta had been living in America for two and a half years, but it was only in the last months that she had been able to purchase some superb items for her wardrobe.

She gave another sigh and leaned back in her chair.

Despite the pleasure of such luxuries as handmade boots, she had grown tired of life in Boston.

She missed England and her home there, Lushwood Manor, even though she and father had left it under very sad circumstances.

Lushwood had once been a beacon for elegance and gaiety. Many lavish balls were held there when old Lord Radford Henrietta's grandfather was alive.

She recalled creeping out of the nursery in order to gaze down through the banisters of the great stairway at the guests arriving. Lords and Ladies, Dukes and Duchesses, Counts and Countesses.

She remembered one night in particular.

Her mother was playing French airs on the piano in the drawing room and the sound drifted into the hall where a young man had just arrived late and was in the process of removing his cape.

He was very tall with raven black hair and a strong profile. He looked every inch a Prince out of a storybook.

Catching sight of the little girl peering breathlessly down at him, the young man gave a conspiratorial wink.

“What, are you not dancing this evening?” he asked mischievously.

Henrietta shook her head.

“I am not allowed into the parlour at this hour,” she explained shyly.

The young man thought for a moment.

“But you are allowed into the hall at this hour?”

Henrietta considered gravely.

“I think so. Nobody has ever said I shouldn't!”

The young man held out his hand.

“Then why not come down and waltz with me?”

The housemaid in the hall looked disapproving, but Henrietta did not care.

She tripped lightly down the stairs, holding up her night shift as if it was the most beautiful ball gown.

“It isn't quite a waltz that is being played,” said the young man. “We will have to improvise!”