Hester never took for granted that she’d been lucky enough to create her own independence without the necessity of deferring to any man.
“Well,” she said as they drew up before the extravagantly lit house on Berkeley Square. “I look forward to meeting this paragon of an American fellow. Meanwhile, we are arrived. Here, pinch your cheeks. And remember to employ your fan gently.”
The evening progressed relatively well. Though Hester made it a rule never to dance at these sort of affairs, she nonetheless remained very busy. Another of the girls from her academy was here tonight, Anabelle Finch. So she was doubly vigilant to shepherd them through this, the first of their many social outings of the season. An awkward beginning could spell doom for any of her overly sensitive students. She was determined that that not happen.
But thus far both Dulcie and Anabelle seemed to be managing handsomely. To her satisfaction they both had nearly filled their dance cards. Each of them had invitations to dine with perfectly acceptable gentlemen, though Dulcie’s dinner partner was second in line for an earldom, not first. But as Lady Ainsley had so crassly pointed out, since his elder brother was the pale and sickly sort, the young brother might yet inherit.
Hester stood now among a cluster of matrons. Though not truly of their ilk, she was widely accepted among them. After all, they needed her.
She pushed her slippery spectacles up her nose, then frowned down at her dull gray gown. Yes, they accepted her because she was useful, because she did not outshine them in any way.
It hadn’t been like that ten years ago. Then she’d been the focus of so many men’s attentions that she’d inadvertently alienated most of the other girls and their mothers. They needn’t have feared, however. For the men of the ton weren’t interested in marrying a girl like Hester, no matter how beautiful she was. With no family connections, no dowry, and a mother of suspect morals, Hester had been the recipient of only one sort of proposal: the lewd sort. Which was why she’d fled London.
She glanced around, noting several matrons who’d known her back then. Yes, they remembered her. But her “status” as a widow, still grieving her long-dead husband, gave her a sort of respectability she’d never had before. Now that she wore spectacles and a hideous wardrobe to disguise her appearance, their envy had turned to pity. So far as they knew she was a poor widow and no longer a threat to them.
There were times when she chortled over the deception she had so successfully played on them all, another ploy she’d learned from her mother. But there were other times when her dowdy clothes and her carefully woven web of lies chafed.
Tonight they chafed.
It was because the season had just begun, she told herself as she pretended to follow someone’s story of the “most marvelous” new shoemaker who’d set up shop on High Street. Absolutely marvelous!
She had three long months of just this sort of conversation to look forward to. Three endless months of propping her girls through every sort of social situation, of directing them toward the sort of men their families would approve, and of dressing herself like a dried-up old woman.
She joined in when the three matrons laughed, though she hadn’t heard whatever bon mot fueled their amusement. Perhaps she’d better excuse herself before they noticed her inattention.
But as she meandered toward the refreshment area, her thoughts remained gloomy. The fact was, she practically was a dried-up old woman. Well, maybe not yet old. But dried up? Yes.
She was twenty-eight, pretending to be older and a widow. And all for the sake of her blasted independence. Though she was proud of all she’d accomplished, it had come with one unanticipated cost: loneliness.
She took a cup of punch, determined to throw off that last self-pitying thought. Better to be lonely some of the time, than miserable all of the time, under the thumb of some selfish society sot.
A stir near the entrance of the ballroom drew her attention, and she looked up with interest, grateful for the distraction.
Part of her success with her students was due to her attention to the details of society: who was eligible, what their needs were, and how to place her well-prepared girls in the paths of the right men. A new face on the scene made her doubly diligent.
So Hester’s every sense went on the alert when she spied a tall, dark-haired man she’d never before seen.
In truth, she did not simply spy him, which implied a casual glance turned a trifle curious. Instead the glance turned into a wide-eyed stare. Forgetting every tenet of her well-honed sense of good manners, she stood there and gaped at the man.
Who was he?
Though he was dressed much the same as every other man in the room, he still managed to stand out. She forced herself to assess why.
His hair was very dark, black even. But then, other men had black hair, thick and wavy.
He carried himself well, straight and confident. Confidence was always an attractive trait for both men and women. It was why she emphasized posture and movement so much at her academy.
His shoulders were wide enough to suggest a blatant sort of masculinity. And his face… She tilted her head down to peer over the slightly wavy glass of her spectacles. His face was striking. Lean with straight black brows, a bold nose, deep-set eyes, and a wide mouth.
Then he smiled down at their hostess, Lady Soames, displaying a flash of straight white teeth. A wide mouth with a seductive slant to it.
An unsettling little spiral of heat began to curl down low in Hester’s stomach. She couldn’t look away. A seductive slant and the most sensuous-looking lips she’d ever seen on a man.
The spiral became an alarming buzz.
Oh, no. Not one of that sort. That was the last thing she needed this season. A new man to start all her girls’ hearts fluttering. Who was he?
Then suddenly, without being told, she knew. This must be Adrian Hawke, the so-called paragon Dulcie had been mooning over.
Hester watched him press a kiss to some frivolously garbed woman’s hand, conscious the entire time of her own increased heartbeat.
This would never do. She of all people knew the inherent danger of men with that sort of virile magnetism. No matter how visceral her response to him, she would not succumb to so base a reaction. Under no circumstances would she allow herself to become affected by him.
But what of Dulcie? And perhaps Anabelle and Charlotte as well. What if they got it into their heads to desire a man like that? Dulcie already seemed half in love with him.
She set her punch cup aside, then knotted her hands together at her waist. It didn’t matter who her girls might wish to wed. In the end their parents would make the final decision.
Usually Hester resented that fact; it seemed so unfair. But she accepted it because she had no other choice. When it came to men like this Adrian Hawke, however—for that’s surely who he must be—well, she was glad her girls must defer to their parents’ wishes.
Men like this Adrian Hawke, and a hundred more of his ilk, made terrible, terrible husbands.
With an effort she tore her gaze from Mr. Hawke’s elegantly rugged profile. She’d hoped that the most difficult part of her work was done with, now that all three of her students were officially launched. But she could see that she was wrong.
Her only solace was the knowledge that men who looked like Adrian Hawke tended not to waste time on the sort of girls who needed help from the Mayfair Academy.
CHAPTER 2
Within minutes Dulcie had a death grip on Hester’s arm.
“That’s him! That’s him, Adrian Hawke. The one I told you about.” She gave one of the huge sighs Hester was beginning to associate with Dulcie and the magnetic Mr. Hawke. “Oh, my. He looks even handsomer in his formal evening coat, doesn’t he?”
It was a rhetorical question, of course. Hester had never seen him before and so had no other image to compare him to. But she perversely could imagine him in more casual garb—and imagine him looking even more masculine. Even more appealing.
Goodness sake! She gave herself a mental pinch. She’d only just laid eyes on the man. She was not going to think about him in that way. Bad enough that Dulcie already did.
“Yes, Dulcie. He is quite the handsome fellow.”
“Can you… Can you introduce us?”
Hester retrieved her wrist from Dulcie’s convulsive hold. “I cannot introduce you to someone I have not previously met myself. You know that.”
“Oh. Yes.” Another sigh. Then the girl brightened. “Catherine can introduce us, can’t she?”
“It would seem so. She is, after all, his cousin.”
In a flash Dulcie was off, homing in on Catherine Hawke like a fledgling kestrel after its very first hare. Awkward but enthusiastic.
Hester watched her go. The girl was not likely to succeed in her ultimate goal: to capture the attention of the striking Mr. Hawke.
But that was all right. The Dulcie who had come to Mayfair Academy two months ago would never have had the confidence to finagle an introduction to any man, let alone a man like this Mr. Hawke. Hester decided to count it another measure of her success with the girl that she could be so determined at this, her first test of the season.
She just hoped Dulcie did not humiliate herself in the process.
Hester observed covertly as Dulcie approached Catherine Hawke. The young woman graciously drew Dulcie into her circle of chattering friends. Meanwhile Mr. Hawke made his way toward his cousin, stopping to greet several men along the way.
Hester had heard he was quite the businessman, another strike against him with Dulcie’s family. A businessman of no family title was considered a tradesman, no matter his success or wealth. It would not matter how many society men flocked to him for investment advice, nor how many of them made money as a result. Hester knew he could never truly be one of them. He would be tolerated for his usefulness, just as she was.
The difference was that she knew precisely how she fit into this society. But did he?
Undeniably curious about the man, Hester drifted nearer the point of eventual intersection of him and his cousin’s merry group. It was for Dulcie’s sake, she told herself. So she could assess her student’s performance and help her overcome any shortcomings in her behavior. Nothing more.
But before Hester could get close enough to overhear anything, a hand caught her at the elbow.
“I say, Mrs. Poitevant,” Dulcie’s mother hissed in a half-whisper. “Who is that fellow? The tall one?”
Hester swallowed her instinctive dislike of Lady Ainsley. “A Mr. Adrian Hawke, I believe. Of the Scottish Hawkes—”
“Oh, yes.” Lady Ainsley nodded, her feathered headpiece bobbing above her brow. How many roosters had given their lives for that feathered monstrosity? “I’ve heard talk of him. Humph. I can’t believe Lady Soames invites men like that to her parties.”
“Men like that?” Hester could not resist saying, though she understood precisely what the woman implied. An American tradesman had no place in Lady Ainsley’s world.
“I was told,” the woman answered in a voice lower still, “that he is merely a by-blow offspring of some minor Scottish baron. You know, that Lord Hawke’s deceased brother.”
A by-blow. It was such an archaic and insulting term, though no more than Hester should expect from the toplofty Lady Ainsley. But how unpleasant for Mr. Hawke, she thought, to have his unfortunate heritage discussed so. If anything, Lady Ainsley’s disdain of the man’s circumstances elevated him in Hester’s esteem, though only a very little.
She was relieved when Lady Ainsley departed for the company of several of her equally unpleasant cronies. But that relief was short-lived, for within minutes, her son, the viscount, took her place.
Hester had to force herself not to step back from Lord Ainsley, her distaste for the man was that immediate. George Bennett was a big man, tall and overbearing. In just a few brief meetings Hester had categorized him as a man of unhealthy appetites, whether in drink, food, or choice of companions. He’d not come into society until after her season, but she knew the type: born to privilege with never a thought for anyone but himself. An unpleasant young man, now grown to be positively detestable.
But he was her employer, at least until Dulcie was betrothed. So Hester gave him her reserved “proprietress of Mayfair Academy” smile, and waited for him to speak.
“Well, well. I’m gratified to see I did not waste my money when I hired you to help my sister.”
“Thank you.” I’m so pleased not to be a waste of your precious money.
“Yes. Indeed.” He held on to his lapels and rocked back on his heels. “Dulls actually looks presentable. P’rhaps this year she’ll land herself a husband.”
He glanced at Hester, a quick, sliding glance that started and ended at her bosom. “I’ve got three more sisters, y’know.”
Hester pushed her spectacles up her nose and pursed her lips into the primmest, most prudish expression she could manage. Most men were lascivious pigs. But George Bennett was worse than most if he was ogling an employee, especially one as deliberately unattractive as she worked at being.
“I certainly hope that Dulcie has a productive season, Lord Ainsley. And of course, I would be pleased to assist your younger sisters should they require my aid.”
Hoping he would go away, she focused across the dance floor, watching Dulcie watch Adrian Hawke. Subtlety, Dulcie. Subtlety and grace.
Lord Ainsley rattled on about something or other, and she nodded and gave him her polite-but-disinterested smile. All the while, however, she spied on the little tableau unfolding not thirty feet away.
Catherine drew her cousin into the group of young people, hooking her arm in his. She introduced him around, and though the din of music, laughter, and multiple conversations prevented Hester from hearing what was said, what she saw looked perfectly acceptable. He bowed over each woman’s hand, Dulcie’s included. For her part, Dulcie curtsied and smiled, her face positively beaming.
They were chatting. Everything appeared nicely done, and Hester felt a glow of satisfaction. Dulcie was doing very well. As for the focus of her infatuation…
Hester shifted her gaze to Adrian Hawke. For an outsider he handled himself more than equitably. It helped, of course, to be handsome, successful, and rich. But that would only take him so far in London’s inbred society.
“Bloody hell!”
Hester stiffened at George Bennett’s sudden obscenity. She shot him a reproving look. “I beg your pardon, Lord Ainsley—”
“D’you know who that is?” A scowl drew his heavy brow down as he stared at the man conversing with his sister.
“Why, yes. I believe he is—”
“It’s Hawke. It’s that skinny bastard from Eton!”
“Really, Lord Ainsley. I must protest your use of such profanity in front of a lady.”
He glanced at her but didn’t apologize. If anything his expression grew uglier still. “That wasn’t a curse. It was a fact. He is a bastard. Born one.”
“I’m certain he did not plan it that way,” Hester snapped.
He gave a snort of laughter. Then he clamped a hand on her elbow and started them both toward his sister’s little group. “Come along, Mrs. Poitevant. This should be entertaining.”
A knot of dread formed in Hester’s stomach. Bad enough to be thrust into George Bennett’s unwelcome company. Now the man planned some entertainment— some unpleasant entertainment, she feared—that included Mr. Hawke.
How had she gotten caught up in this mess?
For some urgent reason that she didn’t understand, Hester did not want to meet Adrian Hawke. Not now. Not here. Not with Lord Ainsley holding on to her arm, and her looking like a dried-up old widow.
Lord Ainsley kept a tight grasp on her, however, and steered them right into his sister’s group. She braced herself, reminding herself it didn’t matter how she looked. She was glad she looked like a dried-up old widow tonight. That’s what she wanted to look like. That’s why she w
ore dark clothes and strict coiffures, and these eternally annoying spectacles.
Dulcie shot Hester an excited smile when she and Lord Ainsley joined their circle. Truth to tell, the girl actually glowed. Then she turned her shining face back to Mr. Hawke and the glow, impossibly enough, seemed to increase.
It was like watching a lamplighter at his task, seeing that tiny yellow glow become a golden halo. And all on account of one man.
“Well, well. If it isn’t my old school chum,” Lord Ainsley boomed, interrupting the ongoing conversation with his false heartiness. “Hawke. Am I right? Hawke from up north, eh?”
Hester saw when Mr. Hawke recognized George Bennett. His face was already carefully composed: the right smile; the correct manners; the perfect words. He knew how to behave in society and had obviously prepared for his visit to London.
But as he stared at Lord Ainsley, something changed in his expression. Or perhaps it was only in his eyes. One light faded away; another kindled and began to burn. A harder light. A more dangerous one.
The men might have been schoolmates, but it was obvious they had not been chums.
“I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” Mr. Hawke said to Lord Ainsley. “You are?”
Beneath her trapped hand Hester felt Lord Ainsley stiffen. Round one to Mr. Hawke, she decided, suppressing a smile. He’d delivered the first slight by pretending to forget the self-important George Bennett. She wasn’t sure, however, that she wanted to stay to witness Lord Ainsley’s response.
That’s when Dulcie stepped unwittingly into the fray. “Oh, Mr. Hawke. This is my brother, George Bennett, Viscount Ainsley. George, may I present Mr. Adrian Hawke.”
The unsuspecting girl accomplished the introduction with such hopefulness in her manner that Hester winced. Dulcie was not astute enough to sense the animosity between the men, but Hester was. It rolled off them, like steam off horse droppings on a frigid winter day.
Not until George released Hester’s arm and extended his hand did Mr. Hawke respond. “George Bennett. Of course.” His eyes were like flint. “How could I have forgotten?”
The Bridemaker Page 2
