Exactly like steam off horse droppings, Hester thought. Foul and to be avoided at all costs.
But Lord Ainsley was not to be outdone. “Did I hear some tale about you? That you’d gone off to America to make your fortune, or some such nonsense,” he finished with a derisive chuckle.
“Yes.” Then the man’s gaze moved from Lord Ainsley to Hester, with no particular easing of that hard, burning light. For a moment there was an awkward pause, and then Catherine Hawke filled it.
“Mrs. Poitevant, may I present my cousin, Adrian Hawke.”
They exchanged pleasantries; afterward Hester couldn’t say exactly what. She was more conscious of his burning gaze on her, disapproving, it seemed. But was it due to her dull appearance or to the company he must assume she kept? Namely Lord Ainsley.
“So, what brings you back to England, Hawke? Homesick, are you?”
Mr. Hawke’s gaze returned to Lord Ainsley. “My cousin’s upcoming nuptials is the impetus. However, there are other matters I am involved with.”
“Indeed. Indeed.” Lord Ainsley rocked back on his heels as he had before, a pompous, annoying habit, Hester decided. “And how’s that mother of yours?”
Hester stiffened at the insult implicit in George’s inquiry. If Mr. Hawke was natural born, that meant his mother was… Well, she was not a lady.
A hasty glance told her that Dulcie and the other two girls didn’t understand what Lord Ainsley was up to. Obviously they hadn’t heard the particulars of Mr. Hawke’s birth. But Catherine’s face had gone pale. She understood full well the insult implied. After all, she was Mr. Hawke’s cousin.
To his credit, Adrian Hawke did not respond with anything other than cold civility. He stared at George Bennett, then shifted his stance just enough to dismiss the man. The sort of set-down any snobbish lord would be proud to deliver. Only this time it was the snob who was on the receiving end. A part of Hester wanted to cheer.
Unfortunately, Mr. Hawke’s shift in stance brought Dulcie directly into his line of vision. When he smiled down at the girl, hot color flooded her cheeks, until she looked as if she might melt from the heat. “I hope, Miss Bennett, that you have a dance free for me on your dance card.”
This was not good, Hester worried as their small circle moved aside to accommodate a group of dancers for the next cotillion. Dulcie went off with her next dance partner, as did Catherine. With a curt nod Adrian Hawke departed to join his aunt and uncle. That left Hester standing with Lord Ainsley. A very angry Lord Ainsley.
With only a murmured excuse, Hester escaped into the milling crowd. Not that Lord Ainsley would notice. He was too enraged, too busy glaring at Adrian Hawke“ ”s broad, unconcerned back.
No, this was not good at all, Hester fretted from her spot in the shadows of an archway. If she was correct in her assessment of the situation—and she was certain she was—Mr. Hawke and Lord Ainsley had just resumed an adversarial relationship they’d developed as boys in school.
On the surface she did not care. They could spar verbally; they could come to fisticuffs; they could engage in a duel, for all it mattered to her. The two of them were none of her concern.
But Dulcie was. Hester had no doubt at all that Mr. Hawke had only asked Dulcie to dance as a way to tweak her brother’s nose. And it had worked.
Hester did not even mind that part so much. The problem was Dulcie’s infatuation with Mr. Hawke. Hester could not, in good conscience, allow the two men to use Dulcie as a pawn in their stupid battle.
But how was she to prevent it?
Adrian ignored George Bennett, at least outwardly. But inside he seethed. George Bennett was the nastiest of a trio of bullies at Eton who had made Adrian’s time there a living hell. And now he was a viscount, and therefore a member of the House of Lords. Was it any wonder Adrian preferred America to England? You couldn’t vote a man like George Bennett out of Parliament. With that title to protect him, you couldn’t undermine him in any way at all.
Except, of course, by toying with his sister.
Adrian scanned the enthusiastic line of dancers and found the girl there. What was her name? Dulcie. Miss Dulcie Bennett.
Asking her to dance had been an impulse. Not a particularly kind one, he acknowledged. But it had accomplished his purpose. George Bennett had nearly choked when his sister said yes so quickly.
Normally Adrian avoided girls such as Miss Bennett like the plague. He dismissed them as marriage-minded misses with no thoughts in their heads beyond dresses and jewels and dancing. And they all giggled, that annoying, virginal, high-pitched giggle.
Well, he had no interest in marriage, but he would endure Miss Bennett’s giggling if only to aggravate her brother. Let the man worry what a barbarian bastard like Adrian was doing with his sister.
The barbarian bastard. The bonnie by-blow. The poor plaid lad. All the old insults came back to Adrian with a vengeance, and he clenched his teeth in fury. He’d hated Bennett back then; if it was possible, he hated him even more now.
But he was no fourteen-year-old lad to be intimidated like he once was. He was a man now, fully capable of making George Bennett’s life miserable if he wanted to.
Maybe Bennett would go so far as to challenge him to a duel if he incited him sufficiently. Wouldn’t that be satisfying, to put a bullet clean through the man’s nonexistent heart? “For you, Mother,” he muttered, lifting a glass of scotch to his lips and tossing it back.
“Adrian?”
With a start he looked up to see his cousin Catherine beside him, a concerned expression clouding her pretty face. Banishing his violent musings, he smiled. “I hope you haven’t come to complain that you’ve no partner for the next dance, for I’m already committed.”
“Yes, I know. Dulcie Bennett.” The furrows between her brows deepened. “I hope you know that her brother is—”
“Don’t mention him,” Adrian broke in. “I know who he is and also what sort of man he is.”
“I’m not trying to defend him.”
“I didn’t think you were.” Adrian shook his head, even more furious with Ainsley for worrying Catherine. “I can handle George Bennett. You needn’t worry on that score.”
“Of course. It’s just that, well, he has a somewhat unpleasant reputation.”
“Does he?”
Catherine lowered her voice. “Papa said he keeps a terrible stable. Grandmama once told me he has a vile temper should he lose at cards. And he didn’t mourn his first wife but three months. Three months!”
Given the man’s viciousness as a boy, Adrian suspected Viscount Ainsley of far worse crimes than that. But that was a subject he did not need to discuss with his fair cousin. “So, does the woman who was on his arm know of his unpleasant disposition?”
“Who, Mrs. Poitevant? I don’t know.”
“Frankly, she doesn’t look like his type—unless, of course, she’s well connected or filthy rich. Or both.”
Catherine laughed. “Oh, no, Adrian. You have the wrong idea entirely. Mrs. Poitevant is not Lord Ainsley’s lady friend. I mean, she is a widow, so she could pursue an acquaintance with him. If you know what I mean,” she added with a knowing glint in her eyes.
“Catherine Hawke. What do you know about things like that?”
“Oh, nothing,” she answered, laughing again. “But as for Mrs. Poitevant, I understand that she is employed this year to oversee Dulcie’s season.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean Mrs. Poitevant has a business, the Mayfair Academy. She helps those families whose daughters are, shall we say, ill at ease on the marriage mart.” At his look of confusion she added, “She helps them find suitable husbands.”
“What do you mean? Like a marriage broker?” Adrian let out a bark of laughter. “They actually have such people?”
“No. Not a broker in the way you mean. Her role is to help the girls learn how to present themselves better. You know, in a more appealing manner. They say she can make a silk purse out of a sow’s e
ar and a bride out of a wallflower.”
Somewhat amused, Adrian searched out the woman in question. She stood not far from them, in the shadow of an archway, as if she were trying to hide from the frenetic pace of the ballroom.
For someone who supposedly could make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, she certainly didn’t apply her skills to herself. He’d seen women twice her age dressed more appealingly. She was buttoned down tighter than a Puritan schoolmistress, her coiffure did not allow for a curl or tendril to escape the taut twist and pins that restrained her hair, and those awkward looking spectacles rendered her eyes practically invisible.
She certainly must not suffer from vanity, he decided, else she would loosen that mass of hair, reveal a little more of that creamy flesh, and remove that regrettable bit of wire and magnifying glass.
“She actually makes a living doing that?”
“What?” It was his Uncle Neville approaching to circle his daughter’s waist with one arm. “Has some woman caught his eye, Catherine?”
“Mrs. Poitevant,” she replied. “Adrian is intrigued by the idea of a woman hired to help other young women get married.”
“My Catherine needed no such help,” Neville said with a proud smile down at his radiant daughter.
“That’s because Catherine has her lovely mother and grandmother to guide her. And also, she was born beautiful,” Adrian added.
“Thank you,” Catherine said. “But there’s more to love than how a person looks.”
“Oh, we’re speaking now of love?” Adrian teased.
“Of course!”
“Then I would assume you disapprove of Mrs. Poitevant’s businesslike approach to helping her plain-faced clients marry.”
“Not at all. It depends on how you look at it,” Catherine explained. “Dulcie Bennett is a perfect example. She has never looked so handsome, nor comported herself so well as she did today. She is painfully shy, you see, and so easily overwhelmed by that family of hers.” She gave a delicate shudder. “I think Hester Poitevant has worked wonders with Dulcie. She may call her little business the Mayfair Academy. But we call her ”the Bridemaker.“ And rightfully so. I know of at least a dozen marriages credited directly to her.”
“The Bridemaker,” Adrian scoffed. “To look at her I wonder she ever managed to trap a man into marriage.”
“That is so cruel!” Catherine exclaimed, even as her father stifled a chuckle behind his hand. “It’s just that she’s widowed. She must have loved her husband very much. That’s why she still wears mourning for him. I’m certain she dressed more becomingly while her husband was alive.” When they both looked unconvinced she jutted her chin forward. “I think she’s someone to admire, someone who has made the best of her unfortunate circumstances. Certainly we should not judge her by her appearance.”
And what of the company she keeps? Adrian wanted to ask. Was he not to judge her on that either? But he wisely kept silent.
Satisfied that she’d successfully made her point, Catherine said, “If you’ll excuse me, I must speak with Lady Farnsworth before she takes her leave.”
The two men watched her walk away. Then the music started up and they shared a look. “Duty calls,” Uncle Neville said, starting toward his wife.
“Yes,” Adrian agreed. Duty called. The duty to annoy the hell out of a man who’d made torturing him an art form. Though he meant Dulcie Bennett no harm, he planned to enjoy every step of the dance to come, for he knew Ainsley would be watching—and steaming— the whole time.
As he made his way through the crowd, however, he passed near the odd Mrs. Poitevant. She was speaking now with another woman, and in passing he caught her low, husky laugh. Not the giggle of a silly girl, but the husky, musical laughter of a woman.
He slowed, seeking her out with his eyes, and this time he studied her more carefully. Beneath her drab appearance lay a woman of some potential. Neither too fat nor too thin. Delicately colored complexion. Perfectly even features. In truth, no dreadful flaws that he could see. He suspected that with the least amount of effort she could be quite beautiful.
But she chose not to be. Very curious.
Then she laughed again and his gaze sharpened.
For all her prickly, standoffish appearance, there was something interesting about her voice, something not so easily hidden as her hair and her bosom and that slender waist.
As if she felt his scrutiny, she tilted her face toward him, and for a long moment their gazes held.
It was only a moment, one that ended in alarm on her part. She looked away, shifting her stance so that her back was to him.
In that haughty gesture, she reminded him how she and the rest of her kind thought. She might only be connected to George Bennett through business. But she might as well be his twin when it came to preserving the almighty English traditions of intermarriage among the elite.
If George Bennett did not want him paying court to his sister, most assuredly Mrs. Poitevant would not either. After all, what would become of her fee should the girl run off with a bounder like him?
He grinned at Mrs. Poitevant’s stiff, gray-clad back. What better reason to pay court to Dulcie Bennett?
CHAPTER 3
Hester had a massive headache.
It had begun when Adrian Hawke first asked Dulcie to dance. It had increased throughout the lengthy dance, every time she spied Dulcie’s glowing face.
To be fair, the two of them made a handsome couple. She suspected, however, that any woman’s appearance would be enhanced by having a man like him attached to her arm. His height and dark appeal were the perfect foil for Dulcie’s softly rounded femininity. And they danced very well together.
She’d never seen Dulcie so animated and so lovely.
A pity her newly found joy was based on pure sham. Pure vindictiveness.
All through the endless hours of the ball Hester had watched George Bennett and Adrian Hawke. She saw Lord Ainsley’s black glares and Mr. Hawke’s far more subtle mocking ones. Poor Dulcie had no inkling of the storm circling her. She danced on a cloud, infatuated with the suave Mr. Hawke, believing his attentions to her were honestly motivated. But Hester knew all the while that it was revenge driving him. She also knew she must not let it go any further. But she hadn’t the faintest idea how to prevent it.
Then things had gotten even worse and her headache had become a red pounding thing centered at the top of her head. George Bennett had become so inebriated, so loud and coarse, that Lady Soames had sent her three burliest footmen to put him out and deliver him home.
Lady Ainsley had been furious at her son for embarrassing her in front of so many people. She had been equally furious with her hostess for presuming to criticize her humiliating excuse for a son. Of course, she was not so foolish as to confront a woman of such consequence as Lady Soames. So she’d settled for venting her fury on the first person she could lay her clutches on in private.
Unfortunately that person had been Hester.
“This is all your fault!” she hissed, her fingers tight around Hester’s arm like vulture claws. She dragged Hester into a niche in one corner of a deserted chamber. “If you hadn’t let her dance with that man, George wouldn’t have become so upset and none of this would have happened. And now she’s out there on the floor with him again!” The woman’s nostrils flared with outrage and she shook with fury. “I’ll not have some bastard upstart paying court to my girl! Do you understand me? I mean it. You get her away from him and send her to me at once. We are going home!”
Hester did not normally allow her clientele to speak to her so rudely, and she was sorely tempted to instruct Lady Ainsley about what she could do with her ugly, high-handed manner. But Hester didn’t want Dulcie to fall under Mr. Hawke’s spell any more than Lady Ainsley did, albeit for different reasons. So she bit her tongue.
She did register her displeasure by jerking her arm free of the older woman’s hold. “I assure you, Lady Ainsley, that I will do everything I can to discoura
ge his attentions to Dulcie—and hers to him.”
“Don’t you worry about Dulcie. I’ll see to her. Indeed I will. But that man—” She jerked furiously at her cuffs. “You see how his very presence upsets George. I will not have it. Do you hear? I will not have it!” And with that she had stormed off.
Hester stood now, waiting for the dance to end so that she could collect Dulcie and depart.
“Ah. It is Mrs. Poitevant,” Mr. Hawke said when he saw her approaching. “Come to rescue Miss Bennett, have you?”
“Hardly that,” she said, lying through her stiffly smiling lips. “Lady Ainsley is preparing to depart, however.” She switched her gaze to Dulcie, whose cheeks still glowed with color. “She’s waiting for you now.”
“So soon?” Dulcie exclaimed. “But what of the breakfast?”
“Perhaps you should discuss that with your mother,” Hester said, arching her brows and praying Dulcie would not argue the matter in front of Mr. Hawke.
Fortunately Dulcie sensed her silent reproval. With a guilty tuck of her chin, the girl nodded. “Very well.”
One of the knots in Hester’s neck unkinked. At least there was one person she could still intimidate.
After Mr. Hawke bade them both a good evening, Dulcie let loose with one of her enormous, heartfelt sighs. “This has been the most wonderful, enchanting, marvelous evening of my entire life!”
Hester bit back the words of warning she’d intended to issue. If she scolded Dulcie, then sent her to her mother for an even more severe scolding, the girl would be crushed. She might also see Hester as being entirely on her mother’s side, and perhaps become less prone to confide in her. Hester did not want that. Better to prop her up, Hester decided. Lady Ainsley certainly meant to tear her down.
Hester steered Dulcie toward a sheltered area just outside the ballroom. “I’m glad you enjoyed yourself, dear. It only goes to show how all your hard work has paid off.”
The Bridemaker Page 3
