“I suspect it would be wonderful,” the man conceded. “And I should like nothing better. But as his heir, I have a duty to my father and to our estate. But enough of that. Tell me, are you also shopping for a bride?”
“Me? Oh, no, I’m in no rush to wed. And when I do take that step, it certainly won’t be to an English woman—no offense meant.”
“None taken. Actually, I am encouraged that you are holding out for love.”
Holding out for love? That’s not what Adrian had said, nor what he meant. While he’d seen one or two examples of wedded couples who loved one another, he suspected they were a rarity. American society was not unlike British society in that regard. When and if he wed it would probably be for lust, to a woman he could not possess any other way.
Then he scoffed at that ridiculous thought. If he could not have some particular woman he wanted, he would just find another he wanted more. When he did finally wed, it would most likely be for practical purposes. No one wanted to grow old alone. Even his own brazen mother had finally settled down.
“I guess every man wants an heir,” he finally said.
“Yes,” Horace agreed. “I certainly do.”
They paused at a busy corner, waiting for a coal cart to rumble past. That’s when Adrian spied an elegant figure exiting a bookshop, an elegant figure both familiar and strange.
At first he wasn’t certain it was she. Her walking dress was ivory and salmon stripes with a dark salmon-colored jacket. She wore a nearly brimless bonnet, and her hair was loose and bouncy beneath it.
Bouncy and soft. Imagine that.
He didn’t move when Vasterling started forward; he was too captivated by the image before him. The Widow Poitevant, looking more like one of the carefree young ladies she tutored than the severe companion she portrayed by night.
“I say, Hawke. Aren’t you coming?”
“Perhaps not.”
Horace Vasterling followed the direction of Adrian’s gaze. “Oh, I see. Do you know her, then?”
“Yes.” And no. “Have you never met Mrs. Poitevant? No? Well, you should. It’s her business to make brides of awkward young girls. And to be a bride, a girl must find a groom. Come along,” he added, when she merged into the flow along the sidewalk. Was she alone? “I’ll introduce you.”
Hester adjusted the ribbon ties of her bonnet as she waited to cross the street. She had returned her books to the lending library and now had to stop at the greengrocers and also at Murray’s Sweet Shop. She never visited Mrs. DeLisle without bringing her some sort of sweet treat.
But when a voice hailed her and she looked up, her heart leaped in her chest, then started a terrible clamoring there. Not Adrian Hawke. Not here, in Cheapside where she shopped for the pure pleasure of not running into anyone of the ton. And not when she was dressed in her most stylish, carefree manner.
Then her frozen wits registered the man beside him, and her distress turned to outright panic. It could not be!
Of all the men in London, the two she should most like not to meet. But there was no avoiding them.
“Mrs. Poitevant.” Adrian Hawke doffed his hat, grinning at her in that smug, satisfied way he had. Very wolfish, and she felt like a vulnerable little lamb. “What an unexpected pleasure. You are looking particularly fetching today.” His eyes, full of devilment, swept over her, head to toe. Though brief, his gaze was alarmingly thorough, and felt entirely too intimate. But then, what else should she expect, given their previous two encounters and her very different appearance?
Worse than his cheeky American greeting, however, was the frankly admiring gaze of the man at his side. Horace Vasterling. So unanticipated was their meeting that she could not recall any of the admonitions she’d given herself regarding the possibility someday of an introduction to her own brother. When Mr. Hawke presented him to her, she blushed to the roots of her hair.
So did he. “I’m very pleased to make your acquaintanceship, Mrs. Poitevant,” he murmured, doffing his hat to her.
Mr. Hawke’s keen eyes darted from Hester to Horace Vasterling, then back again. “I’m amazed that you two have not already met. You seem to receive invitations to many of the same parties.” He squinted at her. “Are you overly warm, Miss Poitevant?”
“No.” She cleared her voice. “No, I’m not warm.” You just caught me unawares.
“I… I believe I may have seen you at the Dresdens’ ball earlier this week?” Horace said, his voice rising in question.
“Yes.” She cleared her throat. “Yes, I was there. Were you?” Oh, what a stupid thing to say. He already said he was there.
“Yes.”
Adrian watched their exchange with some bemusement. All was not as it appeared. Vasterling turning out to be sharp as a tack. Mrs. Poitevant looking prettier than the girls she shepherded through the season. And both of them blushing at each other. Was the bridemaker looking to become a bride?
If she dressed like this all the time, showing off her curving figure, that sweet cream complexion, and that staggering quantity of luscious, shining hair, he wagered she’d be wedded—and bedded—faster than any of her girls. And then there was that husky voice of hers. A bedroom voice.
Without warning desire pooled, hot and hard in his loins, and he shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. This was damned inconvenient. If poor Vasterling’s reaction was anything like his own, no wonder the man was blushing. Truth be told, were he in the market for a wife himself, he’d certainly give the Widow Poitevant more than a passing glance.
He wasn’t in the market for a bride though. But Vasterling was.
Adrian slanted a look at Horace. No doubt about it, the man was definitely smitten. He looked as though someone had just boxed his ears—and he’d liked it! But how did Mrs. Poitevant feel about him?
“And… and…” Poor Horace was stumbling over his words now. “And shall you be at the Murchisons’ fete on Tuesday?”
“Um… I believe I may be there,” she finally answered.
Vasterling blinked, then swallowed hard. “I hope… I hope you will save a dance for me?”
Instead of appearing flattered, however, Mrs. Poitevant’s expression screwed up in a horrified expression. “Thank you… Thank you, but… but no. I’m afraid not.” She spoke so stiffly it bordered on rudeness. Then, “Good day,” and she turned and left.
Like poor Horace, Adrian could only stare at her stiff back as she hurried away. “What in bloody blazes was that all about?” he muttered.
“I was too forward,” Horace berated himself. “I had only just met her and I acted like an idiot.”
“You did nothing wrong,” Adrian countered. But as for Miss Stiff-necked Poitevant, she had no cause to insult a man as good-natured as Horace Vasterling. Stunning as she looked in her pretty dress and softened appearance, she was still the severe bridemaker, judging men by their title and money, and dismissing fine fellows like Horace Vasterling as being unworthy of a simple dance.
Even before Hester disappeared around a corner, his resolve hardened. She didn’t approve of Vasterling for herself, nor of Adrian for Dulcie Bennett. Like that fool George Bennett, she held staunchly to the rigid rules of her society, rules that kept the classes distinct and apart from one another.
But he didn’t believe in those rules, and he’d be damned if he’d abide by them.
He turned to Vasterling, whose face had settled into lines of forlorn resignation. “The Murchisons’ fete, you say? I believe I may also have received an invitation to that.”
Horace brightened. “And shall you go then? They say the Murchisons’ wine cellar is legendary.”
“I’ll be there,” Adrian replied, glancing one last time in the direction Hester Poitevant had taken. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
CHAPTER 6
By the time Hester arrived in Milton Street, she had herself under better control. But it was a struggle. Had she not sent word ahead to Mrs. DeLisle that she would call on her today, she wo
uld have cut her outing short.
Even now, nearly an hour later, she could not believe that terrible, terrible scene with her brother. And of all people, Adrian Hawke a witness to everything!
She pressed her embroidered handkerchief to her lips as the carriage swayed to a halt. Oh, but she’d behaved like a perfect fool. A graceless dolt. A stuttering idiot. To even remember the awkwardness, the embarrassment, made her want to cry.
How was she to behave when next she saw them? Either of them?
There was no way she could avoid them. While Horace might justifiably keep a safe distance from her after the awful set-down she’d given him, she knew with a sinking certainty that Adrian Hawke would not. Indeed, she feared he would do just the opposite.
She gave Mr. Dobbs a distracted look when he handed her down from the chaise. “I shall be an hour at least. If you go round to the kitchen, I’m sure they’ll give you tea.”
“A’right, miss. Just you have a good visit with Mrs. DeLisle.”
The front door to the narrow little townhouse opened before she reached the front steps. “Hester!” came Verna DeLisle’s happy cry. “Don’t you look pretty as a picture.”
Except for her cane, Mrs. DeLisle appeared very much the same as she had the first time Hester met her. A good twelve years had passed since that day, and certainly Hester had changed. But not Mrs. DeLisle. The only change to her was that she had retired from her Mayfair Academy, leaving it to Hester six years ago.
“So,” the elegant old woman said, scrutinizing Hester from head to toe and back again. “It’s salmon today. What a pretty color for you. I wonder though.” Her eyes narrowed. “Is it the color of your dress or the heat of the day which has your cheeks glowing so?”
“Neither, I’m afraid.” Hester advanced into the tiny but perfectly appointed parlor. She removed her bonnet and gloves, tossed them onto a pink damask slipper chair, then collapsed onto the ornately carved settee. “I have had the most dreadful, dreadful day.”
Verna DeLisle had known Hester since she was a green girl. She’d known her frivolous mother as well, and she’d worried terribly at Isabelle’s ill-advised plan to give her daughter a proper season.
Really, but the woman had been so insensitive to her situation. Had she actually believed that the child of a woman of suspect morals could ever enjoy a normal season? Had she honestly thought her daughter’s stunning beauty enough to raise her above the back-stabbing and small-minded gossip that made up so much of what passed for good society? Why couldn’t she have encouraged Hester to marry a soldier or a merchant or some other reasonably ambitious, hard-working fellow? Why must it only be a lord?
But Verna knew why. Isabelle had been a tradesman’s daughter from the north of England, so of course she’d never had a season of her own. After running away from her husband with her first lover, then moving on to London with her second one, Isabelle had created an entirely new identity for herself. As Hester had grown up, Isabelle had become determined to give her daughter a proper season and to find herself a rich, well-connected son-in-law.
It had been the height of foolishness, but she’d been adamant. Of course, Hester had been the one to pay the price for her mother’s single-minded determination. Not a single honorable offer, but there had been plenty of vulgar ones. Added to that Hester had been gossiped about, ostracized, and made to feel simply horrid.
Still, something good had come of that awful season and a half. For in her grief and humiliation, Hester had turned away from her self-absorbed mother and impulsively taken a teaching position in York. She’d returned to London only after her mother’s sudden death. That’s when she had sought out Verna’s comfort, and that’s when they’d hatched their plan to turn Hester into a bereaved widow.
In the years that followed, the relationship forged between Verna and Hester had benefited them both. Hester had come to work at the academy, then eventually taken over when Verna retired. As time went by Hester had altered the academy’s purpose somewhat, placing as much emphasis on appearance and self-confidence as on the practical niceties of manners, and presentations and all the rules attendant to them. But Verna hadn’t minded the changes. The girl had created a unique place for herself in society, and Verna was proud of her.
Were it not for Hester’s continued disdain of all men, and her suspicion of their motives, Verna might consider both their lives perfectly arranged.
But Hester was determined to be nothing like her mother. That’s why she insisted on maintaining such a dour image in all her dealings with the ton. The fact remained, however, that Hester was not happy, and now something had upset her more than usual.
So Verna seated herself, then rang her little enamel bell for tea. “My goodness, child, it’s been years since you’ve flung yourself into a chair like some great, ill-mannered country girl. Perhaps you’d better tell me just what has put you in such a tizzy.”
Verna listened without comment. So at last brother and sister had met. She’d known eventually it must happen, and that Hester would not deal well with it. But it was Hester’s constant reference to this other man, this Scotsman lately come from America, that most piqued Verna’s curiosity.
“I am a little confused,” she said once the girl had subsided. “I understand your aversion to Horace’s unwitting interest in you. For that reason alone I believe you must tell him the truth. Wait,” she said, holding up one hand when Hester would have interrupted. “Let me finish. Eventually you must reveal yourself to your brother,” she repeated. “But presently I am more interested in this other fellow. I cannot determine from what you’ve said whether you approve of him or not.” She stared at Hester’s stubbornly frowning face. “So. Which is it?”
Hester sighed. Then she let her head fall against the settee back and closed her eyes. “I… I’m not certain. I mean… Well… It’s complicated.”
“Is it?” Verna smiled to herself. Well, well. A man who could put her serious young friend into a fluster. He must be quite an exceptional fellow. “You haven’t touched your tea.”
Hester opened her eyes, then straightened up. She sent Verna a quelling look. “I know what you’re thinking, but you’re wrong. It’s just so… so complicated. One of my students has convinced herself she is in love with the man, only her mother finds him completely unsuitable. No title, you see.”
“Oh, these women and their machinations. Don’t they know there is life beyond the ton?”
Hester didn’t even bother answering that question. She went on, “Added to that, Dulcie’s brother, George, and this Mr. Hawke seem to have bad history between them. Schoolboy conflicts, that sort of thing. It’s obvious to me that Mr. Hawke’s attentions to Dulcie are motivated solely by revenge.”
She paused and rubbed one of her temples. “The very worst part is that the Ainsley fortune is apparently hamstrung by debt. So naturally Dulcie’s brother has decided to reverse himself. He now proposes throwing Dulcie at the man in hopes of gaining some sort of financial benefit.”
Verna arched her brows. “This Adrian Hawke fellow must be awfully rich.”
“Not just rich, he also has a knack for making money. He’s come here to solicit investors for some new sort of venture. And George wants in.”
“Do you think Lord Ainsley’s scheme will succeed?”
Hester shook her head. “Not at all. Poor Dulcie is caught between two warring men, and as a result, so am I. My new instructions from her family are to promote her association with Mr. Hawke, when it’s plain as day he’s not the marrying sort.”
“How can you know that?”
Hester bent forward to lift her teacup. She drank, grimacing at how tepid it had become, then set it down. “Mr. Hawke is one of those roguish fellows. You know the type. There’s always one or two of them each season who sets all the girls’ hearts aquiver. Handsome. Properly turned out, but with a rakish bent that cannot quite be disguised.”
“Oho. The manly sort, no doubt.”
Verna saw Hester
sigh. “Very.” She was silent a moment. “Naturally Dulcie is in a complete dither over him.”
And perhaps someone else is as well. Again Verna smiled to herself. It was long past time for Hester to fall in love and marry. Verna did not normally hold love to be a prerequisite for a successful marriage. Common interests, compatible personalities, similar beliefs and morals—those were what made for a solid, reliable marriage.
But she also recognized that in some circumstances love was the only thing powerful enough to bring certain parties together.
In Hester’s case, the girl had convinced herself long ago that men were never to be trusted. Not fathers. Not brothers. Certainly not potential husbands.
She had good reason for her fears, of course. But not all men were so untrustworthy. Logic, however, would never convince Hester of that. It would take something much stronger, much harder to resist. Hester was one of those women who must fall in love and receive love in return. For her it would be the only way.
Maybe this Scottish American was the answer.
“So,” Verna said. “Dulcie Bennett wants this Adrian Hawke. Who do you think he wants?”
Hester straightened up, tugged her bodice down, and smoothed her skirts across her knees before replying. “I’m sure I don’t know what is in his mind other than revenge against George Bennett. Did I tell you? He refuses to refer to him as Lord Ainsley. George didn’t like that one bit.” She smiled, but it faded away. “At least he won’t be here for long. Once his cousin is wed I understand he’s to return to America. Poor Dulcie. She and who knows how many others will be left with broken hearts.”
“Tut, tut. I’m sure they’ll recover.”
“Yes, I suppose they’ll have to.” Hester was silent a moment. “Perhaps then I’ll be able to find her a more suitable man, preferably someone halfway between her family’s strict requirements and her own romantic ones.”
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