The Bridemaker

by Rexanne Becnel

  “Perhaps so. It sounds as if you have everything perfectly under control.”

  “How can you say that? He is bound to quiz me about my appearance today.”

  Verna smiled, rather pleased with this turn of events. “I told you long ago to give up that somber black and gray business. Didn’t I? It simply isn’t necessary. Perhaps now you’ll listen to me.”

  Hester scowled. “How can you still believe that after today? This just proves why I must maintain my straitlaced-widow image. When these self-indulgent men of the ton spy an attractive woman, especially one like me, without a husband or other protector, they become relentless in their pursuit.”

  Verna waved one of her hands. “You could acquire a protector easily enough.”

  Hester stiffened. “I am not like my mother.”

  “I meant your brother.”

  That took the wind out of Hester’s sails, but only for a moment. “I can hardly do that. No. It’s unthinkable.”

  Verna shook her head. “Hester, when will you come to see that instead of spying on the fellow, you ought to be truthful with him?”

  If anything, Hester’s expression grew even more mulish. “Be truthful with him?” She rolled her eyes, but then she sighed and in a muffled tone said, “I’ll think about it.” She reached for her bonnet. “For now, however, I will just have to discourage him.”

  Verna suppressed a smile. Finally, a crack in the walls of Hester’s self-imposed exile from her family. But all she said to the young woman was, “If poor Horace is as awkward and unsure of himself as you have described, I suspect he shall not come anywhere near you, not after the cold manner with which you treated him today.”

  No, he probably would not, Hester thought as she took her leave of Mrs. DeLisle. She’d probably frightened him off for good.

  But as for Adrian Hawke, she already knew that nothing would frighten him off. And if the curious, assessing look in his eyes was any indication, she feared he would soon be seeking an explanation for today’s fiasco—both for her rudeness, and also the striking alteration in her appearance.

  The next day Hester was even more convinced of that fact.

  She’d had a poor night’s sleep. Peg had whimpered in canine dreams the entire night, exciting Fifi as well. Then a cat had yowled outside her window off and on. Come the dawn she’d arisen with a headache, which was not improving as she stared at the contents of her armoire.

  What was she to wear to the Murchisons’ fete tonight? No matter her selection, plain or pretty, Adrian Hawke was sure to confront her.

  Dressing for her work had never been a problem in the past. She’d ascertained long ago that potential clients expected a certain air of sobriety and experience from her. A too pretty, too youthful woman was suspect to them, so she’d turned herself into a serious woman of indeterminate age. She’d acquired a series of dark dresses—spruce green, deep burgundy, charcoal gray— all made from simple patterns. Her only concession to style was the quality of the fabrics she used: the best wools, the softest muslins, and the richest silks.

  She’d worn the green and the burgundy most recently. So tonight would be the gray, a simple enough decision. Yet she rebelled at the thought, and her gaze insisted on straying to the other side of the armoire where additional gowns and day dresses hung. The salmon outfit from yesterday was her current favorite, but there was also a gorgeous aqua ensemble and a striking cream and teal confection. They were old dresses, some from the days of her own season, and other reworked gowns that had been her mother’s.

  Her mother had worn only the best. Delicate Saracen cloth shot with gold, watered silk embroidered with doves and ivy leaves, silvery lace, and soft-as-butter velvet. Then there were also the braids and ribbons, buttons and other gewgaws.

  Hester had inherited them all, four massive trunks stuffed with her mother’s dearest possessions.

  Sometimes she opened those trunks simply to smell the slowly fading scent of French perfumes and dusting powders. She would lean over the trunk and inhale, and remember the best parts of life with her mother: the pride of having the most beautiful mother in the world; the excitement when her mother was happy and in love.

  But her mother’s mercurial appeal had held a dark side too. The petulance. The selfishness. The angry outbursts and storms of tears.

  So sometimes Hester hated the very sight of those trunks. Sometimes she wanted to tell Mr. Dobbs to load them into the coach and deliver them to the second-hand shops for whatever paltry amount they might choose to pay.

  The only time she’d gone so far as to give Mr. Dobbs those instructions, however, Mrs. Dobbs had promptly countermanded them. Caught between his employer’s orders and his wife’s, Mr. Dobbs had retreated in confusion to the nearest public house, leaving Hester and Mrs. Dobbs to work things out.

  Mrs. Dobbs, of course, had won.

  So the trunks remained in the extra room. And Hester remained in a quandary before her own armoire, clutching the gray taffeta dress, but staring at the aqua muslin. She knew what Mrs. DeLisle would say.

  Behind her a thump, thump, thump signaled poor Peg’s awkward attempt at scratching her ear. “What do you say, Peg?” Hester bent over and scratched the itchy ear for the grateful dog. “Shall I shock the ton and abandon my severe garb for once?”

  Peg did not answer, of course. She was too busy luxuriating at being scratched, her favorite pastime. Fifi, however, was more responsive. She waddled over to the open armoire, stared up at the clothes as if she truly were considering, then let out a plaintive whine.

  “You’re French,” Hester said, “so I know you have an opinion.”

  But Fifi’s opinion was impossible to interpret and with a smile Hester stooped down to stroke the tiny animal’s slowly healing back. “I think you shall be quite pretty once your fur grows back,” she murmured to the affectionate little dog. “Then I shall brush you and trim you into the prissy little thing you long to be. Shall I give you bows above your ears and paint your toenails red?”

  Peg limped over to reclaim her share of Hester’s attention. “Yes, yes. You are a beauty too,” Hester cooed to the ungainly old mutt. “You have beautiful, loving eyes, and a beautiful spirit as well.”

  When Hester rose to face the armoire again, she reached reluctantly for the gray dress. To wear one of her pretty dresses would be too drastic a change. But like scruffy little Fifi, perhaps she might benefit from a different coiffure. Maybe she would even go so far as to abandon her spectacles.

  Still and all, as she prepared herself to accompany Dulcie to the Murchisons’ annual fete, she knew she would have to deal with Adrian Hawke tonight. One way or the other he was bound to challenge her behavior the other day. And her appearance.

  But she was ready for him, she vowed.

  She sighed, then collected her spectacles after all. She would avoid Adrian Hawke when she could and keep Dulcie or Anabelle or Charlotte near her the rest of the time.

  And if pushed, she would plead a headache and retire to the ladies’ room.

  Adrian spied Hester Poitevant the moment she entered the Murchisons’ vast ballroom. Amid the pastel fluttering of so many giddy girls and the dandies that fluttered around them, she appeared an island of calm, tall and serene and more enigmatic than ever.

  He’d had a busy day, securing warehouses and drawing up contracts for several investors already committed to his venture. But business had not been enough to make him forget about his run-in with Hester. In fact, with every passing hour he’d become more and more keen to unravel the mystery of London’s so-called Bridemaker.

  Something was not right about her situation. The dreary widow and the sparkling woman he’d seen in Cheapside seemed impossible to reconcile—except that they were both, at their core, the same nose-in-the-air snob.

  She did not look quite so dreary tonight, however. He peered more intently at her. What was it? Certainly not the dress, which appeared left over from her days of mourning. But something…

&n
bsp; Her hair. It was not so severe, not scraped back into that painfully tight chignon. She did have on her spectacles, though.

  What a cunning little deceiver.

  He watched her come down the short run of steps. She moved like a queen, head up and back straight, but not stiff. She glided, almost as if her feet did not have to take steps like other women did.

  He supposed she had to present a good example to the girls she advised. Certainly Miss Bennett moved in a graceful enough manner. The girl’s gaze flitted frequently to her mentor, and as Adrian watched, Miss Bennett adjusted both her movements and her bearing to mirror Hester’s.

  Hester Poitevant. What game are you playing?

  Her hair looked incredibly soft, not as loose and luxuriant as yesterday, but silky and gleaming in the lamplit ballroom. Touchable, the aberrant thought struck him.

  “Look there, Hawke. There she is,” Horace Vasterling said in a half-whisper. “D’you think I should approach her tonight? You know, apologize for my offensive behavior yesterday?”

  “Apologize to her? Why in blazes should you owe her an apology? She was the rude one.” Then spying the indecision on Horace’s face, he relented. “Look. Let me approach her first. She and I have a longer acquaintance between us, so perhaps I can ascertain her mood.” Besides, there was no need for Horace to be rejected again, for Adrian was sure that’s what Mrs. Poitevant would do. He had a suspicion that if even the “Bridemaker” rejected him, and in so public a venue, Horace’s reputation would be undermined even further.

  It was a revelation to Adrian that a baron’s son like Horace could be so ill at ease in town. Yet he was coming to see that even within the ton, some people just did not measure up.

  He wouldn’t normally care. But Horace was a decent fellow, not defined by arrogance and greed like most of his peers. Though it was illogical, Adrian didn’t want to see the man humiliated again, especially not by the irksome Widow Poitevant.

  “Enjoy yourself, but stay strictly away from her and her charges,” Adrian told Horace. “I’ll let you know how matters stand as soon as I figure them out.”

  He took his time approaching. He wanted her to know he was coming, to be flustered by his slow but relentless approach.

  It worked. Wherever he went, her gaze followed, flitting away when he stared back at her, but always returning to him. She surrounded herself with people, at all times keeping someone nearby. But if she thought that could protect her from him, she was dead wrong.

  When he decided finally to make his move, she was conversing with Miss Bennett, whose gaze also kept returning to him. The perfect invitation.

  “Good evening, Miss Bennett.” He bowed over the girl’s hand. “Mrs. Poitevant,” he added in a cooler tone. She did not extend her hand. He did not bow.

  “Oh, Mr. Hawke. I was hoping to see you tonight,” Miss Bennett gushed. Though her customary blush rose as fiery as ever, she seemed more self-assured than in the past. How it must gall Mrs. Poitevant to see all her efforts with Miss Bennett directed now on the wrong sort of man. It served her right for being such a snob.

  He smiled down at Miss Bennett. “I may spend my days involved with matters of business, but I try to keep my evenings for more pleasant activities.” He paused a moment, for effect. Then, “If your dance card is not already filled, it would be my pleasure to partner you in a dance.”

  Adrian thought the poor girl was going to pop. But after a few false starts she took a great gulp of air. “How… How nice of you to offer. I have the third dance of the second set free,” she said with almost painful correctness. “A polka.”

  “Thank you. I look forward to it.”

  When he turned to Mrs. Poitevant, however, he did not find the disapproving frown he expected. A little pucker creased her brow just above the line of her spectacles. But it looked more like confusion than anything else. Did she fear she might get called down by Miss Bennett’s mother or by Georgie-boy if they saw Dulcie dancing with him? He hoped she did.

  Without pausing to consider his words he said, “I wonder, Mrs. Poitevant, if you too would be gracious enough to grant me one dance.”

  Where Miss Bennett’s blush was hot and fiery, Mrs. Poitevant’s was subtle and restrained. Much like she was.

  “Please,” he added, when she did not immediately respond. From the corner of his eye he saw Miss Bennett poke her mentor. The student guiding the teacher?

  “Thank you, but… but no.”

  “Do you not know how to dance?” He turned to Miss Bennett with a grin. “Doesn’t she know how to dance?”

  “She dances very well,” the girl said, entering into the spirit of his banter. “I have only seen her dance the male part, though. That’s how she helped me to improve my steps.”

  Mrs. Poitevant pursed her lips. “Dulcie!”

  “Is that so? Well, then, she must surely need a refresher in how to dance the female part.”

  “I agree.” Miss Bennett smiled, revealing a sparkle he’d not previously seen. “If she starts to lead, just whisper at her to stop.”

  “What do you say, Mrs. Poitevant? Do not disappoint me when I am so eager.”

  Like a fox cornered by a persistent hound, Hester felt a sudden spurt of panic. He was trying to unsettle her, and he was succeeding awfully well. Were it up to her, she would turn the man down, and none too nicely either. But that would require too many explanations to Dulcie.

  And then, who knew what tales he might spread about their meeting in Cheapside yesterday?

  She slanted him a look and saw the challenging light in his eyes. He was full of questions. Maybe she should simply get the interrogation over with.

  “Very well,” she said, before she could change her mind.

  The slow grin of triumph that spread across his face forced Hester to acknowledge the other reason she was accepting his invitation, the dangerous, extremely unwise reason she was accepting: she wanted to see how it felt to dance with Adrian Hawke.

  Such insanity! But the fact was that the man had an aura about him, a virility that was as enticing as it was terrifying. Though she had no intention of succumbing to his blatant appeal, she was conscious of an irrational need to prove herself impervious to it. To prove it to him as well as to herself.

  He was the first real test she’d had since she’d sworn off men. If she could resist him, she figured she was safe forever.

  “Very well,” he echoed, his dark blue eyes locking with hers so that she could not quite look away.

  Fortunately Tonleigh’s heir appeared to retrieve Dulcie for the next dance. As the men were introduced, Hester looked away from Mr. Hawke with relief. Once alone with him, however, with the musicians warming up, the danger of her situation became clear.

  He held out his arm to her. “Shall we?” he said, a wolfish gleam in his eyes.

  She took a slow, shaky breath and lifted her chin to an arrogant angle. “Yes. Perhaps we should.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Not once during their dance was Hester conscious of her movements. Not the steps, not the music, not the other dancers around them.

  It would be a waltz, was her last coherent thought as they advanced to the floor and positioned themselves among the other couples. After that her thoughts revolved around another set of sensations entirely. Beneath the fine woven wool of his sleeve his arm was hard and warm. His grasp on her gloved hand was sure and even warmer.

  He smelled faintly of tobacco and… and peppermint, she decided after a couple of surreptitious sniffs. Though he was a big man, he was utterly at ease with the graceful movements of the waltz. No doubt he had lots of experience with lots of other dance partners.

  She peered up at his face, far too near her own. No man should possess such ridiculously long lashes, she thought. It wasn’t fair when deserving girls like poor Anabelle possessed practically none.

  “I like your hair,” he remarked. “It’s prettier than your usual style, though not nearly so attractive as how you wore it yesterday.�
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  Hester forced herself to focus not on his physical nearness but on his challenging tone. If he meant to intimidate her, he would soon find that she was not easily intimidated. Not by men of the ton, anyway.

  “Hmm. I wonder, is it your intention to compliment me with such a remark or insult me?”

  He grinned. “That’s up to you. Running into you in Cheapside was a most enlightening experience. You appear to be a woman of some mystery.”

  Here it was, the beginning of his inquisition. “I assure you I am not.”

  “Come now, even putting aside the remarkable alteration in your appearance, there is the astounding fact of your actually setting foot in Cheapside. Considering your disdain of the lower classes, I could hardly believe it was you rubbing elbows with the folk in that part of town.”

  “I… I do not disdain anyone!”

  He shook his head as if dismissing her protest. “I wonder if you encourage your students to follow your example. Somehow I can’t see any of your girls strolling those teeming streets. High Street, yes. Oxford, certainly. But Aldersgate Street in Cheapside?” He lifted one dark brow as he spun her in a swift turn. “So, why was the arrogant Hester Poitevant in Cheapside, dressed in a manner so unlike her normal fashion?”

  Hester could hardly keep her balance, let alone think how to answer him. That he thought her attractive in her pretty salmon ensemble was no great surprise. She knew what attracted men and he was, after all, a man. The fact that he thought her too arrogant to set foot in Cheapside, however, upset her. If he only knew the truth.

  But he didn’t, and he never could.

  All the same, it bothered her that he thought her arrogant. It was enough to leave her utterly discombobulated. She couldn’t let him rattle her, though. All she had to do was answer his questions. The best lie was no lie at all, only a variation on the truth. So she rallied her nerves as he spun her about, and stared straight into his unnerving blue eyes. “I was in Cheapside to shop and to visit an old family friend. I go there often.”

  “How very good of you,” he said in a faintly mocking tone. “And what a fine example you set for your students. I wonder, though, do you have specific requirements? You know, two sick calls a month; one hospital visit; an afternoon spent folding bandages or packing food baskets or other such charitable works?” Again he spun her until she was breathless.