“True. But have you considered that Mrs. Poitevant works very hard to make ends meet? She might be long past ready to remarry and give up this academy of hers. And don’t forget, all women want children. They all want children. But she needs another husband first.”
He could see the wheels spinning in Horace’s head, and for a moment Adrian felt a twinge of guilt. As quick as the man was about matters of money, he was just the opposite with women. At the first hint of adversity he sounded retreat.
And Hester Poitevant was going to provide more than just a little adversity.
But if Horace persevered he might win her over, and Adrian was determined that he do so. A little self-confidence, that’s all Vasterling needed. A little direction, a little polish, a little chance to shine. Horace Vasterling could have women flocking to him, even if Hester Poitevant wasn’t able to see his good points.
Then like a bolt of lightning it came to Adrian, the answer to Horace’s problems and the perfect solution to his own little project. What was it they called Hester Poitevant? London’s premier bridemaker? Well, he was known as Boston’s savviest deal maker.
Maybe it was time for him to make a deal with her.
CHAPTER 8
“He’s here?” Hester stared up at Mrs. Dobbs, barely aware that she’d just jabbed her thumb with her embroidery needle. Without conscious thought she raised her thumb to her lips, sucking the sore spot. “Are you certain of the name?”
“Aye, miss. Mr. Adrian Hawke. Here’s his card.”
Hester stared at it, not wanting it to be true. But of course, it was. It said so right there on the stiffened stock in charcoal-gray ink. But why was Adrian Hawke here at her little cottage? Why was he seeking her out?
Wasn’t it bad enough that he’d crept into her dreams last night, an unwelcome visitor waltzing her through the night until she was warm and perspiring, waking to a tangle of sheets and a tangle of emotions?
And now he was here. Oh, but this was turning into a nightmare.
With a jerky movement she set the card aside. “Tell him… Tell him I am out.”
Mrs. Dobbs grimaced. “I’m afraid I’ve already given him the impression you’re’t”home.“
Hester shook her head. “All right then. Tell him I am presently indisposed. Tell him,” she repeated when the little housekeeper only stared doubtfully at her.
“Pardon me, miss, but he says it’s very important. Very important.”
Hester rolled her eyes. “I assure you, it is not.”
Again Mrs. Dobbs hesitated. “He seems a very proper sort of gentleman. Whyn’t you just see what he wants?”
“I believe I’m the one who pays your salary, aren’t I?” Then regretting her sharp words as soon as they were out, Hester set her needlework aside. “I’m sorry. I’m being rude, aren’t I? To you and to him. Very well, then.” She heaved a resigned sigh. “Send him in.”
The housekeeper bobbed her head and scurried away. But Hester saw the sparkle in her eyes and the faint grin on her aging face. Good Lord, had the man charmed her too? Half the women of the ton were talking about the tall, handsome American.
Frustrated, Hester stood and smoothed her skirts. If only she could put order to her emotions as easily as she put order to her appearance.
Her appearance!
She had on a plum-colored day dress, her favorite. And her hair was caught up at the crown but fell loose down her back in a style better suited to a young girl than an aging widow. She often wore it thus when she was at home, not expecting visitors. But now she did have a visitor.
“Wait,” she called to Mrs. Dobbs. But the woman was gone, and in a matter of seconds Hester heard the heavy tread of a man approaching. She was trapped and there was no help for it.
Sucking in a breath she steeled herself.
Mrs. Dobbs entered first, her averted gaze not at all disguising the satisfied expression on her round face. But the housekeeper’s meddling manner was of far lesser import than the man who followed her into the little sitting room. Once Adrian Hawke entered, Hester saw nothing but him.
He should not be here. That was her very first thought. He was too big, too masculine. Too… Too… She took a labored breath. Why, he seemed to suck the very air out of the room.
What was it about the man?
It was only that he was a man, she told herself. She’d never had a man in her sitting room before. For that matter, she’d never had any man in her house except, of course, for Mr. Dobbs.
When Mrs. Dobbs melted away, Hester forced herself to speak. “Good morning, Mr. Hawke. I gather you wish to see me.”
His eyes, the most disturbing shade of blue she’d ever seen, flickered across her, top to bottom, observing everything in their path.
Right then she knew her shortness of breath was not because some man had breached her parlor walls. Nothing quite so simple. It wasn’t that he was a man, it was that he was a particular man, a particularly difficult, arrogant, obscenely virile man. And for some reason he rattled her right down to the toes of her Spanish leather boots.
When his probing gaze lifted back to hers it took all her resolve not to avert her eyes. Especially when he smiled. “It’s very good of you to see me on such short notice, Mrs. Poitevant. I apologize for interrupting you at your needlework,” he said, gesturing to the embroidery hoop she’d laid aside. “Apparently your vision has improved sufficiently that you can now forgo wearing your spectacles?”
Hester clenched her jaw against a tart retort. Drat the man. He would notice.
His grin increased. “Why don’t you just abandon them, Mrs. Poitevant? No one really believes you need them.”
Hester crossed her arms, refusing to be baited by him. “I believe you told my housekeeper that this unexpected visit was a matter of some importance?” She did not smile.
Though he tamped down his cheeky grin, his eyes nonetheless sparked with devilment. “Yes. I have a business proposition to make you.”
“A business proposition?” Hester could not say what she expected from his unanticipated visit, but it certainly wasn’t this.
“Yes.” He cocked his head to one side. “May I sit?”
A business proposition? “I suppose,” she muttered with less grace than she ought.
“Thank you. You know, I’ve heard a number of complimentary remarks about your academy.”
Was he patronizing her now? The rich American businessman amused by a woman’s attempt to do business on her own? Whatever his game—and she knew it was one—she needed to be wary. “How kind of you to say so.”
He paused as if weighing how to continue. “I’ll get right to the point. I’d like to hire you to help a friend of mine.”
Shocked, Hester stared at him. He wanted to hire her to help a friend? Then her shock turned to a darker, murkier emotion. Who was she, this so-called friend?
He went on. “You come highly recommended. My aunt and cousin sing nothing but your praises. They tell me that not one of your clients during the past four seasons has failed to make a satisfactory marriage.”
“Well, yes. That is true.”
“How proud you must be,” he said, smiling straight into her eyes.
Hester swallowed hard. That smile, so bold and blatantly masculine, could not be trusted. He was up to something. But what? “Yes. I’m pleased. Of course. Not proud, mind you. But pleased. Very pleased.” Good Lord, she was babbling like a ninny.
She sat up straighter in her chair. He relaxed back on the settee and stretched an arm across the back. “So. With your obvious success in matters of this sort I believe you’re the best person to assist my friend. The only person.”
Something did not ring true about any of this. Hester’s mind sifted through a list of every woman she’d seen him speak to or dance with. Surely it would not be any of them. She decided to play along. “I assume your friend is already out?”
“Out? You mean presented into society? Yes. I believe you might say that.”
&nbs
p; “I see. Without much success, I take it. No acceptable offers?”
He shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”
“I see.” Of course she didn’t see at all and a part of her was afraid to find out. He was too dangerous a man to feint and parry with. On the other hand, she did not like being made sport of. “I’m rather committed to the clients I already have, Mr. Hawke.” She gave him a regretful smile, completely insincere.
He smiled back, probably just as insincerely, though she couldn’t tell. He was that good at it. “I thought you might say that. I’m prepared to more than meet your fee.”
“I’m sorry, but the season is already well under way.”
“What’s your price for a full season?”
He was not going to give up, was he? And who was this woman he’d so befriended that he’d foot the bill to help her make a good match? If she was already presented, Hester must know her, at least by sight.
On impulse she named an amount fully double her normal fee. “In advance,” she added, a challenging glitter in her eyes.
“Done.”
“Done?”
“Done. I’ll have my banker write a note of transfer to your account this very afternoon.”
He stood up, business concluded, she supposed. But she was slower to rise. Heavens, but that was an extraordinarily large amount of money.
“It’s a pleasure doing business with you, Mrs. Poitevant. When shall I bring my friend around?”
When indeed? Hester was so nonplussed by the sudden turn of events, it took her a moment to respond. He had come here for legitimate business purposes, and as a result she’d just come into quite a windfall of money. A veritable fortune by her standards. “Perhaps… Perhaps you could come tomorrow? Early. Say, ten in the morning.”
“We’ll be here.”
Then he did the oddest thing. He stuck out his hand, not as he might to a lady, but as one businessman to another. And not in the least patronizing. He stuck his bare hand out and waited until, with her first sincere smile, she stuck hers out too and took it.
There was something heady in it, two business people confirming a business transaction with a handshake. It was so seldom she was treated like an equal by the people who hired her. Hester hadn’t realized how liberating it would feel.
But the feeling was short-lived. Because once his hand closed around hers, any thought of business flew right out of her head. His hand was large and warm— and strong. It enveloped her own slender hand with an unnatural sort of heat. She stared down at it, seeing the long fingers, the squared-off nails, the light dusting of dark hair, so masculine and unlike her own hands—and that unnatural heat became an unnerving tingle.
Oh, where were her gloves when she needed them?
But gloves would offer no protection from this man, she realized. The unnerving tingle raced up her arm to become a violent trembling that shook her all the way to her belly.
She snatched her hand back, her heart hammering from fear. This man was not a man to be careless with. This man was dangerous beyond all reason, the same sort of man who had almost ruined her so long ago.
She lurched back a step, wishing she could flee the debilitating weakness which had nearly caught her and which, she now realized, would continue to be a threat so long as this man remained anywhere near her.
But there was no place for her to flee. Her parlor— perfectly adequate to her needs—had turned unnaturally small today.
Then she reminded herself that this was her home, her place of business. She had no need to flee any man, especially the arrogant, overly confident sort like Adrian Hawke.
So she clasped her hands together at her waist, forbade any further trembling at all, and gave him her steadiest, most aloof stare. “I’ll see you and your friend tomorrow at ten. Do try to be prompt.”
He smiled, an odd, self-satisfied smile she noticed in one part of her mind. “I assure you, we’ll be prompt, Mrs. Poitevant.” A short bow, then he was almost out the door and she was almost able to breathe.
His hand lay on the doorknob and he had pulled the door open when something compelled her to make him linger. Something stupid and perverse. “Mr. Hawke, wait.”
He paused in the doorway, filling it up with his wide shoulders and excessive height. “Yes?”
Her heart did a ridiculous flip-flop. His hair was as black as midnight; his eyes were bluer than the sky. Dear Lord, he was turning her into a very bad poet. But it was patently unfair for a man to be so attractive.
Somehow she composed herself. “I… You didn’t say… What is your friend’s name and her situation?”
“Her situation?” Again that dangerous, mocking grin. Alarms began to sound in Hester’s head. “I’m afraid you have misconstrued my words, Mrs. Poitevant. My friend is not a woman.”
“What? Not a woman?”
“Of course not. I have no daughter or other such female relative who requires my aid in such matters, nor yours.”
“But I thought she… you…” Hester drew herself up. She had known he was up to mischief. “I’m afraid my clientele is limited strictly to women.”
“I’m certain your talents will be just as effective with a man.”
“No. I don’t believe—”
“We have a deal, Mrs. Poitevant.” One of his dark, slashing brows arched in the most imperious manner. “We shook hands on it.”
So they had. But Hester was not about to be manipulated this way. “You misrepresented yourself—and your friend.”
“I never said he was female. You made that assumption. Besides, you misrepresented yourself.”
“I most certainly did not.”
“You charged me twice what you charge other clients.”
As quickly as that her righteous indignation fizzled out. She could not deny his words.
“Plus, you demanded the entire amount in advance. No half now, half when a betrothal is announced, as you allow your other clientele.”
He’d been checking on her. Oh, but the man was infuriating. She crossed her arms scowling. “If you didn’t like the terms, you needn’t have agreed to them.”
“My point exactly.”
Staring into his laughing eyes, knowing she’d been had. stiffened Hester’s resolve as nothing else could. Bother the man! If he wanted to spar with her, she’d meet him more than halfway. “Very well, Mr. Hawke. I’ll see you and your friend tomorrow. But be sure to bring the entire payment with you.”
“Of course.” He made her an abbreviated bow and started to depart, then paused. Another of those slow, mocking grins lit his face. “I almost forgot. You asked my friend’s name and situation.”
With a sudden awful clarity Hester knew what he was about to say. She knew and she wanted to clap her hands over her ears to shut out the terrible truth. She didn’t do any such thing, of course. The need to always appear composed and in control of every situation was too deeply ingrained in her to be abandoned, even now. So she just stood there, her hands knotted at her waist, trumped once by him and now trumped again.
“You know him,” he went on, enjoying her discomfort, but oblivious to the true cause of her distress. “Horace Vasterling. A fine young man, as I’m sure you will agree. But he’s a little rusty when it comes to the social niceties. I have every confidence, however, that you can improve his chances in the cutthroat business of making a suitable match.”
Then he left, and Hester could do nothing but sit down on her chair with a jarring bump.
Horace Vasterling, here in her house. Her brother who already exhibited an unacceptable interest in her would be in her house, hoping to learn how to attract a bride. Were it not so utterly ludicrous a situation, she would put her head down and weep.
Weeping, however, was a complete waste of time, as she well knew. What she needed to do was think, to figure a way out of this hideous mess.
She did not understand Adrian Hawke. Why should he take such an interest in Horace—and in her? What was any of this to him? Was it
the man’s goal in life to wreak havoc upon her? First Dulcie’s ill-advised crush, then her own ridiculous reaction to him. And now he must throw Horace at her.
Good heavens, if Mr. Hawke ever learned about her true relationship to Horace, just think of the ruin he could effect upon her and her business.
That gave Hester pause, and for a moment she sat there, considering how dangerous her situation had just become. What to do? What to do?
In the end it was fairly simple. She must make Horace irresistible to other women while rebuffing him herself. Get her brother properly betrothed, collect her fee from Mr. Hawke, then take a well-deserved holiday away from London and society and especially Adrian Hawke.
Adrian felt pretty damned good—or well pleased with himself, as the Widow Poitevant might better term it. He’d shocked her, just as he’d intended. Those creamy cheeks of hers had heated with the softest shade of pink, and her green eyes had gone wide and dark, the clear color of bottle glass where normally they were more the shade of new sycamore leaves.
He’d been a little shocked himself when he’d first entered her parlor. Her house was so feminine, so unlike the austere persona she adopted in public. She’d not been that severe, judgmental woman today. Just as he’d hoped, he’d caught her unawares. She’d been relaxing in her pretty pink parlor wearing a pretty plum-colored dress, her unnecessary spectacles put aside, while her pretty hair tumbled freely around her shoulders.
God, that hair! It wouldn’t surprise him if her late husband had wed her just for the pleasure of touching that hair. It had taken all his willpower not to pick up one of those heavy, shining curls and wind it through his fingers. When she’d taken his proffered hand, he could have reached out with his other hand and lifted the wayward lock that had cascaded across her shoulder.
“Damnation!” he swore under his breath as unseemly desire surged through him. It was Horace who wanted the woman, he reminded himself. Not him. Horace who would have hours of her undivided attention to woo and win her, if that’s what he desired.
The Bridemaker Page 11
