The Bridemaker

by Rexanne Becnel

  “Shall I leave the lamp, sir?”

  “Thank you.”

  He waited until the man left before he slit the seal. His hands shook and his vision was hampered as much by his bleary state as by the lack of bright light. Damnation! Was it from Hester?

  It was.

  Her signature, so refined and feminine, caught his eyes first. He squinted but the neatly slanted letters swam together and he could make out little of the brief note. What did it say?

  He closed his eyes, trying to stop his head from spinning. Then a scent of lilies came to him—real or imagined he could not say, for it was faint and fleeting. Hester, he thought, lifting the single page to his nose. He kept his eyes closed as memories of their encounter flooded over him. Hester of the lily flavoring, too faint to be perfume. It must come from her soap.

  He should send her a gift of fine French soaps, lily-scented. And a pot of lilies with it. White ones. No, pink ones because she was so sweetly, deliciously pink.

  A surge of blood rushed to his loins, and he grew hard despite his state of inebriation. God save the queen but she was driving him mad!

  He quit the terrace on unsteady feet, made unsteadier by the erection that strained painfully within his breeches, and sought the privacy of his third-level bedchamber. There with two lamps turned up high and a six-stem candelabra blazing he made out her message.

  Dear Mr. Hawke,

  After several hours’ reflection, I have concluded that perhaps we should talk and clear the air between us. If you agree, I propose we meet at one or another of this week’s galas where the security of our mutual friends will guarantee a comfortable setting. I would have peace between us.

  Respectfully, Hester Poitevant.

  Clear the air? Peace between us? Adrian fell back in his chair, his head spinning from the effort of reading and understanding her letter. From heady anticipation to crushing disappointment he plummeted. Those were not the words of a woman planning an assignation.

  From beyond his window he heard the rumble of a night cart, and felt the cool caress of an easterly wind. But his besotted brain was stuck on Hester and her stiffly circumspect note.

  Hester tended to be excessively circumspect in everything she did. Her dress; her dedication to her clients. Given that, it was unlikely she would send him a suggestive note. Certainly no one intercepting this missive could read anything carnal into it.

  He could, though.

  Yes, he wanted to clear the air between them—and be naked as they did so.

  He wanted peace between them—the peace of sexual exhaustion after he’d made love to her every way he knew how. Twice over.

  He stared at his bed, imagining her in it clothed in nothing but that fragrant mass of silky hair. He breathed deeply and this time when his head spun he let it, relishing the whirling spiral, the out-of-control physicality of it.

  Somehow he staggered to the bed, sprawling fully clothed across it. He imagined Hester beneath him, so real he could almost feel her, and he groaned with desire. Once more he brought her letter to his nose and inhaled. Yes, lilies.

  But as he spun in that cyclone of desire and need and insane longing, that sweet, sweet scent turned sweeter still. The musk of aroused female. The aroma he’d inhaled in Hester’s parlor when she opened herself to him.

  He thrust his hips convulsively against the thick down mattress.

  By damn she wanted to meet with him. That was something. And once they met, anything was possible given her innate passion. This time they would finish what they’d begun and he would finally have her. Finally…

  He sank down into the bed, into a deep heated slumber. Finally he would have her…

  The next evening Hester dressed as she always had, except for the spectacles. She’d decided to abandon them once and for all. But the spruce dress buttoned to her chin; the scraped-back hair, sans curls or snood or any other conceits: these she clung to. Her disguise of respectable widowhood had never fit her so ill. Yet on this night she needed that disguise more than she ever had.

  But even with her facade so firmly in place, she feared that anyone who looked closely would see she had changed. Yesterday had altered her in a way so deep and essential that she could not imagine that change invisible to others. So she took special care to appear even primmer and more unattractive than usual. Could she give her face spots and make her teeth crooked, she would have been tempted to do so.

  Mrs. Dobbs noticed at once the renewed strictness of her appearance. “Oh, you’ve gone back to the old way of dressing your hair.” She shook her head. “If you like I can help you with a softer style.”

  “Thank you, but I haven’t the time.”

  The older woman watched Hester climb into her carriage, and waved as Mr. Dobbs drove her off. Then Mrs. Dobbs shooed the dogs out of the garden and back into the house.

  “I don’t understand that girl. Two men coming to call on her—three if you count that dreadful Bennett fellow, though I cannot think him the sort to have anything honorable on his mind.”

  In the kitchen the two animals looked up at her, heads cocked, tails wagging. “She could have any man she wants, you know. Any one of them. I’m just hoping she decides which one she wants before it’s too late.”

  Hester arrived late at the Ainsleys’ card party. She was a knot of nervous energy, strung as taut as the high string on a violin.

  It’s unlikely he’ll be here. Of all places, Adrian Hawke should least like to be entertained at George Bennett’s townhouse.

  On the other hand, though he was always considerate of Dulcie’s feelings, Adrian took a perverse pleasure in tormenting her brother.

  The gathering was in full swing when the butler announced Hester. Both parlors and the drawing room had been rearranged with card tables scattered about. The dining room boasted a mammoth buffet in the French manner, and the terrace had been set as a picnic for outdoor dining. Lady Ainsley worked very hard at her social obligations, and it showed. For a family so sorely pressed by a lack of funds, she certainly displayed no sense of restraint. A hundred candles or more and all beeswax, even the ones outdoors. Flowers everywhere in huge crystal vases. More people than there were chairs to accommodate them and enough victuals for twice as many people. And of course punch, wine, and more substantial spirits for the gentlemen.

  But no Adrian Hawke, Hester surmised within the first thirty seconds of her arrival.

  She let out a shaky breath of relief.

  No. She wasn’t relieved, she was furious.

  No. She was mortified.

  What had possessed her to send such a blatantly worded invitation to a man whom she had no reason at all to trust? She knew what he wanted from her, and discretion wasn’t necessarily a part of it.

  She pressed her hands to her cheeks. How could she have been so foolish?

  She turned, wanting only to escape. But Dulcie spied her and waved. At the same time her unpleasant brother George looked up from his position beside the mantel— the one with his oversized painted likeness hanging above it—and she knew she was trapped. At least Dulcie got to her first. “I’m so glad you’ve come. Will you play cards first, or eat?”

  “Oh. Eat I think. Yes.” Her pasted-on smile only stiffened when George halted before her. “Hullo, Mrs. Poitevant,” he said in his typically overbearing manner.

  “Lord Ainsley.” She made a brief curtsy. What did he want?

  “I’m glad you’re here. You too, Dulls. We’ve got some planning to do.”

  Hester was already in a state of agitation, so his casual insult to his sister pushed her right over the edge. “Don’t call her that.” Though she kept her voice low, the tone was forged of steel.

  “What?” He drew up and stared at her as if he could not believe she had the effrontery to correct him.

  “I said, don’t call your sister ”Dulls.“ ”

  Poor Dulcie seemed to shrink in the face of this confrontation. Indeed, Hester didn’t know why she’d chosen now to confro
nt Lord Ainsley, and in his own front parlor. But once set on her course, she would not back down.

  His face grew rigid in a frown. “Dulls is my pet name for her. Always has been.”

  “Only when you wish to deflate her confidence.”

  “Why should I wish to do that? God knows I’m breaking my back trying to get her married off.”

  Dulcie clutched Hester’s arm. “It’s all right.”

  “No, it’s not.” Hester faced down Lord Ainsley, strangely unafraid of the blustering oaf. Let him fire her; she didn’t really care. “Your treatment of her is inexplicable. First you belittle her; then you try to push her on the worst possible choice of a husband. Isn’t that why you came pounding on my door yesterday, to berate me regarding your old school chum?”

  His mouth twisted into an ugly sneer. “I’m well within my rights to tell you who to push her on. You needn’t understand why I make the choices I do for her. All you have to do is follow my orders.”

  They’d begun to attract attention, but Hester didn’t care. The man was a selfish clod. Dulcie would be better off eloping with a street sweeper than marrying the sort of man George Bennett would force on her.

  But Lady Ainsley cared. As though she were acutely attuned to her wretched son’s wretched moods, she materialized beside him. With a talon-tight grip on his arm, she forced George to look at her.

  “Not now,” she hissed under her breath, all the while smiling as happily as if someone had just complimented her on her son’s charming manners. “And not here.” Then giving Hester a sharp look that promised a later comeuppance for this disturbance, she dragged George away.

  “Oh, dear,” Dulcie moaned, wringing her lace handkerchief in her nervous hands. “I do so hate public scenes like that.”

  So did Hester. So then why, she wondered, had she leaped into just such a scene when she knew she could not possibly win?

  “Are you all right?” a man asked, coming up between them. Hester’s heart leaped. But the voice did not have the peculiar tones unique to a certain American. That was for the best, she told herself. The last thing she needed was Adrian Hawke thrust into the midst of all this. She turned gratefully to see her own brother there. What a dear man he was, even dearer to her when she considered that he could have turned out exactly like George Bennett. “Horace, how glad I am to see you. But you need not worry. We are just fine. Aren’t we, Dulcie?”

  Dulcie nodded, but it was hardly convincing. Hester sighed. “Lord Ainsley and I are not in total agreement on a particular subject. We were wrong to have discussed it here, however. Especially in Dulcie’s presence.”

  Creased in concern, Horace’s amiable face turned to Dulcie. “Not to worry, Miss Bennett. Mrs. Poitevant is the most self-possessed, competent woman I’ve ever known. Your brother’s ill-temper should be of no concern to any of us. Especially tonight.”

  Dulcie looked up at him. “Especially tonight?”

  He smiled. “Especially tonight, for we will need all our powers of concentration for the card games.” He tucked her hand in his arm and gave it a comforting pat. “This is not like dancing where one may move through the steps automatically, all the while thinking on other matters. Oh, no. When we sit down to play cards, we must be sharp and focused. Don’t you agree?”

  In the face of his determined cheerfulness, Dulcie’s worry seemed to ease. She gave him a little smile. “I suppose you are right.”

  Once more he patted her hand. “Of course I am. What do you say the three of us get up a table for a game of whist?”

  Watching her brother work so hard to put Dulcie’s disquiet to rest made Hester inordinately proud of him. What a kind man he was. Despite the briefness of their acquaintance, she’d come swiftly to recognize his generous nature. But never had it been so rampantly displayed as now. It filled her chest with warmth and sisterly pride. And with love, she realized.

  “You two go along,” she said, smiling at them. Really, but they made a very nice couple. Certainly Dulcie’s face glowed tonight with admiration as she looked up at Horace.

  “Very well, then,” Horace said. “But before the night is done we must play a game. If not whist, then loo or quinze. Oh, and I’ve a surprise for you,” he added to Hester as he and Dulcie turned to go.

  A surprise? But Hester was too worried about her own brittle temper tonight to wonder overlong about Horace’s surprise. Needing to collect herself, she circled the room, heading for the refreshment table. But all the while she berated herself.

  How could she of all people have allowed herself to become embroiled in a contretemps with George Bennett? Though Lady Ainsley had interceded at a most fortuitous moment, Hester feared the subject was not done with. George Bennett had become fixated on Adrian Hawke and how he might profit from their association. He fully expected Hester to seal that association, using Dulcie as the cement.

  Thank goodness Adrian Hawke hadn’t come tonight.

  But of course, he had come. Within moments of escaping George Bennett, Hester turned to see Adrian in the foyer conversing with some older man. She froze in the act of reaching for a glass of punch from the silver tray a blue-liveried manservant held before her. She should not be so affected by Adrian, yet she was.

  Likewise he froze at the sight of her. He recovered first, however, when the man he was with turned to follow his companion’s gaze. Adrian said something to him and the man smiled and nodded at Hester.

  At once Hester’s cheeks heated to crimson. Oh, dear, had he told the man about her? About what they’d done? Surely not.

  Caught in the quagmire of fear and hope and fear again, she stared as they approached. She didn’t recognize the other man, though he had a vaguely familiar look to him. As they drew nearer, however, Hester’s attention focused back on Adrian. What would he say to her? What would she say to him?

  Then to make matters even more horrible, she realized that she was growing increasingly warm. Distressingly warm. Especially down there.

  Oh, no. Her heart beat faster, her breaths came shallower, and in her nether regions she grew hot and moist.

  It was the same melting sensation Adrian had roused in her before. Only this time he wasn’t even touching her—except with his eyes.

  In a panic she broke the hold of his too bold, too knowing gaze and focused instead on his companion. The man moved slowly as befitted his age. He had a pleasant demeanor, but he needed a haircut, she vaguely noted. His waistcoat was a little shabby, and a trifle snug across his corpulent middle.

  Too shabby… Too snug… With a gasp of horror Hester stumbled backward. It couldn’t be!

  “Pardon me,” someone said, moving out of her way. Yet still Hester continued to back up. Not him. Not her father!

  But it was. He was Horace, except older. Rosy cheeked, softly plump, with that same affable expression, though grayer and with whiskers.

  “No,” she said, unable to look any longer at the man who’d abandoned her, who’d forgotten she even existed. It only made matters worse that he was smiling, and that he looked nothing like what she’d imagined.

  She switched her horrified stare to Adrian, who frowned as they drew nearer. “Mrs. Poitevant—”

  “No.” She held up her hand as if warding off the devil, for indeed that’s how it felt. The devil of her past had come to destroy her tenuous future. Already he’d wreaked havoc on her present.

  Unable to make any explanation, she clutched her handkerchief to her mouth, shook her head at Adrian, then turned and fled.

  CHAPTER 15

  Adrian’s anticipation turned to cinders when he saw the look on Hester’s face. He had her letter in his pocket and a perverse sort of hope in his heart. But he’d been uncertain enough about greeting her that he’d decided to include a third party, a buffer of sorts. Cowardly, he supposed, and obviously not a good idea, judging from her reaction.

  Like him, Horace’s father stared in silence as she fled the room. “That is Mrs. Poitevant?” He paused. “I thought Horac
e said she was a proper sort of person.”

  “She is,” Adrian muttered.

  “Humph. Well, I can’t say as I’ve ever understood the peculiarities of Londoners. Especially the women. So,” he added, as if dismissing Hester’s odd behavior. “I assume Horace left us together for a reason. Some business about wool. But take heed, young man. I can’t say as how I’m particularly interested in linking my resources to someone who plans to leave the country as soon as he’s got hold of my money.”

  “I don’t want your money,” Adrian retorted, trying to focus on the subject at hand. At the moment he didn’t give a damn whether Edgar Vasterling joined his venture or not. Instead he wanted to go after Hester, to discover why she’d sent that letter and then run away as soon as she saw him.

  He scanned the room, searching for a glimpse of her. Instead he saw Horace staring at him like a hopeful puppy. Stifling a curse Adrian reined in his rampant emotions. What was wrong with him? Since when did he let his fascination with some woman distract him from business? His whole purpose for returning to England was to show these people that they needed him more than he needed them. He would find Hester later. By damn, but he would follow her home if he had to. But for now he must do what he’d promised Horace he’d do: convince old man Vasterling to throw in his lot with Adrian.

  “Perhaps I haven’t explained my company sufficiently, Lord Vasterling. While one aspect of the venture requires capital investments, the bulk of it—the most important part of it—requires a reliable source of wool. Raw wool, carded wool, spun wool, or woven. There’s a place for every level of involvement, from the shepherd who runs a flock of twenty to the gentleman farmer with hundreds of sheep and a cadre of spinners and weavers.”

  The elder Vasterling shrugged. “If anyone can join your group, I hardly see why you need me. England is full of sheep.”