“I see no deficiencies based on our conversation tonight.” She spoke softly to ensure their conversation remained private. “There are certain things you can do to keep the discussion flowing. And you can get away with practically anything with a well-timed wink.” She winked at him in a demonstration.
“And that is exactly why I wondered if you might consider helping me again.”
The corners of her smile seemed to wilt, or perhaps he had imagined it. After all, if she did not wish to aid him, she need only decline. Before he could gauge for certain, she focused on the path of attendees loitering before them.
Lucien steered her around a woman in a ghastly orange dress and painted red lips in an obvious attempt to warrant attention.
“You see, I am somewhat clumsy in the art of light conversation.” He winced. “You might have noticed.”
“You say what you think,” Miss Bexley replied without glancing at him. “I think it’s rather admirable.”
“Unfortunately, most do not share that opinion.”
“I must be honest with you, Lord Brightstone.” She stopped and gazed up at him with the force of her stunning blue eyes. “I am hardly the one to instruct you on matters of polite conversation. More times than not, I talk far too much and am not exactly adept at restraining my emotions. What’s more, I have failed to attract any suitors of my own. Whatever expertise you may think I possess, you would do well to realize I truly am lacking.”
It was her second mention of her inability to attract suitors, an incredulous phenomenon in his eyes.
“How is that?” He stared down at her for a long moment, taking in the flush of her cheeks, the burning conviction in her eyes. How he longed for the stiffness of her hair to be once more unbound and free as it had been when she’d broken his fence in her endeavors to rescue the barn cat.
Perhaps he had been going about this all wrong. Maybe what he needed was directly in front of him the whole time.
Bully to his mother and her unwarranted criticism. At that moment, he knew exactly what he wanted. No, not what. Who.
He wanted Miss Bexley.
She blinked up at him. “Many reasons and truly, none of it matters. I have no plans to wed.”
“Don’t you?” he asked, even as his conversation with Lord Ranford came back to him.
That lot seems to have no interest in marriage.
Miss Bexley’s pointed chin jutted out with stubborn defiance. “I don’t. I prefer not to bow to a man’s bidding and be subjected to a mother-in-law’s displeasure regularly.”
Lucien couldn’t argue with such a perfectly stated argument. Women were the property of men as surely as any manor house, and if society passed judgment, mothers could be far worse.
Most especially his own.
Still, he could not quell his rising disappointment.
He nodded slowly. “I do understand. However, it is a pity to deprive the members of the ton such vivacity and beauty.”
Miss Bexley scoffed. “And you say you need instructions on idle chatter and flattering women.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Sirrah, you are a flirt.” She tapped her fan on his forearm, and her gaze lingered on him for a heart-stopping moment.
A flirt?
He frowned. What he had said was simply the truth, not flirtation.
They had nearly finished walking the perimeter of the ballroom. Their time was almost up, and urgency nudged him to make his request once more. “Would you perhaps please reconsider instructing me on small talk? I tend to be at a loss as to what to say.”
Miss Bexley bit that full lower lip and regarded him.
“I genuinely do need help, and you were of such great assistance before,” he added with a pleading expression.
She sighed. “Very well, but only because you said you liked my laugh.”
“Are you flirting now?” he asked, not entirely certain but well aware how very much he enjoyed it.
In response, she laughed. “I’ll be at Almack’s on Wednesday. If you care for instruction, be there.”
“I will,” he promised. “Thank you.”
She nodded primly and gave him a small curtsy before departing to join her friends, who had gathered in an intimate circle once more. Suddenly, he was anticipating the season for the first time since he was obliged to attend these droll functions. And that eagerness had everything to do with Miss Bexley.
5
Candles glittered in the elaborate chandeliers overhead. Almack’s was filled to the brim with the best the ton had to offer, or so was determined by the Patronesses, who only granted vouchers to the exclusive establishment to those they felt deserving.
Somehow Hannah had managed to stay in their good graces, though heavens, it did take effort.
It was nearly eleven o’clock when a light supper—if one could call buttered bread and dry cake supper—would be served, and the doors closed. Except that Lucien had not yet arrived.
Hannah glanced about once more, hating the crush of disappointment in her chest. He had lingered in her mind like a stubborn burr, the spines of their conversation nestled securely against her brain.
He liked her laugh.
No one liked her laugh, least of all her. But he did.
He also thought her vivacious. And beautiful.
Stop.
It was a cycle of thoughts that had churned incessantly since Lord Ranford’s ball several days earlier.
“What do you think, Hannah?” Jillian asked.
Hannah blinked and refocused on her friend, realizing she had been asked a question. “Um, yes, I think that would do nicely.”
Jillian shared a look with Elizabeth and Amy, and the three giggled delicately behind their fans.
“What is it?” Hannah groaned.
“You, my dear, are distracted,” Amy teased gently, pointing a silk-gloved finger at her.
Elizabeth grinned. “Jillian asked what we might do if the room were to rotate suddenly, so the dance floor was on the ceiling.”
“Well.” Hannah laughed. “I suppose that would not do nicely.”
“No, indeed,” Jillian replied, her lips curling up in a wide smile.
The clock struck eleven.
Amy eyed the clock, setting the small gems in her blonde hair sparkling. “Lucy hasn’t made it yet.”
“She never makes it,” Elizabeth replied. “But do you know who has?” She gazed in the direction of the Duke of Dudley, the man Jillian’s father intended for her to wed.
Jillian’s head fell back with exasperation. “I do wish my father would leave me be about this marriage business.”
“At least he is handsome,” Amy said.
It was true. The man had thick, dark hair and a lean frame. What Elizabeth politely omitted was that the man’s immensely long nose was often pointed aloft in the air with haughty pride.
“Too bad he knows it,” Jillian murmured.
“It could be a romantic match.” Elizabeth swept a hand down her pink ballgown, the movement somewhat anxious.
“Now you sound like my mother.” Hannah shot Elizabeth an exasperated look. “And why are you so nervous suddenly?”
“Nervous?” Elizabeth squared her shoulders. “I am not nervous.”
No sooner had she spoken than Lord Darington walked by with his dark gaze locked on her. The delicate muscles in Elizabeth’s neck stood out, and she swallowed hard.