“Yes, Hannah,” her father said woodenly. “Can you think of someone who might help us even out the guests?”
Hannah curled the damp tip of her brush around a rose petal, bleeding carnation pink onto the paper. “Hmmm…I can’t possibly imagine who we could invite. Perhaps Lord Ecklesby?”
The irascible old baron had never wed, instead devoting his life to hatred and invectives. If nothing else, he would be entertaining. And even his unpleasant personality would be preferable to having—
“Lord Brightstone,” her mother exclaimed as though she had not even heard Hannah’s reply. “What a wonderful suggestion.”
“I didn’t say Lord Brightstone,” Hannah protested.
Her father looked at her, partly with curiosity, partly with horror at being in a position where Hannah had not answered as he had been instructed she would. He swallowed. “Eh…yes, I think Lord Brightstone will be the perfect addition.” His expression softened, and his voice returned to normal. “If that’s what you truly want, Hannah.”
Lady Westwich folded her arms over her chest and shot a glare at her husband.
Hannah sighed in resignation. In truth, it would be better to have Lord Brightstone in attendance so she could tutor him more in casual dinner conversation. Because really, that would be the only reason for him to attend.
Not that he genuinely needed assistance in how to speak with women when he’d been so very charming with her at Almack’s. Her pulse kicked up at the recollection of his strong hands about her waist, his face so close that she could discern small flecks of green near his irises and a light scar near his hairline over his left brow.
He had intrigued her and made her laugh, something she felt comfortable doing after he had told her he liked the sound of it. She still did not believe he didn’t mind that she talked so much. However, if he truly did not, he would be the only man to say so, aside from her father.
A memory flitted back to her from her debut ball when having emerged from the retiring room, she had happened upon two men she’d danced with earlier that evening—a dashing earl and a handsome viscount. Neither saw her standing there in the shadows, but both lamented at having to suffer through her talking nonstop through the course of the dance.
Sheer torture, one had called it, as the other laughed and nodded in agreement.
Heat suffused her face even now to recall that horrible moment. After that, she had tried desperately to squelch her laughter and her chatter. The attempt had lasted only a day when the suffocating force of her own self-imposed rules became too much to bear, and she practically exploded to Mary over everything that had happened.
Hannah had never tried again. There was no point in denying who she was when her personality was too strong, even for her own will to suppress.
“I think it will be fine to have Lord Brightstone,” Hannah finally replied.
The tension in her father’s shoulders relaxed, though his gaze remained somewhat concerned. Hannah schooled her features to keep him from detecting any reservations she held. And there were many.
“Wonderful.” Lady Westwich clapped her hands. “I’ll see to the invitations straight away.”
The butler entered the room with a salver held aloft in his right hand. “A letter has arrived for you, Miss Bexley.” Jones extended the tray toward her, and the brilliant afternoon light reflected off the polished silver.
Hannah lifted the letter, unable to quell the moment of breathless anticipation that suddenly seized her.
Miss Bexley,
Thank you for your generous gift. I avow to put it to good use.
With sincerity,
Brightstone
Brightstone. His signature was less formal than Lord Brightstone or the Earl of Brightstone. But nor was it so intimate as to reveal his Christian name.
His reply was easy and smooth, far more so than the letter she had spent the better part of the night composing once she’d returned from the ball. Her rubbish bin had been overflowing with balled-up bits of paper, some too prim, some too florid and others too flowery.
“Who has written to you and left you with such a smile on your face?” Her mother peered at the letter.
Hannah tried to pull it from Lady Westwich’s view, but the baroness was too quick in her eagerness.
“Lord Brightstone,” she crowed after having read the neatly slanted name.
Hannah folded the note to place in her pocket in time to see the victory cross her mother’s features as she nodded to her husband with a smugness that said, “I told you so.”
“Do excuse me.” Hannah slipped the painting apron off. “I must prepare my gown for Lord and Lady Langston’s ball.”
“Yes, yes,” her mother said distractedly as she no doubt envisioned a future with an elaborate wedding at St. George’s Church followed by at least a dozen grandchildren.
But Hannah knew there would be no wedding, and it was better that way.
The ball tonight was to be at Elizabeth’s parents’ home at Langston Place, and Lord Brightstone would be in attendance. Hannah anticipated the event with equal parts excitement and dread.
She recalled how the ladies watched the earl now that his fine figure was apparent in his immaculately tailored clothing, and more than one eligible debutante had watched him sweep Hannah through the waltz with hungry anticipation in her eyes.
He would be popular at the ball, which was exactly what he wanted. And exactly what she wanted.
Why then did it feel as though a stone was lodged where her heart ought to be?
The ballroom at Langston Place was filled with revelers in a resplendent array of heavy velvets to ward away the brutal winter chill that seemed to grow colder as the evening progressed. Lucien barely felt winter’s icy reach as he led his mother into the ballroom, scanning the surrounding faces to determine if Miss Bexley was already in attendance. As her friend’s parents were hosting the ball, he anticipated she would have arrived early.
“I trust you will have no difficulty engaging ladies to speak with this evening,” his mother said as he guided her toward a cluster of her stuffy friends.
“Why do you say that?” he absently asked as he located Lady Elizabeth and Lady Jillian and continued to seek out a head of glossy red hair near the women.
“Because every lady in the room is staring at you, my son,” Lady Brightstone replied.
He took in the bold gazes of several women, who demurely lowered their eyes when he met them. Yes, many women were openly watching him, silently staking their interest.
The banter he’d engaged in with Miss Bexley during their dance had been enjoyable. He hoped it would be as much so with other ladies of the ton. Maybe he had been wrong about his marriage fears this whole time.
Perhaps it could truly be something pleasant.
He escorted his mother to Lady Arksford, her dearest friend, and left the two whispering frantically to one another as he pretended that their quiet words weren’t about him. That was when he saw her—Miss Bexley with her fiery hair piled in curls atop her head and bound with a length of emerald-green ribbon. She wore a matching frock that made her skin glow like fresh cream.
A dance with her first would be best. To obtain several last-minute tips on how best to speak and behave. And, of course, to thank her for the book.
Doubtless, the missive he penned was inadequate. He’d written it several dozen times, foolishly nervous as he weighed each word. It had taken the better part of an hour to decide how best to sign it.