She loved that he knew the names of the stars and the stories behind them. Whatever he had assumed to be stodgy, she had discovered to be incredibly interesting.
Like him.
His recurrent protests of not getting on well with the opposite sex were unsupported. Every interaction they’d shared had been enjoyable and entertaining. Certainly, he had not lacked female companionship at the Langford ball. Most likely, he’d continued to be popular, though she had managed to excuse herself from the last three social events.
Citing a terrible headache, she’d been allowed to retire to bed early each night rather than attend the balls she could not summon the spirit to attend. Only it wasn’t her head that ached. No, the true source was slightly lower—in her chest.
Lying in bed with the lights snuffed out was where she fully allowed herself to live in the moment of that kiss with the heat of Lucien’s mouth on hers, the tease of his tongue surprising and thrilling against her lips.
She shouldn’t have liked it so much, and yet how could she not?
It wasn’t her first kiss. There had been one other, not long after she’d come out, a man who apparently sampled but never settled. She was fortunate to have only lost a kiss. Rumor had it, another debutante that year had lost her reputation.
Lucien’s kiss had been far more decadent than Lord Soothton’s. But she still recalled how the simple kiss with Soothton had settled in her heart and blossomed into a powerful infatuation for the man. She also recollected how painful that fledgling bloom was to uproot when he ceased being interested the following day.
Every man she had ever thought to consider for a husband had hurt her, using her for one reason or another. At least Lucien was honest in what he wanted from her. Advice and direction in obtaining a wife.
That was exactly what she had agreed to give him, and she would. Which was why she was compiling this list, empty though it might be at present. But she intended to fill it with eligible young ladies who would be ideal for Lucien to marry.
Once he was bundled off to another woman, she could liberate her heart of this strange heaviness and move on with her life. She only hoped not everyone felt the way Amy did about the vow they had made at Lady Finch’s and that Hannah could at least still anticipate a future in the country with some of her closest friends.
Hannah hissed an aggravated sigh and took up her quill. Lady Alison had appeared interested in him. Too much so, considering how much she fluttered her lashes at him—one would think there was a bit of lint perpetually in her eye.
She was such a wretched woman, though. To subject Lucien to her seemed unfair. But then, she was well off and from a good family.
A drop of ink dripped from the quill and landed in a black splatter on the page.
Heavens, but this was harder than writing the letter to him when she’d gifted him the first volume of Pride and Prejudice. She set the quill in the inkwell with a plink.
And to even think about him kissing Lady Alison—his warm lips on hers, soft and gentle—was enough to make Hannah want to fling the inkwell across the room. The clean scent of his shaving soap that would embrace her as it had Hannah that night under the stars.
Hannah crumpled the note, tossed it forcefully into the small bin by her desk and then took out a fresh page. This time, she wrote Lady Alison’s name at the top, followed by Miss Closewell and several others. Each name Hannah wrote swiftly and without thought, before she allowed herself to acknowledge the myriad reasons to strike them off.
And there were a great many.
Lucien would doubtless be happy with any of these women, and she would be free once more to focus on her future as a spinster.
The door to her room opened, and Mary stepped in. “Miss Bexley, are you ready to dress for the dinner party?”
Hannah blew on the page to dry the ink and folded it in half before nodding to her maid. “Yes, I am as ready as I ever will be.”
“We must have you looking your very best. Mary rushed about the room, plucking through ribbons and jewelry as she muttered to herself, her cheeks flushed.
“I think you are far too eager for Lord Brightstone’s arrival,” Hannah told the other woman.
Mary paused, quirked an eyebrow and straightened. “Are you not excited? Have I misread your interest in Lord Brightstone?”
“I am merely helping him if you recall.” Hannah put her back to her maid so she could begin to style Hannah’s thick red hair.
Mary ran the brush through the long tresses with her usual care. “Your mother thinks there may be more there between you two,” she said diplomatically.
Hannah didn’t answer.
“There could be more there,” Mary added as she thrust a pin into Hannah’s hair to secure it.
No matter how light one’s touch was, pins always managed to stab and jab the scalp and it was miserably uncomfortable.
“I think I’ve been disappointed enough over the years,” Hannah said with finality.
A pin fell from Mary’s mouth and fell with a plop on the lush carpet. “You’re not giving up, are you, dearest Hannah?”
Dearest Hannah. It was the endearing term Mary had used when Hannah was a girl and one that she still used on occasion when there was a point to make.
Hannah dropped her gaze to avoid Mary’s heartbroken stare in the mirror. “I think you’re becoming as dramatic as my mother.”
“Maybe I want to see you happy,” Mary retorted, adding another wretched pin.
“I will be.” Hannah’s attention slid toward the letter. “Soon.”
But even as her gaze lingered on the list of names, her thoughts drifted toward Lord Brightstone. Lucien.
That kiss.
She need only get through this one night, present him with a selection of potential brides all ripe for a successful match, and she could escape his allure.
Or so she thought until she saw him downstairs that evening when he arrived for dinner in a well-tailored suit of midnight blue that made her wish to stare up at the sky with him and kiss until the stars danced around them.
But no matter how much she longed to relive that night once more, in her heart, she knew it would be best to see him off and be done with it.
To finally be free of the Earl of Brightstone.
Lucien had eagerly anticipated the dinner party at Westwich House since he discovered the invitation lying on the floor behind the hutch in the morning room three days prior. The mistake was one he knew his butler had not made. The old man was far too careful in his years of service to the Lambert family.
The tucked-away envelope was the work of Lady Brightstone, whose sharp, disapproving gaze followed Lucien out the door that evening. It was a stare he pointedly ignored.
Now, he strode into the pale blue drawing room of Hannah’s home, where candles lit against polished sconces filled the room with a golden glow. Nervous energy consumed him, making his palms overly warm in his gloves and restlessness burning in his muscles.
How many times had he thought of this exact moment in the last few days? Whatever the large number was, it was surpassed by how often he recalled that most wondrous kiss beneath the sky’s brightest star. He had hoped to see Hannah again at the next ball, but when she hadn’t shown, he’d assumed her absence would be for only one night.
Yet, no matter which ball or soiree or dinner party he’d attended, she was not there. He’d even chanced approaching Miss Honeyfield once, who confirmed Hannah had been unwell.