Lucien recognized Lord Ranford in the small detail and recalled how the other earl had danced with Hannah before Lucien on so many nights.
“And then there’s you,” Hannah continued. “You asked me for my assistance in making you more fashionable. And I said yes. Because I am kind. Because I am the woman who says yes where I can give support. But I am never the woman who is asked to be courted.”
“That isn’t true.” He reached for her, taking her gloved hand in his. “Allow me to court you.”
She jerked her hand from his. “I beg your pardon?”
Lucien tried to reach for her again, but she stepped back from his reach. “You are so lovely and fascinating,” he began, but the look of horror on her face stopped him.
“Don’t,” she whispered.
“Hannah, I don’t want to get to know these other ladies when I already know you so well. I can go to your father tomorrow—”
“Wouldn’t that please him greatly?” she said in a harsh voice.
He gazed at her in the wash of moonlight, her skin like marble, her dress shimmering. She was stunning, a being so exquisite that she was practically otherworldly. And yet, he still preferred her in the country, with her bonnet off and her hair in a loose knot falling around her face. “Would it…please you?”
“If you asked to court me?” she asked incredulously. “No.”
Her rejection was a dagger, and its pointed blade snagged a tender mark he hadn’t realized was still raw in his chest. Hannah was not the first person he had asked to court. There had been Lady Cecelia Stopford, who he discovered later had been too embroiled in family affairs to spare the time to be courted.
Then there had been Lady Martha Sinclair. She had hair black as the darkest part of the night and a matching heart to pair with it. He had been young, full of foolish pursuits and lofty ideals. His interest in her had been solely for her beauty, and her cruelty had been the price extolled. When he asked if she would allow him to court her, she had laughed in his face and told him he knew little of women and would make a terrible husband.
Seeing the tears sparkle in Hannah’s eyes now and how poorly he’d played his hand, he realized the truth behind those biting words. He truly did not know women. If he had, he would not have blundered things so hopelessly.
“Hannah…”
She shook her head, silencing him. “I neither want nor need your pity.”
“It isn’t pity.”
She swept his jacket from her shoulders and thrust it toward him. “Good evening, Lord Brightstone.”
And with that formal farewell, she departed the terrace, leaving him alone in the dark, desolate cold.
11
The ballroom blurred in a wash of tears as Hannah pushed back into the glowing heat inside. The pain in her chest was so great that it was difficult to breathe.
Finally, she had been asked to be courted. And it had been out of sheer pity.
Because her father had appealed to a gentleman on her behalf, claiming Lucien was drawing away her suitors. As if they would be coming in droves otherwise.
What humiliation. What misery.
She wished at that moment that she was home and could fling herself onto her bed to give in to the tears she could scarcely keep at bay. The ballroom was overly warm and made the heat in her cheeks scalding.
As if sensing a friend in need, Amy was immediately at her side. “Hannah, what is it?”
Using the last ounce of her self-control, Hannah swallowed the enormity of her hurt and faced her friend. “I have a terrible headache,” she lied. “I believe it would be best if I take my leave.”
Amy’s kind brown gaze lingered on Hannah, skeptical. But she did not question Hannah further. Instead, she said she would notify Hannah’s parents and disappeared in a swirl of russet silk. There was a cup of lemonade in her hand when she returned with Elizabeth at her side. Poor Jillian was still being occupied by the Duke of Dudley, and Lucy was on the dance floor with a devilishly handsome man none of them had seen before.
“Come, we’ll take you to collect your wrap and wait for your carriage with you.” Elizabeth curled an arm around Hannah in a brief embrace.
It was a small gesture of comfort that nearly collapsed Hannah’s tenuous control over the tide of her emotions. She merely nodded and allowed them to guide her toward the front of the townhouse.
This was why she wanted her future to be one surrounded by the love of friends rather than that of a man. Whatever existed between her and Lord Brightstone had been exhilarating, yes, but it had also been fraught with hurt and uncertainty. And mortification.
With friends, she did not have to worry about losing herself to her emotions. She did not have to worry about rejection. And most assuredly, she did not have to worry about a proposal of courtship out of pity.
Why had her father gone to Lucien? And why had Lucien taken it upon himself to ask to court her after admitting his guilt?
It was better for her to know from the start, of course. Better than her allowing Lucien to court her, becoming further invested in his affection, then realizing later that it had all been done because he felt bad for her. Because she was so pathetic, she could not attract a husband on her own.
Fresh tears stung her eyes.
Yes, a life spent in the company of her friends would be far better than one riddled with this unending agony.
The following morning, Hannah did not feel any better. If anything, she felt far worse. A night of sobbing into her pillow left her eyes gritty and swollen, which made what she read in the scandal sheets all the more miserable.
Lucien…no, she mustn’t think of him with such familiarity any longer—Lord Brightstone had officially been declared the most eligible bachelor of the season.
Lord B has been hiding in plain sight all these years and has finally allowed himself to truly be seen. The ladies are all aflutter over this blue-eyed earl whose estates include…
Hannah closed the paper and set it forcefully on the table.
“Hannah, dearest,” Lady Westwich said gently. “What is the matter? First, you leave your friend’s ball extremely early, your face is swollen as a modiste’s pincushion, and now even the newspaper offends.”
“Lord Brightstone asked me to allow him to court me last night,” Hannah confessed glumly.
Her mother sat upright in her chair, her expression radiant. “Did he? But why are you…”
“He asked because Father told him to.” Hannah stared at her untouched eggs rather than look at Lord Westwich.
“Henry,” her mother said in a reprimanding tone. “What came over you, asking him to do such a thing?”
“I did nothing of the sort.” A crinkle indicated her father had set aside his newspaper.
“He said you informed him he was chasing off my suitors.” Hannah looked up at her father, not appreciating the full depth of his betrayal until that moment.
“Well, he isn’t wrong,” Lady Westwich countered. “Your father said Lord Brightstone’s interest in you was from a purely assistance-based need. If he is determined to wed another woman, you needn’t keep him around. However, if he means to court you…”
“Because he felt sorry for me.” Her voice broke.