The Bridemaker

by Rexanne Becnel

“And yours,” the girl said, turning to her with gratitude shining in her eyes. “You were right, Mrs. Poitevant, about everything. Good posture.” She straightened. “A confident attitude.” She thrust her chin out. “And this dress. My hair.” She snatched up Hester’s hands. “I feel like Cinderella, and you are my fairy godmother. I can never, never thank you enough. Never!”

  “Yes. Well.” Hester gnawed her lower lip. She hated the situation she’d been put in. “You should know that your mother is very upset about Mr. Hawke’s attentions to you. He… His circumstances do not fall within the parameters she is prepared to approve in a potential son-in-law.”

  Another huge sigh. “I know, I know. But if Mother were to meet him I’m certain she would change her mind. I’m convinced of it. He is so handsome. And so kind.”

  And devious and willing to use an innocent girl to annoy that girl’s horrible brother. But Hester swallowed any further remarks on that subject. Dulcie would never believe her. Besides, she would find out soon enough how wrong she was when it came to convincing her mother to accept him. “We’ll talk more about this tomorrow,” she said. “For now, however, I believe your mother is waiting for you in the foyer.”

  “But aren’t you coming with us?”

  “No. You’re going home with your mother. The second carriage will carry me home.”

  “What of George?”

  Hester resisted rolling her eyes. “Your brother went home some time ago.”

  “Oh. I wondered if he might have. I saw him glaring at me. He is always so exacting. But then he was gone.”

  Yes, gone, as in three sheets to the wind.

  But Hester only patted Dulcie’s hand. “Run along, dear. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  “I suppose I must. But I shan’t be discouraged, no matter what Mother says. Or George.” She squared her shoulders and again lifted her chin, showing Hester her very best form. “It shall all work out in the end. You’ll see.”

  After Dulcie left, Hester remained in the hall niche collecting herself, considering her next move. It appeared she’d opened up a Pandora’s box with the heretofore repressed Dulcie. One little taste of success at a ball and the girl had become a whole new person. What would happen if her family crushed that newly blossomed spirit? Or if Adrian Hawke did?

  What a stew she found herself in.

  She mulled over her choices. She would have no influence with Lady Ainsley or her son, that was plain. George Bennett hated Adrian Hawke for particular reasons known only to him. Mrs. Bennett hated the man for general reasons: he simply was not good enough to suit her.

  Likewise Hester doubted she would have any impact on the starry-eyed Dulcie.

  That left Adrian Hawke.

  A little thrill of fear shivered its way up her spine. Did she dare approach him and ask him to leave Dulcie out of his battle with Lord Ainsley?

  She frowned at her own perversity. What sort of an attitude was that? Did she dare approach him? She was well within her rights to approach him on the subject. She was not afraid to speak to him on any subject-to anyone else, for that matter—so long as her convictions were strong.

  And in this case her convictions were strong indeed. Any association with Mr. Hawke spelled disaster for Dulcie. His attentions to her were insincere and therefore cruel. Since Dulcie’s welfare in society was Hester’s concern, it was plain that she must speak to the man.

  And there was no time like the present.

  Bucking up her courage, Hester started for the ballroom. People had begun to make their way into the breakfast, and she was delayed several times by acquaintances inviting her to dine with them. But aside from pausing to smile approvingly at Anabelle and her perfectly acceptable escort, Hester made her apologies and moved on.

  She must find Mr. Hawke before he sat down to eat. She wanted to get this over with tonight, before she lost her nerve.

  She found him in the nearly empty ballroom, speaking with a pair of men well known in society. She heard him say, “With a constant supply of raw wool my textile cooperative can maintain a consistent level of work for the carders, sorters, washers, spinners, and weavers.”

  “And you think you can keep employment steady year round?” Lord Thigpen asked. He was one of the richest, most tightfisted men in London.

  “That’s our intention. Good for the workers; good for the textile market; therefore good for us.”

  “Harumph. Well. It makes a certain sort of sense.”

  “I thought you might agree.”

  Hester frowned. Adrian Hawke certainly was persuasive in his manner. If he could sway the thinking of a pinchpenny like Lord Thigpen, what chance did a starry-eyed innocent like Dulcie Bennett have should he turn those powers of persuasion on her?

  Finally the men parted amid much backslapping and a promise from Mr. Hawke to meet with Lord Thigpen tomorrow for cigars. This was her chance.

  Once the two men left she stepped into the now empty ballroom. As soon as he saw her he stopped.

  “Mrs. Poitevant.” He stared at her in such a searching manner Hester felt herself begin to color. “Are you lost?”

  Was that a smirk on his face? A surge of anger renewed her strength of purpose. If he thought good looks and a teasing manner carried any weight with her, he was sadly mistaken.

  “I’m quite familiar with the arrangements of the Soameses’ townhouse, Mr. Hawke.”

  “I see. Then I can only assume you have come looking for me. Could that be true?”

  Ooh, but she wanted to slap the amusement off his face! If pure cheek were a virtue, the man would qualify for sainthood. But Hester was used to men who thought too highly of themselves. She gave him an utterly false smile. “Yes. I would like a private word with you. If that’s convenient?”

  “But of course.” He gestured toward a gilded lyre-back settee with striped cushions. “Shall we?”

  “Thank you, but no. This will not take long.”

  “Very well.” He crossed his arms and waited, his legs splayed in an aggressively masculine stance. Intimidating. At least meant to be intimidating.

  With an effort she repressed her outrage, or as much of it as she could manage. “I am concerned about a friend of mine. Dulcie Bennett is—”

  “Dulcie Bennett is your friend! And here I thought you merely in her employ. Or perhaps in her brother’s employ?”

  She met him stare for stare. “You are partially right. I am hired to help her make a better season than she did last year. But I am also her friend, and I don’t want to see her hurt.”

  “I’m sure no one does. So why come to me? I only met the girl tonight. We danced. Surely you cannot construe that as any sort of threat.”

  She tried not to glare at him as she considered her words. Best to be completely candid. “You asked her to dance just to annoy her brother.”

  “Did I?” At some point his eyes had turned from dark and hard to a brilliant, taunting blue.

  It flustered her. “You know you did. I watched you do it, and I watched you watch him grow more and more furious over it.”

  “What? Good old Georgie furious with his old Eton chum? Surely, Mrs. Poitevant, you misread the situation.”

  “I did not misread it!” she exclaimed, stamping her foot. A mistake, she realized. For losing her temper only increased his amusement.

  “Perhaps old George—or should I call him Lord Ainsley now? No, I’ll call him old George. Perhaps old George harbors some ill will toward me. But I assure you, he has no cause to. You may also rest assured that I do not hold Miss Bennett in anything but the highest regard.”

  Hester blew out a breath. “While I am most relieved to hear that, Mr. Hawke, as long as you encourage the girl in any way I believe you will end up hurting her. Even now she is very likely being harangued for having paid you so much attention.”

  Their gazes held in an awkward sort of competition. She would not back down.

  But he would not give in. “It seems then that we have reached an impasse. For
I intend to pay my compliments to whomsoever I please. Your Miss Bennett is likewise free to accept or decline any invitation extended to her. As are you and any other lady of the ton. By the way, do you dance? I didn’t notice you on the floor tonight.”

  Hester shoved her spectacles back up her nose. “That is neither here nor there. Perhaps I should be plainer, Mr. Hawke. Dulcie Bennett has developed a partiality for you, as I’m sure you have detected. But we both know that men like you are not interested in girls like her. I am asking you not to lead her on and not to use her as a tool to strike out at Lord Ainsley. She does not deserve to be treated so.”

  “It may come as a surprise to you, Mrs. Poitevant, but whatever it is you’ve taught Dulcie, it has taken. No matter how you choose to categorize me, I am no different from any other gentleman. I find her a pleasant and charming young woman, an excellent dancer as well, very quick on her feet. Rather than berate me for using her, perhaps you should credit her—and yourself— for a job well done. Now, is there anything else?”

  If blood could boil, Hester’s would have done so. She couldn’t believe he refused to admit he was using Dulcie against George. And now the ingrate somehow had turned his less than honorable behavior into a reflection on her. A flattering reflection, no less.

  Except that they both knew it was a lie.

  She drew herself up, glaring daggers at him. “You leave me no choice but to reveal your cruel plan to Miss Bennett and—”

  “Why don’t you admit what’s really bothering you, Mrs. Poitevant? I know what you do for a living. You match up the spoiled daughters of the arrogant nobility to appropriate men of even more arrogance. What happens if one of your girls marries down? Horrors!” He pretended to shudder. “Dancing with a no-name tradesman, and from America, no less.”

  He advanced on her, one slow step at a time. “Despite your protestations, you don’t give a damn about her getting hurt. All you care about is the match she makes, about keeping people like me out of your exalted society—”

  “That’s not true!”

  “About your reputation if you fail,” he continued, forcing her to step back as he advanced. “And the fee you’re likely to lose.” He stopped mere inches from her. Hester tried to back away. But she came up against the settee and sat down hard.

  He leaned forward, placing a hand atop the wooden settee back on each side of her shoulders. “Did I leave anything out?”

  Hester could not reply. Outrage warred with terror. How dared he treat her so?

  But a long-ago memory intruded as well, the memory of being stalked just so by a man she had wanted to be stalked by. A bittersweet memory of being happily trapped in a chair very like this. A handsome young man with fire in his eyes had leaned nearer and nearer. Only when she had been breathless and about to burst from anticipation had he dipped his head and kissed her. He had kissed her, and for those few moments it had been glorious.

  Was Adrian Hawke going to kiss her now?

  Did she want him to?

  She licked her lips and his gaze flicked down to them. In her ears her blood roared ferociously, heating her through and through. The answer was yes. She wanted him to kiss her. Now.

  She licked her lips again. His face lowered.

  Then abruptly he pushed upright and stepped back.

  Hester sucked in a greedy breath of air, as if she had forgotten to breathe. Why had he stopped?

  Then she blinked and was assaulted at once by reality. Thank goodness he had stopped. Good gracious! What had she been thinking? From arguing with the man to wanting him to kiss her—

  No. She straightened up on the settee, clenching her jaws in rigid denial. She had not wanted him to kiss her. Not at all. It had just been an aberrant memory, probably fueled by the lateness of the hour.

  But she could swear he’d been considering kissing her. She could swear it! Thank heaven he had not.

  Adrian stared down at the woman pressed back into the settee, and backed up another step. Behind her spectacles her eyes were round with shock—shock and fear which he had put there.

  Already she thought him a crude upstart, an unsuitable addition to her social sphere. So what had he done? He’d gone ahead and acted like a coarse brute, intimidating her and in the process proving her right.

  He suppressed a groan at his perversity. Why had he gotten so worked up by her accusation? He didn’t care about her opinion, even if it was damned close to the truth. Nor had he been considering kissing her, even though she must think he’d been going to.

  Even though she probably needed kissing very badly.

  He raked a hand through his hair even as his eyes raked over her. Kiss her! Not likely. Hester Poitevant wasn’t his type, not in looks, nor in attitude.

  Gritting his teeth, he gave her a curt bow. “I apologize for my temper, Mrs. Poitevant. I have overstepped my bounds. I assure you, it will not happen again.”

  Then he quit the room, and quit the grandiose house as well. He called for a hack, forgoing the Hawke family carriage. He needed to be alone, to think out what had happened tonight—especially his furious reaction to George Bennett and Mrs. Poitevant.

  God help him, he had almost kissed the haughty little prude! No use denying it when he knew it was true. He’d been furious at her, both who she was and her perceptiveness. He’d only meant to tell her off, though, not to kiss her.

  But everything had changed when she licked her lips.

  This time he didn’t hold his groan in. What was wrong with him? He must be in desperate need of a woman. More desperate than he’d guessed. “Driver!” he called, deciding to nip this problem in the bud. What he needed was to make a discreet stop on the way home. That would solve his problem.

  Anything to banish the image of Hoity-toity Poitevant’s pink, bow-shaped lips.

  Hester shook the whole way home from the Soameses’ ball. Not trembled, not shivered, but actually shook; hard tremors she could not get under control. It was worse than those terrible times ten years ago when she’d been one of the eligible misses, not one of the matrons.

  Then, as now, the delayed reaction of her tightly strung nerves was due solely to a man. Always a man.

  She had thought herself past such behavior.

  But she wasn’t. She sat now jammed into the corner of the Ainsleys’ smaller carriage, keeping a death grip on the door post, staring at the flickering carriage lamp, but seeing a man’s face instead. Tonight it had been Adrian Hawke, handsome, sure of himself, then angry and at the end, lusting.

  But that couldn’t be right.

  That part about lusting… that part she must be confusing with her memories of other men and other times.

  She groaned and closed her eyes. Don’t think about them. She was almost home. Once there she could escape to the solitude of her own bedchamber, remove this hideous ensemble, let loose her hair, and blot anything of the ton or the season—or Adrian Hawke—right out of her head.

  And she could start now by removing her wretched spectacles.

  With an angry swipe she ripped them off, then frowned and checked to see if she’d broken one of the delicate arms. She hadn’t. She stuffed them in her reticule, then flung wide the door curtain and stared out into the London night. The streets were quiet but not entirely vacant. During the season people were always out and about. Going to parties, leaving parties. Late breakfasts. Cards until dawn.

  Oh, Lord. Could she possibly endure another long season of this?

  You have no choice.

  With another groan she slumped down into the squabs. Only yesterday she’d had everything under control. After all, three Mayfair Academy students were embarking on the season better turned out than they’d ever been. Her girls were never garbed like every other girl, in pale pink and blue frills and froufrous. Instead she fitted them out in the colors and styles that best flattered them. Even within the limitations of the accepted mode she knew all the ways to accentuate an individual’s best features while disguising her worst. D
ulcie’s transformation was proof of that.

  Beyond appearances, however, her girls had exhaustive lessons in dancing, cards, and parlor games. They knew at least three piano pieces, had memorized a poem or two should they be asked to recite, and they practiced conversing on their favorite subjects. For Dulcie it was horses. The girl loved to ride and was an excellent horsewoman. The Honorable Anabelle Finch loved to read and had a considerable understanding of English history and all the poets. As for Charlotte Clotworthy, she could talk anyone’s head off about her needlework: embroidery, tatting, needlepoint, smocking, beading, knitting.

  Yes, Phoebe had prepared them well and she should now be anticipating their success. Instead she was huddled in the Ainsley carriage falling to pieces because some arrogant man whom she’d confronted had dared not to be intimidated by her.

  What had she been thinking?

  Worse, how was she to deal with his presence when next she encountered him? For she knew she would, if not tomorrow, then surely the next day, or the next.

  As the coach clattered down Bond Street toward Mayfair and her little cottage on the edge of that fashionable district, Hester resolved not to think about tomorrow, nor about him. Not tonight. There was nothing she could do about it now. And even remembering her reaction to him, how she’d actually wanted him to kiss her—

  “Ooh,” she groaned again and rubbed her aching temples.

  All she wanted was to get home and have Mrs. Dobbs prepare something for her pounding head. She would pet Fifi and Peg. Then she would seek the solace of her bed.

  Your solitary bed, a spiteful little voice rose up to haunt her.

  She refused to listen. If her bed was solitary, it was by her own choice. She did everything she could to discourage men, to appear invisible to the toffs who circulated at the parties she had to attend. It was easy to overlook a plainly garbed widow of limited means who displayed no interest in men, which was what she had been ever since she’d adopted her disguise. People saw only what they wanted to see, especially the shallow, self-involved sorts she dealt with. They never looked at her twice.

  But Adrian Hawke had.