The Bridemaker

by Rexanne Becnel

  “What are you saying, Mrs. Poitevant?”

  I don’t know. Foolishness. Idiocy. “I’m saying,” Hester began slowly. Cautiously. “I’m saying that it is your future being planned. Your life and your happiness. Or perhaps, your unhappiness. If your only opposition to your family’s plan is to weep, then you shall have only yourself to blame when you find yourself wed to some unpleasant but well-fixed lord of the realm.”

  There. That wasn’t entirely radical.

  Dulcie’s gaze had not budged from Hester’s face. “Are you suggesting that I pursue Mr. Hawke?”

  “No. I told you, I don’t believe he wants a wife. But… Well… I believe he may be an appropriate person for you to practice your social skills upon.”

  What had been the glint of tears turned now into the glitter of rising joy. It lent Dulcie’s plain face a beauty Hester had never before seen there.

  Hester smiled back. Happiness and hopefulness, like self-confidence, were inner qualities that provided a measure of beauty no amount of powder or rouge or artful coiffures could match.

  “Oh, Mrs. Poitevant!”

  “Now listen,” Hester hurried on. “This is a chance for you to enjoy yourself. But I have one very important condition.”

  “Yes, yes. Anything.”

  “I am serious, Dulcie. Now, I believe my instructions so far have been of some use to you?”

  “Oh, yes.” Dulcie nodded so hard her chestnut-colored ringlets bounced. “I have never felt half so satisfied with myself as I have since you have come to my rescue.”

  “Good. So you concede that my advice is worth following?”

  “Oh, yes.” Again the ringlets bobbed alongside Dulcie’s round cheeks.

  “Then you must agree to mind my instructions now.”

  “I will. I promise.” By now the curls were in full swing. “Whatever you say, I shall do.”

  “You already know the rules. No more than two dances per night with any man.”

  Dulcie sighed. “Very well.”

  “And since I intend to discuss this matter with your mother and bear the brunt of her disapproval, you must agree in return to put a full heart into your interaction with the other men you dance with.”

  When the girl hesitated Hester raised her brows. “Dulcie?”

  “Oh, very well. I’ll be charming and pleasant and laugh at everything they say. I’ll even dance with Kermit Underwood—every night!—if you can appease Mother when it comes to Mr. Hawke. I shall take my courage from Juliet. Such a heroine as there never has been, before or since. She gave up everything for her Romeo, you know.” She sighed and clasped her hands to her chest. “I can do no less for my Mr. Hawke.”

  Hester had to force herself not to roll her eyes. Really, but Shakespeare put so much foolishness in an impressionable young lady’s mind. “Juliet is a fictional character, Dulcie. And I hardly think you shall have to die for Mr. Hawke. Or, for that matter, any other man you may fall in love with.”

  “Only him,” Dulcie repeated, smiling that same smile that made her so lovely. “There shall be no other man for me. Only Mr. Hawke.”

  They would just see about that, Hester thought.

  Hadn’t she felt that way about more than one fellow whose names she now no longer recalled? Sad to say, but silly young girls sometimes had to learn the hard way.

  No matter Dulcie’s optimism, Hester knew Adrian Hawke was not the type presently interested in obtaining a wife. Though she could not put her finger on it, there was this reckless quality about him, this dangerous air guaranteed to attract any woman, no matter her age or marital status.

  Heavens, even she found the man attractive, and she’d sworn off men years ago.

  In any event, he was unlikely to be drawn to Dulcie, no matter the girl’s efforts to entice him. It was revenge against her brother that Mr. Hawke sought. Though Dulcie’s heart might become broken, in time it would heal.

  Hadn’t hers?

  Dulcie’s gait was light and animated as the two of them made their way back to the crowded ballroom. Her eyes sparkled and a smile hovered on her lips.

  But Hester didn’t smile, for she still had Lady Ainsley to deal with. Oh, well. There was no time for unpleasant tasks like the present.

  Adrian had not made it through the Dresdens’ overflowing foyer before he spied George Bennett.

  The man was waiting for him, lying in wait just as he used to at Eton, in that narrow stairwell that had led up to the younger boys’ rooms. Back then George had always kept two of his bully boys with him. Now in this brightly lit center of town society, it felt as if Bennett had a hundred bully boys with him.

  But he didn’t, Adrian reminded himself. Adrian had met most of these people and had already entered into serious financial negotiations with enough of them to feel secure here. George Bennett was no longer a threat to him.

  In fact, he was the threat to Bennett. All he had to do to enrage the man was ask his sister to dance.

  Unfortunately Adrian had already decided against using the poor girl that way. Not that he cared anything about that prissy Mrs. Poitevant’s opinion. But fair was fair. Dulcie Bennett was an innocent and he couldn’t deliberately hurt her.

  But Bennett better not start any trouble.

  As Adrian made his greetings to the host and hostess he lost sight of Bennett. But near the entrance to the ballroom they came face to face.

  Just as at Eton, Adrian’s hands knotted into fists, bracing for the worst. But George Bennett was smiling, a careful, assessing smile. Now what?

  “So, Hawke. Good to see you again.” The man thrust out his hand which, after a moment, Adrian shook.

  “Bennett,” he curtly replied, refusing to acknowledge him as Lord Ainsley.

  At the deliberate slight, anger flared in the other man’s eyes. But he swiftly tamped it down.

  Yes, something definitely was afoot.

  “I’ve been hearing good things about you,” Bennett said.

  “Have you?”

  “Indeed. Seems you’ve beaten the odds, old man. Made a bloody fortune off those provincials in America.”

  Aha. George Bennett smelled money and he wanted some of it.

  Adrian relaxed, sure of himself once more. Business was business no matter where you went. And where there was money to be made, smart men came out in droves. So did greedy ones. Adrian knew Bennett was greedy. But was he smart?

  “I’ve done pretty well for myself, and for those provincials smart enough to invest with me.”

  They took each other’s measure a long minute before Bennett said, “And so you’re back in England, looking for new investors here, I’m told.”

  “That I am. And finding them, too. Could you excuse me? I see my cousin.”

  It shouldn’t have felt so good to dismiss George Bennett and walk away, but it did. As Adrian strolled off, it felt damned good. Better even than dancing with the man’s sister.

  When he spied Bennett’s battle-ax of a mother, he gave her a smile and a nod, and enjoyed her scowl all the more. How did such a nasty family produce a sweet girl like Dulcie Bennett? Then again, she probably wouldn’t stay that sweet, not if the scheming Mrs. Poitevant had anything to do with it.

  “What was that about?” Adrian’s Uncle Neville asked, coming up beside him. “Are you considering including Ainsley in your venture?”

  “When hell freezes over,” Adrian said. “That horse’s ass made my brief sojourn in Eton miserable. I plan to return the favor.”

  They were both silent a moment, remembering the angry young man Adrian once had been, a baron’s bastard, Scottish at that, and totally ostracized by his upper-crust classmates.

  “I should never have sent you there,” Neville murmured.

  Adrian shrugged. “If I hadn’t gone to Eton, I would never have understood how impossible my situation was. I would never have been angry enough to make the decision to leave for America with Sarah and Marsh.” He grinned at his uncle, the closest thing he’d had to a
father during his early years. “I certainly wouldn’t be in London now, wealthy in my own right, and sought out by every canny businessman in town. Don’t bother yourself with regrets, Uncle. I don’t. My life is going exactly as I want. By the time I depart London, my plans will have worked out just as I intended. It only sweetens the pot that I am courted now by the same greedy fool who once considered me not good enough to attend the same school as he.”

  Neville acknowledged his words with a nod. “Speaking of greedy, Henson and his cousin will be here later, and they’ve both expressed interest in this cooperative venture you’ve come up with. Between them they run nearly two thousand head of sheep. But enough of business. Olivia will have my hide if we don’t put in an appearance in the ballroom.”

  Hester dreaded her confrontation with Mrs. Bennett. She’d hoped to put it off to another time, but as soon as she spied a certain tall, raven-haired man descending the stairs into the ballroom, she’d ducked her head, taken a deep breath, and headed straight for her unpleasant employer. What a hideous night this was turning out to be.

  When she found Lady Ainsley she was being led away by her son, and none too happy about it. Hester hesitated, not certain this was a good time. Mrs. Bennett was bad enough. George Bennett was impossible.

  But when George spotted Hester, he gave a short jerk of his chin, signaling her in his typically coarse manner to join them.

  “Glad you’re here, Mrs. Poitevant. Now I only have to say this once.”

  As soon as they stepped out onto the darkened terrace, Lady Ainsley jerked her elbow out of her son’s grasp. “What is so important, I’d like to know? Why have you dragged me out here, away from Lady Lancaster? D’you have any idea how long I’ve been trying to get her ear? She’s got three young nephews in line for titles. Three—”

  “Be quiet, Mother. This is more important than you know.”

  “What then? What?”

  “Adrian Hawke is here.”

  “Oh!” Lady Ainsley craned her neck to see past her son into the ballroom. Then she swung to face Hester. “You’d better keep him well away from Dulcie tonight.”

  “No.”

  Hester stared at George. Had she heard him right? Wasn’t that supposed to be her line?

  Lady Ainsley gaped at her son. “Have you taken leave of your senses?”

  He chuckled, an unpleasant sound. “Not at all. Quite the opposite, in fact. You see, I’ve been asking around about the newly wealthy Mr. Hawke. It seems the man has a knack for making money. Since I’m always amenable to making money, I’ve decided to do some business with him.”

  “But what about Dulcie?” The words spilled out before Hester could stop them.

  George smiled, a smug, satisfied smile that lifted the hairs on the back of Hester’s neck. “Dulcie does not seem to mind his attentions. Instead of warning her away from Hawke, I’ve decided I want you to encourage her.”

  “But George,” his mother said. “He’s a nobody.”

  “Yes, but he’s a rich nobody, and we’re in dire need of—” He broke off with a quick glance at Hester. “Go on, Mrs. Poitevant. Find my sister and give her the good news.”

  Though confused by his sudden change of attitude, Hester nodded and left. But she didn’t go far. She paused just around the doorframe, and though she knew it was shameless to eavesdrop, she did it anyway.

  “Now listen here, George,” Lady Ainsley began.

  “What’s this all about?”

  “Money, Mother. Money. D’you have any idea how much it costs to live these days? Season after season. And we’ve got Eliza, Penelope, and Mary still to make their come-outs.”

  “If this is about Mrs. Poitevant’s fees, I don’t think Eliza will need her.”

  “This isn’t about her piddling fees.”

  Piddling? Hester frowned. He thought the amount she charged was piddling?

  “We’re in a bad way,” he muttered, though so quietly Hester had to strain to hear.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean debt. Creditors. We need money, Mother. And from what I hear Hawke has got lots of it.”

  There was a silence and Hester could just imagine how stunned Lady Ainsley must be if she was shocked into silence.

  “What of…” the woman said. “What of your sisters’ dowries?”

  He did not answer. However, a choked sound from Lady Ainsley was answer enough. Hester chewed the inside of her lower lip. Good Lord, what a mess. And poor Dulcie caught squarely in the middle of it.

  Hester took a breath, then turned to the ballroom. Dulcie would be pleased with the news about encouraging Mr. Hawke. Certainly it solved Hester’s immediate dilemma. But if George thought to marry Dulcie off to Adrian Hawke, he was deluding himself.

  Hester considered it from another angle. Perhaps all George wanted was to appease Mr. Hawke sufficiently to involve himself in Mr. Hawke’s apparently successful businesses.

  But either way, the results would be the same. Mr. Hawke was not going to offer for Dulcie, nor was he likely to change his attitude toward George Bennett. It was only a gut feeling, but Hester was sure of it. She had the sinking suspicion that the Bennett family was not going to have a particularly satisfying season.

  She found Dulcie right away in a small circle of girls. Though circumstances did not permit her to speak directly, it didn’t matter. In answer to Dulcie’s anxious look, Hester gave a brief smile and a subtle nod.

  At once the girl’s eyes lit up and a huge smile brightened her face.

  What Dulcie took as approval to dance with Mr. Hawke, however, was far more complex and, Hester knew, far more dangerous. The poor girl was as caught as ever between the machinations of the two men.

  It’s none of your business, Hester told herself. She could no more control Dulcie’s reaction to Mr. Hawke than she could control George Bennett’s. Goodness, she could barely control her own reaction to the man, which fact was driven home the very next moment. For whom did she spy heading toward them but the notorious Adrian Hawke himself.

  CHAPTER 5

  Well, well. Mrs. Poitevant. Adrian halted when he spied her darkly garbed figure. So erect. So severe.

  When she met his gaze, then looked swiftly away, his eyes narrowed. She might appear stiff and unyielding, but he’d seen something more in her eyes the night of their confrontation. Panic, shock. Yearning.

  He straightened at the thought. Had he really seen yearning in her eyes? Damn him if he didn’t want to torment her again, just to find out.

  The fact that she stood with Dulcie Bennett made the decision easy. He strolled toward the little group, never removing his eyes from the dark figure who stood out so noticeably among the fluttering pastel girls around her.

  “Good evening, ladies. Mrs. Poitevant.”

  “Mr. Hawke.” Mrs. Poitevant gave him a stiff nod. But she maintained her manners. What else should he expect of her? “May I introduce Miss Charlotte Clotworthy. You will remember, of course, Miss Bennett.”

  He smiled at the girl. “Miss Bennett. I just spoke with your brother.”

  “Did you?” The girl stared up at him so expectantly he was momentarily nonplussed.

  He had decided not to dance with her tonight. Mrs. Poitevant’s accusations had managed to prick his conscience. But given the girl’s enthusiastic response to him, it seemed rude not to ask her. “I know it is late, Miss Bennett, but have you any dances still available for me?”

  “Oh, yes. Yes. The last dance of the night, as it happens.”

  Fortunately Dulcie’s partner for the upcoming waltz appeared at just that moment. A faint smile stole onto Adrian’s face when both she and Miss Clotworthy went off with their partners. Just as he’d hoped, he now had Mrs. Poitevant all to himself.

  Laughter and excited chatter filled the air, but between them an icy silence fell. “What?” he said, succumbing to a perverse need to aggravate her. “No accusations? No admonishments?”

  If it were possible, her posture grew stif
fer still. “I’m sure I have no control over your actions or hers.”

  “No, you don’t.” He studied her profile as she watched the dancers queue up. “Actually, I had not intended to dance with Miss Bennett tonight.”

  “No? Then why did you ask her to dance?”

  “Because she so obviously expected me to.”

  A muscle in her smooth jaw flexed once. Twice. But still she did not look at him. He took it as a personal challenge to make her do so. “Would you like to dance?”

  Success. She gave him a startled glance, then immediately frowned and looked away. “Thank you, but no.”

  “Don’t you like to dance?” he prodded her. “Or are you working tonight and so feel unable to join in the festivities?”

  Her head tilted slightly and she looked at him again, eyeing him over her wire-rimmed spectacles. “Both.”

  He noticed two things: her eyes were green, and she didn’t seem to need those spectacles.

  But as if he’d held her gaze too long, she again looked away. “If you’ll excuse me?”

  “Wait, Mrs. Poitevant. Don’t go.” When she hesitated he smiled. “I believe I owe you an apology for the other night. I hope you’ll accept it.”

  He saw the doubt in her eyes, the suspicion. Finally, however, she nodded. “Accepted.”

  “Thank you. So,” he said, for some reason wanting to keep her there. “You’re working tonight. I was told you’re a bridemaker. That’s a rather curious profession.”

  Once again she stiffened. She might have accepted his apology, but she was still prickly. “Curious? I suppose it might seem so to a man. Of course, it is not men who have to fear being labeled spinsters.”

  “You think men are immune to concerns of being alone, of becoming confirmed bachelors?”

  He watched her mouth tighten into a pursed knot. He hoped she hadn’t kissed her late husband with that pinched expression on her face. If she had, it might explain his early demise.

  “I’m sure I need not point out to you, Mr. Hawke, that a spinster is generally looked upon with pity. Not so a confirmed bachelor.”

  He grinned at her response, but she turned her gaze fixedly upon the dancers. Damn, but for such a stiff-necked thing she had an awfully tart manner about her. It was enough to make him want to whisk her out on the floor and force her to loosen up. “Are you sure I can’t convince you to dance?”