“You are too vigorous, Mr. Hawke. I will answer your inquiry, though I do not believe it sincere on your part. Charitable works are not a part of my responsibility to my students. Their parents are well able to cover that portion of their education. I strive only to give them confidence and poise—”
“While indoctrinating them in the importance of class distinction.” He pulled her closer than he ought. “You, Mrs. Poitevant, are a snob.”
“I am not!” She tried to pull away, to no avail. First arrogant; now a snob?
“You were inexcusably rude to Horace Vasterling. What was that if not snobbery?”
Hester had no reply, at least none she was willing to share with Adrian Hawke. “I am sorry if my behavior seemed rude. I assure you, I did not intend to insult him.”
“Really?” His hand shifted at the small of her back, his fingers splaying out in a most disturbing manner. More heat. If this dance did not soon end, she would begin to perspire in a most improper fashion. Already she felt a suspicious trickle between her breasts.
She had to take control of the conversation. So she steeled herself and assumed her haughtiest tone. “If you have such a poor opinion of me, I wonder that you seek out my company now.”
Again his hand shifted. He did that on purpose!
“The woman I seek is the woman I met in Cheapside. The pretty one dressed all in salmon with her hair soft and delicious looking.”
Delicious looking!
Those two words should not have made Hester shiver, but they did. They were just the deliberately chosen words of a practiced seducer, she told herself. No more blatant than a hundred other compliments she’d received from men of the ton. But those other compliments had come nearly ten years ago. If Adrian Hawke’s words affected her now, it must be that she was out of practice. She hadn’t been subject to such compliments in a very long time.
“It has always been my routine to dress in a fashion appropriate to my activities.”
He nodded. “I see. So yesterday you were dressed to please, not your students and their families, but someone else. Your old family friend.” He arched one dark brow in that aggravating manner he had. “A man, perhaps?”
“No!” She stopped so abruptly another couple nearly collided with them. But though they no longer danced, he held her still in a dancer’s embrace.
“It seems, Mrs. Poitevant, that I have touched upon a sensitive subject.”
Her heart raced with anger and frustration—and also panic. Though why she should feel panicked she did not know. The music continued endlessly. The dancers swept past them on either side, like a river parting and rushing past a boulder stuck in midstream.
“I am done with dancing,” she hissed, conscious of the curious looks cast their way. Dowdy Hester Poitevant and the charismatic Mr. Hawke. Good heavens, but the talk would be awful. “Release my hand,” she ordered.
But he did not. “It would be extremely rude of me to abandon you in the middle of the ballroom floor. I shudder to think what people like you say about any man who could be so crude and ill-mannered. I’ll be happy to escort you off the floor, however. Perhaps to the refreshment tables. I wouldn’t want anyone to gossip about your abrupt departure from my company. Would you?”
The devil lurked in his eyes, dark and laughing at her. Had she not so many responsibilities to Dulcie, Anabelle, and Charlotte, and a reputation to maintain for the academy’s sake, Hester would have left him flat. Maybe she would even have slapped him. After all, the cad had implied that her visit to Cheapside was for some unsavory purpose.
But she couldn’t take that risk. “Very well,” she muttered. She regretted it when, still laughing, he took her arm and steered her to the side. The way he held her arm had a disturbing intimacy to it. She’d strolled arm in arm with dozens of men in the past. But even the boldest had not unsettled her by just the feel of his arm next to hers. The distressing thought occurred that if he was like this around every woman he danced with, it was no wonder half the unattached women in town mooned over him.
She tried once more, out of stubbornness, to disengage her arm from his. But he clamped his hand over hers.
“You needn’t run off so fast, Hester. Mrs. Poitevant,” he amended when she glared at him. “I saw a mutual acquaintance of ours, someone I know you will wish to greet in your friendliest, kindest manner.”
Hester’s heart leapt into her throat, and her gaze darted frantically about. She knew precisely to whom he referred. Yet still she hoped she was mistaken.
Of course, she was not. For there stood Horace Vasterling, just a little distance away. His expression as he stared at her was doubtful until Mr. Hawke waved him over.
“Be polite,” her nemesis whispered, so close his breath tickled her ear. Again she shivered.
She leaned away from him. “I’m always polite.”
But she hadn’t been polite to Horace yesterday. He seemed such a harmless sort. No wonder Adrian Hawke thought her an arrogant, class-conscious snob.
She swallowed hard and watched her brother’s wary approach. She must be pleasant to him. But no matter what Adrian Hawke thought, she couldn’t allow Horace Vasterling to harbor any unseemly feelings for her. None.
Should he exhibit the least sign of leaning in that direction, she must squelch it at once. But gently.
“Good… Good evening, Mrs. Poitevant,” Horace said with a jerky little bow. “You look very nice tonight.”
“Good evening, Mr. Vasterling,” she replied, repressing the urge to roll her eyes at his banal remark. She did not look very well at all, not compared to how she’d looked yesterday when they were introduced.
“I’m very pleased to meet you again,” he went on, his expression sincere and pathetically hopeful.
She nodded. “As am I.”
Horace glanced from her to Mr. Hawke and back again. He was so ill at ease, she realized, so unsure of himself. Just like most of her students when first they arrived at the academy: shy, awkward, and out of their element in social situations.
She’d not previously considered the plight of men who suffered those afflictions. From her lowly position in the world it seemed as if society men had all the power. They held all the cards. No matter their appearance, their vices, or their failings, the men with titles and money were always the ones in control, not the women they chose to wed.
But there were some, she realized now, some with little money and less grace, who were no better off than one of her girls. There were men like Horace Vasterling.
Before she could prevent it she asked, “Are you enjoying yourself in town, Mr. Vasterling?”
He brightened at once. “Oh, yes. Though it’s not my first time here.”
It was his fifth season in town. She knew because she’d followed his progress with the dedication of a French spy in the royal court. Though she should not, she had to ask, “Do you have family in town with you?”
“Not at present. I’m from the north, you know. Few connections in town. But this year my father intends to join me for a while.”
His father! Their father.
Hester had never laid eyes on her sire, at least not that she could remember. She’d been only four years old when her mother had fled her husband. But he was coming to town. Soon.
“Vasterling and I may do some business together,” Mr. Hawke remarked when the silence grew awkward. “He’s got quite the head for business.”
Horace blushed, then glanced shyly at Hester. “I’m sure Mrs. Poitevant does not care about business. But perhaps…” He stuttered to a halt. Hester braced herself for what was to come. “Perhaps you would prefer to dance?”
She felt both pairs of male eyes on her: Horace’s hopeful, Mr. Hawke’s expectant. She did not want to dance with her brother. But she also did not want to be labeled a snob, not by him or by Adrian Hawke.
“I believe the next dance is a country cotillion,” Mr. Hawke prompted, his voice so innocent as to be suspect.
Drat the m
an! But she had to respond. “That… That sounds lovely.”
In a matter of minutes she was back on the dance floor queuing up for the cotillion, facing her brother across a distance of only a few feet. Beyond him she could see Adrian Hawke, a smug smile on his lips.
What was he up to? Why did he care whether or not she danced with his friend? Did he consider himself some sort of matchmaker, pairing his awkward comrade with the awkward Widow Poitevant?
Or was he simply trying to aggravate her? She knew she’d roused his curiosity with her role in society, her change in appearance, and her perceived rudeness to his friend. Was this just his way of nettling her? If so, he certainly had succeeded.
She curtsied when the music began, then lifted her chin to a pugnacious angle, reminding herself that Adrian Hawke could only annoy her if she allowed him to. Handsome, arrogant men of his sort were the worst. The only way to best him was to become impervious to his appeal, impervious to his manipulations.
Yes, she was dancing with Horace Vasterling, just as Adrian Hawke intended. What she must do now, was turn that concession to her advantage.
So she smiled as she circled around her brother and returned to her position. She put her best foot forward, both literally and figuratively as they executed the steps of the cotillion.
Horace was a reasonably decent dancer. He’d improved with his every season in town. He was also a harmless, gentle-natured fellow, she was coming to see. If she could spar with the likes of Adrian Hawke, surely she could deal with the likes of Horace Vasterling.
Not to hurt him, of course. But there were things about her father and her original home that she wanted to know.
“How nice for you that your father will soon join you,” she said as they promenaded.
“Yes.” But he looked doubtful.
“Does your father come often to town?”
“No. He… he hates London.”
“Really?”
“He’s a countryman at heart. As am I,” he confessed with reddening cheeks.
“I am a confirmed city dweller myself,” Hester said. Pay attention, dear brother. “I can’t think of the last time I was out in the countryside.”
His face fell a little.
“So,” she went on. “Why has he decided to join you this year?”
“I’m not certain. But it is most fortunate, for I have business to conduct which involves him as well.”
She took a steadying breath. “And shall your mother join him as well?”
“Oh, no. You see, my father is a widower.”
Yes, as she well knew, he’d been a widower for the past six years. But how much did Horace know about his mother? Hester forced herself to continue. “I’m so sorry. How sad for you.”
“Thank you. You are very kind. But then, I suppose you of all people would understand.”
Hester’s heart did a sudden leap, for she thought he also referred to the loss of their mother. Then she recovered. He meant her late husband, of course, the fictional man she’d created shortly after her mother’s death.
Meanwhile he went on. “I never knew my mother. She died shortly after I was born.”
It was a blessing he handed her off to the gentleman across from him, for Hester might otherwise have stumbled to a halt. As it was, had she not practiced these steps just last week with Anabelle, Charlotte, and Dulcie, she would never have made it through that set.
He believed his mother had died in childbirth? The unfairness of it made her want to scream!
Yet what else should she expect? What else was a stiff-necked man like Edgar Vasterling likely to say to his motherless son? “Your mother fled from her humorless, pinchpenny husband with a new man and a new name; she chose the society of town over the boredom of the countryside”? Of course Edgar Vasterling had said his absent wife was dead.
Hester avoided Horace’s eyes when they came back together and she responded only vaguely to his further attempts at conversation. Yes, the party was lovely. No, she did not often attend the races. Yes, she had already seen the latest incarnation of Marlowe’s play.
But the whole time she struggled not to release her anger at the father upon the son.
Horace did not know. He did not know so he could not be held accountable. Still, she was enormously relieved when the dance ended. Before he could escort her back to where Adrian Hawke awaited them, she excused herself. “Thank you, Mr. Vasterling, but you will understand that I must tend to my charges.” Then she left him, walking stiff and straight, and not relaxing until she’d turned a corner out of his sight.
Adrian watched as Mrs. Poitevant disappeared, and his noncommittal expression turned into a frown. Now what? Bad enough that he’d been unable to tear his gaze from her lithe figure, dancing so easily in Vasterling’s arms. Now he had to rely on Horace to interpret their interchange. He put down his glass and started toward Horace, only to be intercepted by George Bennett.
Like an animal confronted with a threat, Adrian tensed and the hairs rose up on the back of his neck.
But George was smiling. Friendly. “We meet again, Hawke. Good to see you. Hope you’re enjoying yourself in town.”
“I am. If you’ll excuse me?”
“Wait a minute. Wait.” He grabbed Adrian’s arm. When Adrian jerked it free, the man stepped back. “No offense meant. I only—”
“What?” Adrian glared at him. “What do you want from me, Bennett?”
As before Adrian watched the man tamp down his anger and replace it with a conciliatory expression. “I… ah… I was hoping we could let bygones be bygones. Y’know, all that business at Eton. We were just a bunch of rough-and-tumble lads back then. A gang of rowdies full of high spirits and hijinks. No need for that to be a problem now.”
Adrian didn’t buy a word of it. Men like George Bennett didn’t change so drastically. One day insulting Adrian’s mother and seething when Adrian dared dance with his sister; less than a week later saying he wanted to forget the past.
No. The man had an ulterior motive and it didn’t take a genius to figure out what. He decided to be blunt. “So you’ve heard about the business venture I’m assembling.”
The man didn’t even have the grace to look embarrassed by his transparency. “Indeed I have. Appears you’ve got a good head on your shoulders, Hawke. A good head.”
“Listen, Bennett. I don’t have time for this.”
“Of course. I didn’t mean now.” He jammed his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “So, when do you have time?”
Adrian wanted to laugh, the look on Bennett’s face was that desperate. The man must be in a real financial bind if he was reduced to courting the Bonnie By-blow of Eton. Perhaps he should hear him out, if only for the entertainment. Nonchalantly he straightened one cuff. “I’ll check my calendar and see what I can do.”
“Good. Good.” Again the man rocked back on his heels, grinning as if he’d just made a brilliant deal. “I look forward to it.”
With a nod Adrian turned away. He’d come to this party to force Hester Poitevant to be nice to Horace Vasterling. And he’d succeeded. But now he’d been offered more, the satisfaction of seeing George Bennett dance attendance on him.
It occurred to him that between them Hester Poitevant and George Bennett symbolized everything that was wrong with British society. Elitist. Greedy. The measuring stick they used on people was flat-out wrong.
As a boy he’d been sadly misjudged with that stick. Now his money and reputation in business had begun to alter that judgment. But even that was a skewed measurement. Many a good man existed who had more energy and ideas than money and family name.
Then he spied Horace standing apart from the chattering masses, with his shoulders slumped and his face turned down, and Adrian’s resolve hardened further. George Bennett was not nearly the man Horace Vasterling was. Moreover, the Widow Poitevant was in no position to feel superior to a man like Horace. Did she really think she could do better in this vermin-infested jungl
e that they called good society?
Despite the honorific in front of Vasterling’s name, it occurred to Adrian that the man was a lot like him: not good enough for the upper crust of society. He might be smart and well intentioned, but that wasn’t sufficient.
In that moment he decided to help Horace, both with his finances and with his romantic endeavors. For some reason Horace liked the difficult widow. Of course, Adrian knew why: that form-fitting dress she’d had on the other day, and that silky mass of hair. Both dress and hair made a man’s hand itch to touch them. Even his.
He wasn’t the one interested in her though. Horace liked the woman, and if Adrian had anything to do with it, Hoity-toity Poitevant would learn to like Horace in return.
Between that and seeing George Bennett grovel, what more could he ask of this trip to his “homeland”?
He strode up to Horace and clasped him on the shoulder. “What a handsome couple you and Mrs. Poitevant make. Did you ask her for another dance later?”
Horace gave an unenthusiastic smile. “I forgot to ask. But… Well… I don’t know. She doesn’t seem to like me.”
Damn her snooty little soul. “I find that hard to believe. What exactly did she say?”
“Well. That she had to tend her charges.”
“As I’m sure she did. You can’t take that as a rejection, Vasterling. I think she’s just shy.” And a ferocious snob.
“Shy? D’you really think so?”
“Of course. How many times have you seen her dance at one of these shindigs?”
“Hmm. I’s”pose you’ve got a point.“
“If you like her, you have to pursue her, man. Women like to be pursued.”
“Yes. Well.” Horace still looked doubtful.
“What?”
“Well, I don’t think she’s the type who would be content in the countryside. You know, we live rather remote, my father and I. Far north, and miles to any sort of decent society. It’s no good to pursue a woman who couldn’t be happy with that kind of life.”
The Bridemaker Page 10