But as Adrian mounted his waiting horse, his satisfaction with the beginnings of his little plot did not resonate so fully as he’d expected. It all had made sense when Hester Poitevant appeared the arrogant snob who needed to be taken down a peg. But when she was soft and womanly, and out of her element, that’s when things got muddy and confused. That’s when he got what Horace wanted mixed up with what he wanted.
What was it he wanted, anyway?
He guided his horse down New Bond Street, hardly aware of the afternoon throngs brought out by the day’s fair weather. What he wanted was to pass this time in London with whatever entertainments he could find. What he wanted was to make a lot of money, have a little fun, attend his cousin’s wedding, and then go home to Boston.
So why was he spending a small fortune on a woman he didn’t like, helping a man he hardly knew circulate better in a society he’d always despised? What was the logic and, more importantly, the value to him in so harebrained and expensive a scheme?
He should forget about Horace Vasterling and his paltry investment, and instead focus on using town society to his advantage. And to getting Hester Poitevant into bed.
He shifted in the saddle, cursing the rise once more of desire. Hester Poitevant in his bed? What a joke. The good Widow Poitevant believed in marriage. She lived and breathed arranged marriages and was probably the least likely woman in London to land in a man’s bed without benefit of a ten-page marriage contract clenched in her stubborn little fist.
He, meanwhile, was the master of uncomplicated sex. The erotic pleasures of the bedroom with women who understood the situation.
No, Hester Poitevant was the last woman he should be considering as a bedmate.
But Adrian was nothing if not a realist, and he accepted the truth when he saw it. The fact was, he wanted to get under Hester’s skirts. He was desperate to do so. Just flip up those overstarched petticoats, unloosen that cascade of silky hair, and kiss that prissy mouth into breathless acquiescence.
It wasn’t logical, but that’s how he felt. Except that there was Horace to think of.
Horace Vasterling was taken with the troublesome woman, and he had just arranged for the two of them to spend hours and hours together.
“Find some other woman to lust after,” Adrian muttered to himself.
When his horse’s ears flicked back at the sound, he leaned forward, patting the gelding’s well-muscled neck. “You don’t know how lucky you are,” Adrian said. “Women are nothing but trouble.”
But they were worth it. Otherwise he would not be so eagerly looking forward to ten o’clock tomorrow morning.
CHAPTER 9
Hester was ready at nine-thirty, though it took her twice as long as usual to dress. This was turning into an unpleasant habit, not knowing what to wear when Adrian Hawke was around. He’d seen her buttoned up and scraped back, her public persona. But he’d also seen her in a vain moment, dressed in her prettiest, most feminine ensemble. Then yesterday he’d seen her looking practically like a girl with her hair down about her shoulders, all undisciplined.
And, of course, no spectacles.
She blew out a frustrated breath. She ought to just do as he suggested, abandon the annoying things once and for all. Except that she hated letting him best her at anything. Added to that, she didn’t want to dress in any way that might encourage poor Horace.
Poor Horace?
She turned away from the parlor mirror where she’d been arranging and rearranging the snood she’d decided to catch her hair in. What was wrong with her? Poor Horace indeed. Horace Vasterling might not be the most eligible bachelor in town, but he had far more advantages than she’d ever had. If he couldn’t snare the rich, beautiful wife his father wanted for him, that was not her problem. He should simply lower his sights.
So why all this worry about her clothing and hairstyle? She didn’t care what Horace Vasterling or Adrian Hawke thought. It didn’t matter if Mr. Hawke taunted her about the drastic differences between her public and private choices of apparel.
He and she had made a deal, and she, for one, meant to abide by it. The extra money would be a boon to her meager savings. She would also have the chance to get to know her brother.
Hester had tossed and turned through many sleepless hours last night considering how best to deal with Horace. She’d come to the simple and obvious conclusion that she must treat him as she would any other student. Determine his strengths and weaknesses, and go on from there.
He was a decent dancer, she knew that much. And though not the best conversationalist, he was not surly or coarse, nor did he stammer or lisp. His clothing, however, and his grooming habits—those might prove a bigger challenge.
He ought to visit Mr. Hawke’s tailor, she mused. The cut of the American’s suit… The way it hugged his wide shoulders, yet did not bind—
She broke off that thought with a little groan. The cut of Adrian Hawke’s suit was hardly pertinent to her current dilemma. Anyway, his tailor was probably in Boston, so it was a moot point. But she did need to recommend Horace to someone. Perhaps Madame Henri could give her the name of a reasonably priced person.
They were prompt. Hester heard them outside handing their horses off to Mr. Dobbs. Mrs. Dobbs greeted them in the foyer, then they were in her second parlor, the room she used for most of her instructions.
“Mr. Hawke and Mr. Vasterling, here to call,” Mrs. Dobbs announced with a curtsy and an undeniably curious look on her face. She’d been curious when Hester explained that her newest client was a man, and she obviously remained curious still.
“Good morning, Mr. Vasterling. Mr. Hawke.”
“It’s very nice to see you again, Mrs. Poitevant,” Horace said.
“Indeed it is,” Mr. Hawke echoed.
Hester nodded, her eyes flitting back and forth between them. Her brother was actually inside her house, an occasion she’d never anticipated. Added to that, a man who made her pulse race was also standing in her parlor. She could not have said which happenstance unsettled her more.
“Well. Perhaps we should begin. You will excuse us?” She directed that last at Mr. Hawke who was dressed today in a charcoal frock coat which turned his eyes an astounding shade of smoky blue. Not that the color of his eyes mattered in the least to her.
He grinned at her. “Don’t mind me. I’ll just sit down over there.” He dragged a chair into a far corner. “You won’t even know I am here.”
She wanted to object, but for some reason, not in front of Horace. She gave Mr. Hawke a terse nod and turned to face Horace instead, consoling herself that Adrian Hawke was not the sort to sit silent and idle in someone’s parlor for long. The best way to rid herself of him was to bore him to death. Soon enough he would be on his way, leaving her to draw out Horace.
Her plan with her brother was initially to practice the art of conversation, ensuring he had responses for every sort of dialogue, and genteel questions guaranteed to put even the shyest young lady at ease. She’d decided to groom him for the shy ones as opposed to the glittering butterflies of town society.
Leave the gadabout girls to Adrian Hawke and his ilk, the charming rogues. They were the heartbreakers, never satisfied with one woman. But men like Horace…
Though she hated to admit it, honesty bade her accept the truth. Her brother Horace, whom she so wanted to dislike, might actually have potential as a decent sort of husband. Unlike their father.
She didn’t realize how long she’d been staring at him until he shifted from one foot to the other. She snapped back to the moment. “Well. Let’s begin, shall we? Let’s see. Why don’t you tell me about yourself, what your life is like away from town? Please, sit.”
“Thank you.”
He started to sit, then stopped when she frowned and shook her head. “Always seat your female companion first, Mr. Vasterling.”
“Of course. I knew that. But… but I forgot. S’pose I’m nervous,” he added with a hesitant smile.
Once sh
e sat, he did as well. But he looked more rattled than ever. “Tell me about yourself,” Hester began. “You live in the north, I believe?” In a cold, stone fortress of a place, according to her mother. Their mother.
“Yes.” He sat stiffly erect, tugging nervously at his too snug waistcoat.
This would never do. She must put him more at ease. “Tell me about your home, why don’t you? Anything you want to talk about.”
Horace glanced at Adrian, whom she was determined to ignore and wished would just go away. Then turning back to her, Horace cleared his throat and began. “The family estate is Winwood Manor, an ancient building of curious history. A portion of it includes an old Celtic wellhouse, you know. When Great-great-grandfather Vasterling added on to the house, he enclosed the well.
Mrs. McKeith and her kitchen help appreciate that, I can tell you. “Specially in the winter. Right down the stairs they go, then up with fresh water.”
“The house must be very large. Do you have an extensive staff?”
He waggled his head back and forth. “Most of the house is closed up. Too much to heat and keep up, you see.”
“Yes. I do see.” Her mother had called it the cave, cold and moldy with nothing to delight the eye or the spirit. “You understand, of course, that your wife—your bride-to-be—will be very interested in how the household presently is run, and also, what changes she will be free to make.”
He nodded, but a faint frown appeared on his face. “Yes. Of course. That makes perfect sense.”
“So. How many house servants are there? And how resistant will they be to a new mistress?”
Adrian listened to the conversation, hearing Horace’s answers, but mainly observing Hester Poitevant in action.
She looked… interesting. That was the best word he could come up with. Her hair was drawn back, but softly. Rather than twisted into a repressive knot, the heavy length was folded into some sort of netlike contraption that hung heavy on the back of her neck. And what a graceful, slender neck it was. Unadorned, of course, and her dress was that gray outfit he’d seen her in before. Plain at the collar with only three buttons to relieve the bodice. The color was actually nice on her, but the cut did more to disguise her curves than accentuate them.
It was deliberate. He could see that now. She of all women understood exactly how to display her appearance to its best advantage. But she chose not to.
He supposed she did it to present herself in a sober light to those who employed her. It would probably be bad form for a companion to outshine her young charge. It seemed to him, though, that she embraced that soberness to an excessive degree.
Why would she do that? She was young enough and certainly attractive enough to remarry if she so chose. And if she married again, she would not be forced to work on others’ behalf as she did now. At least she seemed to have abandoned those silly spectacles of hers, revealing the rare green tint of her eyes. He wanted to stare deeply into those eyes and discover what went on in that devious mind of hers.
Even under his close scrutiny, though, she wouldn’t look at him for long, just a quick glance and then away. But she’d done it several times now, and he had to admit it pleased him. So he rattled her, did he? Yet she always refocused on Horace, continuing in her line of questioning.
He shifted in the feminine side chair and crossed his arms. You’d think she was planning to marry Horace herself the way she quizzed him. Numbers of servants, size of the house, the distance to town and the proximity of the nearest neighbors. She asked also about the household allowance and pin money, both apparently minimal by town standards. But she didn’t seem perturbed by that.
She also inquired in some detail about the elder Vasterling, the state of his health and his involvement in household affairs.
Adrian supposed a prospective wife might wish to know exactly what she was getting into. Entering into a marriage was, after all, like any other significant business deal. The more information you had, the better deal you could make.
But the Widow Poitevant’s questions seemed excessive, not really geared toward shaping up Horace. Then again, perhaps the inquiries were for her own edification. Maybe she was interested in the man.
Again he shifted, frowning at the thought. He’d had a restless night. It had taken two tall glasses of whisky to settle him down. Even then his sleep had been fretful, and it was all due to Hester Poitevant. He’d plotted to throw her together with Horace Vasterling, to admit that her snobbishness toward him was without merit.
But now he found her focus on Vasterling annoying.
What was his problem? Why was he getting all worked up over some prissy female with her nose in the air?
Damnation! What he needed was an energetic afternoon in some talented woman’s bed. That would put a quick end to this ridiculous fascination he’d developed for Hester Poitevant of the aristocratic manner and the seductive hair.
When he stood, both Hester and Horace turned to look at him. Hester and Horace. Even their names were well matched. He gritted his teeth. “I’ll take my leave of you now. No doubt you two have much to accomplish today.”
She stood to bid him farewell, and even in that simple movement her composure and grace were noticeable. Was she that composed in bed?
He coughed to cover the curse that rose to his lips. He wasn’t going to think about that.
“I’ll show you out,” she said. “If you’ll wait here?” she added to Horace.
In the narrow hall they were close enough that Adrian caught a whiff of flowers on her. Roses? No, lilies. He wanted to bend nearer and sniff. But she stepped back and folded her hands neatly at her waist.
“I believe you have something for me?”
For a moment he drew a blank. Then his mind clicked back into place. Of course. Her fee.
Without smiling he pulled a letter from his upper pocket. “I do. This bank draft should suffice. From time to time I will wish to discuss Vasterling’s progress with you.”
“As you wish.” She took the paper but did not examine it. “I wonder—” She broke off.
“Yes?”
She hesitated. “I suppose I still wonder why you are doing this for him. Surely you and he have not been acquainted for so very long as to require such largesse on your part.”
“I have my reasons.” When she only arched her brows and waited, he added, “It benefits me if my business partners are presentable.”
“I thought you hired me to help him find a wife.”
“That will be an ancillary benefit. He is the one who wishes to wed.”
“I see.”
No, he didn’t think she did. He wasn’t sure he understood either what had propelled him to strike this deal with Hester—and the very fact that he’d begun to think of her as Hester only magnified his confusion.
He inhaled. There it was again, the scent of lilies, and all at once he realized the idiocy of what he’d done. He’d foisted marriage-minded Horace onto the very woman that he wanted to bed. Right here, right now, with an erection growing ever more painful in his breeches, he wanted to muss up that glorious hair of hers and bury his face in it. He wanted to breathe in her lily scent, to surround himself in it. Drown in it. And drown in her warm female flesh.
He straightened with a jerk and bit down on a foul oath. “Good day,” he managed to mutter. Then he turned and exited with no further pleasantries. She already thought him a clod, a stupid, ill-mannered American boor. A crude Scottish bastard, all money and no class. What did it matter if he’d just proven her right?
Hester stood in the hallway a long while, listening as Adrian Hawke strode out, hearing Mrs. Dobbs scurry after him.
He’d left his hat behind.
She should count that a success. For she’d hoped to bore him into leaving and so it seemed she had. In her hand she held his bank draft, money enough to double her meager savings. All in all, a rather successful morning.
There was still Horace to deal with, of course. Horace, who happened to b
e a very nice man, though not a particularly forceful one. But then, given her abhorrence of those men who demanded that everything be done their way and on their time schedule, she could not fairly criticize him for that. Truth be told, he had much more potential as a husband than most of the men she came into contact with.
“Mrs. Poitevant?” Horace’s hesitant voice drifted out from the parlor.
“I’ll be right there.” With a last lingering glance toward the front door, Hester turned back to her new student. She would go to the bank this very afternoon. She would deposit Mr. Hawke’s fee, and that would be that. Short of seeing his hat returned to him, she meant not to interact with Adrian Hawke any further than absolutely necessary.
“Well,” she said upon rejoining Horace. “Let’s move along to personal appearance, shall we?”
She circled him slowly, examining every aspect of his bearing with a sharp, discerning gaze. “You must decide, Mr. Vasterling, whether you will purchase a new wardrobe, a tight corset, or embark upon a more restrictive diet than you have in the past.”
His crestfallen features only increased her stern demeanor. If he’d harbored any tendre for her when he arrived here, she’d soon beat it into submission. Though she meant to earn her fee and make him eminently presentable, she would make certain also that any attraction he felt for her died a quick death.
She liked Horace as a brother, quite a surprise considering how many years she’d spent hating him. Eventually, once the current situation eased—namely, once Adrian Hawke departed London—she might actually consider revealing her true identity to Horace.
But not yet. Not just yet.
CHAPTER 10
Hester did not approve of Vauxhall Gardens for young ladies, at least not in the evening. Outdoors at night, with too much liquor in their bellies, so-called gentlemen seemed to revert to their basest forms: lechers, oglers, octopuses with multiple, groping hands.
Suffice it to say, she did not have good memories of the pleasure gardens at Vauxhall.
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