The Bridemaker

by Rexanne Becnel

  But the thought of her did, at least to Adrian. With each meeting his fascination with her had increased, and it annoyed the hell out of him. Something about her made no sense. Something about her little masquerade had become an irritant under his skin. He needed to know her secrets, even though she should mean less than nothing to him.

  Intellectually he understood a part of it. Like George Bennett, Hester Poitevant had come to symbolize for him all that was wrong with English society: if you weren’t titled or rich, or preferably both, you didn’t count. The pairing of husbands and wives was as unemotional as the merging of two business concerns. And as London’s premier bridemaker, Hester Poitevant sat right in the middle of the whole sordid mess.

  If he could put her in her place, make her fall in love with a fellow like Horace, then he would have proven his point. Their system was wrong and it could be changed.

  But somehow everything had gotten confused, and now it was he who wanted the damned woman.

  And he who seemed unable to get her.

  Across the party grounds, Dulcie’s conversation with Hester followed a track similar to Horace’s, though the principals were different.

  “He is the handsomest man in all creation!” Dulcie gushed. She clasped her hands to her chest. “Isn’t he, Mrs. Poitevant? Isn’t he?”

  Somehow Hester managed a smile. “Yes, I’m certain he must be.” And also the most perverse.

  In truth, however, it was she who was perverse. For when he’d invited her to ride, or to drive out with him, she’d wanted to say yes to those offers—and any others he might make as well.

  How she’d managed her all-purpose “Thank you, but no,” she wasn’t at all sure. It must be the many years of practice, of repeating that phrase to so many men, that had guided her through this latest proposition. For it was a proposition. She knew it and so did he. Though she’d adopted the guise of a widow in order to give herself credibility in society, it did not entirely protect her. Widows, especially young, attractive ones, were prime targets for randy men of indiscriminate morals. What respect she gained from the women of society was offset by the leering assumptions of too many of their men.

  But since it was the women—the mamas—who hired her, it was to them she must look most respectable. The men she had learned how to rebuff.

  Rebuffing Adrian Hawke, however, had not been so easy. And now Dulcie must go on and on with her effusive admiration of the man. If she only knew how base he really was, she would swiftly change her tune.

  Then again, Hester knew his true nature, and that did not seem to change her response to the man.

  But that was physical, she told herself. It had been a very long time since she’d been so attracted to a man. She’d simply forgotten how powerful those emotions sometimes could be. Pounding heart, damp palms. And that distressing awareness in all her most private parts, as if the blood rushed through her body, warming and exciting every least bit of her.

  On one level it was rather glorious, and the thought of succumbing to those forbidden sensations made her almost giddy. But on another level—a sensible, self-protective level—she knew she could never do that. Adrian Hawke was no more the right man for her than he was for Dulcie.

  If she, who understood what men like Mr. Hawke were really like still had a hard time accepting that fact, how much harder must it be for Dulcie? And how was she ever to convince her of that fact with her brother urging her to pursue him?

  “You know, Dulcie,” she began. “After Catherine Hawke’s wedding next week, Adrian Hawke is very likely to be returning to America.”

  “I know. I know.” The girl let out a huge sigh. “What am I possibly to do?”

  Let him go and count yourself very lucky. “Well… Has he indicated any partiality toward you?”

  “He’s always looking at me. I’ve caught him several times. See?” She leaned over, hiding her face behind her fan. “He’s staring at me right now.”

  He was staring at one of them all right, Hester thought. The one he figured most likely to do with him what a proper lady should never do.

  “I’m afraid, dear, that if he wanted to pursue a deeper acquaintance with you he would. He does not strike me as a man lacking in self-confidence.” Anything but.

  They both watched as a couple approached him and introduced a pretty young blonde dressed in lavender and cream, wearing an enormous straw hat.

  Hester pressed her lips together. The man was far too attractive to make a good husband to anyone. Not that fresh-faced blonde or Dulcie—or herself.

  Not that she wanted a husband. Heaven forbid. But it worried Hester that Dulcie could not see him for what he was. Once he returned to America, would she prove just as foolish with the next handsome cad that smiled at her?

  Across the crowd she saw him bow over the blond woman’s hand. Maybe watching him turn his charms on yet another woman would open Dulcie’s eyes.

  When she glanced at Dulcie, however, she found not resignation, but determination etched onto her face. The young woman’s eyes glittered with it; her lips pursed with it. “I asked George to invite him to our card party this weekend.”

  Hester stifled a groan. “And did he?”

  “Of course. He thought it was a marvelous idea.”

  No surprise in that. “Does your mother approve?”

  Dulcie hesitated. “Mother is a little slower to warm up to Mr. Hawke. But she no longer objects to him.”

  Hester did not reply to that, though it boggled her mind how swiftly the woman had changed direction on the subject of Adrian Hawke. George’s selfishness did not surprise her. But Lady Ainsley was Dulcie’s mother. Apparently though, that did not prevent her agreeing to sell her daughter to the highest bidder, even someone she abhorred. Just so long as she did not have to lower her own standard of living. After all, she had other daughters with whom to snare an earl for a son-in-law.

  “Mama said to invite you also.”

  “Me? Why do you need me at a party in your own home?”

  “Because she likes you. And I asked her to,” she added. “You’ve been so good to me. To all of us.” Dulcie gave her a hopeful look. “You will come, won’t you?”

  “Of course.” The words were out before Hester could prevent them.

  “Oh, thank you. Thank you. Mama will be so pleased and I—” She broke off.

  Curious, Hester cocked her head. “And you what?”

  The girl smiled, a hesitant, childish smile. “As much as I admire Mr. Hawke, sometimes he is… overwhelming. Intimidating.” She blushed. “I’ll be much more at ease with him knowing you’re nearby.”

  Best you stay intimidated by the man, Hester thought. But she said nothing, for at that moment Dulcie’s uncle came up grinning, his features lit by several glasses of wine too many. “Dulcie, m’dear. Come dance with your uncle on his birthday. Come along.”

  Giggling, Dulcie went with him, leaving Hester to stare after her. The girl had become a mass of contradictions. At times her confidence soared. She talked and laughed and even flirted as she’d never done prior to attending Hester’s academy. Yet other times she seemed as young and naive as ever.

  All the child needed was to marry a nice man and move somewhere far from her mother and brother. Too bad Horace didn’t have deeper pockets, Hester thought. The two of them might manage rather nicely together.

  But George and Mrs. Bennett would never allow it. They’d decided that Dulcie must marry money, even untitled, American money—like Adrian Hawke’s.

  CHAPTER 11

  Adrian had been waiting for just this opportunity.

  Vauxhall Gardens was well known for its shadowed paths, private bowers, and secret trysting spots. Already tonight more than one couple had slipped quietly away from the giddy center of the birthday bash. But he yet lingered.

  Horace appeared to be having a splendid time, thanks to Hester Poitevant. He danced and talked and comported himself with an ease he hadn’t previously exhibited. Adrian, however, f
ound himself more ill at ease than he’d been since his Aunt Olivia had first introduced him into polite society.

  The irony was that the source of Horace’s newfound confidence was also the source of Adrian’s agitation.

  The past three days had been a resounding success on the business front. But his private life had become a living hell. He’d never wanted a woman he could not have—at least not since he’d left boyhood behind. But ever since his first confrontation with the arrogant, deceptive, delectable, frustrating Widow Poitevant, he’d become a slavering fool. The worst of it was, he couldn’t muster interest in any other woman even though there were plenty to be had. But he didn’t want them. He wanted her.

  So tonight he’d decided to put an end to his agitation. Tonight he would start a concerted effort to seduce the woman, no matter her protests, no matter how wretchedly she dressed.

  He had to have her, and finally he had his chance. Hester stood alone in the shadows, back from the party-goers, watching her students and waiting like a mother hen to prop them up should they require it.

  This was one time, Adrian vowed, that they would have to perform their parts without her aid.

  An energetic polka filled the air, as did laughter and breathless shouts of encouragement. To one side a fire-breather raised a round of eager applause, the acrid smell of his smoke scenting the air. Elsewhere a monkey and a dog entertained with a repertoire of tricks truly astounding.

  But not as astounding as Hester Poitevant’s tricks, Adrian fumed. The sun had set and a cool lavender tinted the scene, with here and there a brighter gold circle of lamplight. He circled the noisy party. No, nothing here was as astounding or intriguing as the pretty deceit she practiced every day with her somber disguise.

  As stealthily as a beast of prey he approached her from behind. “Enjoying yourself?”

  Hester let out a little gasp at that unexpected voice from the shadows. She’d been accosted like this in the past, though not in a very long time. Yet still she jerked instinctively to the side. Then she recognized the voice and also the warm grasp that prevented her from falling.

  Adrian Hawke.

  Though she wanted to be angry, what she felt instead was a ridiculous spurt of gladness. He’d sought her out!

  “I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, his voice as dark and sultry as the June night had become.

  “Didn’t you?” She faced him in the shelter of a pair of holly trees. Her heart still pounded, but no longer in fear. Well, perhaps in fear. A different sort of fear. “You may release my arm.” Your touch burns me.

  “I’d rather not.”

  At that the burn became a fire spreading through her entire body. She tried halfheartedly to pull away, but he did not at first release her—and the fire turned into a conflagration.

  When he did finally let her go, she stumbled back, deeper into the shadows. “You… you are too forward, sir.”

  As reprimands went it was awfully weak. But at the moment it was the best she could muster.

  “You think that forward?” He moved nearer and she took another backward step. “It appears the standards of what is forward vary widely.” Another step nearer, another step back. “For instance,” he went on. “I believe a woman with such green eyes as yours should never stare so long and hard at a man as you have stared at me tonight.”

  “You were staring at me.”

  “Yes, I was. But you stared back.”

  Guilty, she silently acknowledged. Guilty. She swallowed hard, vowing to hold her ground. “Perhaps it would be better for both of us if we agreed not to stare at one another.”

  He shook his head. “That will never work. I find you far too intriguing to ignore. And you find me…” He propped one hand against the trunk of an oak tree and smiled—a half-smile, really, but it had more impact than ten other men’s smiles, somehow both threatening and infinitely appealing. “How do you find me, Hester?”

  Oh, dear, she thought. I am seriously out of practice in matters like this.

  “Come, come. I hadn’t taken you for the tongue-tied sort.”

  Mustering her courage, she crossed her arms. “What I am is the stickler-for-propriety sort. For instance, I do not like men who grab my arm or use my given name without leave to do so. Nor men who seek to trap me in a compromising position.”

  “Is that what you think I’m doing?”

  “Isn’t it?”

  He studied her as if honestly debating the answer to her question. He was a broad-shouldered silhouette against the faint light from a lantern somewhere beyond him, a dangerous, far-too-masculine predator in the handsome guise of a gentleman.

  As the silence stretched out between them, Hester grew acutely aware of her own appearance. Plain gown. Strict coiffure. No adornments, not even her spectacles. With an unconscious movement she fingered the spot on her nose they usually slid down to.

  He smiled at her guilty little gesture. “What I’m doing,” he began, “What I’m wondering, is why you disguise yourself so. At least you’ve abandoned those ridiculous spectacles. But your mode of dress.” He shook his head. “We both know, Hester, that the pretty dress you wore the other day is far more suitable for today’s entertainments than that matron’s garb you wear.”

  “I believe we’ve already had this conversation.”

  “We began this conversation. We haven’t finished it.”

  “Well, I for one consider it finished. Unless it pertains to our business arrangement regarding my—” She broke off and took a sharp breath. “Regarding Mr. Vasterling,” she amended. “Then we have nothing to discuss. If you’ll excuse me, I believe I ought to return to the party.”

  “Ah, but we do have something to discuss,” he said, straightening up. “Something very important.”

  Hester tried to swallow, but her mouth had gone dry. What was he talking about? Her already hammering heart thudded with a new fear. Could he have learned something about her true connection to Horace?

  But it was not that. For while she stood there, rooted to the ground, he lifted his hand to cup the side of her face. And when she stared at him in shock, undone by the intimacy of that wholly unanticipated caress, he cupped the other side of her face as well.

  He was going to kiss her.

  He was going to kiss her!

  But for a long, stretched-out moment he did not. He only held her gaze and waited.

  For what?

  For her to tell him to stop, she realized. But her realization came too late. By the time her muddled brain understood, he lowered his face to hers and their lips met in a whisper of a kiss.

  A whisper, yes. Neither greedy nor demanding. Yet by its very restraint it unleashed a violence of emotion within her chest. She became the greedy one. She was the one with demands unmet. Ten long years of repressed emotion and repressed physical yearning caught her unawares, like a sudden storm on a placid day. Their lips met and held; his fingers slid up into her hair; and all at once what had been too much intimacy became not enough.

  Not enough at all.

  She leaned into him and he took it for what it was: acceptance and plea.

  She’d always known the gardens of Vauxhall were dangerous. That was her last rational thought. It had never been as dangerous, however, as it was with Adrian Hawke in it. For with the subtlest pressure of his thumb at the corner of her mouth, he coaxed it open to him. Then he deepened the kiss, pulling her nearer, slanting his mouth to fit better with hers, and she rose to meet him.

  And when he traced the seam of her lips with his tongue, then thrust inside to claim her and thrill her, she let him.

  Claim me. Thrill me.

  She might as well have shouted the words aloud, for everything in her that was female submitted to that erotic caress. She submitted and bade him continue, and he did. He heard her silent pleading and caught her around the waist. Up against him she came, breast and belly and thighs. Snug, fitting so perfectly together. And all the while he devoured her with his mouth.r />
  But then, she wanted to be devoured. From challenging, to greedy, to the marauding Hannibal rushing her every meager defense: that was the lightning progression of his kisses. From stolen caress to carnal dominance.

  She’d never let another man progress this far with her though many had tried, and she should certainly not let this one either, not if she valued her reputation. What if someone saw them?

  She gasped for breath and with it came a little glimmer of sanity. She was off balance, bent backward in Adrian Hawke’s powerful arms, accepting his hungry kisses, and kissing him back with equal ardor, with only the evening shadows to prevent anyone from discovering them.

  “Wait.” The word came out fainter than a whisper, but he heard.

  “We’ve waited long enough.”

  She shivered at his dark growl, so hot against her ear. His free hand moved in her hair and she felt the twisted coil begin to collapse. “Wait—”

  “I’ve been wanting to do this.” He nuzzled her temple, her brow, then moved back to her mouth. “Your hair Your mouth. Your lips.” He nipped at her lower lip. Then, “Kiss me.”

  So much for her protests. He nipped at her lips, ordered her about, and she did exactly as he commanded. Open-mouthed she kissed him. Then when his tongue did not delve between her lips as she so desperately wanted it to, she thrust her tongue into his mouth.

  It was like fire, like the fire-breathing man, lighting her up through and through. Her blood roared along the pathways of her veins, a furious lava flow reducing to cinders every inhibition in its way. With one hand he finished off her hair; she felt it tumble down about her waist. With his other he moved to cup her derriere and pull her against his loins.

  “See what you have done?” he said, tearing his lips from hers and breathing as hard as she. He stared down at her, his eyes dark and yet on fire with desire. He thrust his hips forward so that she could not mistake the heavy swelling in his breeches. “See what you have done, Hester?”

  She had no words to answer him, not words of denial nor words to accept the blame. She was too shaken, too on fire, too consumed by emotions she’d not known could exist.