The Bridemaker

by Rexanne Becnel

  Adrian gave him a courteous bow. “My pardon, sir. I’d be happy to fight him outside.”

  The man stiffened. “My word. You Americans are worse than we heard. Gentlemen do not engage in fisticuffs except in the boxing ring.”

  “An excellent suggestion, my lord,” said Adrian.

  “No!” Hester shoved between Lord Caldecort and Adrian. “I want no one fighting because of… because of a silly misunderstanding.” How hard it was to get out that watered-down description of events.

  Adrian took her by the shoulders. “The man’s a pig, Hester. He’s the worst sort of bully. Besides, this fight is more about him and me than it is about you.”

  Hester stared up at him, and all her resolve to be angry at his interference flew right out of her head. It went against everything she’d strived to achieve to let a man rescue her from a situation she felt well able to deal with herself. But from their first run-in, it had been obvious that there was bad blood between the two men, something from their school days.

  With a little nod she acknowledged Adrian’s words. Only then did she become aware of the avid silence of their staring audience. Too late she realized that his hands on her shoulders and his use of her given name revealed far more about their relationship than either of them wanted revealed.

  She stiffened; his hands fell away. But the damage was done. A new buzz of whispers began, and with it her face flamed with guilty color.

  Adrian realized at once the mistake he’d made. But he was not about to let what he’d done reflect badly on Hester. So he turned to the real villain of this tableau, George Bennett, whom two men were helping to his feet. Again he caught the man by the front of his jacket Everyone else fell back, expecting some new outburst of violence. Even Hester.

  “So, Bennett. How many other respectable women have you insulted and terrorized? How many? Do you think because you hired Mrs. Poitevant to instruct your sister that she is subject to your vile temper and crude innuendo? You forget that there are others like myself, who respect her and who also have engaged her to polish someone for entree into society. I, for one, do not take an attack on any of my business associates lightly.” He sent a quick warning glance to Hester, then glared back at the quivering slob before him. “If you’re a man, you’ll meet my challenge in the ring. Just set the time and place.”

  In the hoopla that followed, Adrian lost sight of Hester. She disappeared in a circle of women while George Bennett slunk away with only his mother and one of the Caldecorts’ footmen as escort. Meanwhile Adrian fielded all sorts of offers to arrange the boxing match. Bennett did not have many friends, it seemed. Though few would speak out too loudly against a peer, it was clear that they all relished the idea of seeing the man beat senseless.

  Amid the talk of rings and Queensberry rules, and famous grudge matches of the past, however, Adrian was careful to keep Hester’s innocence at the forefront.

  “And her a poor widow,” someone agreed with him.

  “Managing as best she can, only to be insulted by one who should know better,” another said.

  “It’s fortunate she has such staunch defenders,” his Uncle Neville put in.

  “Indeed.” This came from Lord Caldecort himself. “She’s a starchy bit of a woman. No denying that. But a widow’s a widow. It behooves all decent men to see she’s protected since she’s got no man of her own.”

  In the ladies’ retiring room, meanwhile, Hester was forced to sit with her feet up and a cool cloth on her head. Catherine fanned her while her mother, Olivia, fussed over her.

  When Hester tried to protest, Olivia gave her a cautioning look, then a secret wink.

  “Thank goodness our Adrian was there,” Olivia said, loud enough to be heard by everyone in the room and in the hall outside. “I’ll admit his manner may sometimes be a trifle rough. He is, after all, from America. But his good heart is what counts. That odious Lord Ainsley should hope to someday possess the manners of my dear nephew.”

  One of Catherine’s friends, a girl not yet betrothed, clasped her hands to her chest and sighed. “He was wonderful, don’t you think? Like a knight in shining armor.”

  “He certainly was,” Olivia said. “Even as a boy he never hesitated to defend those more vulnerable than he. His mother, other children. He has always hated bullies, and we supported that. But Neville and I used to despair that he would be seriously hurt.” She smiled at her rapt audience. “Fortunately he wasn’t. And fortunately he hasn’t changed a bit during his sojourn in America. I only wish we could find him an English bride so that he might return permanently to us.”

  Hester marveled at the woman’s aplomb, though that part about a bride keeping him in England seemed rather extreme. Why should he marry when he could coax any woman he wanted—even the oldest virgin in London— into his bed?

  But she wasn’t going to think about that. By the time they all dispersed back to the party, there wasn’t a woman at the ball who wouldn’t have married Adrian Hawke on the spot, would he ask her. Even the ones already wed.

  It was a relief and yet it was small comfort to Hester. Olivia and Catherine had probably saved her reputation with their quick thinking. But they’d also pointed every woman of the ton at Adrian. As if he needed their help. With his time left in England so brief, she was unlikely ever to get him alone again.

  Just as well, her sensible self scolded.

  But the part of her that wore lacy undergarments and slept in a sheer, embroidered night rail, under sweetly scented sheets, was heartbroken.

  She’d had one night with him. Now it was unlikely she’d ever get another.

  CHAPTER 19

  The next day Lady Ainsley sent a cold note, dismissing Hester from her employ and warning her to keep her distance from every member of her family.

  The day after that, Dulcie sent a note stained with tears, apologizing profusely for her brother’s crudeness and her mother’s hatefulness. One good thing she revealed: Leonard Smythe had withdrawn his offer. It seemed he did not wish to be associated with the Ainsleys’ recent shame. George, meanwhile, had fled to their country place just south of London. Apparently he had no intention of accepting Adrian’s challenge to fisticuffs.

  The girl ended with a particularly soggy paragraph about how wonderful Mr. Hawke had been to come to Hester’s rescue, how sorely she missed Hester, and how sorry she was that she would not be able to join either Hester or Mr. Hawke on the riding excursion they’d planned.

  The following day Hester received the message she’d really been waiting for, the one from Adrian. Horace delivered it, and though he was clearly curious, she waited to read it after he left.

  “Dear Mrs. Poitevant,” it began. Hester’s heart sank at the formality.

  I apologize for any inconvenience my recent, impulsive behavior may have caused you. I have been advised that it might benefit your reputation best if I not call on you again.

  That was all. No pleasant closing line, no regrets. Not even an expression of sincerity. Just that curtly worded apology and his slashing signature.

  Hester read it five times, perhaps more, trying in vain to interpret some emotion other than perfunctory courtesy in his words. But there was nothing. They were done, he and she.

  It was no more than she expected. But the fact that their parting had come a week sooner than she’d anticipated was somehow devastating. It was ridiculous, but true. She was devastated. Crushed.

  She refused to cry, however. She’d had her fling, and it was over. Now she didn’t ever have to concern herself with such matters again.

  Over the rest of the week Hester attended a breakfast with Charlotte, another birthday reception—this one with Anabelle, and two well-attended supper parties. None of those occasions included appearances by Adrian, which happenstance left her both relieved and despairing.

  At least her reputation had not been ruined, and Hester knew whom to credit for that. Olivia and Catherine Hawke were two of the finest women she’d ever had the good f
ortune to meet and she would forever be grateful to them. Indeed, thanks to them she’d become a bit of a darling. Already she had two clients arranged for next season.

  Even more astounding, she had an appointment next week with an ancient countess and her incredibly awkward country bumpkin of a nephew who seemed destined to be an earl despite his decided preference for farming, fishing, and bachelorhood. While the first two were acceptable, if eccentric, the latter could not possibly be allowed. An earl must marry someone.

  Either Adrian or Horace must have advised the countess to consult the Mayfair Academy, and Hester ought to have been thrilled with this new aspect of her business. But she seemed unable to muster any extremes of emotion except, perhaps, for loneliness, sadness, and hopelessness.

  Today she sat in her back parlor, so mired in those emotions she didn’t hear the knock. So when Mrs. Dobbs announced Horace Vasterling, she gave a start. “Is he… alone?”

  Mrs. Dobbs gave her a look, half curious, half knowing. The same look she’d been giving her all week, as if she knew what had been going on under her nose, even though she couldn’t possibly know. No one but Verna knew about her dalliance with Adrian Hawke, and no one else ever would.

  “Yes, miss. I’m afraid Mr. Hawke isn’t with him.”

  “I meant his father,” Hester lied, jutting out her chin. She sniffed then, regretting her ill temper, sighed and shook her head. Closing the book she held but hadn’t really been reading, she said, “Show him in, will you?”

  Horace had been her rock this past week, putting in an appearance at several of the same places she’d been, only once with his father in tow. He’d truly become her friend of late, so much so that she sometimes forgot the secret of their real relationship. If not for the specter of their father’s presence in town, she might have put the entire business right out of her head.

  When he entered, she reached a hand to him and he took it. But she sensed at once his distress. He’d forgotten his gloves, part of his hair was standing on end, and he’d overlooked fastening two of the buttons on his waistcoat.

  “Horace?”

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. P. It’s good of you to see me.”

  “Are you all right?”

  Releasing her hand, he paced to the window, stared a restless moment out into the blustery afternoon, then turned and paced to the fireplace. He stared at himself in the mirror and tried half-heartedly to repair his hair. Then he paced right back to the window. “I’m going home. To Cumbria,” he said. “I’ll probably travel with Adrian after his cousin’s wedding. He’s going that same route on his way to Scotland, you know.”

  Hester clamped her lips against their sudden trembling. She cleared her throat. “I’ll miss you. Very much,” she added, for it was true.

  He turned to look at her, his normally amiable face downcast.

  “I wanted to thank you,” she went on. “For sending Lady Gorings to me. I’m to meet her nephew next week.”

  “That was more Adrian’s doing than mine.”

  “Oh.” She looked down at the handkerchief she’d twisted into a knot in her hands. How very good of Adrian to make sure she would have a decent income after he left for Scotland and America. Except that she didn’t appreciate it at all. If he cared half as much about her feelings as he did about her livelihood, she’d be far happier.

  But he didn’t care about her feelings. They’d been lovers; they weren’t in love. There was a huge difference between the two, even if she had a hard time remembering it.

  She couldn’t think about that now, though. That was for the privacy of her own chamber at night. Her lonely chamber. For now she must force herself to focus on Horace, for he clearly was upset.

  “What’s wrong, Horace? You don’t seem at all yourself today.”

  He grimaced. “I shouldn’t burden you with my megrims.”

  “I beg to differ. I believe I was engaged for precisely that purpose.”

  That provoked a glimmer of his old affability. “So you were. I must confess that I’ve come to think of you more as a friend.”

  “And so I am. Now tell me the cause of your glum mood. Is that why you’ve decided to leave London?”

  “Just the opposite. I’m glum because I am leaving.”

  “Then stay.”

  “How can I stay?” he burst out. “When the woman I’ve settled my affections on can never be mine?”

  He stared at her so earnestly that her face reddened. Oh dear, oh dear. She thought he’d abandoned any tendencies of that sort toward her. Had their developing friendship meant more to him than she’d realized?

  “Horace,” she began. “Don’t leave London on account… on account of me.”

  “Don’t blame yourself,” he said. “All you could do was make me more presentable to her.” His thick brows drew together in despair. “You can’t make me into an earl or increase my fortune sufficiently to suit her family.”

  It took Hester a moment to digest his words. He was leaving London on account of some other woman, not her. A woman whose family did not find him acceptable.

  Dulcie Bennett? She straightened at the thought.

  Could it be? She searched her mind, recalling their every interaction. They’d been friendly, then warm. They’d danced at least two dances every time they’d been at the same party. And then, they’d finally had their ride yesterday morning. Instead of her and Adrian accompanying them, however, Catherine and her beau had joined them.

  Hester stared at Horace. “Does the young lady in question return your affections?”

  “Well, I don’t know. I think so.”

  Hester suppressed a smile. Dear, dear Horace, and her own sweet Dulcie. “Have you expressed your feelings to her?”

  He opened his mouth, then shut it. “I suppose not. Not directly.”

  “Perhaps you should.”

  “To what end? Her family will only say no to my suit.”

  Though she knew it was heretical to the precepts of the society whose good opinion she courted, Hester said, “Perhaps you should tell her anyway.”

  He was silent a long moment. “What if she sends me away? I’ll end up looking like a fool.”

  “Well, if she turns you down because she does not return your affection, you’ll probably recover from your heartbreak much faster than you think.”

  He looked doubtful, and indeed, who was she to give advice on affairs of the heart?

  “What if she says yes?” He threw the question out like a challenge. “It still won’t change her family’s opinion. You of all people know how they are.”

  “If Dulcie Bennett says yes to your declaration of love—It is love, isn’t it?”

  His face reddened and he nodded. “I liked her very well already. She’s very easy to talk to, you see. And she never puts on airs like some of the young ladies do. But then yesterday when we went riding in Hyde Park… We had such a rousing good time, Mrs. P. It was then that I realized how perfectly suited we were. Perfectly.”

  Hester smiled at him. Yes, they were perfect for each other. “I see. Well, if Dulcie feels the same toward you, it wouldn’t surprise me one whit if she didn’t consent to…” She hesitated, then plunged on. “To running away to Winwood Manor with you. After all, it’s not that much farther to Gretna Green.”

  Horace’s eyes grew as big as saucers. “Gretna Green! You’re suggesting Dulcie and I run away to Gretna Green?”

  “Only as a last resort.”

  She could see his mind spinning. Then suddenly he frowned. “My father will have a conniption fit. What if he should deny us the succor of his home?”

  “Why should he care? Why can’t he be happy that you could marry for love?”

  “Because he married for love. Only it did not turn out very happily.”

  Hester went very still. “Oh?”

  Horace shook his head. “I know very little. Mostly from the old housekeeper. Apparently my mother was very young and very beautiful. Though much older than she, my father fell
in love with her and married her against his mother’s wishes. She had no dowry, you see, and no family connections. But their initial happiness didn’t last. She didn’t love him as he loved her and she grew very unhappy.” He let out a huge sigh. “I’ve often wondered if her death at so young an age was more a blessing than a tragedy.”

  Had he not looked so forlorn, Hester would not have been able to rein in her sudden fury. Why had their father lied to him so? Horace had already been deprived of a mother and sister. She couldn’t let him lose the woman he most wanted, a woman so well suited to him that it now seemed preordained for them to marry. Why should it matter if his father disapproved? Hester wouldn’t allow an even greater travesty to occur than her father had done when he didn’t track his daughter down.

  Though she could do nothing about Horace’s long-lost mother, she could restore his sister to him, and perhaps in the process, help him gain the one woman who could make him happy.

  It was time to tell him the truth. Past time.

  “Horace, I want you to be quiet,” she began. “Just listen to what I have to say and afterward we can discuss it further.”

  Horace gave her a quizzical look, but like the good student he’d been since first he’d come to her, he nodded. Hester drew a breath, conscious that she was shaking. She knotted her fingers together.

  “I haven’t been entirely honest with you. The truth is, I am well acquainted with the history of your family. Your father and mother married when she was eighteen and he thirty-nine. They had two children, a girl first, then you.”

  His brow creased in consternation but she proceeded. “After you were born, your mother, Isabelle, ran away, taking only her clothes, her jewels, and her daughter. Your sister.”

  “Wait,” he interrupted. “I have no sister. Where have you heard such a wild tale?” Then, “How do you know my mother’s name?”

  Hester gave him a sad smile. “Isabelle Forrester Vasterling. Her mother’s maiden name was Poitevant.”

  She heard him suck in a sudden breath. But still he fought the truth of her words. “Poitevant. Does that make us, what… cousins?”