“Balls are a diversion,” Nora said, tossing a smile to someone in the distance. “And I like the Duchess of Warnick more than I like most people.”
“I didn’t know you knew the Duchess of Warnick.”
“There are many things you don’t know about me,” Nora said with affected mystery.
Hattie laughed. “There is nothing I don’t know about you.”
“I’m thinking of finding a thing or two, honestly,” came the reply as Nora passed her shawl to a waiting footman. “I don’t like that you’re keeping secrets about your new paramour.” She mouthed the word in an exaggerated fashion that would have allowed anyone looking to know precisely what she’d said.
Hattie didn’t blink. There was absolutely no one looking. No one looked at twenty-nine-year-old spinsters, one of whom lacked beauty and the other of whom lacked tact. “He’s not that.”
Nora smirked. “Oh, no. Of course not. He just . . .”—her eyes went wide and she lowered her voice—“in a tavern.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Hattie looked up at the ceiling and lowered her own voice. “Might we speak about this somewhere else?”
“Certainly,” Nora replied as though they were discussing the weather. “But no one is listening. I merely think you should consider the fact that finding a man who cares for your bits before his own is rare indeed. Or so I am told.”
“Nora!” Hattie’s cheeks had gone crimson, and the high-pitched cry did summon shocked and disapproving glances from those around them.
“At any rate, I know the duchess because the duke likes to race carriages and, as it happens, so do I.” Nora accepted two dance cards from a nearby footman with a delighted laugh. “Look at how clever these are. Little paint palettes. I assume we’re to write the name of our dance partner in the paint wells.”
She extended one to Hattie, who shook her head. “I don’t require one.”
Nora sighed. “Take it.”
Hattie did, even as she said, “I don’t dance. I haven’t danced in years.” Certainly not with anyone who hadn’t been forced into the situation with some kind of pity. “I don’t even like to dance,” she said to Nora’s back as the other woman waved a hand and pushed through the door to the ballroom beyond.
The ballroom was degrees warmer than the hallway, a wall of doors opened wide to the night on one side of the room unable to combat the crush of bodies within. The chandeliers high above bathed the revelers in warm, wonderful light that flickered with the breeze from outside, strong enough to send drops of hot wax to the floor below. Not that anyone would notice. The orchestra was loud and the refreshments bountiful, and the massive duke and the stunning duchess—already in each other’s arms on the dance floor and far too close for propriety—were very much in love, which would draw attention from anything else.
Hattie watched them for a moment, the way the duke, a Scotsman who had to duck through doorways and towered above the rest of the room, held his wife in his arms, tucking her close, as though she might need protection. The duchess, flame-haired and beautiful—once named the most beautiful woman in all London—lifted her gaze and met her husband’s eyes with a bright, loving smile, and the man’s stern face went soft and loving. The expression did damage for its honesty.
Hattie wondered what it might feel to receive such a look.
To be held so well.
To be loved so much.
She swallowed around the knot in her throat, raising a hand to her chest when they reached the top of the half-dozen steps leading down to the ballroom. Nora turned and spoke to the majordomo, who announced to the entire assembly, “Lady Eleanora Madewell. Lady Henrietta Sedley.”
As was to be expected, no one looked up at the names, and the two made their way down to the main room. “Good Lord, Warnick is big,” Nora said casually. “If I were interested in such a thing, I could find my way to being interested in such a thing, quite honestly.”
Hattie laughed. Nora’s lack of interest in such a thing made her a perfect companion for nights like this—she would never insist Hattie dance with some mincing fop desperate for a dowry—and a perfect friend, as she would never insist that Hattie was mad for eschewing the idea of a loveless marriage for the sake of procuring any husband who would be had.
Not that Nora did not intend for partnership, but in the future she planned, partnership came with love, long-term, with a woman—which was a touch more complicated for the daughter of a duke with a massive dowry and the attention of every matchmaking mother of a son in shouting distance. This particular daughter of a duke was rich and brave and beautiful, however, and half of London was wild for her bold smile and her winning charm, so Hattie had no doubt that Nora would land precisely what she desired—life with a partner who loved adventure and Nora in equal measures.
Hattie, however, did not have such a guarantee.
Indeed, as Hattie aged, as she turned away from society and threw herself further and further into her father’s business, her lack of beauty became more and more of a liability, and any desire she might hold in her heart for partnership or love had been pushed away in favor of a different, more achievable desire.
The business.
No marriage. No children. Her gaze slid over the tops of the dancers assembled, lingering on the broad shoulders and dark head of the Duke of Warnick. No partner to look at her with such devotion.
She’d put the desire for those things away.
Until Beast.
The thought was barely formed when her cheeks flushed, the memory of him coming like the heat in the room. The memory of his touch on her skin. Of his kiss. Of the taste of him, sweet and tart like the candy he carried everywhere. And his voice, low and dark and perfect at her ear, at her lips, at her breast. Lower.
She’d wanted him to show her what she was missing. To ruin her with pleasure so she might always remember it, even if she was never able to have it again. And he’d done just that.
And promised her even more.
Of course, he’d packed her off to home instead of delivering on that promise. And now, three days later, she’d heard nothing from him. He knew her name, but would he be able to find her? Would he even come looking?
And that word he’d whispered when he’d sent her home—what had it meant?
Whit.
She shook her head, refusing to allow herself to linger on the single, graveled syllable that had consumed her since he’d spoken it. Had she heard him correctly? What had it meant? When she’d told Nora that bit, Nora had suggested that he might have been admiring Hattie’s delightful sense of humor.
Considering the events preceding the evening, Hattie had difficulty imagining that. At any rate, it did not matter. Not here, where he would absolutely not turn up.
Instead, she looked to her friend, still watching their host over the throngs of people. “If you were interested in that sort of thing, he still wouldn’t have you, Nora. He’s far too in love with his wife.”
“And no one can blame him,” Nora said happily. “Champagne?”
“Let’s,” Hattie replied. “One must find diversion where one can.”
The words had barely left her lips when the majordomo spoke from the ballroom steps. “Mr. Saviour Whittington.”
There was no reason for Hattie to have heard the name. The liveried man at the top of the stairs had announced a dozen names in the time it had taken Hattie and Nora to pick their way through the room. Two dozen. And Hattie hadn’t paid an ounce of attention to them.
Except this one sent a ripple through the room.
She was sure of it.
Around her, the attendees turned to look. Not only the women—first curious, then riveted, their words caught in their throats—but the men as well, their ordinary conversation turning hushed as they looked to the staircase behind her. Over the crowd, she saw the Duke of Warnick’s gaze light on the entrance to the room, and caught a glimpse of the duchess’s red hair rising and falling, as though the woman were going
to her toes to see, as well.
Hattie wouldn’t have to go up on her toes. A whisper of air came at the back of her neck—a breeze from outside, nothing more. Still, she turned, slowly, knowing who would be there, even as she should have no earthly idea. Even as she could not fathom how it was possible that a king of London’s shadows had found his way here—to the bright lights of a Mayfair ballroom.
For a moment, it seemed he was a king, standing at the top of the steps, impeccably dressed, impossibly handsome, like he’d been left there by divine right.
But royalty would have no interest in a too-plain, too-large, too-old spinster, as lost as such a woman could be in the assembly. And this man was staring directly at her.
Hattie went cold, then blazing hot, willing him to look away from her, because she couldn’t seem to find the willpower to do it herself. How had he even found her in the crush of bodies? She supposed she stood several inches above most of the guests—she was not a person easily disappeared in a room. But that did not mean that he should be able to find her so easily.
And it did not mean he had permission to look at her in such a way—the kind of way that made her remember precisely what it was to have him look at her when they were far from society. Alone. In a tavern. Or a brothel.
Her cheeks flamed as heads turned around them, attempting to follow his gaze, to discover its target.
Several people craned to see past Hattie, over her, around her. Not so Nora. If the smirk on her friend’s lips was any indication, Nora was fully aware of the direction of Beast’s attention.
Not Beast.
Saviour Whittington.
Whit.
It had been a name.
She’d asked him to tell her his name, and he’d done so. Whit. But now, more than that. Now, she knew the whole of it. Saviour Whittington. No title, but he looked as though he’d simply left it at home, in the pocket of another coat, exchanged for the one he wore tonight—dark and perfectly tailored, with a bright white cravat and a beautiful face and, somehow, with an invitation to a ducal ball—which no person who called himself Beast should have access to.
“Who is he?” The words were out of her mouth before she could catch them.
“Do you not remember?” Nora asked, teasing at her elbow as he descended the steps and the room came alive again. Hattie spun on her heel and pushed her way deeper into the crowd. Nora followed, impossible to lose. Clarifying—as though it were required—“From Covent Garden?” Another pause. “From the tavern?”
Hattie’s reply was barely recognizable as anything but a strangled, “Shut up, Nora.”
Nora did not shut up. “He looks even better in light, Hat.”
He looked beautiful in the light. He looked beautiful all the time. Hattie refrained from saying such a thing.
“I told you the duchess always has interesting guests,” Nora said smugly.
Hattie ducked her head and kept going, weaving through revelers, eager to get to the far side of the room, champagne suddenly feeling far more urgent. Once at the refreshment table, glass in hand, she drank deep.
Nora watched carefully, then said, “You’re slouching.”
“I’m too tall.”
“Nonsense,” Nora said. “You’re the perfect height. Everyone loves an Amazon.”
Hattie slid her a look. “No one loves an Amazon.”
“Seems like Mr. Whittington doesn’t have much of an aversion to them.” Nora grinned. “Especially since he’s here for you.”
He called me a warrior. Well. She wasn’t going to tell Nora that, as she’d never hear the end of it. She settled on, “He is not here for me.”
“Hattie. That man has never set foot in a Mayfair ballroom before.”
“You don’t know that.”
Her friend cut her a look. “You honestly believe a man like that could casually attend society events and the mothers of London wouldn’t find it worthy of gossip? Filthy, wonderful gossip? My Lord, Hattie, we had to sit through six hours of listening to Lady Beaufetheringstone regaling us with which waistcoat colors were worn by the unmarried gentlemen of the season the last time we were forced to tea with her.”
“It wasn’t six hours.”
“Wasn’t it? It felt like sixty.” Nora drank. “Point is, Hattie, that man has never been in society, and until this week, he’d never kissed you, either.”
Hattie’s eyes went wide. “The two are not in any way correlated.”
One of Nora’s dark brows rose in a smug arch. “Of course not.”
Hattie straightened, telling herself she’d just have a peek—just a quick look to see if she could find him in the crowd. The moment she did, letting herself come to her full height, her gaze found his. It wasn’t even as though he’d been looking about. She simply put up her head, and there he was. Like magic.
She immediately ducked again. “Damn.”
Nora snickered. “You do realize that you cannot hide from him.”
“Why not? You successfully hid from the Marquess of Bayswater for a full season.”
“That’s because Bayswater couldn’t find an elephant if it were hidden in a doll’s house. Your gentleman is rather more an even match.”
He was a perfect match. That’s what Hattie enjoyed so much about him—the sense that at any moment, they might spar, and either one of them could win. That’s what made her heart pound. It’s what fueled her desperation to head back into Covent Garden and seek him out. It’s what had kept her awake all the previous night, tossing and turning in her bed and thinking about what he meant by the fights and what kind of trouble she might get into if she crept from her home and went to find out.
Imagining herself in his world was one thing; his actually turning up in hers was entirely different.
She grabbed Nora’s hand and pulled her down the line of refreshment tables, eventually leading her out a large, open door and onto the balcony beyond. After heading away from a particularly raucous group, Hattie eventually put her back to the stone balustrade overlooking the Warnick gardens and said, “We shouldn’t have come here.”
“I don’t know why not,” Nora said. “I’m having a delightful time.” When Hattie groaned, she added, “Besides, Hattie, wasn’t the whole reason for your time in the”—she tossed a look over her shoulder to be certain they weren’t being overheard—“brothel to begin the Year of Hattie with your own ruination? Wasn’t it all to avoid the possibility of marrying?” She paused, then added, “This is your chance! March up to him and get yourself unmarriageable!”
Nora wasn’t wrong. Certainly, that had been the intent at the start of this—a quick ruination and that would be that. Just enough to ensure that her father would know that marriage wasn’t a possibility for her. That she would marry the business, and care for it ’til death did they part.
She shook her head. “I can’t. Not until I understand why he’s here. Not if he’s about to change the game.” She stopped. She was so close to getting what she wanted. Why couldn’t the man just be agreeable? “Dammit,” she whispered. “Why is he here?”
“If only there were a way you could divine that answer. By, say, asking him.”
“If he tells my father everything, then Augie shall be found out. And then I won’t get the business.”
Nora scoffed. “Augie deserves to be set on his ass. He should have to clean up his own mess. You should tell your father everything. This Beast character, too. Let them deal with Augie.”
Hattie looked to her. “He’s my brother.”
Nora narrowed her gaze, and Hattie grew uncomfortable. She knew that look. Assessing. Before she could change the topic, Nora said, “But that’s not all, is it?”
“What do you mean? Of course it is. I don’t want Augie hurt.”
Nora shook her head. “No. You want to solve it. You want to prove you can solve it. Prove you can rectify the problems with the business by yourself. You want to prove yourself worthy of it. So your father will give it to you. Because you want hi
s approval.”
Hattie nodded. “Yes.”
“And so you’re willing to take on this man alone.”
Nora meant alone in a perfectly proper sense. In the singular. Hattie managing a negotiation and repayment of the Bastards’ stolen goods by herself, without the aid of her father. But when Hattie heard alone, she had a very clear vision of alone in the plural. Alone in a carriage. In a bedchamber. In a tavern storeroom. Alone, with him.
Either way, Hattie found her answer was the same. “I am.”
She looked over her shoulder toward the door. Afraid he might be there. Disappointed he wasn’t.
“Without help,” Nora clarified.
“Without interference.” And her father would interfere. Her father would tell her that she kept a tidy register and no one monitored the redistribution of a shipment better than she did, and yes, the dockworkers liked her, but to leave the business to men.
Hattie’s teeth gritted. How many times had she heard that horrible retort? Leave the business to men.
She loathed it. And she didn’t want to leave the business to men any longer. She wanted the business left to women. To woman. To her.
And she might be her father’s last choice, but she was the best one. And she wouldn’t have Saviour Whittington making everything more complicated by turning up here and ruining it, dammit. Not when she was so close.
She lifted her eyes to Nora’s, dark and curious and entertained in the way only a good friend could be. “This isn’t amusing.”
Nora barked a little laugh. “I am afraid it’s immensely amusing; you told me he promised you your lessons, did he not? Did he not agree to aid you in your Year of Hattie exploration?”
Hattie was grateful for the darkness covering her blush. “He did.”
And he called me fucking dangerous.
A thrill shot through her at the thought. What a delightful thing for someone to think of her.
“Then perhaps that is why he is here.”
“It’s not.”
“It should be,” Nora said. “From what you said, he rather missed out on the important bits.”
“Nora!”
Brazen and the Beast Page 14