Chapter 3 #2
“Nice to meet you,” Mr. Hawke said with a nod. “Though, I must correct my introduction. I’m no expert on fabric. I’m nothing more than a concerned customer.” I withheld my frown as his gaze floated up to the ribbon in my hair. “It suits you.”
“The dress?” I asked, purposefully aloof.
“The ribbon.”
I made a show of touching my hair. “Oh! I hadn’t realized. My chaperone must have brought it home without my knowledge.”
“Hmm,” came a voice from the corner.
I waved Mrs. Sweete off behind my back. “I told my maid to pick out the hostess’s favorite color. I suppose the marchioness likes red.” Wanting to steer the conversation away from me, I asked, “Have either of you met her and the marquess yet?”
“Oui,” Mr. Marceaux drawled, “charming woman.”
“I have not yet had the pleasure, but…” Mr. Hawke rubbed his freshly shaven jaw. “Oh, I did meet his cousin, George Richards.”
“You’ve met the duke?” Mr. Marceaux asked. “That’s no small feat. His circle is most exclusive. It’s a formidable challenge to even get an introduction.”
“What’s formidable is his skill at battledore. If you enjoy the sport, I could introduce you to him. Maybe we could have a little tournament?”
Mr. Marceaux raised his glass. “I look forward to it.”
“As do I.” Mr. Hawke’s green eyes landed on me. “Would you like to join us?”
I took a sip of champagne, feigning disinterest. Of course I wanted to meet the untouchable duke. After all, he could be a potential candidate, even if he was an ornery hermit of a man. But I wasn’t about to owe a favor to Mr. Hawke.
“Sports don’t interest me much,” I lied. “I prefer social activities that challenge the mind.”
Mr. Hawke had the audacity to look intrigued. “Such as?”
I took another sip, buying myself time to think of something more interesting than sporting with a duke. “Well, just last month I had the most stimulating conversation with Lord Byron.”
“Hmm,” Mrs. Sweete said again. I resisted the urge to glare at her.
It wasn’t entirely a lie. I’d been invited to a large dinner that Lord Byron also attended, and although we didn’t talk to each other, we did talk in the same vicinity as each other.
And what is conversation if not two people talking?
Mr. Marceaux’s eyebrows shot up. “Byron? The poet?”
“Oh yes. In fact, he read his newest poem to me.” He had read it to all the guests, but the men didn’t need to know that. “Let’s see, how did it go? She walks in beauty in the night, of cloudless climes and starry skies.” I placed a hand on my heart. “Lovely, isn’t it?”
“Not nearly as lovely as you, ma chère,” Mr. Marceaux said with a wink.
Mr. Hawke cleared his throat. “She walks in beauty, like the night.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“The poem.” He stood a little straighter. “The correct word is like, not in. And it continues: and all that’s best of dark and bright meet in her aspect and her eyes.”
My grip tightened around my glass. “How do you know that? Lord Byron hasn’t even published it yet.”
He shrugged. “Prinny gave me a copy of Byron’s manuscript.”
“Prinny?” I coughed.
“Forgive me. I meant Prince George.”
The fragile remnant of composure within me snapped. “I know who you meant—” I caught myself and forced a smile solely for Mr. Marceaux’s sake. “Are you saying the prince gave you Byron’s unpublished works?”
Mr. Hawke rubbed the back of his neck. “It was just a small token of thanks for some business we did together.”
Heat simmered beneath my skin, and it took everything I had not to level the insufferable man with a glare.
“I met Napoleon once,” Mr. Marceaux piped in, “before I left France, of course. He never smiled. His wife on the other hand—she was enchanting.”
His words hardly registered. I was too focused on Mr. Hawke, who I suspected was basking in smug triumph beneath that paper-thin show of humility, having so neatly name-dropped both a duke and a prince in one conversation.
Very well, I thought. If this man wished to battle, I’d happily draw my sword.
I opened my mouth to attack, but Mr. Marceaux said, “I don’t think I caught your name, monsieur…?”
Mr. Hawke bowed his head. “Apologies for not introducing myself properly. My name is Edmond Hawke.”
Mrs. Sweete squeaked behind me.
Mr. Hawke turned to face me, his eyes shining. “I just now realized that you haven’t given me your name yet, Miss…?”
“You don’t know her name?” Mr. Marceaux laughed. “Why, you’re in the presence of greatness, sir. This is the Miss Helena Weston, only child of the Viscount of Highcliffe, and the sole reason half the men in London bother to get out of bed in the morning.”
Mr. Hawke cocked his head. “Only half the men?”
“The other half know they don’t stand a chance, so they don’t get out of bed at all.”
I smiled into my champagne glass. “You flatter me, Mr. Marceaux.”
“Miss Weston,” Mr. Hawke repeated slowly, as if my name were something peculiar.
Applause sounded from the dance floor as the song ended and a new dance began.
“If you’ll both excuse me,” Mr. Marceaux said, “I’ve reserved this dance with Miss Pratt. I’ll see you at the club, Hawke? Maybe for a game of cards?”
“I don’t gamble,” Mr. Hawke said.
I lifted an eyebrow, thinking of our bet at the modiste. “Don’t you?”
He shifted his stance. “I returned the shillings to you. They were next to the ribbon.” He glanced up at my hair. “And clearly you found that.”
Despite my smile, my teeth clenched so hard I feared my jaw might snap.
“No matter, Hawke. Instead, you can buy me a drink and tell me all about Prinny.” Mr. Marceaux kissed my hand above my knuckle. “Try not to miss me too much before our dance, ma chère.”
And with that, he was off, leaving me unbearably alone with Mr. Hawke.
“I also have this dance scheduled,” I said. “If you’ll excuse me.”
“Miss Weston.” Mr. Hawke stepped forward. “Do you have an opening on your dance card?”
“What?”
“A dance.” He gave me a lopsided grin. “I promise I won’t run away from you this time.”
Unbelievable. What on earth was this man doing—eclipsing me in front of Mr. Marceaux one moment, then asking to dance the next?
I glanced back at Mrs. Sweete, hoping for her intervention. But she nodded at me, urging me to accept. I gave a discreet shake of my head. But she returned it with a more emphatic nod. Dread pooled in my stomach. Clearly Mrs. Sweete knew something I didn’t.
“Fine.” I reluctantly handed Mr. Hawke my card.
He took it. But his grin quickly fell. “You have only one dance available.”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“And it’s a waltz.”
“Is it?”
He sniffed. “I’d prefer the quadrille. Or the cotillion.”
“Well, those are taken.”
“Can’t you switch?”
“Absolutely not!”
He held the dance card out to me. “Forgive me, but I… I, um, forgot I had a prior engagement.”
“A prior engagement. Really?” I snatched the card out of his hand. “You promised you wouldn’t run away from me, and yet here we are. Again. If you’re so averse to dancing with me, then why ask in the first place?”
His eyes widened. “I did not mean to offend you.”
“What did you mean?”
His throat bobbed, and his eyes darted down to the dance floor. “I just—I have a headache. I should sit down.”
Every muscle in my body tensed. I had used that exact excuse twenty minutes prior with the handsy Lord Reed. Clearly, Mr. Hawke had asked me to dance just so he could withdraw his offer and seize the upper hand. It was practically a slap in the face.
“You needn’t explain more,” I said sharply. “I understand perfectly.”
“Miss Weston—”
I held up my hand to stop him. “Next time you play against the duke, tell him I’m rooting for him.”
I gave a brusque curtsy, then walked off. It took everything I had to wear a pleasant smile, lest the nosy mamas start gossiping. I took Mrs. Sweete’s arm and pulled her to the other side of the balcony, leaving Mr. Hawke and his cruel games behind me.
As soon as we were out of earshot, I whispered, “Please tell me at once why you insisted I dance with that man.”
“That man,” she said, “is Edmond Hawke. I hadn’t realized it until he said so.”
“And who, pray tell, is Edmond Hawke?”
“From what I’ve heard, he’s a newcomer to London. Unwed and quite eligible.” Mrs. Sweete drew a deep breath. “And he possesses an income of fifteen-thousand pounds a year.”
“Fifteen?” I paled. It was an impossible amount. I craned my neck and watched Mr. Hawke join the crowd below. He positioned himself at the edge of the dance floor and stared intently at the dancers, likely seeking a more suitable partner.
“Should I add him to the list?” Mrs. Sweete asked.
“Absolutely not.”
“But he meets all of your requirements. His income is far higher than any other—”
“He could spin straw into gold for all I care. I will not lower myself by pursuing such an arrogant man.”
“That leaves you with only two candidates, Lord Cranford and Mr. Marceaux.”
I twirled the end of the scarlet ribbon around my finger and grinned. “That’s one more candidate than I need.”