Chapter Eight
Hugo escorted his dance partner back to her chaperone and left her with a polite bow before returning to his grandmother, who looked at him with exasperation. Fond exasperation, but exasperation nonetheless.
“And what was wrong with that one?” she asked with a huff.
He glanced down at her, eyebrows raised. “Nothing at all.”
“And yet you spoke hardly a word to her whilst you danced and quit her company almost before the last note was played. You’ll have a difficult time finding a wife if you refuse to spend more than three minutes with a woman.”
She glanced at him with that look of hers that pierced straight through to his soul. He could never hide anything from her.
He sighed. “She was perfectly fine, Grandmother.”
“And?”
He didn’t look at her when he answered. “I want more than perfectly fine.”
He wanted intelligent, humorous, witty, adventurous, fearless, passionate.
Something he already had. In a manner of speaking.
Though in reality… He sighed again. He may have already found what he wanted.
But in someone he could not have. Someone whose name he did not even know.
Whose face he had never seen. Would never see.
“Ah. I see. And you have yet to meet such a woman, I take it?”
He gave her a sharp nod but again didn’t meet her eyes. He didn’t dare to. Not that it helped. He couldn’t hide from her.
The hint of a smile on her lips implied knowledge he knew she didn’t have. She had always seen right through him, though. Always knew his secrets, his mind, sometimes even before he did himself.
But this secret, he could not risk her learning.
She would never approve. Although…of everyone in his family, his grandmother might be the one to ignore the unconventional relationship between him and his millinery marchioness.
He craved her advice on that matter, for he was well and truly flummoxed.
With every letter he received, he grew more and more enchanted with his mystery lady.
And he grew more determined to meet her in person.
Yet what purpose would it serve? They could not be together.
He didn’t even know if she would wish a relationship with him were he able to offer one.
Their current relationship was one of friendship, camaraderie.
A bit flirtatious, yes. He wasn’t sure he even knew how to converse without being at least marginally playful.
But responding in kind in an anonymous letter did not mean she would welcome more decisive advances.
And what if she did? What if she proved to be the daughter of a stable hand?
Or worse, the daughter of some high-born noble who would not consider a mere second son—even of a duke—as a suitable match for his daughter.
For his part, he would not care who she was, what station of life she was born into.
His brother was the heir. The one who’d had to worry about bloodlines and family legacy.
Hugo had a bit more freedom in that regard.
But that did not mean his marchioness did.
He was not ashamed to admit—at least to himself—that he feared he would not measure up to her expectations.
“You are thinking rather hard for a man who insists he has no thoughts on the matter,” his grandmother said with a sly smile. “Care to share what’s putting that frown on your face?”
He blinked at her and opened his mouth…but then shut it again with a smile. “Perhaps later.” When he’d figured out what it was he actually wanted. Or had any right to ask for.
His grandmother pursed her lips together, squinting at him while she weighed her response. He let out a small sigh of relief when she did naught but nod and then turned her attention back to the crowd. Searching, no doubt, for his next dance partner.
“It’s a shame about that poor girl,” she finally said, tilting her head toward the refreshment table where none other than Miss Adaline Girard stood nursing a glass of ratafia.
His eyes immediately narrowed, and his grandmother slapped at him with her fan. “Remove that sour pucker from your face, my boy. And go ask her to dance.”
He turned to stare at his grandmother, open-mouthed with surprise. “Surely you jest.”
Her delicate, white eyebrows raised. “I do nothing of the sort. It is partly your fault the poor thing is being ignored. The least you can do is dance with her.”
“She is not being ignored, Grandmother.”
“Oh no?” she asked, her eyes narrowing before she tilted her head back in Miss Girard’s direction. “Then what would you call that, hm?”
He looked toward the lady again, his frown deepening as Miss Girard gave a hesitant smile to two passing gentlemen, who barely glanced at her let alone paused long enough to speak. Which set off the whispers and titters scarcely concealed behind fans of more than a few women in the vicinity.
“And before you argue that it isn’t your fault,” his grandmother said, interrupting him before he could do exactly that.
“There have been enough rumors of what may have happened betwixt our families, rumors that have only worsened since your display at Harrow’s the other day, I’ll point out.
Because of that, most of the ton are giving her a wide berth.
And like it or not, my dear boy, that is indeed your fault. ”
He grimaced against the pang of guilt that hit him in the gut.
“Go ask her to dance. She has only danced twice this evening with a pair of odious men that her brother badgered into offering. Both are too old and too ugly to grace her presence.”
Hugo’s brows raised in surprise. “How do you know that?”
“I’m observant, boy. Now, go on with you. If you cannot completely mend the peace with the poor thing, at least it will help calm some of the rumors.”
Hugo took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Very well,” he muttered.
He shook his head, rolled his shoulders back, then straightened his jacket—girding his loins, so to speak, for the battle ahead.
He took one step forward, then turned and snatched the glass of champagne from his grandmother’s hand and downed it in one gulp, before handing her back the empty glass.
“Cheeky boy,” she said, giving him an amused glare. “On with you.”
Easy for her to say. She didn’t almost get stabbed with a hat pin the last time she was in Miss Girard’s presence.
He made his way across the ballroom, ignoring the stares that began to follow him the nearer he came to the woman who was now watching him with a wary glare. He came to a stop right in front of her with a slight bow, though he kept his eyes on her.
She raised one brow, her entire body radiating tension.
“Miss Girard,” he said.
Her eyes narrowed. “Lord Hugo.” Her gaze raked over him, starting at his feet and coming back to meet his own. The hint of disdain in her large hazel eyes seemed to find him sadly lacking.
He bristled at the judgement, but straightened his spine, aware that all eyes in the ballroom were now on them.
“To what do I owe the displeasure?” she asked.
His lips twitched into a faint half-grin. “I thought perhaps you might care to dance.”
Her eyes widened. She blinked, then stared…then blinked some more.
Perhaps she was hard of hearing? Had he sent her into an apoplexy? Should he ask again? He frowned slightly. “I am sorry, Miss Girard, but are you well?”
Those big eyes of hers blinked once more and then she gave a slight shake of her head. “I apologize. But it sounded as though you asked me to dance,” she said with a little laugh.
His brow creased in a frown. “I did.”
“Why?” she asked, her eyes immediately narrowing with suspicion.
“Why?”
“Yes, why?”
He was quite certain his expression resembled a cocker spaniel trying to understand Latin, but he couldn’t hide his confusion. “We are at a ball. People are dancing. You are not. I thought perhaps you would like to remedy that state of affairs. Hence the invitation.”
Her lips pursed in a grimace. “I don’t understand.”
“I…” This time he blinked, his confusion at her confusion momentarily striking him mute. “I’m sorry. This doesn’t seem a difficult concept but perhaps I am mistaken. You see, at a ball—”
She rolled her eyes. “I understand the concept of a ball, Lord Hugo.”
“Oh good.”
She scowled but continued, “What I fail to understand is why me?”
Ah. Finally, the crux of the matter. He couldn’t tell her the truth without risking insulting her further, so he shrugged. “Why not you?”
“You hate me,” she stated, very matter-of-factly. As if such a possibility didn’t bother her in the least. How would that feel? He hated that he cared so deeply about whether or not he was liked.
However, while his feelings for her were definitely complicated and did skew toward the unpleasant, he did not hate her. He frowned. “I do not.”
She scoffed. “You seem to.”
Of all the cheek… “I beg your pardon, but it is you who seems to hate me.”
One silk clad shoulder rose in a delicate shrug. “I have cause.”
Aha! He grinned in triumph though it almost instantly faded. Wait…why did her admitting that make him happy? He hated it when someone didn’t like him. “Then you admit it. You do hate me.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t not say it. And you certainly implied it.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You of all people should know that an implication is not an actual declaration.”
He opened his mouth to argue, but damn it all if she didn’t have a valid point.
She pursed her lips again. “Why do you care if I hate you or not?”
“I don’t.” He did, actually. Curious, despite his general inclinations on the matter. With her it was all but a foregone conclusion, so not only should he not mind but it should not have come as a surprise. Though that was hardly the point at hand.
Her eyes narrowed again, but this time a small smile played on her lips. As if she had caught him in a secret. “I think you do.”
Do not. “Why do you care if I care?”
“I don’t.”
He grinned. Now he’d caught her. “I think you do.”
Her smile disappeared. “Go away.”
“I think we should dance.”