Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
The evening was one of those peculiar intervals when the city’s lamps seemed to glow more out of habit than necessity.
Hudson stood before the mirror in his dressing room, bare to the waist, and attempted to recall when the simple act of getting ready for a ball had last felt like an exercise in self-restraint.
He tugged the starched shirt from its hook with more force than was strictly necessary, the fabric hissing in protest.
In truth, he had not been looking forward to the event. He fastened the first few buttons, the collar gaping open at his throat, and glared at his own reflection: hair damp from a recent wash, jaw freshly shaved, the long scar on his left side catching the candlelight.
He was reaching for his cufflinks when the door flew open. No knock, no warning, just a sudden rush of child and dog.
“Hudson!” Cassie’s voice was a shot through the dusk. She held a notebook in both hands, open to a page that looked filled with tightly packed Latin.
Behind her, nearly tripping over the hem of her skirt, came Augusta. In that startled instant, she looked as though she had been pulled along by Cassie’s momentum. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair coming loose from its pins, and her blue eyes widened at the sight of Hudson half-dressed.
“Oh!” she gasped, then whirled around, presenting him with her neatly braided hair and the anxious set of her shoulders. “Cassie, I told you to knock.”
Cassie, undeterred, advanced to the center of the room and planted herself directly before her brother. “I finished conjugating the verbs. All of them. Even the irregulars. Will you hear them, or should I recite them for Miss Norton?”
Hudson bit back a smile. “You may recite them for me, but I reserve the right to correct your pronunciation.”
“Thank you,” Cassie said, all business.
She began to recite the verbs, the Latin rolling off her tongue with surprising accuracy. Hudson watched her, arms folded, letting the sound wash over him.
Augusta, meanwhile, seemed determined to fuse herself to the wallpaper.
When Cassie paused for breath, Hudson commented, “Excellent. But you missed the future perfect of esse.”
Cassie groaned and slapped her palm to her forehead. “I always forget that one.” She glanced over her shoulder at Augusta. “Did you hear him? He’s impossible.”
Augusta, still facing away, replied, “Your brother has very high standards.”
Hudson, recognizing an opening, said, “Miss Norton, you may turn around. I am not indecent.”
He watched with some satisfaction as she turned slowly, the blush on her cheeks deepening.
“I apologize, Your Grace,” she said, her voice composed but pitched low. “It was not my intention to intrude.”
“You did not intrude,” Hudson assured her. He selected a waistcoat from the valet stand and put it on. “Though, in the future, you will knock before entering my rooms, Cassie. Especially if you bring company.”
“Yes, Hudson,” Cassie said, but her tone made it clear she considered this more a suggestion than an edict.
Hudson began to fasten his waistcoat, but she immediately shook her head. “Not the grey. The blue one, with the silver buttons. It matches your eyes.”
He arched an eyebrow. “And since when are you my valet?”
Cassie ignored the question. “Miss Norton, don’t you think the blue waistcoat is better?”
Augusta hesitated. “I—well, yes, I do. The blue one is more… striking.”
Hudson turned, holding the blue waistcoat up for her inspection. “You agree, then?”
She nodded, a small, awkward gesture. “It is… a very handsome color.”
He slipped out of the grey waistcoat and into the blue, feeling the weight of her gaze as he did. For a moment, he was acutely aware of her presence, her breathing, the slight tremor in her hands, the scent of lavender that clung to her skin.
Cassie, pleased with her triumph, set about critiquing his cravat next. “Not the white, that’s too plain. The patterned one. With the little… things.”
“Paisley,” Hudson supplied.
“Whatever it is, it’s better.” Cassie fished the offending neckcloth from the pile and held it out. “Miss Norton, you have a good eye. What do you think?”
Augusta’s lips twitched at the corners. “The paisley is certainly… memorable.”
Hudson took the cravat and wound it around his throat. As he worked, Cassie edged closer, her eyes narrowed in concentration. She was nearly bouncing with excitement.
“You’re going to be the most dashing man at the ball,” she declared, once he had finished. “Except maybe Lord Ridgewell, but only if he wears his gold waistcoat. Otherwise, you win.”
“High praise,” Hudson said dryly.
Cassie beamed, then frowned. “Wait, it’s not right. The knot’s all wrong.” She peered up at him, then at Augusta. “Can you fix it, Miss Norton? I can’t reach.”
Augusta blinked. “I—well, I suppose I might.”
Hudson’s shoulders tensed. He hadn’t expected her to agree.
His heart began to beat faster as she approached, moving with the caution of someone defusing a bomb.
She reached up, her fingers brushing the base of his throat as she adjusted the fabric.
Her touch was feather-light but electrifying, and for a moment, he could not breathe, utterly captivated by the contact.
“There,” Augusta said finally, stepping back. “Much improved.”
Hudson found his own throat unexpectedly dry. “Thank you, Miss Norton,” he said, the words coming out rougher than he had intended.
The moment was shattered by the sudden intrusion of Pippin, who barreled into the room with a bark and skidded to a halt beside Cassie. He eyed Hudson with what could only be described as suspicion, then circled Augusta’s ankles before dropping to the floor with a contented sigh.
Augusta smiled, the tension easing from her shoulders. “Cassie, I believe we should leave your brother to his preparations. It would not do for him to be late.”
Cassie nodded, but before leaving, she lunged forward and wrapped her arms around Hudson’s waist.
“Don’t let a lady trap you into a scandal,” she whispered, loud enough for both adults to hear.
Hudson froze, awkward in the unfamiliar embrace, then patted her gently on the head. “Go on, then. And try not to set anything on fire while I’m away.”
Cassie disengaged, skipped to the door, and vanished, with Pippin trotting behind.
Augusta lingered for a moment, turning back at the threshold.
“Have a pleasant evening, Your Grace,” she offered.
Hudson met her eyes, and for a moment, the world shrank to just the two of them. “I intend to,” he replied. “Thanks in large part to your assistance.”
She colored again, then slipped out the door.
Hudson stood there for a long moment, staring at the place where she had been, before turning back to the mirror.
As he reached for his coat, he wondered what it would take to make Augusta look at him not with embarrassment, but with the same boldness that he had noticed in unguarded moments.
The ballroom at the Seymour residence was a monument to Society’s desperate need for spectacle, all gleaming marble and candlelight reflected in endless gilt.
Hudson arrived with the expectation of a long evening spent politely deflecting the ambitions of every titled widow and debutante in a ten-mile radius. He had not anticipated the ghost of Augusta’s touch to linger, as though she’d left a mark invisible to the eye.
He entered the ballroom at James’s side, both men aware that the first ten minutes would be a gauntlet of predatory attention. They made it as far as the refreshments table before the first assault.
Lady Stanhope, trailing a pair of porcelain-skinned daughters like prize poodles, intercepted them.
“Your Grace! How dashing you look,” she cooed, all teeth and calculation.
Her daughters simpered in unison, their eyes downcast in a way that suggested long hours of practice.
Hudson inclined his head. “Lady Stanhope. Miss Stanhope. Miss Lily. A pleasure.”
James, for his part, affected a look of amused terror. “I see we are outnumbered, Hudson. I rely on your strength of arms.”
“Oh, Lord Ridgewell, you’re incorrigible,” Lady Stanhope giggled, then fixed her attention on Hudson, her tone conspiratorial. “My girls so admire your little sister, the young Lady Cassandra. She is quite the talk of the park, you know.”
“Cassie is fond of her walks,” Hudson said. “They give her time to be a child before the world insists on making her something else.”
Lady Stanhope’s smile flickered, a seam splitting the porcelain. “So wise. But of course, when the time comes, she’ll be much in demand. As are you, Your Grace.”
He gave her the briefest of smiles. “I have no plans to alter my household at present.”
“Of course not. But one must plan for the future.” She let the implication hang, heavy and unpleasant. “And speaking of futures, have you heard the latest about the Viscount Whitfield?”
James, quick as ever, interjected, “I confess I have lost track.”
Lady Stanhope gave a brittle laugh. “Well, allow me to update you, My Lord. They say the Viscount’s daughters are ruined.
No prospect of marriage for either, not after what their father did.
It’s the sort of misfortune from which a lady simply cannot recover.
” Her gaze slid to Hudson. “One shudders to think what will become of them.”
Hudson felt a muscle jump in his jaw. “I’m sure they’ll find their way. I have always found women to be far more resilient than Society gives them credit for,” he replied evenly.
That seemed to confuse her, and for a moment, the machinery of manipulation stalled.
Her daughters, sensing the falter, looked up at Hudson, hope flickering in their eyes before vanishing at his flat expression.
“Will you dance, Your Grace?” the eldest daughter asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Alas, I am engaged for the next set,” Hudson replied.
It was technically true; he was engaged to avoid the dance floor altogether for as long as possible.
The Stanhope party retreated, leaving a wake of disappointment and whispered speculation.
James leaned in, his voice low. “You’re losing your touch, Oakhart. In the old days, you’d have had both girls half in love with you by now.”
“I have no need for admirers.”
James grinned. “But it’s so much fun, watching you dispatch them.”
Before Hudson could reply, a new party drew near, Lady Falstone and her two constant satellites, now arrayed in evening finery and armed with social venom.
“Your Grace,” Lady Falstone greeted, her voice sugar-dipped. “How splendid to see you. We so enjoyed our chat with your sister this morning.”
“Cassie enjoys intelligent conversation,” Hudson replied. “Though it’s a rare commodity.”
Lady Falstone’s eyes narrowed, but she pressed on. “We were just saying how fortunate she is to have such an attentive governess.”
Hudson’s smile was glacial. “Miss Norton is exemplary. She is to be commended.”
“She seems… unusually familiar with your household,” noted the woman in blue, her lips pursed. “Some say she was engaged with remarkable haste.”
“Her references were impeccable,” Hudson said. “As was her performance upon arrival.”
Lady Falstone’s mask slipped, just for an instant. “Ah. Of course, Your Grace. I’ve always sensed that you possess a discerning eye.”
There was a brittle silence, broken only by the strained laughter of a nearby dowager.
The trio withdrew, but not before exchanging glances that promised the conversation was far from over.
James watched them go, then turned to Hudson. “You’ve made enemies tonight.”
“I have enough friends.”
James’s eyes sparkled. “What is this sudden chivalry? You used to relish these games.”
Hudson scanned the room, every instinct alert for the next approach. “Cassie deserves to grow up without being a pawn in their games. She deserves a proper childhood.”
“Unlike yours?” James raised an eyebrow.
Hudson looked away, his jaw tensing. “That’s not a subject I prefer to talk about.”
James was silent for a moment, studying Hudson’s face. “You never talk about your childhood.”
“There’s nothing to say.”
James tilted his head. “You’re different lately. More… aloof, I suppose. Less inclined to indulge the ton.”
“I’ve always detested them.”
“But you used to hide it better.”
Hudson did not respond.
James let the silence stretch, then asked, “Is this about the governess?”
Hudson turned sharply. “Keep your voice down. She is a member of my household. Nothing more.”
James clicked his tongue. “You keep telling yourself that. Maybe one day you’ll believe it.”
The house was a tomb when Hudson returned, the only sound the echo of his footsteps in the front hall. He shrugged off his greatcoat and walked the familiar path toward his study, the events of the night pricking at him like a shirt with a thousand hidden pins.
He was halfway down the corridor when he noticed it: a thin line of gold spilling from beneath the library door, flickering as if it were alive. Everything else was dark.
He paused, listening. The house was otherwise silent, with servants abed, Cassie long asleep, even Pippin snoring somewhere in the depths of the nursery wing.
He walked toward the library, his footsteps muffled on the runner, and nudged the door open.
Augusta sat on the floor before the fire, her back to the room, a book open in her lap. She wore a nightgown of pale blue and a heavy shawl pulled tight around her shoulders. She had not heard him enter.
He leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossed, and watched her as she read a book that would send a blush to a more demure woman’s cheeks.
For a moment, he simply let himself look.
Then he cleared his throat.