Chapter 1 #2
He did not touch her, precisely. He merely moved in a way that made continued conversation with Mr. Price impossible. It was infuriatingly well done.
Only when they had reached the relative shelter of the pianoforte did he say quietly, “You are welcome.”
Hattie turned to him.
“Am I?”
One of his brows rose. “You did not appear enchanted by the prospect of sunset over hedgerows.”
“Perhaps I was overcome and wished to preserve my composure.”
“Then I have committed a grave injustice.”
“Among others.”
The corner of his mouth moved, though whether in amusement or patience Hattie could not tell. That, too, was annoying. Men ought either to laugh or refrain, not exist forever at the maddening edge of both.
“You are angry,” he said.
“How penetrating.”
“Would you rather I had left you there?”
She folded her hands before her. “I would rather you had not behaved as though I required extracting at all.”
His expression did not change, but she saw the slight shift in his eyes that meant she had surprised him.
“I thought,” he said carefully, “that I was sparing you discomfort.”
“And I think,” Hattie replied, “that no gentleman ever appears so pleased with himself as when deciding what ought to inconvenience a lady.”
Somewhere behind them, a few bright notes were struck on the pianoforte by a guest testing the keys.
The rest of the room continued in its soft murmur, though Hattie was sharply aware now that at least three people had noticed where she and Lord Hartwell had gone and were already constructing stories from it.
He looked at her for a long moment.
“I did not mean to offend you.”
“No,” she said. “Men rarely do. They prefer to mean well and let the rest be borne by others.”
A lesser man might have laughed that off. Another might have taken offense. Benedict only stood there in that composed way of his, as though he were rearranging her words internally and finding them inconveniently difficult to dismiss.
Hattie did not know what possessed her to notice, at such a moment, the exact shade of his eyes in afternoon light or the faint crease at one sleeve where he had folded his arms earlier while listening to some gentleman discourse on horses.
It was not useful information. It did not assist her in any practical way.
Yet the human mind, being undisciplined in all the most humiliating matters, seized upon such details with dismaying eagerness.
“Very well,” he said at last. “Shall I apologize for rescuing you?”
“If you call it that again, I may be forced to strike you with my fan.”
The answer came before she could decide whether to temper it. To her annoyance, it drew from him the faintest real flicker of amusement.
“I shall endeavor,” he said, “to survive the threat.”
“You may do better to avoid the provocation.”
“That is sound counsel generally, though I suspect it difficult where you are concerned.”
She stared at him.
It was almost a compliment.
Worse, it was almost flirtation.
And because she had no intention of allowing him the advantage of unsettling her, she said coolly, “You need not exert yourself on my behalf again, my lord. I am perfectly capable of managing Mr. Price and his hedgerows without masculine intervention.”
Something in his face sharpened.
“I do not doubt your capability.”
“No?”
“No.” He paused. “I doubted only your patience.”
That was more accurate than she cared to admit, which naturally made it harder to forgive.
“Well,” she said, “then let me ease your mind. It remains very much intact when not interrupted by heroic falsehoods regarding musicales.”
At that, he did smile—very slightly, very briefly, but enough to alter his face in a manner Hattie found distinctly unhelpful.
Good God.
There was a man inside all that restraint after all.
“I shall remember,” he said.
“Do.”
Then, because if she remained where she was one moment longer she might say something worse—or, more dangerously, less sharp—Hattie inclined her head and moved away.
She did so with measured calm, every line of her body declaring composure, while inside her thoughts darted in half a dozen inconvenient directions at once.
She was annoyed with him, annoyed with Lady Armitage, annoyed with Mr. Price, and, most exasperatingly of all, annoyed that Benedict Ellsworth’s interference had worked.
More than worked.
It had spared her a thoroughly miserable quarter hour, and because honesty in private cost less than honesty in society, she admitted that much to herself as she crossed to Louisa’s side.
Louisa accepted her with the serene expression of a woman who had seen everything worth seeing and intended to enjoy the rest privately.
“Well?” she asked.
“Well what?”
“You looked as though you wished to set fire to someone. I merely wondered whether Lord Hartwell has saved Mr. Price from bodily injury or condemned himself to it instead.”
Hattie took a biscuit from the tray nearest them and bit into it with far more force than the thing deserved. “Lord Hartwell appears to believe himself a benevolent force in society.”
Louisa hid a smile in her teacup. “How terrible for him.”
“For me,” Hattie corrected. “One cannot properly object to a man when he insists upon being useful.”
“Ah,” Louisa said. “Then the difficulty is not that he intervened. It is that he intervened correctly.”
Hattie turned.
Louisa’s expression did not alter. It remained mild, lovely, and profoundly treacherous.
“I dislike you,” Hattie informed her.
“Only because I am right.”
“Especially for that.”