Page 16 of The Earl’s Hoyden

“How did you even learn of the broken fence?” Hannah brought her attention from the pink silk top of the carriage to her mother’s sly grin.

“I have my ways.” Lady Westwich picked at a nonexistent thread on her skirt. “And I didn’t tell a soul for a week so your Mary wouldn’t learn about it from the staff.”

Mary and Hannah glanced at one another, guiltily found out.

“Oh, I’ve known about Mary’s skill at gathering information for years.” Her mother waved a hand. “I’m not daft, and I run a tight household.” She lifted her chin a notch higher. “I confess, the story I heard about Lord Brightstone was dreadfully boring, and I’d like more details.” As she rested her chin on her hand, elbow propped upon her knee, her bright blue eyes met Hannah’s. “Do tell.”

Hannah sighed and relayed the tale to her mother, knowing she had to be precise with all the details, or Lady Westwich would add concocted suggestions with her own florid detail.

“You do have fine legs.” Lady Westwich tilted her head coquettishly when Hannah mentioned her skirts had been tossed up in the fall.

“Mother,” Hannah gasped in horror. “That is wildly improper. And anyway, he is a gentleman and averted his gaze.”

“He still saw,” the baroness whispered loudly to Mary, who grinned in reply.

“The meeting resulted in the saving of a hapless little cat who is now restored with his family in the barn.” Hannah held up her hands to demonstrate. “Nothing more.”

“Oh, but that all was tremendously romantic, don’t you think, Mary?” Lady Westwich raised her brows at Hannah’s maid.

“It was, my lady.” Mary gave a vigorous nod with the broadest of smiles.

The traitor.

“Well, I would not be surprised to have Lord Brightstone seeking you out soon,” Lady Westwich declared.

But Hannah knew the truth. It would be best to put Lord Brightstone from her mind that season—and his pursuit of a wife who was decidedly not Hannah.

Was there anything more torturous than enduring a carriage ride with one’s mother when she was set on a marriage match? Lucien gazed at the scenery flickering by in flashes of light from the gas lamps.

“I must say your attire is grand,” Lady Brightstone said approvingly, pulling his consideration back to her. “I wager you’ll have several women take note of you tonight.” She nodded to herself, setting the diamonds at her neck sparkling like frosted ice.

He hoped he did draw some noticed to make the discomfort worthwhile. The jacket enveloped him like a second skin against his shoulders and waist, and the breeches were unnaturally snug, particularly across his arse when he sat in the carriage. Admittedly, he did appreciate the deep blue of the waistcoat, noticing for the first time how the color truly did suit him.

Waistcoat aside, he now knew what a sausage felt like in its casing after having never harbored a curiosity for such intimate details of the food’s existence.

The carriage rolled to a stop, and Lady Brightstone secured the thick ermine around her shoulders before the door opened. A chill rushed into the small cabin, all the more apparent to Lucien now that he was sporting such close-fitting attire.

He ushered his mother through the grand entrance of Ranford Place into the warm glow of candlelight. After ensuring his mother’s fur stole was properly seen to, he escorted her to wait for the caller to announce their entrance into the esteemed first ball of the season.

An unaccustomed bout of nervousness rattled through him. It was vain to anticipate how his new appearance might be received. Or wonder if it might sway people’s opinions of him.

He was a bore to others. Their gossip had reached his ears enough times to be well aware of society’s perception of him. The realization had not been offensive, however, for the lot of them were equally as uninteresting to him.

And yet, a curious thing happened as he and his mother were announced. Lucien led her into the open ballroom to the rapt interest of nearly every person in attendance. Their focus fell upon him and did not wander away. It lingered. And held.

Women leaned toward one another, their mouths obscured by fans as their gazes locked on his person. Some were going so far as to skim down the expanse of his fitted clothing.

He hoped the burn of his cheeks wasn’t as visible to everyone as it felt. For to him, it seemed as though he were a candle lit in the center of a dark room, drawing everyone’s eye.

Suddenly, he regretted the damnable clothes, the way the breeches hugged his thighs and the way the tailored jacket nipped in at his waist and hips. He’d once overheard a lady grouse over a man who had a conversation with her bosom rather than her face. Was this how women felt when subjected to men who were untoward?

How did they bloody stand it?

Several women ogled at him as he passed, waiting until the very moment he glanced in their direction before they demurely lowered their heads. What a ridiculous notion when they’d practically bored holes into his skull with their stares. No doubt the lot of them would chuckle at him for being dressed so foppishly.

This had all been a mistake. A foolish, insipid mistake he’d done to please his mother. But now she was happy, and he was even more miserable.

Lady Alison, a woman a year his junior, swept before him.