Page 30 of The Earl’s Hoyden

He had intrigued her and made her laugh, something she felt comfortable doing after he had told her he liked the sound of it. She still did not believe he didn’t mind that she talked so much. However, if he truly did not, he would be the only man to say so, aside from her father.

A memory flitted back to her from her debut ball when having emerged from the retiring room, she had happened upon two men she’d danced with earlier that evening—a dashing earl and a handsome viscount. Neither saw her standing there in the shadows, but both lamented at having to suffer through her talking nonstop through the course of the dance.

Sheer torture, one had called it, as the other laughed and nodded in agreement.

Heat suffused her face even now to recall that horrible moment. After that, she had tried desperately to squelch her laughter and her chatter. The attempt had lasted only a day when the suffocating force of her own self-imposed rules became too much to bear, and she practically exploded to Mary over everything that had happened.

Hannah had never tried again. There was no point in denying who she was when her personality was too strong, even for her own will to suppress.

“I think it will be fine to have Lord Brightstone,” Hannah finally replied.

The tension in her father’s shoulders relaxed, though his gaze remained somewhat concerned. Hannah schooled her features to keep him from detecting any reservations she held. And there were many.

“Wonderful.” Lady Westwich clapped her hands. “I’ll see to the invitations straight away.”

The butler entered the room with a salver held aloft in his right hand. “A letter has arrived for you, Miss Bexley.” Jones extended the tray toward her, and the brilliant afternoon light reflected off the polished silver.

Hannah lifted the letter, unable to quell the moment of breathless anticipation that suddenly seized her.

Miss Bexley,

Thank you for your generous gift. I avow to put it to good use.

With sincerity,

Brightstone

Brightstone. His signature was less formal than Lord Brightstone or the Earl of Brightstone. But nor was it so intimate as to reveal his Christian name.

His reply was easy and smooth, far more so than the letter she had spent the better part of the night composing once she’d returned from the ball. Her rubbish bin had been overflowing with balled-up bits of paper, some too prim, some too florid and others too flowery.

“Who has written to you and left you with such a smile on your face?” Her mother peered at the letter.

Hannah tried to pull it from Lady Westwich’s view, but the baroness was too quick in her eagerness.

“Lord Brightstone,” she crowed after having read the neatly slanted name.

Hannah folded the note to place in her pocket in time to see the victory cross her mother’s features as she nodded to her husband with a smugness that said, “I told you so.”

“Do excuse me.” Hannah slipped the painting apron off. “I must prepare my gown for Lord and Lady Langston’s ball.”

“Yes, yes,” her mother said distractedly as she no doubt envisioned a future with an elaborate wedding at St. George’s Church followed by at least a dozen grandchildren.

But Hannah knew there would be no wedding, and it was better that way.

The ball tonight was to be at Elizabeth’s parents’ home at Langston Place, and Lord Brightstone would be in attendance. Hannah anticipated the event with equal parts excitement and dread.

She recalled how the ladies watched the earl now that his fine figure was apparent in his immaculately tailored clothing, and more than one eligible debutante had watched him sweep Hannah through the waltz with hungry anticipation in her eyes.

He would be popular at the ball, which was exactly what he wanted. And exactly what she wanted.

Why then did it feel as though a stone was lodged where her heart ought to be?

The ballroom at Langston Place was filled with revelers in a resplendent array of heavy velvets to ward away the brutal winter chill that seemed to grow colder as the evening progressed. Lucien barely felt winter’s icy reach as he led his mother into the ballroom, scanning the surrounding faces to determine if Miss Bexley was already in attendance. As her friend’s parents were hosting the ball, he anticipated she would have arrived early.

“I trust you will have no difficulty engaging ladies to speak with this evening,” his mother said as he guided her toward a cluster of her stuffy friends.

“Why do you say that?” he absently asked as he located Lady Elizabeth and Lady Jillian and continued to seek out a head of glossy red hair near the women.