A Lady of Persuasion (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #3)(35)

“There is no book,” Sophia ground out, tilting her chin toward Isabel. Isabel whimpered, “I’m so confused.” The maid released her hem, and she strode over to join the group. “But on one point I am certain, Lady Violet. No matter how infamous Toby’s reputation, I know him to be a most decent and generous man. Why, just today, he has arranged for my brother to study law under his sister’s husband, Mr. Tolliver.”

“Gray wants to study law?” Lucy asked.

“No, not Gray. Joss.”

The name gave Hetta a start, and she coughed into her lemonade.

“Truly?” Sophia asked. “And Toby arranged it? Well, that is something indeed. Gray’s been making inquiries for weeks, with no success. Toby’s efforts are a great compliment to you, Bel. There is no love lost between him and your brothers.”

“Yes, yes.” Lady Violet’s eyebrows rose. “He is devoted to securing her favor now. But men behave quite differently as suitors than they do as husbands.”

“Not my brothers,” Isabel protested. “Both were great favorites with the ladies in their bachelorhood, but I know Gray is devoted to Sophia, and Joss is still—”

Hetta rose from her seat and shook out her skirts. “Miss Grayson, perhaps you should listen to Lady Violet’s well-intentioned advice on the inconstancy of husbands. I am certain she speaks from her own experience.”

With that, she quit the room. She could not bear to remain a moment longer. Perhaps she had an aversion to gossip. Or perhaps she simply did not want to hear the truth. Familiar as she was with the character of long-suffering widowers—most notably, her father—she was in no humor to hear Isabel extol the depths of Joss Grayson’s devotion to his late wife. But now that she’d escaped, where to go?

Even dressed in one of Lucy’s gowns, Hetta stood out at this gathering like a tin kettle amongst porcelain. Well before Lady Violet’s comments, she’d been deeply conscious that her mannerisms, her accent, and her bearing all declared “interloper.” She would not have come at all, if Lucy had not insisted. To refuse would have been rude. There had been the pull of curiosity, too—it was entirely probable that this would be her one and only opportunity to attend a ball with society’s elite.

Oh, feathers. Hetta blew out a breath, annoyed with her own prevarication. What did she care about manners or high society?

There was only one true reason she’d come.

“Are you hiding, Miss Osborne?”

Hetta startled, nearly colliding with a potted tree. “No, of course not. I’m not…”

Her voice trailed off as she turned to face the man behind her. Of course, she’d known it must be him. She’d recognized the deep timbre of his voice immediately, but she somehow hadn’t quite believed he was there until she spun around and came nose-to-button with his goldthreaded waistcoat. Hiking her chin, she prodded her gaze up to his sardonic dark-brown eyes.

“I’m not hiding, Captain Grayson.”

“Really?” he replied. “I only ask, because it seems an odd vantage from which to view a ball—

through this barrier of foliage. Hardly the place for a young lady to stand, should she wish invitations to dance.”

The nerve of the man. As if she would receive any invitations to dance. Still, she couldn’t allow him to fluster her. Hetta was not a woman who became flustered. But then, she was not a woman who hid behind potted trees, either. Drat.

“I was not hiding,” she repeated evenly, determined to give as good as she received. “Are you?”

“Not at all.”

“Well, it seems an odd place, here behind the shrubbery, for a gentleman to troll for a dancing partner.”

“Why would you say that?” His lips quirked at the corner. It wasn’t a smile. “I’ve found one, haven’t I?”

Her heart fluttered in her chest. “You don’t mean—”

“What don’t I mean?”

Curse the man. He knew. He knew she’d developed this embarrassing, girlish infatuation with him, and now he was teasing her about it, right here in front of everyone. Or rather, right here behind a potted tree. And now she knew she would blush—she was fair-skinned and freckled, after all—and that would make everything even worse. Oh, Lord. She was already lurking in the greenery. Where did she run and hide from here?

His hand captured hers. Neither of them wore gloves. His skin was smooth and warm—which made her immediately conscious that her own hand must be cold.

“Come dance with me, Miss Osborne.”

“But we can’t!”

He raised an eyebrow. “Why can’t we?”

Because she was out of place in this elegance. Because she barely knew how. Because she found it annoyingly hard to breathe in his presence. For a hundred different reasons, all of which swarmed in her stomach like wasps, and none of which she dared let escape. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea, that’s all.”

He stared out over the ballroom. “Hm.”

What sort of remark was that? Was he agreeing with her? Arguing with her? Dismissing her?

Hetta waited for some further, less cryptic response. None came.

“I’m not in the mood for dancing this evening,” she said casually, trying to sound as though she turned down offers of this sort every day. There, that ought to put paid to the discussion. Still, he did not acknowledge her with a reply. Her hand remained in his, however. It warmed, began to grow comfortable there. Traitorous appendage.