She knew she ought to care about that. A well-bred young lady would demur, or at the very least acknowledge the irregularity. But he was smiling at her. And no one else in this ballroom had so much as glanced her way all evening. Surely desperate times warranted a slight breach of decorum?
"Miss Hale," she finally said. "Estella Hale."
"Miss Hale," he said. "And is this your first Season?"
"Is it that obvious?"
He smiled. “Only in the most charming way. You seem to be taking everything in as if for the first time. It's refreshing."
Heat crept into her cheeks, but for once it was the pleasant kind. "I'm not certain 'refreshing' is the word most people would use. I suspect 'hopelessly provincial' is more accurate."
"Then most people are fools." He offered his arm. "Shall I give you the tour? I can promise at least three scandalous anecdotes and one story involving a goose that you'll think I invented but which is entirely true."
"Well…" She took his arm. "I cannot resist a goose story."
And just like that, the evening transformed. Mr. Fairchild steered her through the crush with easy confidence, pointing out notable people and sharing tidbits of gossip that were just scandalous enough to be entertaining.
"And that," he said, nodding toward a red-faced gentleman mopping his brow near the punch bowl, "is Lord Pemberton, who once wagered his horse against a goose in a game of vingt-et-un and lost both. Don't ask me how one loses a goose. The details remain murky."
Estella bit her lip against a grin. "You're making that up."
"See? I knew you’d think that," he said. "I am not. The goose was later recovered in Cheapside, wearing what witnesses described as a small hat."
She laughed. "Now I know you're inventing things."
"The hat was fabricated," he admitted. "But the rest is gospel truth."
It was easy, being with him. Easy and pleasant, and so unlike the stilted isolation of the past twenty minutes that she felt something like hope. Maybe this was how it worked. Maybe you met someone kind, and they made you laugh, and you didn't have to be terribly clever or pretty, and?—
And don't be foolish, the practical voice in her head cautioned. You've known him for ten minutes.
But the practical voice was hard to hear over the relief of being smiled at.
"Your father couldn't join you this evening?" Mr. Fairchild asked.
"He's been claimed by the card room, I'm afraid."
"Ah." His expression was sympathetic. “Card rooms do tend to be more compelling than ballrooms for some men."
Especially for my father. She swallowed the words and let him lead her around the room. They'd nearly made a full circuit of the ballroom when it happened.
Mr. Fairchild had paused to greet an acquaintance. And Estella, stepping sideways to make room for a passing couple, backed directly into something tall and solid and immovable.
For a moment she thought she’d stumbled into a marble column, but no. She turned to find a wall of dark wool and hard muscle.
And this wall was so close her nose nearly brushed against it.
When she tried to back up, her heel caught on her hem and she stumbled. Two hands gripped her arms just above the elbows, steadying her.
"Oh!" She looked up.
And up.
The man was tall. And broad. His dark hair was just a little too long, his shoulders were roughly the width of a doorframe, and his jaw?—
Her lips parted on an inhale.
His jaw was strong and sharp, like the rest of his features, but the left side was ridged with scarring that extended down his neck and disappeared beneath his cravat.
