“Have a pleasant evening, Your Grace,” she offered.
Hudson met her eyes, and for a moment, the world shrank to just the two of them. “I intend to,” he replied. “Thanks in large part to your assistance.”
She colored again, then slipped out the door.
Hudson stood there for a long moment, staring at the place where she had been, before turning back to the mirror.
As he reached for his coat, he wondered what it would take to make Augusta look at him not with embarrassment, but with the same boldness that he had noticed in unguarded moments.
The ballroom at the Seymour residence was a monument to Society’s desperate need for spectacle, all gleaming marble and candlelight reflected in endless gilt.
Hudson arrived with the expectation of a long evening spent politely deflecting the ambitions of every titled widow and debutante in a ten-mile radius. He had not anticipated the ghost of Augusta’s touch to linger, as though she’d left a mark invisible to the eye.
He entered the ballroom at James’s side, both men aware that the first ten minutes would be a gauntlet of predatory attention. They made it as far as the refreshments table before the first assault.
Lady Stanhope, trailing a pair of porcelain-skinned daughters like prize poodles, intercepted them.
“Your Grace! How dashing you look,” she cooed, all teeth and calculation.
Her daughters simpered in unison, their eyes downcast in a way that suggested long hours of practice.
Hudson inclined his head. “Lady Stanhope. Miss Stanhope. Miss Lily. A pleasure.”
James, for his part, affected a look of amused terror. “I see we are outnumbered, Hudson. I rely on your strength of arms.”
“Oh, Lord Ridgewell, you’re incorrigible,” Lady Stanhope giggled, then fixed her attention on Hudson, her tone conspiratorial. “My girls so admire your little sister, the young Lady Cassandra. She is quite the talk of the park, you know.”
“Cassie is fond of her walks,” Hudson said. “They give her time to be a child before the world insists on making her something else.”
Lady Stanhope’s smile flickered, a seam splitting the porcelain. “So wise. But of course, when the time comes, she’ll be much in demand. As are you, Your Grace.”
He gave her the briefest of smiles. “I have no plans to alter my household at present.”
“Of course not. But one must plan for the future.” She let the implication hang, heavy and unpleasant. “And speaking of futures, have you heard the latest about the Viscount Whitfield?”
James, quick as ever, interjected, “I confess I have lost track.”
Lady Stanhope gave a brittle laugh. “Well, allow me to update you, My Lord. They say the Viscount’s daughters are ruined. No prospect of marriage for either, not after what their father did. It’s the sort of misfortune from which a lady simply cannot recover.” Her gaze slid to Hudson. “One shudders to think what will become of them.”
Hudson felt a muscle jump in his jaw. “I’m sure they’ll find their way. I have always found women to be far more resilient than Society gives them credit for,” he replied evenly.
That seemed to confuse her, and for a moment, the machinery of manipulation stalled.
Her daughters, sensing the falter, looked up at Hudson, hope flickering in their eyes before vanishing at his flat expression.
“Will you dance, Your Grace?” the eldest daughter asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Alas, I am engaged for the next set,” Hudson replied.
It was technically true; he was engaged to avoid the dance floor altogether for as long as possible.
The Stanhope party retreated, leaving a wake of disappointment and whispered speculation.
James leaned in, his voice low. “You’re losing your touch, Oakhart. In the old days, you’d have had both girls half in love with you by now.”
“I have no need for admirers.”
James grinned. “But it’s so much fun, watching you dispatch them.”
