Lord Gideon Rothmore. Baron Hawkins.
When her brother brought him home ages ago, he’d introduced him as Gideon, which was how she’d always thought of him. But to most of his friends, he was known as “Hawk”.
He stood near the refreshments table, not drinking. Not conversing. Merely watching.
Her.
One brow raised, head tilted just a little.
It was the same look he had worn when she was fourteen and attempting to follow her brother and his friends over the stone wall bordering the south paddock.
The same look he had worn when she was sixteen and insisting she could ride astride without scandalizing half the county.
The look of a man who anticipated trouble and expected her to be at its center.
Spoilsport.
He inclined his head.
She returned the gesture with equal composure and turned away.
As she followed her party from the ballroom, the music swelled once more behind her—bright, oblivious, and most unfortunately, unchanged.
THE HAWK’S EYES
Gideon had been wandering the edges of the ballroom for the better part of an hour, fulfilling his duty in only the most technical sense.
He had arrived. He had bowed to his hostess. He had exchanged the required number of civilities with gentlemen who had nothing to say and said it at length.
Ordinarily, he would have done more.
He would have stood up with two or three debutantes, asked after their mothers, endured their blushes, and returned them safely to the edge of the room before any mama could convince herself his courtesy had signified something deeper.
Unfortunately, courtesy had a way of being mistaken for encouragement.
And Gideon was not presently prepared to encourage anyone.
The young ladies this Season seemed younger than ever. Soft-voiced, wide-eyed, dressed in pale silks and hopeful expressions, each one trained to laugh at the proper moment and lower her lashes at the next. There was nothing wrong with them. That was rather the difficulty. They were charming, accomplished, obedient, and almost entirely indistinguishable from one another.
They made him feel… not old, exactly, but jaded.
Tonight, for reasons he did not care to examine, even going through the motions seemed beyond him.
The music grated. The chandeliers were too bright. The press of bodies made the air feel close. And through it all ran the wearying certainty that he had endured this exact evening before.
Different ballroom. Different hostess.
Same ridiculous affair.
Perhaps Dash, his oldest friend who also happened to be the Duke of Dasborough, was not so mad after all.
There was a certain appeal in simply ceasing to care what was expected. In ignoring duty and allowing society to say what it wanted.
Gideon, unfortunately, had never possessed quite that talent.
He declined a passing tray of champagne.
When a footman offered lemonade, Gideon looked at it as though the glass had personally insulted him.
