Thwarted from touching her, he blew her a foul lingering kiss instead. ‘Consider me gone...my lovelyMistress Vixen.’
Feeling oddly violated as well as annoyed, Hope couldn’t contain the grimace as she watched him disappear into the crowd, her flesh still crawling. Perhaps one day a man would come along who surprised her? One who talked to her and not her chest. One who adored her brain and her wit and had noble intentions for once rather than entirely carnal. Every man seemed to want to skip Charity down the altar, and with the besotted Piers about to whisk Faith to the Writtle family chapel in Richmond, it seemed doubly annoying that the only place any man ever suggested taking her was to their bed.
She sighed, fed up to the back teeth with it all, but conscious there was no time to waste, she shook herself to banish all thought of Hideous Harlington, adjusted the filmy fichu she had added to her already modest gown, then swiftly searched for a suitable exit in case he realised his folly and came back. She needed a way out which wasn’t obvious to escape before anyone saw her. Aside from Lord Harlington, she had already spotted another two lecherous gentlemen in the ballroom who also struggled to take no for an answer, and she didn’t want to swap one plague of boils for another.
The main door was undoubtedly the quickest route, but that would take her past both the dance floor and the refreshment table, so that wouldn’t do, but behind her were a line of French doors leading out to the darkened terrace.
Without a second thought, she slipped through one and dashed down the steps into the garden, fully intending to hunt for a different entrance back inside, well away from the odious Lord Harlington or any other prying and preying eyes. But the moon was full, the night air surprisingly warm and the sky so clear she could see every twinkling star.
Hope had always adored the night. She had never been an early bird and had always struggled to sleep until many hours after the rest of the household were snoring, even as a little girl. As a child she had passed the time daydreaming, creating little stories in her head to keep herself entertained and soon discovered that storytelling was her calling and her vivid imagination was always at its best when the sun, like her family, was sleeping.
Charmed and instantly at home, she ventured further into the pretty but unfamiliar garden, enjoying the dark silhouette of the fancy topiary lining the winding path. Like all such gardens in the centre of the crowded capital, this one wasn’t particularly large, but it was long and narrow and its owners had created little rooms ringed with flower beds or shrubbery to give the illusion of space and the suggestion of privacy. They had achieved this so well, from only a few yards from the house, she could barely see the twinkling lights of the ballroom. She could, however, hear the alluring sounds of tinkling water, so headed straight for it.
The little white fountain trickled over a pale Grecian-style urn sat on top of a narrow pedestal, sat in a circular pond. Ringing it was a perfectly symmetrical miniature, knee high maze made up of neatly clipped box hedging, heather, and lavender.
Because she enjoyed a challenge, she followed the puzzle properly until she reached the centre, then sat on the wide brim of the pond’s inviting wall—a wall clearly designed to be sat upon. It was the perfect spot to read, even by candlelight, if she had had the wherewithal to fetch a book and candle in her hurry to escape. So instead she simply sat as she supposed she was meant to and soaked it all in, consigning the opulent scenery to memory in case she ever needed it in one of her future stories.
The ghostly sounds of the orchestra wafting on the breeze.
The hoot of the solitary owl somewhere behind her.
The way a single wispy cloud floated and swirled eerily across the surface of the permanently startled face of the pearlescent moon.
The ominous crunch of gravel under a large boot...
Oh, good grief!
Her heart sank as she realised the irritant had found her, and she huffed out a frustrated groan as the undeniably male shape invaded her short-lived sanctuary.
Except this male wasn’t shaped like the weedy Lord Harlington as it swayed haphazardly between the shrubs. It was tall and broad and had far too much hair. Harlington wore his fair short hair neatly plumped and pomadedà la Brutuslike every dandy and fashionably besotted Brummell devotee in theton—but this hair was a dark shoulder-length riot.
As its owner stumbled into the maze, those big boots quite oblivious of the artfully clipped intricacies of the little hedges, she noticed he also had a beard too. And an earring!
‘Evening.’ He raised one enormous hand in greeting, then to Hope’s horror seated his bottom beside her, sending the distinctive whiff of freshly consumed alcohol her way. ‘Don’t mind me.’ His voice was deep, the words a tad slurred. ‘Pretend I’m not here.’
‘You are drunk, sir!’
‘That I am.’ He grinned at her, the moon revealing a row of perfectly straight white teeth buried in the dense, dark thicket of his beard and two friendly but strangely compelling dark eyes. It hinted that there was a surprisingly handsome face hidden beneath all the fur. ‘Just a little bit.’ He held his finger and thumb an inch apart. ‘But sadly, nowhere near enough as I want to be.’
With that, he produced a bottle of champagne from somewhere within his coat and idly tore off the foil. ‘Are you out here hiding from all that pretentious nonsense too?’ The shaggy head gestured back in the rough direction of the ballroom. ‘There was so much inane wittering and preening I thought my head was going to explode.’
Hope blinked at the expensive bottle. ‘Did you just steal that from the Earl of Writtle?’
‘I hardly stole it. He’s dishing out barrels of the stuff inside. His son’s reshent...reshantly...’ Two dark brows came together in consternation as his inebriated tongue failed to navigate the word.
‘Do you meanrecently?’
‘Exactly.’ He nodded in mock solemnity. ‘Apparently the poor chap isrecentlyengaged. No doubt to some witch who will make his life a living hell.’
Instantly Hope bristled. ‘The witch is my sister, sir, so watch your mouth.’ Nobody ever dared insult a Brookes in front of another Brookes—unless they also happened to be a Brookes.
‘Is she?’ He blinked and grinned again. ‘Well then, that certainly calls for a shellybration.’ The cork exploded from the bottle and flew in a wide arc into the trees. ‘To your sister and the hapless, hopeless bastard she’s marrying! Cheers!’ He toasted the air and then took a long swig from the bottle before offering it to her.
She glared, affronted. ‘No thank you.’
‘Oh... I do apologise.’ He riffled in his pocket for a surprisingly pristine handkerchief and used it to wipe the rim of the bottle, then held it out again. ‘It’s perfectly chilled and not too shoddy if champagne is your thing.’
‘I said no thank you, sir!’ She surged to her feet and he threw his messy head back and laughed.
