Page 12 of The Earl’s Hoyden

No matter the vow she had made with the other women at Lady Finch’s Finishing School, no matter how often she told herself she did not want marriage or children or love, she craved it all.

Desperately.

He had been hoping to see her again.

“Have you?” she asked, the icy morning air suddenly too thin to inhale properly.

And how could she when the back of her mind ran down a wayward path with a speed she couldn’t control?

Her imagination carried her into London ballrooms where she spun about the dancefloor in Lord Brightstone’s arms, to a dinner party announcing their engagement, back to the country where they wed under a bower of fresh summer roses and on to a nursery crooning over a swaddled infant.

An ache settled in her chest, powerful and poignant. One that couldn’t be willed away no matter how preposterous she knew her musings to be. The future that had rushed to her with such immediacy was what she truly, foolishly, hopelessly wanted.

Lord Brightstone had complimented her hair, and now she had taken that pearl to make a necklace of dreams from. She was being ridiculous. Wistful in a way that was unwarranted.

“I wondered if you might…” He looked down and shook his head, as though wrestling with how to say what he intended.

Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. If she might what? Wish to be courted by him?

Had he already discussed the matter with her father?

She stepped closer to him and lowered her face slightly to catch his gaze. “Please, you can ask me anything.”

He swallowed, his nervousness apparent.

“I wondered if you might,” he said again. “Assist me with being more fashionable.”

Her future disappeared in an instant, her hope little more than a wisp of smoke from a snuffed candle flame.

She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

A small animal moved through the brush somewhere in the distance, setting the leaves rustling. Lord Brightstone shifted his weight from one foot to another. “My mother has been displeased with my lack of courtship. I thought perhaps you might offer some suggestions.”

If Hannah’s cheeks were warm before, they were on fire now.

Heavens, but she was a dolt. A daydreaming ninny who ought to know her place in this cruel society by now. “I’m hardly one to give advice in the ways of courtship as I’ve never had a suitor myself.” Saying it aloud made the admission even more pathetic.

He rubbed a hand at the back of his neck. “My mother thinks highly of your fashion sense.”

“Does she?” This conversation did not lack surprises. Hannah had always assumed Lady Brightstone detested her.

“She also thinks little of my own.” His glanced down to examine his tea-colored shirt and brown waistcoat and jacket. “I am in sore need of aid.” He regarded her once more, his blue eyes meeting hers beneath his overlong blond waves. “I thought perhaps you might be willing to take pity on an unfashionable wretch like me.” He winced. “Without turning me into a foppish dandy, please.”

Hannah had to chuckle at that. Even if she wanted to, Lord Brightstone could never become a dandy. His personality was too somber for something so bold.

“And you seem very kind.” He shrugged shyly.

Kind. She almost groaned. Kindness was seemingly her one good trait as it was an attribute that she’d heard mentioned previously in regard to her person.

Other women were beautiful or talented or delicate. She was kind.

And had a good fashion sense, according to the sharp eye—and judgement—of Lady Brightstone. How could Hannah say no?

She nodded. “Of course, I can help you.”

The earl released a breath of relief. “I appreciate your aid more than I can say.” He held his hands out to the side, putting himself at the mercy of her assessment. “What can I do to improve?”

Hannah preferred not to look at others critically. Not when she herself had been the subject of scrutiny for so many years. Instead, she took his words to heart to inspect what might be improved upon rather than simply stating what was wrong.