Page 13 of The Earl’s Hoyden

“Your hair will need a trim,” she mused. Though it was regretful when his wavy locks seemed as if they would feel silky soft, and the cut seemed to fit the shape of his face. But fashion didn’t care for shapes, only conformity.

Lord Brightstone chuckled. “My valet will be delighted as he’s been after me about trimming my hair for at least a fortnight now.”

“Your cravat can be tighter, and your shirt points higher,” she suggested.

“Ah, yes.” His fingertips brushed the loose bundle of silk messily pinned at his throat. “I take ownership of this faux pas as I have a penchant for loosening the thing. It always leaves me feeling as though I’m being strangled.”

“Perhaps the Mail Coach might be best?” The knot was as simple as a cravat could be without any jutting fabric propelling along the sides of the neck.

“I shall inform my valet at once,” Lord Brightstone vowed.

“Though you possibly will want all of your garments to be more closely fitting.” She skimmed his brown jacket with her gaze and walked around him in contemplation, noting the elbows were worn nearly through. “And breeches haven’t been in fashion for day wear for some time.” She indicated his pants. “Unless they’re buckskin, which you would do well to procure at least one pair. Pair it with a dark wool coat, I think.”

She tilted her head, imagining him dressed in the outfit and beginning to enjoy herself. “Oh, yes, very much so. Navy.”

It was almost like dressing up dolls when she was a girl, but instead of a toy, her subject was a handsome grown man who would be made all the more dashing from her instruction.

“You need more tightly fit trousers and pantaloons,” she said excitedly.

“Pantaloons?” Lord Brightstone wrinkled his nose. “Even the name sounds absurd.”

“Yes, pantaloons. And have several jackets made in the new military fashion with blue wool or silk or velvet and gold buttons throughout. It will become you very nicely.”

“Is that all?” he asked dryly.

“And a topper.”

He arched a brow. Or at least she thought he did beneath his thick hair. “A topper?”

“Yes, fine silk top hats. They’re grand with evening attire and with greatcoats that are also all the rage.” She spoke with finality. “You definitely need a topper. And perhaps a cane.”

“I can walk unaided on my own, thank you.”

“Not for assistance in walking, but for show,” she explained. “Or perhaps a pocket watch and fob?”

“A pocket watch would suit me. And I shall purchase a topper.” He bowed to her. “Thank you for your time and for sharing your expertise.”

“Of course.” Hannah smiled at him, genuinely glad to have provided him counsel.

“I bid you a good day and wish you safe travels to London for the upcoming season.” With that, he took his leave.

Hannah remained where she stood a moment longer, watching as he departed, her ruined bonnet at her side and her broken dreams in pieces within her heart.

London.

She and her parents were to leave the following week for the beginning of yet another season, for another opportunity to be rejected. Another reminder of her ineptitude.

At least, if nothing else, she might have offered someone else a fighting chance, even as her own was already lost.

3

February 1816

London, England

* * *

London was bitterly cold and abysmally dreary. More so than usual. Hannah stood on the small stool in Madame Bannery’s while the modiste moved around her in halting pauses. The woman’s dark head was bent over the careful work, pins tucked neatly between her lips as she hemmed Hannah’s new ballgown.