Page 48 of The Earl’s Hoyden

“My radiance,” she repeated the word with unexpected cynicism. “I know my deficiencies, Lucien. I am too loud, too talkative, too much in general. I’m a hoyden.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but she shook her head, stopping him. “I know what people say about me. My head is not thrust into the sand. I am the woman who is there to aid anyone requiring assistance. I’m kind.” She threw the last word as if it was derogatory. “I’m not the woman men see and think of as a wife and a mother. I’m the woman men know will help when asked. In the years since my debut, I’ve been a dance partner for a man who could scarcely identify a beat for a quadrille. I’ve offered advice on a coming out ball for another man’s sister.”

Lucien recognized Lord Ranford in the small detail and recalled how the other earl had danced with Hannah before Lucien on so many nights.

“And then there’s you,” Hannah continued. “You asked me for my assistance in making you more fashionable. And I said yes. Because I am kind. Because I am the woman who says yes where I can give support. But I am never the woman who is asked to be courted.”

“That isn’t true.” He reached for her, taking her gloved hand in his. “Allow me to court you.”

She jerked her hand from his. “I beg your pardon?”

Lucien tried to reach for her again, but she stepped back from his reach. “You are so lovely and fascinating,” he began, but the look of horror on her face stopped him.

“Don’t,” she whispered.

“Hannah, I don’t want to get to know these other ladies when I already know you so well. I can go to your father tomorrow—”

“Wouldn’t that please him greatly?” she said in a harsh voice.

He gazed at her in the wash of moonlight, her skin like marble, her dress shimmering. She was stunning, a being so exquisite that she was practically otherworldly. And yet, he still preferred her in the country, with her bonnet off and her hair in a loose knot falling around her face. “Would it…please you?”

“If you asked to court me?” she asked incredulously. “No.”

Her rejection was a dagger, and its pointed blade snagged a tender mark he hadn’t realized was still raw in his chest. Hannah was not the first person he had asked to court. There had been Lady Cecelia Stopford, who he discovered later had been too embroiled in family affairs to spare the time to be courted.

Then there had been Lady Martha Sinclair. She had hair black as the darkest part of the night and a matching heart to pair with it. He had been young, full of foolish pursuits and lofty ideals. His interest in her had been solely for her beauty, and her cruelty had been the price extolled. When he asked if she would allow him to court her, she had laughed in his face and told him he knew little of women and would make a terrible husband.

Seeing the tears sparkle in Hannah’s eyes now and how poorly he’d played his hand, he realized the truth behind those biting words. He truly did not know women. If he had, he would not have blundered things so hopelessly.

“Hannah…”

She shook her head, silencing him. “I neither want nor need your pity.”

“It isn’t pity.”

She swept his jacket from her shoulders and thrust it toward him. “Good evening, Lord Brightstone.”

And with that formal farewell, she departed the terrace, leaving him alone in the dark, desolate cold.

11

The ballroom blurred in a wash of tears as Hannah pushed back into the glowing heat inside. The pain in her chest was so great that it was difficult to breathe.

Finally, she had been asked to be courted. And it had been out of sheer pity.

Because her father had appealed to a gentleman on her behalf, claiming Lucien was drawing away her suitors. As if they would be coming in droves otherwise.

What humiliation. What misery.

She wished at that moment that she was home and could fling herself onto her bed to give in to the tears she could scarcely keep at bay. The ballroom was overly warm and made the heat in her cheeks scalding.

As if sensing a friend in need, Amy was immediately at her side. “Hannah, what is it?”

Using the last ounce of her self-control, Hannah swallowed the enormity of her hurt and faced her friend. “I have a terrible headache,” she lied. “I believe it would be best if I take my leave.”

Amy’s kind brown gaze lingered on Hannah, skeptical. But she did not question Hannah further. Instead, she said she would notify Hannah’s parents and disappeared in a swirl of russet silk. There was a cup of lemonade in her hand when she returned with Elizabeth at her side. Poor Jillian was still being occupied by the Duke of Dudley, and Lucy was on the dance floor with a devilishly handsome man none of them had seen before.

“Come, we’ll take you to collect your wrap and wait for your carriage with you.” Elizabeth curled an arm around Hannah in a brief embrace.