Page 80 of The Lady’s No Angel

“And no excitement,” Leo pointed out. “Our Milly has a taste for adventure now, my love. She’ll want to come along to see what dreadful thing my beautiful pirate will do next.”

Angel chuckled at ‘our Milly’ and planted a kiss to the top of his head because he was such a darling man. And as for seeing what she would do next—she was rather looking forward to that herself.

Chapter 20

Happily Ever Afters and Other Things

Hatherley Hall, Little Valentine, East Sussex, 30th June 1816

The wedding was an exuberant one. Despite the Duke of Hawkney’s reservations, even he did not have power enough to curtail his grandmother, who had decided it ought to be held at Hatherley Hall. She had not held a party since Christmas and was eager to repeat her success. The preparations had taken over the entire house for days, sending it into chaos upon which the dowager thrived, though her grandson the duke looked to be tearing his hair out.

Hart pitied the fellow, though they had never been friends. Hawkney seemed a dreadfully cold fish, far too aware of his own consequence. His father admired the fellow and often lamented Hart’s inability to emulate him, which said it all, really.

Now, after a blessedly brief church service—for which he really must thank the reverend, who was a splendid old fellow—the wedding breakfast had been devoured, and the dancing was in full swing.

They had intended it to be a small affair, which it was by ton standards, but there were still people enough to fill the ballroom. Well-fed and even better lubricated, the dancing had begun an hour ago and everyone was wonderfully merry.

Hart watched his now-marchioness dancing with the aforementioned icy duke and wished the blessed dance would end soon. Everyone wanted to meet his beautiful wife, to speak with her and dance with her, and whilst he’d not spoil her fun for the world, he wanted to join in with it, not watch. If any fellow thought to snatch the next dance from him, or the one after come to that, they’d have a fight on their hands.

“Oh, Hart, I adore your new bride, and what a splendid wedding,” Hetty said with a sigh. “It’s such fun, and everyone has been so kind… well, except for that fellow.”

Hart looked down, finding a surprisingly belligerent expression on his sister’s face. Following her gaze, he discovered with interest Mr Gideon Bramwell returning the scowl. What the devil?

“Has he been rude to you, Hetty?” Hart asked, standing a little straighter.

“Abominably rude,” she replied, folding her arms. She was still glaring at the man.

“What did he do?” Hart began and then remembered to whom he was speaking. “No. Hold a moment. What did you do?”

“Nothing!” Hetty exclaimed, though her cheeks grew very pink.

Hart sighed. He didn’t believe that for a moment. Hetty was a lively girl, ripe for trouble, and only her older sister’s good sense kept her from getting into a shocking amount of it. “Who introduced you to the fellow, anyway?”

“Mr King,” she replied, nonchalantly dropping the name of the man who had once been one of the most feared criminals in London.

Yes, he was supposed to be respectable these days, or close to it, else he’d not be here, for the dowager duchess had overseen all the invitations, just in case the duke took exception and caused a fuss. Yet, all the same.

Hart paled. “Mr King? Dammit, Hetty, who introduced you to Mr King?”

“I forget,” she said with a shrug. “But he introduced me to Mr Bramwell who I thought looked rather interesting, as Mr King said he was an architect, and he suggested the fellow might like to dance with me—for he hasn’t danced once tonight, Hart, which is abominable when we are short of men—and he refused! He looked me up and down like I was a badly drawn elevation and said, ‘I never dance.’ Can you imagine the effrontery of the fellow? Who does he think he is, anyway?”

Hart’s lips twitched, but he manfully kept his amusement hidden, well aware it would only fan the flames of his sister’s fury. Hetty was a beauty, had a vast dowry, and was used to her fair share of attention. Despite this, and being dreadfully spoiled, she was funny and irreverent and rarely took herself too seriously. However, this refusal would still have come as quite a shock to her.

“Ah,” he said diplomatically. “Well, he is a serious fellow, Hetty. Not your usual fribble.”

Hetty’s eyes flashed. “Even the duke danced,” she said, which was a fair comment.

“Well, never mind, love. Every other unattached male is champing at the bit to dance with you. Just go and enjoy yourself and forget about Mr Bramwell.”

“Oh, I shall,” Hetty said airily, stalking away with her head held high. “I shall never think of him again, I promise you.”

Hart watched her go, wondering if he ought to do something, for that sounded dreadfully ominous, but then the dance ended, and his beautiful wife was before him, returned by the Duke of Hawkney.

“Thank you kindly for the dance, my lady,” the duke said with perfect politesse. “You dance beautifully. Hartwell, you are a lucky man.”

“Oh, I know it,” Hart replied blithely, tucking Angel’s hand firmly into the crook of his arm.

There was a moment’s awkward silence until the duke excused himself.