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Mysterious. Everything about him was confusing, from his secretive behavior to the nervous way he spoke. And she’d always been one who loved a good mystery.
A little smile curved her lips and she tapped her finger against them, already lost in thought.
The Marquess of Hartwell, otherwise known as Black Hart, was a most complicated puzzle she couldn’t wait to solve.
Chapter Three
One month later…
He made it so blasted hard for her to capture his attention.
Daphne stood along the edge of the dance floor, her shoulders taut, head held high as she scanned the small ballroom. Really, she searched for only one particular man. A man who seemed not to care a whit about her—his indifference
cut to the very bone.
Ah, there he was. Her gaze lit upon the Marquess of Hartwell as he stood directly across the ballroom from her, seemingly engaged in conversation with another gentleman. She brought the delicate silk fan she clutched high, covering most of her face so only her eyes peered over the pleated, lacy edge as she watched him.
He turned his attentions away from the man he spoke with, a dark scowl doing nothing to mar his fine face. No, the fierce expression seemed to only increase his handsomeness—at least in her eyes. His assessing gaze swept across the room. The music had quieted as the small quartet in the corner took a break and the dance floor was completely devoid of swirling couples. Making it easier for her to see him and perhaps…
Making it easier for him to find her.
Why won’t he acknowledge me? The words whispered through her mind. It was foolish, her intrigue with Hartwell who pretended she didn’t exist. She didn’t understand it. Perhaps he was just as cold and dark as they all said. Hence the lurid nickname.
But something deep inside told her he was more like the warm, sweet man she danced with at her masquerade ball. The very one who held her like she was made of fragile glass and whisked her across the dance floor.
She wanted to meet that man again. Not the cold, unfeeling husk of a marquess who occasionally made his appearance at the various and never-ending social events of the Season.
Yes, yes, she’d eagerly returned to London for the Season, but now she missed the country. She despised the attention, the unappealing gentlemen who claimed they wanted her hand. Most of them were old and leering, many of them interested in the size of her hips and whether she’d be good enough to breed with.
Pushing the irritating thoughts from her mind, she tried to focus on the opportunity that had been presented to her this fateful evening. For once, Lord Hartwell was in the same room, breathing the same air as she.
Watching her at this very moment.
Her fingers shook, the fan trembled in her grip and she stiffened her hand, desperate for control. To appear as if she were completely unaffected by his curious gaze, which touched upon her like his very fingers caressed her skin.
She looked down, held the pose for three slow beats, ten longer beats until she slowly lifted her lids. He still watched her, his head cocked slightly to the side. He looked like he wasn’t quite sure what to think.
Lowering the fan, she curved her lips upward in a beguiling smile. Or at least she hoped it was beguiling.
He frowned and turned away.
Disappointment crashed through her and she slumped her shoulders with defeat. What was the point in continuing a flirtation with a man when said man found her so unappealing he couldn’t stand to look at her?
“Watching him again, eh?”
Daphne jerked her gaze away from Hartwell, guilt and shame causing her to study the floor. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.” She could pretend all she wanted but she knew it was futile.
“Hartwell. You’re staring at him. Again.”
“No one notices but you,” Daphne muttered, casting an irritated glance in her brother’s direction. Goodness, he was just as much a pest as he’d been at the age of eight, when he’d run after her with slimy frogs clutched in each hand.
“I’ve warned you already, Daph. He’s not good enough for you. There are plenty of gentlemen vying for your attention. You could have your pick of any of them.”
“I don’t want any of them,” she said between clenched teeth. How many times had she told him this?
“I just ran into the bloke not two days ago. He said two words to me in greeting then scurried away. I believe he cannot stand the sight of me.” Hugh sounded affronted, expressing the very thoughts she’d had only moments before.
“Introduce me,” she suddenly said, the idea taking hold within her and refusing to let go. She gripped her brother’s forearm, putting on her most imploring tone as she stared up at him. “I’m begging you, Hugh. Please.”
