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Henrietta cut the thought off before it could fully form. And yet, despite her original intentions, she couldn’t stop the idea from lingering as she prepared for bed.
I would far rather fail entirely than be the author of his matching to another, despite the consequences.
Her heart felt heavy as she settled into rest. It was not only the fact that she was meant to match her friend to a man she yearned to claim as her own.
How would Daniel react, if he ever learned of her ruse, let alone the root of it? How would feel about her deception? Or the way she had shamelessly asked him questions in her pursuit of information for her plans?
She could not help but think that the results would be catastrophic.
She could, of course, fabricate some reason to cease visiting. A family emergency. Another form of employment in a situation that required her to relinquish her position as his model.
It was, in fact, what she ought to do, to save both of them the risk of scandal and to avoid any complications. She knew enough that she might reasonably arrange a meeting…and a match between Daniel and Eva. Indeed, she already had a place and time for the meeting to take place, as she knew that both of them would be at the Duchess of Merriweather’s masquerade.
Why did she not simply send her apologies, and end the ruse as common sense urged her to do?
Even as she slipped into fitful rest, she knew the answer.
If I am to lose him in the end, at least I need not lose his attentions for what remains of the week, and I shall have pleasant memories to occupy me for the remainder of the Season.
CHAPTERTWELVE
The masquerade ball was a day away, and Daniel could not seem to muster any enthusiasm for it despite his initial decision to attend. He would like to believe that he was simply wary of the crowd, of mingling with those of the ton after his original declaration that he would not participate in the Season.
He would also like to think that he was dreading the inevitable encounters with the eligible ladies of London. But how would they know him when he, like everyone else, would be masked? So long as he was not present for the unmasking, he would avoid both discovery and the manipulations of the ladies who wished to catch a lord in wedlock for themselves or their daughters.
No, he knew the true reason the masquerade held little appeal for him. It stared at him from the marble that had steadily taken recognizable face and form over the past few days.
Hetty. Hetty Smith would not be attending the masquerade. There would be no chance to dance with her. No chance to speak with her as he had over the past few days. No chance to enjoy the easy companionship that had caused his art to flourish and his nightmares to recede for the first time since he had returned from war.
He had little interest in the social events of the peerage when they would not involve the woman who had been stealing into his dreams of late. The woman who filled his thoughts, waking, sleeping, working.
The past few days had been...comfortable, in spite of the wayward thoughts that plagued him. He had resigned himself to enduring the slight discomfort of his trousers and had resolved to enjoy the association for as long as it lasted.
The fourth day, he feared he had pushed too far in offering informality, and the accompanying sense of familiarity disquieted him. Hetty had been strangely awkward again, more silent, sometimes flushing oddly when she met his eyes.
He had been on the verge of asking her what troubled her, and if he had somehow offended her—though how anything would offend the girl when she had not stormed from his home after that first session baffled him—when she had apparently shaken off her strange mood.
Which had left him in a state of confusion, wondering what had distressed her, and seeing no proper way to determine the truth of the matter.
Movement caught his eye, dragging him from his thoughts and drawing his attention back to the present. Hetty Smith was coming up the drive.
He glanced at the clock. Punctual, as she had been every day except for the first.
She was wearing her usual plain dress, hair arranged in a simple style that complimented her face. For a moment, he wondered what she might look like in the formal dresses the ladies of the ton would no doubt be wearing to the masquerade.
She would outshine them all.
It was a tempting thought, to purchase a dress for her just to see how she would look in the rich fabrics and designs of the better-off. But a dress was an expensive gift, one she could have no use for, which might cause her a great deal of trouble if she were seen wearing it, even at his behest.
They would consider him an infatuated fool, his head turned by a pretty face; and her, a girl with aspirations far beyond her station.
With the discipline forged of years as a soldier, he put the thought aside and moved toward the front entryway, just as Danvers opened the door and admitted the slender, graceful vision of Hetty Smith.
The smile she offered him as she passed her cloak over to Danvers lit up her sapphire eyes and made her fair skin seem to glow. “Good morn, Lord Salisbury.” She always addressed him formally in the presence of his servants, a caution he heartily approved of, despite knowing that Danvers would keep their secrets until death if necessary.
“Good morn, Miss Smith.” Danvers took her cloak with a bow, and the two of them made their way toward the studio. “Have you had a chance to break your fast?”
“I have, thank you.”
