Page 12 of Bewitching Benedict (The Lovelorn Lads #1)
Miss Hurst, who was tall and slim with skin the color of skimmed milk, a long neck, and eyes so pale he might have been looking into thin ice, barely changed expression as she lifted a dance card only lightly scattered with names.
"I am disinclined to fill every slot, Mr Fairburn.
My coloring is ill-suited to the flush that exercise flatters many young ladies with.
But having taken you from your companion, I expect it would be rude to refuse a dance now. "
With utter self-possession she allowed him to guide her—and there was no mistake that she allowed it—onto the dance floor, where the strains of one of the more sedate music sets swirled around them. "How fortunate," she said with no evidence of humor. "I shall not flush."
"And I shall try not to flatter too much, that you retain your milk-like tones," Benedict offered gallantly.
Miss Hurst gave him a faint smile—her lips were thin, but very red against such pale skin—and curtsied to his bow as the set began.
Her gown was as icy blue as her eyes, color in it shifting as she glided from one step to another, until Benedict felt he looked into the heart of a winter storm.
Intrigued, he said, "You knew my name," and thought, though didn't say, that she had also hanged convention to introduce herself, rather than await an introduction.
"Mr Fairburn, I'm afraid nearly everyone knows your name tonight. You will be known henceforth as one of the Season's most eligible bachelors, and there will be many women who cry themselves to sleep when your engagement is announced."
Curiosity piqued, Benedict asked, "And will you be among them, Miss Hurst?"
One beautifully thin eyebrow lifted. "That remains to be seen, does it not, Mr Fairburn?"
Perhaps, Benedict thought, being pursued was not as dreadful as he had imagined.
It was with a certain regret that he was denied a second dance—"My complexion," Miss Hurst said mildly—and with a certain pleasure that he departed the elegant lady in search of a cooling drink for her.
He would have to learn about her circumstances, but his mother couldn't fault her for her beauty, at the very least; Mother was a redhead too.
His pleasure lasted all the way to seeing Miss Dalton laughing on the dance floor with O'Brien.
They looked offensively well together, though it was difficult for O'Brien to look poorly with anyone; his was a beauty exceeded amongst the Lads only by Ackerman.
And Miss Dalton's transformation was completed by her laughter, for it brought great warmth to her prettiness, a warmth complimented by the copper-and-green-trimmed gown she wore.
She was an earthly angel, and he was suddenly determined to put his past mistakes behind him.
He could charm; all of the Lads could, save perhaps Vincent, who chose quietness over flattery.
O'Brien saw him as they left the dance floor and steered Miss Dalton his way before she could object.
The men clasped hands briefly, but Benedict bowed to Miss Dalton with absolute sincerity.
"You are a joy to watch, Miss Dalton. May I offer you a drink, and perhaps be honored with a dance?
" He offered the drink he'd fetched for Miss Hurst, and halfway to claiming it, Miss Dalton hesitated.
"Oh! I'm afraid my card is full this evening, Mr Fairburn.
" Her uplifted wrist, whence the card dangled, proved her words to be true.
"I had no notion of such popularity, but Charles's Lads have been very kind to me, and I have been introduced to a wonderful array of young men who have obliged the Lads by asking me to dance. "
A pang shot through Benedict's heart, sharp enough to tingle down to his fingers, though he kept a careful hold of the drink.
He was one of the Lads, by gum, not some outsider to be shooed away.
And yet the others had begged a dance each the night before, while he had sulked and hidden in his cups at the hearth.
It was no wonder Miss Dalton felt more warmly toward them than himself, even to the point of excluding him in her own mind from the Lads' numbers.
"Then I am a perfect fool for not asking earlier," he said truthfully.
"I shall act with more alacrity in the future.
Please, do take the drink, Miss Dalton; you must have little time to rest and refresh yourself with a card so full. Take it and do enjoy your evening."
"Thank you." Miss Dalton accepted the drink with genuine gratitude, and bestowed a winning smile upon Benedict after she sipped.
"Just what I needed. Oh!" she said again as an older gentleman with a wife and daughter appeared to renew an acquaintance with O'Brien, then to introduce all of them to Miss Dalton.
Her early dance with Cringlewood was a topic of much discussion and cause for an invitation to the newcomers' home.
Benedict found himself put thoroughly into the background, and with a mumbled, "O'Brien," excused himself to find another drink for Miss Hurst, who, unlike certain other young women, showed an interest in and had time for him.
Jack Graham danced exquisitely; that, Charles allowed.
More, he would be a fool to imagine that Graham was less than handsome: he had something of the summer sun about him, from the soft sand of his well-cut hair to the golden tint of his skin.
He dressed beautifully, too. Better, arguably, than Charles: he wore a bottle green coat that nipped his waist to narrowness; beneath it lay a complementary waistcoat and flawlessly white shirt with a ballroom cravat.
Fawn trousers clung to his calves, and every item fitted perfectly.
Only his shoes seemed cause for concern.
They were of excellent make, but there were marks of wear at the seams where the leather had stretched thin.
A young gentleman of means ought to have had the uppers replaced before wear became visible.
Charles was thus forced to deduce that Graham lacked means, and was, therefore, a poor choice for his cousin Claire's pursuits of romance.
It was a pity, then, that Graham requested and received a second dance with her.
After discharging his own dancing duties, Charles released Claire into Graham's willing arms and deliberately failed to meet the eye of a ravishing brunette who clearly hoped to be his own next dance partner.
Instead, he made his way through the press, seeking out Evander Hewitt.
Hewitt stood at a gaming table with a bit of his own coin laid down against the cards; Charles briefly examined his hand, then tapped his shoulder. "I need to speak with you, Evan."
"Demme, Charles, I'm about to take the whole table!" Hewitt protested with fine conviction.
Charles twitched an eyebrow. The upstage one, visible only to Hewitt, so that if he insisted on not joining Charles at least his bluff wouldn't be known to the whole table, but Evan muttered, "All right," sullenly and folded.
"Keep my stakes," he said to the table at large, carelessly, as he stood. "It's only a sovereign or two."
"Good man," said one of the others, and they returned to their game as Charles ushered Hewitt away to as quiet a corner as could be found within the busy halls. "Do you know Jack Graham, Hewitt?"
"I might, a bit. Sandy hair and not so ta—about your height? A bit," Hewitt repeated at Charles's nod. "Why?"
"How are you acquainted?"
Evander Hewitt paused in the act of reaching for a drink from a passing servant, then withdrew his hand to look hard at Charles.
Color suffused his face, more suddenly than the room's heat could account for, and he spoke stiffly.
"There a reason you're asking me instead of one of the other Lads, Charles? "
"There is." Charles spoke gently, aware as always of Hewitt's sensibility. "Cringlewood and Ackerman are too high, O'Brien and Vincent, too low. And Benny is beset upon by fortune hunters just now."
Every word was true, though they did not make up the whole truth. Still, they made up enough of it that Hewitt's color slowly subsided. "He's not the gambling sort, if that's what you're asking. Alone in the world, though, if I remember, and a bit of a hanger-on because of that."
"A fortune hunter himself?" Charles asked, and received a bitterly scathing look in return.
"Aren't we all when it comes to marriage, Dalton? How rich do you have to be to marry for love? And if you're that rich, they won't let you anyway. I'll look into him, if you want. After Miss Dalton, is he?"
"He asked for a second dance."
"On an evening's acquaintance? Cheeky. Now if it were O'Brien I wouldn't be surprised, but he has the manners of a?—"
"Evan," Charles said, gently again, and Hewitt subsided.
Subsided on that topic, at least, and this time did snare a drink from a passing servant before speaking.
"Did you see the girl Benny's paying court to?
Her grandfather came up in trade, they say, but the family is rich as Midas and she's a beauty.
Looks like his mother thirty years ago, if a bit icier. "
"No!" Charles spun in curiosity, following the wavering line of Hewitt's pointing finger to pick Fairburn and a statuesque redhead from the crowd. "Demmed if she doesn't! Do you think he sees it?"
"Would any man?" Hewitt smiled slyly. "Shall I tell him?"
Charles caught his arm. "No."
Hewitt shook him off. "The war took the fun out of you, Dalton. I'm back to the tables. Don't lose me another hand."
Charles, softly, said, "Of course not, Evan. Let me make up what I lost you," and wondered if he would offend or relieve with the offer.