Page 43 of Bewitching Benedict (The Lovelorn Lads #1)
A burst of laughter met her protest and she blushed, but laughed as well.
Ackerman gave an apologetic shrug accompanied by his devastating small smile, and if Claire had felt there was anything to be forgiven, it would have been.
It was not possible to be upset at a man so beautiful.
Indeed, she felt rather like the belle of the ball, surrounded by so much male vigor.
Even Hewitt had lost his perpetual sneer in the aftermath of sport and looked very appealing with his black hair shining in the morning sun.
O'Brien, who had somehow got his jacket on faster than the rest and looked slightly more presentable than they did because of it, stepped in beside Claire and offered his arm.
He was no less flushed than the rest of them, his own black hair having lost all its shape and falling appealingly into his dark eyes, but unlike almost all the rest, he clearly felt his dishevelment was no determent toward offering his escort.
"I saw you walking, Miss Dalton. At the pace you kept, I'd say you ought to join us for the next game of cricket. "
" O'Brien !" Vincent said, shocked, but the Irishman laughed him off even as Claire wrinkled her nose.
"I very much doubt anyone would approve of that, Mr. O'Brien. I do think, though, that you Lads should come to the country and visit when Mr Graham and I are married. I may not be able to participate in your matches, but I would be pleased to ride on a hunt with you all."
She could not have dulled their mood more thoroughly if she had cast cold water over them. "Graham," O'Brien said with a sniff. "You ought to have married one of us, Miss Dalton."
Claire disengaged her arm from his and stood looking up at him.
At all of the Lads, for they were gathered together, dark heads and fair, light eyes and dark, faces from pleasant to sublime, bodies all vibrant with exercise, clothing from passable to quality, all of them taller than she, all of them arrested in the moment, and to them all she said, quietly, "None of you asked. "
Claire had, Charles supposed, made some kind of departing remarks, because she left with Worthington on her heels, but there had been a collective intake of breaths amongst the Lads at her entirely salient point, and none of them had heard much beyond their own heartbeats after that.
Even he had not, and he, as her cousin, was the least likely to have been stung by her remark.
It was O'Brien, generally irrepressible, who said, "Do you suppose she would have had one of us?" but he sounded stunned rather than lighthearted. Five Lads and Charles still looked after Claire as if she had suddenly become a different creature entirely, one to be regarded in a new light.
"If she's marrying Graham, it's not money she's after," Hewitt said, "so I suppose she might even have taken you, O'Brien, if her wits are dull enough to like a pretty face and no prospects."
O'Brien swung on his heel, visibly torn between insult and flattery.
Hewitt was not a man to judge another man's beauty falsely, and had never, in Charles's memory, offered so much as that back-handed compliment to O'Brien.
On the other hand, it had been back-handed, for O'Brien was not, so long as he remained a friend of Charles's, without prospects.
But Hewitt did not intend to let O'Brien stew on whether he should accept the courtesy or call out for a fight, instead meeting O'Brien's half-offended gaze straight on and finishing, "She'd never have had me . "
"Nor should she," Cringlewood said to Hewitt, "as you've been inexcusably rude to her."
"At least I haven't falsely flattered. Two first dances at her coming out, Cringlewood, really? Half of Society thought you were sweet on her."
"But Miss Dalton did not," Cringlewood said stiffly. "Besides, it was the first dance of the second set, at the second ball."
"Still a first da?—"
"What do you mean about the money?" Charles asked before further bickering could break out.
Hewitt shrugged stiffly. "You told me to look into Graham.
He wins a bit at the tables, and as far as I can see, that's all the fortune he's got.
No servants, though he's clever about keeping the gardens maintained.
Does it at night so no one sees it's himself.
Rarely a light on in the parlor window, or anywhere else in the house, for that matter.
Does all his socializing outside of the house.
Never visits a Cyprian or a whore, either.
" A thin smile revealed his teeth. "Maybe he's a better choice than O'Brien after all. "
There was no stopping the scuffle, after that.
O'Brien seized Hewitt's shoulder and spun him around to meet O'Brien's fist, which knocked Hewitt the rest of the way in a circle, and to the ground.
Vincent, with the air of a prudent man, stepped up beside O'Brien and looked down at Hewitt in mild expectation.
Hewitt, on an elbow in the grass, pressed the heel of his thumb against the trickle of blood at his lip, eyed the two soldiers standing above him and the discreet distance taken by the other three men. Then, sullenly, he got to his feet with a muttered, "Apologies."
A gentleman would have offered his hand in acceptance of that apology, however resentful. Neither O'Brien nor Vincent were gentlemen, though, and all Hewitt got for his effort was a short nod from the Irishman. It was, Charles thought, pretty nearly all Hewitt deserved.
Ackerman, as if the altercation hadn't even taken place, said sotto voce to Charles, "Will Fairburn be there tonight?"
"What? No, I don't think so. Why?"
Ackerman shook his head and finally slipped the jacket on over his shoulders. "Thinking about which of us she might have had, is all."
No woman in her right mind could have said such a thing to six men and kept any degree of dignity.
Well, five men: Charles hardly counted. So Claire had fled upon the utterance, completely unaware that to the gentlemen she had left behind it had looked not like a retreat, but a scathing gauntlet thrown to the earth by a worthy opponent who could not be bothered to see if any of those she challenged was man enough to retrieve it.
So it was with a trembling sense of shame that she allowed Worthington to hire a carriage to take her home after all, and with all the gathered remnants of her pride that she went upstairs to begin the process of dressing for the evening's party.
Marie, Aunt Elizabeth's maid, came to do Claire's hair, and with a rough and sudden gesture Claire agreed to the cutting of her hair that Marie had spoken of the first time they had met.
Only a while later, Claire was quite pale beneath a cunningly curled fringe, which—Aunt Elizabeth had been right—framed her forehead perfectly and made her large eyes look positively enormous.
A touch of rouge for her cheeks and a little rose salve for her lips made her look fresh-faced rather than ghostly, and finally Madame Babineaux brought forth a gown Claire had not seen before.
Claire's lips parted with astonishment and Madame Babineaux assumed a tight, pleased smile that bordered on smugness. "Madame," Claire whispered. "Madame, this cannot be for me. This is…princely."
"Bah!" the Frenchwoman burst out, and could nearly be said to be laughing.
"No prince would look well in this dress, Mademoiselle.
It is queenly, perhaps, but not princely.
Come. Eat something before we dress you, Mademoiselle, because I shall have to strike you dead if you spill anything on this fabric.
It is worth more per length than you are. "
Claire, for the first time in hours, laughed, and to the dressmaker's surprise, stood and embraced her. "I believe that it's worth more than I am. Thank you, Madame. I look forward to wearing it."
She also looked forward to food, which surprised her; she had thought herself beyond hunger after the humiliating incident at the park.
In truth, when provided with a thick soup and sliced pork she fell to it with a good appetite, and ate with the awareness she would not likely have another opportunity before midnight.
The tenderloin seemed to feed both her stomach and her soul, yet haunted her with the awareness that marriage to Jack Graham might only rarely see such fine cuts of meat on their plates.
Of course, neither would marriage to several of the Lads, which thought came to her with such rue that her embarrassment over the earlier confrontation finally faded.
Besides, she could not be embarrassed at all while wearing the dress Madame Babineaux had made; that dress required confidence, and to be less than confident was to do the dressmaker's work a disservice.
Light faded in the west as she finished dressing and was replaced by street lamps as the guests began to arrive.
From the top of the stairs, with her door open, she heard voices she knew: Graham, Charles, Mrs and Miss Fairburn, and in a clump, several of the Lads, their voices indistinguishable in the din.
Minutes later, sounding as if she had arrived by herself, came Miss Hurst, and after her, a few voices Claire didn't know.
Friends of the Dalton family, Amelia Fairburn's older sister, and whomever else was necessary to balance the table, no doubt.
It was strange, waiting to be presented.
It felt like—it was— waiting to be the center of attention.
She would have to become accustomed to it, as it would be her lot for tonight and at the more formal engagement party next week, all the way through, she supposed, to the wedding.
Claire looked at her gown and wondered how Madame Babineaux could possibly improve upon it for future gatherings.
Those who were here tonight would surely comment if she wore the same dress again.