Page 7 of Sir Hugo Seeks a Wife (Cinderellas of Mayfair #1)

Violets are blue.

Hugo’s a cad.

What can I do?

His touch makes me mad.

Athene told herself that she should object to the way Sir Hugo Brinsmead took over her life.

Or at least the part of it that this cold night covered.

No man had ordered her around since she’d abandoned George and his destructive appetites and childish tantrums. She’d sworn then that nobody would ever treat her with such lack of respect again.

Well, at least not without her trying to stand up for herself first. Yet somehow here she was, cuddled up to the baronet in his stylish curricle, and without a peep of complaint.

She took some comfort from knowing that hardly anybody would see her.

At this hour, traffic was light. Most of the ton were attending the theater or enjoying extravagant dinners.

In a couple of hours, there would be a flurry of activity when carriages transported the gentry to society events and young bucks set out for the evening’s revelry.

Athene would like to say that she was sitting as stiff as a poker, but she was without doubt snuggling.

Part of that was because there was not a lot of carriage and there was a lot of Sir Hugo.

Height. Muscle. Force of personality. With their thick winter coats, the narrow seat left no room for maintaining one’s distance.

Part of it was because the night was cold and becoming colder, so she couldn’t resist basking in all that delicious male heat.

A male heat tinged with alluring scents of clean skin and healthy man.

But mostly she cuddled up to a man who meant to seduce her because she couldn’t help herself.

She’d wanted him from the first. Despite not having wanted a man since she was a giddy girl.

When he’d lunged out of the darkness to save her from the odious Lord Alfred, she’d wanted to swoon like a brainless heroine in a silly play.

Now he mocked her when she reminded him of the lady he courted. Athene told herself to put this presumptuous fellow in his place, but her voice emerged breathless with excitement instead of vinegar-sharp with disapproval. “You’ve given up the idea of marrying Lady Petronella?”

“No.”

“Oh.” How she wished that didn’t emerge as a disappointed squeak.

“Because I never had any intention of marrying the chit. Lady Petronella Fitchett is no proper match for a good, honest Yorkshireman.”

That made Athene gape at him in astonishment.

This part of London was lit at night to save the nation’s blue bloods from robbery and murder.

So she could see Sir Hugo’s diligent concentration on his driving.

The dimple in his cheek hinted at a hidden smile, though.

Just when had she noticed that? Before now.

That was certain. “But you ordered two poems.”

“I did.” He handled the ribbons beautifully. His large, deft hands controlled the horses with the lightest touch. Athene couldn’t help imagining those skillful hands on her skin.

“I don’t understand.”

“And you such a clever woman, too.”

Most of the men she knew despised brainy women. A compliment on her intelligence therefore pleased her far too much. “I’m not feeling very clever right now.”

In fact, she felt dizzy and distracted and reckless. Which terrified her. The last time she’d felt anything like this was when she’d been mad for George Foster. That madness had turned her life into a nightmare whose consequences still played out.

“Then I’ll explain.” Sir Hugo still didn’t look at her.

“I came to you because my friend Ivor Bilson told me that was what a man aspiring to fashion does. Courting the ruling beauty is part of the game, like finding a good tailor or joining a club. Lady Petronella is pretty and I wish her well, but she’s not the woman for me. ”

“You bought sugared violets for her. And Sylvie’s bonbons cost a fortune.”

“They do.” The exaggerated emphasis made her laugh. “My staff have enjoyed some sinfully expensive sweets these last few days. Rather them than me.”

He used the same light touch with her that he used on the horses.

And, blast him, it made her want to cooperate.

Not likely. Although kindness had such extraordinary power.

She’d seen so little of it, aside from her friendship with Sylvie.

Because Sir Hugo treated her with consideration and respect, she wanted to curl up in a corner and weep. It was pathetic. “But you came twice.”

At last, he cast her a glance. Even in the uncertain light, the heat of that look licked like a tongue of flame. She started to shake. Not because of the winter chill. “I came not for the poetry but for the poet.”

“I’m the poet.” She knew she sounded like an idiot, not the clever woman Sir Hugo called her.

The dimple deepened as he smiled. “You are indeed.” He turned his head and spoke more loudly. So far, he’d kept his bass voice to a soft rumble. “Paul, we’re not far from home. Run to the stables and get Fogg to prepare a hot mash for the horses. They’ve behaved like angels and deserve a treat.”

“Aye, Sir Hugo.” The boy jumped off the slowing carriage and disappeared down a side street.

Sir Hugo slowed the horses to a walk. “He can’t hear much from the back, but I’d prefer privacy for what I mean to say.”

“Will I need the pistol?” Athene asked darkly, telling herself she should worry, now their chaperone had vanished.

Sir Hugo gave a grunt of amusement. “It’s possible you’ll want to shoot me when I’ve said my piece, but I hope not.”

“Other men have asked me to be their mistress, sir.”

But other men hadn’t attracted her the way that this one did. Before this, saying no had always been easy. Despite all her dismal experience with the male sex, she had a horrid feeling that saying no to Sir Hugo wouldn’t be the usual doddle. Damn his bright blue eyes.

“Have they, the cheeky sods?”

That made her laugh. “That’s rich when you’re about to be a cheeky sod yourself.”

She expected him to smile. He didn’t. “I’m not after a mistress, my dear Miss de Smith. I’m after a bride. And I’d be honored if you’d consider my proposal.”

“Oh, hell.”

To her surprise, that prompted a laugh. She wished to heaven that she found the circumstances humorous, but instead she felt sick and guilty and ashamed.

When she’d sacrificed her future for that tin idol George Foster, she’d been young and stupid.

She’d spent the last ten years trying to and on occasion succeeding in forgiving herself.

Then something like this happened and forced her to count the cost of her sins all over again.

Unless…

“Were you joking?” It seemed an odd joke. But then it seemed odd to the point of eccentricity for a rich baronet to propose to a shopgirl.

He caught his breath and shot her a sharp glance. “Not at all.”

She struggled to create some distance between them, but the restricted space made it impossible. “So why did you laugh?”

“‘Oh, hell’ isn’t exactly the response a man expects when he at last summons up the nerve to ask a lady to be his wife.”

Athene could imagine. She had so much that she needed to tell him, and she didn’t want to say any of it. So she focused on something that hardly mattered, even if it warmed her tattered heart. “You haven’t proposed before?”

“No. And it’s clear that I needed the practice, because I’m making a dog’s dinner of the whole damned palaver.”

“No, you’re not. However nonsensical the situation.”

“Why nonsensical?” He leveled a considering look on her. “Have I got it all wrong? Don’t you like me?”

Her lips tightened. “That’s not the point.”

“I rather think it is, if we’re contemplating making a life together.”

“Which we’re not.”

“I like you.”

“I can’t imagine why.” She struggled not to melt at his declaration. He might like her now. He wouldn’t if he knew anything about her. “I look like a horse.”

She expected him to laugh again. But those perceptive eyes surveyed her face with such attention that she feared he penetrated right to the frightened, lonely soul lurking under her stoic outer shell. “You put every other woman I’ve ever seen in the shade.”

She regarded him open-mouthed. “But Sylvie is so beautiful.”

“Yes, she is. So are you. You took my breath away, the moment I saw you. You’re strong and fine and brave. And full of fire. A man can’t help wanting to warm himself at that fire.”

Taken aback, Athene swallowed to moisten a mouth that had gone dry. “And you formed this opinion based on two meetings at the back of a bonbon shop?”

He still didn’t smile. “I formed that opinion the first time I saw you, when you glared at me like a stern goddess judging a mere mortal inadequate to her requirements.”

A suitable response moved out of reach. Nobody had ever spoken to her in such terms. “You…”

“When you chose Aphrodite for your nom de plume, you did yourself a disservice.”

And with that, the true danger of what happened here struck her like a whack from a cudgel. It wouldn’t take him much more to discover her real identity and the whole dismal saga of her shame. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do. Nobody in the history of the world has been called Aphrodite de Smith. Why did you choose it?”

Because she was hiding in plain sight. The outlandish name distracted people from looking too close at who she might be.

Because it had felt like an act of defiance, as if she claimed a new identity for herself.

If she was going to lose everything for love, she might as well proclaim herself a goddess of sensuality. “I…”

Sir Hugo bunched the reins in one hand and reached across to take her gloved hand.

When her hand disappeared into his larger one, she fought the strangest idea that he’d always keep her safe.

Only one person could keep her safe. The woman who called herself Aphrodite de Smith.

Desperately she reminded herself that he might seem trustworthy, but she didn’t know him at all.

Athene couldn’t afford to believe him. She’d already lost everything because she’d fallen prey to idle flattery and a handsome face. It was damned annoying to discover that she remained susceptible, when all these years of struggle should leave her immune to masculine charm.

“Never mind. Your name is hardly the most important issue between us right now.”

She struggled to keep a grip on reality. “We’ve only met twice before this. It’s mad to start imagining we can have a life together.”

“I make my mind up fast, but I’m aware not everyone else does.” He sighed. “Will you at least think about my proposal?”

It required far too much willpower to disengage herself from his grasp, but she managed it. Stupid that she blinked away tears. Stupid to feel so torn about her answer. It wasn’t as if her dealings with Sir Hugo would lead anywhere.

“I’m sorry, Sir Hugo.” Her voice emerged as a terse mutter. “I appreciate your condescension, but I’m not a fit bride for you. I’m not a fit bride for any man.”