HASKET HOUSE, LONDON – OCTOBER 2, 1812
KATE
I was fairlycertain this wasn’t what Aunt Prudence intended when she suggested ingratiating myself to my host. She spent three months teaching me to curtsy gracefully, dance elegantly, and smile enticingly. In less than an hour, I’d managed to slop an entire glass of lemonade down the front of a gentleman. If the number of eligible ladies fawning over him was an indication, a titled gentleman at that.
My first ball was going swimmingly.
It started with such promise. I looked more beautiful than ever before. My gown was a pale, almost-white lavender silk that hinted at my ample curves rather than displaying them outright. Pearl pins adorned my hair with matching flowers rather than the enormous feather my aunt had favored. I even managed a passable curtsy to Her Grace upon entry.
And better still, I refrained from gawking at the ostentatious nature of the Hasket House and the ballroom. Every surface that could be carved from marble seemed to be. The entirety of the home was styled in some variation of black and white with accents of gray.
But I had been so close to success, even in the face of such an odd setting. Not one, but two gentlemen had asked for sets on my dance card.
The first set had been with a duke no less—Alexander Hasket, Duke of Rosehill and the son of the evening’s hostess. He was equal parts handsome and charming and so light on his feet. When we danced, I felt as though I was flying as he whisked me around the room. He was all dark hair and dark eyes and impossibly thick brows. I even managed the full set without trodding on his feet once.
All I wanted was a glass of lemonade between the sets. Such a simple desire.
I had stepped up to the bowl when another lady appeared at my side, brushing against me. I backed merely half a step out of her way. That single step was all it took.
I hit a wall.
Except the wall hadn’t been there before. I was certain of it. Also, walls didn’t grunt. Or spill down my back.
Turning, I discovered that the wall was, in fact, a chest.
A broad, decidedly male, lemonade covered chest.
I tipped my head back, then a bit farther, and farther still before I found a stern brow and an angry slash of a mouth.
Apologies spilled from me as I whipped around to find a napkin. Without conscious decision, I pressed said napkin against the hard, flat planes of his chest, dabbing and rubbing hysterically.
He ripped the napkin from my grasp, and I was left with an empty hand fluttering uselessly over his, still damp, torso.
In my periphery, I heard snickering from the lady who bumped me, but I was too distracted by the sight of the gentleman.
He was tall. Everyone was tall compared to me, but he had several inches on most of the gentlemen here. Thick, chocolate, close-cropped, tousled waves sat overtop a furrowed brow. His nose was straight and proud and his lips, pulled into a frown, were full and soft looking. His wide, square jaw featured a prominent dimpled chin.
But it was his eyes that were most captivating, a haunting brushed steel framed by long, charcoal lashes. He was the most beautiful man I had ever seen. Steely and disgruntled to be sure, but beautiful none-the-less.
“Stop that.” His voice was musical, even in irritation. It took a moment to comprehend his meaning, and I dropped my, still jittery, hands.
“I’m sorry,” I said. It was the latest in a long line of apologies that had been spewing forth from the moment I’d turned to face him.
“Stop apologizing.”
I would never, for the rest of my life, be able to explain the next word out of my mouth. “Sorry.”
Immediately after it escaped, I wished it unsaid. I shut my eyes against the shame, but it was an ineffective barrier. His answering glare awaited when I braved a glance.
I bit back yet another apology. Without permission to continue my expression of regret, I began to notice the eyes on us. The entirety of the ballroom, in fact, was staring with keen interest. There were even a few titters here and there, mostly from the lady who had caused the upset.
No longer filling the silence with excessive reparations, I could feel the disquiet, palpable in its unease. Words bubbled inside me, filling me to bursting, ready to spill over at the slightest provocation.
Unable to stand it a second longer, they escaped. “I’m Kate. Summers. Miss Kate Summers.”
As soon as they were liberated, I regretted it. The impertinence of it—Aunt Prudence would have a fit of apoplexy.
I hadn’t thought the disdain on his face could strengthen but it quickly transformed into scorn accompanied by a derisive huff of breath.
