She didn’t think she had ever seen Hectornervous.
It made a light flicker inside her. If he blew it out now, though, it would destroy her, so she didn’t dare let him see that it was there.
“My trip North has been postponed,” he said. The words were careful, and he seemed determined to ignore the implication that he was a duke; he set the schedule. “And … you were going to the ball.”
She made a rough sound in the back of her throat. It wasn’t enough.
“And …” He sucked in a ragged breath. “I didn’t want to leave you alone. I didn’t want to make you face it alone.”
Clio’s eyes flew to his, no matter how hard she resisted. His gaze was a bright, intense blue, even in the gloom of the carriage.
The light flickered brighter.
It wasn’t enough—it wasn’t nearly enough. She wasn’t about to let her hopes be roused only to be dashed again. She just couldn’t risk it.
But she’d needed him. She had needed him, and he had come.
She nodded at him, then she turned out the window. He didn’t speak again, and neither did she. But she thought that maybe he could see the tiniest hint of a smile as it spread across her face, and she didn’t try to hide it.
Hector obviously didn’t know all the rules of high Society, but even he knew that he was probably staring at his wife a bit too much.
He didn’t give a single damn.
Nor did he care that he’d spent a bloody fortune on this stupid costume he was wearing, plus an extra king’s ransom to have it done in time. He didn’t care that it was uncomfortable in nearly every way that clothing couldbeuncomfortable—it was too tight in places, itchy in others, and he was paranoid that somehow he would manage to damage it and shame Clio.
Because, of course, the reason that he didn’t care about anything else wasbecauseof Clio.
He was doing this for her.
After Jonathan and Ramsay had made their argument about fixing broken things—a logical framework that was either utter genius or the stupidest thing he’d heard in all his born days—they had coaxed (Jonathan) and threatened (Ramsay) the full story of his argument with Clio.
They had concluded that, while it was perhaps correct that Clio either didn’t know or couldn’t admit to what she wanted in the big picture, that Hector had done an absolute shite job of actually listening when she told him what she did want.
“She asked you to go to the stupid ball, didn’t she, you great oaf?” Ramsay pointed out mercilessly.
“Besides,” Jonathan contributed, somewhat more gently, “you are the man. Which means that, in this society, you hold all the power. You might consider extending her a little leeway for not knowing what she wants, when she has likely been raised her entire life to believe that she should just follow what her husband wants—if not by her family directly, then by thetonat large.”
These points had both been distressingly compelling.
“So, what do Ido?” Hector had felt rather out of his depth by that point, and clearly, these two were the wiser heads that he needed to prevail.
“Idiot,” Ramsay said with clear affection. “You do what she asked you to do.”
So, he’d gone to the tailor. He’d gotten these blasted clothes. He’d escorted her to the ball.
And only once he’d gotten to this miserable throng of the who’s who of London Society did it occur to him that hehadn’t planned any further.
He had been pressed for time, certainly. But still. It was rather a significant oversight.
He’d settled for watching Clio and hoping—praying, wishing—that inspiration would strike. But all he seemed to be able to summon was awe.
She’d been so sad in the carriage. Her silence had been heavy as the anvil he’d once used as a smithy. But she’d offered him a little smile, and he’d clung to it with both hands.
This, too, felt stupid as he watched her offer smiles to different people she spoke with—offered them carelessly, as though her smiles were not the most precious thing in the world. He’d watched, his heart leaping every time her eyes lit up as she spoke to some acquaintance or other. Then, his heart had nearly stopped when he watched her lay a hand on a man’s arm and laugh, full and unrestrained, until he recognized the fellow from the wedding. He was one of Clio’s cousins—Ernest or Ezra or something else with an E.
He just clutched his walking stick, a nice new one that the tailor had promised him was both functional and at the cutting edge of fashion.
And he watched her.
