Her eyes widened, and Mr. Baxter followed suit; the pair disentangled themselves and popped to their feet just as another couple strode into the sitting room. Hettie’s gaze darted about the space, wondering if there’d been anyone else in here when they arrived, for her thoughts had been far too occupied to say with any certainty that they’d been alone.
Mr. Baxter stuffed the mistletoe back into its hiding place and tugged on his cuffs. Straightening her skirts, Hettie tried not to blush, but she couldn’t help the snicker, and she pressed her fingers to her lips, though there was no stifling it in its entirety. They had done nothing untoward, yet the pair were acting like young sweethearts caught in a compromising situation.
“I ought to have known better than to sneak away with you, Mr. Baxter,” she whispered. “You are a terrible influence.”
His eyes lit with merriment and, taking her hand in his, the gentleman pressed a kiss to her knuckles before tucking it in the crook of his arm as they strode out of the room and back toward the dancing.
Hettie’s footsteps were as light as clouds, moving as though spring breezes blew them about, and for all that she thought herself a mature lady of sense, she couldn’t keep from grinning. Her heart thumped a rapid beat, pulsing through her with such strength that she couldn’t maintain an elegant facade. Her joy simply had to be shown.
They stepped through the ballroom door, and Hettie glanced at him, his gaze sliding toward her at the same instant. Good heavens. Such a man. Mr. Baxter was not at all the sort of beau she’d anticipated meeting. Hamilton Baxter was not suave or sophisticated. He was quiet and calm, more liable to measure his words than allow a tempest to drive him into foolhardy behavior. He was honorable to the core. Thoughtful. Cautious. The antithesis of the dashing swain of her youthful fantasies.
But then, young ladies rarely prized a sensible beau. They were viewed as stodgy and boring. Yet when binding oneself to another for a lifetime, dull was preferable to roguish, irresponsible, and lackadaisical. The first would be the sort of partner with whom one could weather the hardships of life and find joy in even the simplest of moments. The second was bound to leave one heartbroken and alone.
Hettie’s brows rose as an epiphany, strong and clear, struck her heart. She loved this man. She wanted to be his wife. Wanted to be bound body and soul to him. Though he was by no means without flaw, she couldn’t imagine anyone more perfect for her. She loved Hamilton Baxter.
Jerking her gaze away from him, Hettie felt her muscles tighten. For all that she’d jested to herself about running off to Scotland with him, they’d only been courting a few short days. If one of her nieces wedded a man after knowing him only a month, Hettie would say they were foolish or blinded by romance’s wiles.
Yet she knew her mind. She knew herself. She wasn’t some young miss just stepping into the world with no understanding of what the future would bring; Hettie knew what she desired. The smile sprang back into life, and her vision blurred a touch as the rightness of that thought settled into her heart. Now may not be the time to admit to it, but she knew it for certain. She loved Hamilton Baxter.
Squeezing his arm, Hettie drew in a deep breath, the sigh carrying with it all the joy of the present and hopes for the future, and then she couldn’t help but laugh at herself for those romantic sensibilities.
The pair wove their way through the crowds, and though it was unseemly to monopolize his time, Hettie managed only short separations before she drifted back to his side. And her giddiness grew as he showed the same inclination, reaching her mere minutes later if she did not seek him out. Hettie was not the fainting sort, but she was certain to do so if her pulse didn’t slow itself.
Though Mr. Baxter had few friends at the gathering, Hettie made certain to introduce him to hers, and with each questioning look she received from her social circle, her smile grew. It could not be dimmed even when Mr. Baxter was enlisted to dance a set with another lady.
The poor man didn’t flinch when approached to shoulder the duty, although Hettie doubted he wanted to stand up again—but Mrs. Queensbury so longed to dance, and far too many of the gentlemen their age had retired to the card room. Without giving the slightest sign of discomfort, Mr. Baxter led the lady onto the dance floor.
And Hettie’s giddiness grew.
As a young lady, seeing her beau dance with another lady wouldn’t have elicited such a response, but Mrs. Queensbury’s joy at joining in with the quadrille was so obvious that Hettie’s own grew. A sacrifice for someone who was little more than a stranger, yet Mr. Baxter hadn’t hesitated to offer himself up to the lady.
Her dear Mr. Baxter.
Turning on her heel, she glanced about the room, searching for any familiar face. Again, Hettie was like a silly young miss, humming a romantic tune as she wove deeper into the crowd. Mrs. Spragg rose to her toes, waving a fan at Hettie, though her words were lost in the tumult of the party. As she moved in that direction, the guests all jostled about, and Hettie received more than a few ill-timed elbows to her side as she maneuvered through the pack.
Only to find Mrs. Camilla Baxter standing in her path.
“I couldn’t believe it. No matter what others said, I couldn’t believe the rumors.” The lady’s nose rose high, her eyes glaring down the length as a sneer soured her lips. “Only a sennight ago, you assured me you were naught but friends, yet now you are parading about, hanging on his arm.”
Drawing in a breath, Hettie considered her responses. If she did not tread carefully, the lady’s dislike could grow into true animosity, leaving Mr. Baxter in a difficult situation with his children.
“I was speaking the truth at that time—”
“You trollop!” hissed young Mrs. Baxter with such ferocity that Hettie’s brows rose and her words failed her. Some sardonic part of her mind wished to point out that during their last discussion, his children had made it abundantly clear that they thought it impossible for their father to look upon her with any degree of admiration; to shift from plain old spinster to temptress in a sennight was quite a feat, indeed.
No, that would not be helpful to say.
Bringing her dear Mr. Baxter to mind, Hettie considered what the patient man would say instead and found a bit of equilibrium. This was his family, and they were grieving their matriarch. It was understandable. And if she ever wished to win their good graces, she must tread carefully.
“I understand this must be a shock,” said Hettie. “It took me quite unawares, too, but surely we can discuss this in private with the family—”
“We are not your family!”
“I didn’t say that—”
“You see a sad old man and think to get your claws into him?” Mrs. Baxter drew closer, which was likely meant to intimidate. Hettie was simply glad that the movement drove the lady to lower her voice, leaving it impossible for others to overhear. Though there were still plenty watching from afar.
“That is not—”
