leading down to the ballroom. Nora turned and spoke to the majordomo, who announced to the entire assembly, “Lady Eleanora Madewell. Lady Henrietta Sedley.”
As was to be expected, no one looked up at the names, and the two made their way down to the main room. “Good Lord, Warnick is big,” Nora said casually. “If I were interested in such a thing, I could find my way to being interested in such a thing, quite honestly.”
Hattie laughed. Nora’s lack of interest in such a thing made her a perfect companion for nights like this—she would never insist Hattie dance with some mincing fop desperate for a dowry—and a perfect friend, as she would never insist that Hattie was mad for eschewing the idea of a loveless marriage for the sake of procuring any husband who would be had.
Not that Nora did not intend for partnership, but in the future she planned, partnership came with love, long-term, with a woman—which was a touch more complicated for the daughter of a duke with a massive dowry and the attention of every matchmaking mother of a son in shouting distance. This particular daughter of a duke was rich and brave and beautiful, however, and half of London was wild for her bold smile and her winning charm, so Hattie had no doubt that Nora would land precisely what she desired—life with a partner who loved adventure and Nora in equal measures.
Hattie, however, did not have such a guarantee.
Indeed, as Hattie aged, as she turned away from society and threw herself further and further into her father’s business, her lack of beauty became more and more of a liability, and any desire she might hold in her heart for partnership or love had been pushed away in favor of a different, more achievable desire.
The business.
No marriage. No children. Her gaze slid over the tops of the dancers assembled, lingering on the broad shoulders and dark head of the Duke of Warnick. No partner to look at her with such devotion.
She’d put the desire for those things away.
Until Beast.
The thought was barely formed when her cheeks flushed, the memory of him coming like the heat in the room. The memory of his touch on her skin. Of his kiss. Of the taste of him, sweet and tart like the candy he carried everywhere. And his voice, low and dark and perfect at her ear, at her lips, at her breast. Lower.
She’d wanted him to show her what she was missing. To ruin her with pleasure so she might always remember it, even if she was never able to have it again. And he’d done just that.
And promised her even more.
Of course, he’d packed her off to home instead of delivering on that promise. And now, three days later, she’d heard nothing from him. He knew her name, but would he be able to find her? Would he even come looking?
And that word he’d whispered when he’d sent her home—what had it meant?
Whit.
She shook her head, refusing to allow herself to linger on the single, graveled syllable that had consumed her since he’d spoken it. Had she heard him correctly? What had it meant? When she’d told Nora that bit, Nora had suggested that he might have been admiring Hattie’s delightful sense of humor.
Considering the events preceding the evening, Hattie had difficulty imagining that. At any rate, it did not matter. Not here, where he would absolutely not turn up.
Instead, she looked to her friend, still watching their host over the throngs of people. “If you were interested in that sort of thing, he still wouldn’t have you, Nora. He’s far too in love with his wife.”
“And no one can blame him,” Nora said happily. “Champagne?”
“Let’s,” Hattie replied. “One must find diversion where one can.”
The words had barely left her lips when the majordomo spoke from the ballroom steps. “Mr. Saviour Whittington.”
There was no reason for Hattie to have heard the name. The liveried man at the top of the stairs had announced a dozen names in the time it had taken Hattie and Nora to pick their way through the room. Two dozen. And Hattie hadn’t paid an ounce of attention to them.
Except this one sent a ripple through the room.
She was sure of it.
Around her, the attendees turned to look. Not only the women—first curious, then riveted, their words caught in their throats—but the men as well, their ordinary conversation turning hushed as they looked to the staircase behind her. Over the crowd, she