And still, for some reason, in that moment, all she could do was stare at Beast’s beautiful face and revel in the bite of the parchment in her palm.
Not that it would do her any good at all in the battle that was to come. Hattie might as well have been holding a violin for all the value it did her. Indeed, a violin might have been more useful, as she could have cracked him over the head with it, which would have made a scene, yes, but also would have resulted in the two men not speaking.
As though he sensed the threat in her thoughts, he lifted his head from where he’d dipped low to speak to her father over the din of the ballroom, his strange amber gaze instantly finding hers. And then, as though he’d spent his entire life in Mayfair ballrooms, he winked at her.
“Interesting . . .” Nora drawled.
“No. It’s not interesting at all. What game is he playing?” And why wasn’t she more angry at him for playing it here, in front of all the world? She should be terrified. She should be furious. But instead . . . she was excited.
Warrior.
“We should go to more balls.”
“We’re never going to another ball again,” Hattie tossed over her shoulder as she began to move, her heart pounding.
And then something gleamed in his eyes, and she recognized the emotion as the one rioting through her.
Anticipation.
He returned to speaking to her father as she pushed through the door. Under other circumstances, it would have been a comic scene: the enormous young man leaning down into the ear of the aging earl, notoriously diminutive. Her father liked to claim that it was his short stature that made him the perfect sailor, which was partially true—he barely had to duck to move about below deck on his ships. But this man—the one she no longer thought of as Beast, the one she could not help but think of as Whit despite that being entirely inappropriate—eclipsed him like the sun.
No. Not like the sun. Like a storm, come upon a ship out at sea, thieving blue skies and replacing it with silent, dark clouds.
A storm, big and beautiful and unpredictable.
What was he telling her father?
It could be anything, as it was just the two of them, seemingly oblivious to the rest of the room. Hattie quickly calculated the probability that they were discussing the mundane—weather, refreshments, the temperature of the room, or the number of footmen present.
Was it possible for something to have a negative probability?
It was far more probable that they were talking about her.
Hattie increased her speed, nearly knocking over the Marchioness of Eversley, tossing back a quick apology. If it were anyone else, she might have—might have—stopped to apologize, but the marchioness came from one of the most scandalous families in Britain, so if anyone would understand the need to quash whatever conversation was taking place between her father and a man who knew far too much about her dealings of the last few days, it was she.
Hattie was nearly upon them when the earl nodded, a shadow on his brow. Hattie caught her breath—she couldn’t identify the emotion, but she didn’t like it. And then she was there, and the words were coming before she could stop them. “That’s quite enough of that.”
The earl’s eyes went wide and he turned to Hattie as Whit straightened and . . .
Oh, dear.
“That’s trouble,” Nora said softly from somewhere behind Hattie’s right shoulder.
No one should have a smile that stunning. Hattie had a mad urge to throw up her hands and block the full force of it. To resist its foreign pull. Keep your head, Hattie.
She swallowed. “What are you doing here?”
He took the rude question in stride, extending a hand. “Lady Henrietta.” The words were cultured and soft, missing their usual coarse darkness.
Hattie’s brows snapped together and she tilted her head, confusion and something startlingly close to disappointment teasing through her. Was this the same man? It couldn’t be. Where was the growl? The accent, grown in the Garden?
A flame lit in his amber eyes—the one that set off a twin flame deep in her.
No. He couldn’t simply tempt her into docility. Her gaze slid to his outstretched hand, wary. She did not reach for it. “Answer my question, please.” When he didn’t—of course that characteristic remained—she turned to her father, registering the censure in them. “What were you discussing?”
The earl’s lips flattened. “Reconsider your tone, gel.”
She swallowed