Brandon’s wicked masque. Hyacinth’s bright loveliness rose in his mind, along with her smile. Had he ever seen another lady whose smile could compare? He did not think he had.
He shook himself free of the notion. That did it. What had Brandon called him? Mawkish? Yes, he was guilty. Still…
“I do not want to attend your ball, Brandon, though I do thank you for the invitation. Speaking of which, I do not believe I saw a formal one arrive.”
“Are you answering any of your correspondence these days?” his friend asked, quite shrewdly.
Blast.
“No.”
“It is settled.” Brandon emptied his glass once more and stood. “I must run, old chap. I say, did you know you have the loveliest neighbor? Deuced improvement upon old Lord and Lady Allesford. Runs with a fast set. Nicest pair of bubbies I have seen in at least the last week. Had a delicious red-headed friend with her as well, though her bubbies were not nearly as large. Anyway, I have invited the two of them as well. Mayhap I shall take a poke at one. Or, better yet, both at once…”
The thought of Brandon taking a poke at Hyacinth had Tom shooting from his seat as if it had been made of flame. He balled his fists at his sides and clenched his teeth with so much force, they ached. “Naturally, she declined.”
“Who?” Brandon was already to the library door, his mind apparently having moved on to a new subject as quickly as his feet had been taking him from the room. “Oh, the delicious little filly next door? No, indeed, she was only too happy to accept.”
“Brandon,” he called, chasing after his friend. Could he brain him with a fire poker without doing the man permanent injury? “She is not your sort. I forbid you from dallying with her.”
“Oh, ho!” Brandon turned back to him, grinning like the devil. “Have designs upon their virtues yourself, do you? If so, I am afraid you must attend this evening. The gauntlet has been thrown. May the best man win the ladies’ hands. And quim.”
On a bark of laughter, the duke disappeared over the threshold.
Bloody hell. Tom stared at the empty doorway, knuckles sore. He had forgotten what a heartless blighter his friend could be. And now, there was no way he could allow Hyacinth to become Brandon’s next conquest. The duke had bedded half of England. Besides, Hyacinth was Tom’s.
Er, his neighbor.
Yes, that was all she was to him.
But just the same, Tom stalked from the library in search of his valet. And a costume. It would seem he was attending Brandon’s masque after all.
“An invitation from the Duke of Brandon.” Lottie fanned herself as they stood on the periphery of the duke in question’s madly crushed ballroom. “I cannot credit such a feat. And you, new to Town. Do you know, I have been angling for an invitation for the last two seasons?”
“It hardly seems as if invitations are in short supply,” Hyacinth could not help but to note wryly from behind her mask as she took in the glittering ladies and gentlemen in attendance.
Indeed, at first glance, she was reasonably sure the duke had invited roughly half the population of London.
“You are not familiar with Brandon’s reputation,” Lottie said needlessly, for of course Hyacinth was not.
Before she had chanced to pass him on the pavements earlier that day and he had gamely extended his invitation to herself and Lottie, Hyacinth had never heard of the man. Country life and years of marriage had left her with an appallingly limited knowledge of society.
“I admit, I never met him before today,” Hyacinth said, giving her own fan a flutter.
It was dreadfully warm in the ballroom, and her shepherdess costume—borrowed from Lottie, who was no stranger to masked balls of this nature—was possessed of too many layers and panniers and flounces for comfort, all whilst leaving most of her bosom on shocking display. She had felt quite naked, emerging from her chamber with so much air upon her flesh. But Lottie would not hear of changing into an alternative costume.
It is the shepherdess or it is nothing, I am afraid, my dear. But trust me, you shall not regret the shepherdess. You will have all London on its knees for you. Why, I am almost a little in love with your bosom myself. You are unfairly endowed…
Lottie was silly. Silly but beloved. And truly, not nearly as silly as she pretended. Her marriage had left her as devastated as