Another spine of her fan snapped, but Amy barely felt it. Bastard was too accurate to be an insult to his character. There were probably a great many epithets she would have used to describe him, were she a man, and Benjamin Lovell deserved every last one. He might pretend modesty in his perfect, plain suit. But the man was a trumped-up peacock, near to choking on his own pride. Without even meeting her, he’d decided he must have dear, sweet, innocent Belle, just to gain a seat in the House of Commons. He would not give a thought to her, once they were married. Worse yet, if he wished for the best from those around him, he might take out his disappointment upon her sister when he realised she was unequal to his ambitious plans.
Something must be done and it must be done immediately. Amy stood, almost bumping into a young man who was working his way along the edge of the room, balancing far too many glasses of lemonade. He muttered an apology and made to go around.
Suddenly, she had a plan.
She responded to his words with a simpering laugh. ‘La, sir. It is a relief to see you. I retired to the corner for I was parched and near to fainting.’
Before he could offer or deny, she reached out and took two of his lemonades away from him, taking a sip from the first. ‘Much better,’ she said, giggling again and ignoring his astonishment at her rudeness.
Then, as if she was as unsteady as she claimed, she turned and staggered forward the two steps necessary to stand before Benjamin Lovell. She wavered, lurched and allowed herself a brief, triumphant smile. Then she dumped the contents of the glasses in her hand down his elegant white waistcoat.
Chapter Two
Damn it all to hell.
Ben Lovell was not given to outbursts of temper. Not in public, at least. Occasionally, when he was totally alone, he gave way to self-pity and cursed the strange turns his life had taken to land him where he was. Then he remembered that only a fool would complain over what must be seen by others as stunningly good luck, composed himself again, counted his blessings and ignored the rest.
In public he could allow nothing more than one brief, unspoken curse, making sure to give no indication on his face of displeasure within. Things had been going far too well for him to spoil his perfect reputation with a cross word towards the little idiot who had baptised him in lemonade.
This accident had ruined any chance for a meeting with Summoner tonight. If one wished to lay the groundwork for a political career, one could not afford to look less than one’s best, or to appear out of sorts. One certainly could not have one’s mind clouded with ill will over what was an innocent mistake by a flustered debutante.
For now, he would be a gentleman and ignore the ruined coat that had cost a full thirty pounds just the previous week. He would shake off the drips of lemonade falling from the thin picot of lace at the cuffs of his linen shirt. His cravat was a sodden lump and he could feel the hair on his chest sticking to his body. How many cups had the chit been carrying to result in such havoc? Had she been actively trying to drown him?
And where had she come from? He was normally careful to avoid treading on toes or bumping elbows even in the most crowded rout. She had seemed to appear out of nowhere, as if she’d been lying in wait to attack him.
A gentleman should not be bothered with trivia and Ben did not want to be known simply as well mannered. To overcome his birth, he must be the most magnanimous man in London.
He buried his annoyance and forced his face into an expression of concern for the lady. Then he reached for his handkerchief, holding the linen out to the giggling girl. She was flapping a broken fan as if she meant to dry him off with the breeze. ‘I am so sorry to have startled you, miss. Did any of it spill upon your gown?’ Then he looked down into the heart-shaped face barely level with his top vest button.
He was staring. It was rude of him. To be the success he wished to be, he could not afford to be anything less than perfect. But one look into that face and he was gaping like an idiot. All common sense seemed to have fled and taken his good manners with it.
It was not that she was a striking beauty. Pretty enough, he supposed. A fine figure, though she was none too tall. In an attempt to add height, her brown hair was piled in an overly fussy style with too many braids and curls. The plumes that completed her coiffure bobbed as she nodded her head along with his apology. Judging by the giggles, he assumed her head was likely full of feathers as well.
Or perhaps not.
Her laugh was so false and inane that it might have been cultivated to put a man off. But if she meant to be repellent, her eyes spoiled the effect. They drew him in and held him captive. They were large and bright, and the warm brown of a fine sherry. Or almost totally so. The left one had a single fleck of gold in the iris that glittered like a secret joke.
The difference between the two should have been unattractive for was not beauty dependent on symmetry? Instead, it was fascinating. He was lost in that little gold speck, enthralled by it. He wanted to gaze into her eyes forever, until they revealed their mysteries. Worse yet, as she looked into his eyes he was overcome with a desire to unburden himself and share even the most carefully concealed secrets of his past.