Destined to Last (3 page)

William gave him a disgustingly patronizing smile. “Cheer
up, Hunter. Another six months and your obligations will be met. Out before you’re thirty, eh? And perhaps the prince will see fit to grant you something extra for your service. Wouldn’t you like to be a baron?”

A corner of his mouth hooked up. “Prinny can keep his titles.”

“I rather thought you aspired to be a member of the elite.”

“I aspire to wealth,” he corrected, “and what it can acquire.”

“It can’t acquire happiness,” William pointed out.

“True, but insufficient amounts of it will certainly afford a man a great deal of misery.” Cold, hunger, and loneliness came to mind.

William brushed his hands along his thighs and rose from his seat. “Well, then, if having coin and what it
can
acquire is what you seek. I would venture to say you are a success.”

He would be, Hunter mused. There was just one more acquisition to make.

I
t came as a surprise to no one that the dowager Lady Thurston’s ball turned out to be an unqualified success. Particularly not to Kate, who’d been privy to the extensive preparations and attention to detail—or minutiae, to hear her brother tell it—the event had received. According to her mother, there were but three things a lady need worry herself over: the children she loved, the charities she supported, and the parties she threw. Kate had been tempted to ask where husbands fit in, but knew better. Her parents’ union had not been a love match. It had been civil and grounded in some
level of affection, but not a love match. In the end, that had probably been best, as her father had died some years ago in a duel over a woman who was
not
his wife.

Her mother’s ball, however, was not the time or place to dwell on unhappy memories. It was
supposed
to be the time and place a young unmarried lady paid attention to the young unmarried gentlemen in attendance. Particularly if they happened to be gathered about her chair in the corner of the ballroom.

“What say you, Lady Kate? Red or Green?”

She hadn’t been paying attention. “Er, green.”

Two of the young gentlemen said something akin to “ah-ha!” Another groaned in defeat, and the last gentleman, who really wasn’t all that young, chuckled and slapped the back of one of the victors.

“Um…” She rose from her chair. “Do excuse me. I…I need some refreshment.”

She walked away swiftly, wondering if she would ever learn what sort of opinion she’d just expressed by saying “green,” and made her way across the room. From the corner of her eye, she saw another gentleman start toward her, hesitate when he saw the direction she was headed, and then quickly back away when she reached her destination.

She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling and quietly hummed along to the tune the musicians were playing. Her little ruse never failed. Whenever she wished for a little peace from her suitors all she needed to do was stand next to the refreshment table.

She was not, it would seem, to be trusted with food.

Kate stifled a snort and reached for a glass of lemonade. No wonder she’d not fallen in love with any of the men who courted her. They would never risk their lives to save her from a runaway mount. They wouldn’t even risk their cravats to speak with her.

She might have thought on that a bit longer, but she was
distracted by the rare sight of her cousin, Mrs. Evie McAlistair, engaged in a dance with her husband. Now
there
, Kate thought with a sigh, was a love match. The sort she dreamed of finding with her own handsome prince.

“Lady Kate, will you do me the honor of dancing with me?”

Kate jumped at the deep male voice, sloshing the lemonade in her glass onto the skirts of her blue silk gown. “Oh, bother.”

Mr. Hunter stepped around from behind her and produced a handkerchief from his pocket. She nearly told him she didn’t need it—she had enough sense to bring her own—but she bit back the sharp retort. Being rude to the man only seemed to encourage him. And reason dictated that if he pursued her merely for the fun of ruffling her feathers, she need only
stop
allowing her feathers to be ruffled and he would lose interest and let her alone.

She daintily accepted the square of linen. “Thank you.”

“The least I could do, after startling you.”

She rather thought it was. “It was my error. I was woolgathering.”

“We can debate the matter over our dance. You will dance?”

She’d rather not. “Yes, of course.”

“A waltz.”

A waltz? After he’d been so forward that morning? And when he’d never before asked her for so much as a reel? Suddenly the man expected nothing less than a waltz? Oh, she
desperately
wanted to make another comment on his arrogance.

“A waltz would be lovely.” She sincerely hoped the words didn’t sound quite as ground out as they felt. “How very kind of you to ask.”

“Not at all.”

The best she could manage in response was a tight smile.
She assumed he would leave after that—she was more than a little surprised he’d braved her company at the refreshment table at all—and return for her when it was time for their waltz.

He didn’t. He just stood there, watching her in silence, his lips curved up in a half smile as if he knew full well what she was about.

Let him look, she thought, he’ll see no ruffled feathers. She turned away to watch the dancers, sip at the lemonade remaining in her glass, and even tap her foot in time to the music. She glanced at him, once…twice…

She couldn’t stand it. She had to talk. She had to make him stop looming over her.

“Will you return to London on the morrow, Mr. Hunter?”

His lips curved up just a hair more. “Briefly. And your plans?”

“We’ve a house party to attend in Sussex next week. Lord Brentworth’s affair. Mother forgot to inform me of it until today. This afternoon, actually.” She licked lips gone dry. Did the man never blink? “I realize it’s not the most fashionable of parties, but…” She gave up and leaned forward to hiss at him. “Would you kindly refrain from staring at me that way?”

Rather than appear abashed, he merely raised a brow. “Nearly every man in the room is staring at you.”

“I rather doubt it, but if so, they have the courtesy to pretend otherwise,” she chastised. “Or, at the very least, blink now and again.”

He had the unmitigated gall to actually wink at her. “Will that do?”

“No.”
The absurdity of it, however, did create a tickle of laughter in her throat.

“Are you certain it wasn’t effective?” Mr. Hunter inquired with a grin. “Because you look as if you might like to laugh.”

Either she wasn’t nearly as accomplished at hiding her feelings as she thought, or the man was too perceptive by
half. Better if it was the latter, she decided. She didn’t care for the idea that everyone could read her so easily.

“Are you not familiar with the phrase ‘looks can be deceiving’?” she asked pertly.

His smile grew and there was a pause before he answered. “I’ve a passing familiarity with the saying.”

Kate thought it sounded as if he might have more than a passing familiarity, but the sound of the musicians beginning the first bars of the waltz kept her from responding.

Mr. Hunter offered her his arm. “I believe this is our dance, Lady Kate.”

She laid her hand lightly on his forearm and was surprised by the swell of muscle beneath her fingers. She looked down at where the ivory of her glove rested against the black of his coat sleeve. How strong did a man have to be, she wondered, to have noticeable muscle in his forearms?

She’d not felt it with any of the other gentlemen she’d danced with in the past, and that accounted for a respectable number of gentlemen. Did it have something to do with his mysterious past? She recalled Whit mentioning that Hunter’s father had been a merchant of some sort, but a father’s profession needn’t always dictate the son’s. Had he been a blacksmith? Were pirates known for their strength? She rather thought it was just agility, but perhaps—

“Is there something the matter with your glove?”

She jerked her gaze up, a little bewildered to find they’d already reached the dance floor. “Beg your pardon?”

“You’ve been staring at your glove for the last thirty seconds. Is there something the matter with it?”

She hadn’t been staring at her glove, she’d been staring at him, but she had no intention of correcting his mistake. “No, I…No, nothing the matter.”

“Shall we dance, then?”

“Certainly.” She cleared her throat and carefully placed one of her hands in his and the other on his shoulder. A
shoulder, she couldn’t help but note, that was also considerably muscled.

Mr. Hunter slid his free hand around her waist to rest at her back. She had only a moment to wonder why such a light touch should feel so significant before he swept her onto the dance floor.

Kate immediately applied herself to not thinking about her waltzing partner’s physique, an effort that might have met with more success had she been doing most anything
besides
waltzing. Waltzing required touching, an obvious impediment to her goal. Furthermore, dancing was one of the very few activities where she was able to exhibit a respectable amount of grace with very little effort. As long as the music maintained a consistent tempo, it was simple, almost instinctual, for her body to move in time. In short, the task provided no distraction whatsoever from thoughts of Mr. Hunter’s unusually muscled form.

Thoughts she was going to stop having, immediately.

“A penny for your thoughts, Lady Kate.”

Had dancing
not
come so naturally to her, she very likely would have tripped upon hearing that question. Not for all the pennies in the world would she tell him where her mind had been.

“I, er, I was thinking you’re a very fine dancer.” It was entirely possible that thought had flitted through her head at some point. It was even true—for a large man, he displayed a surprising amount of grace.

She waited, expecting him to deliver a compliment of his own. Gentlemen usually commented on her dancing skills. She suspected they did so in part to be polite, but mostly because they were stunned to find she wasn’t trodding on their toes.

In retrospect, she should have known Mr. Hunter would not do what she expected. Instead of returning the compliment, or thanking her for the one he’d received—as she
rather felt he ought—he subtly bent his head, lowering it just enough for her to see the taunt in his dark eyes, and the humor.

“Liar,” he whispered.

The tickle of laughter returned. “If you don’t keep the proper distance, there will be more lies circulating about this ballroom than you find amusing. People are watching, you know.”

“You’re the sister of a wealthy earl and the daughter of an influential countess. People are always watching you,” he returned, lifting his head and neatly sweeping her into another turn. “Tell me, do you find it disconcerting to have so many following your every move?”

It wasn’t so very many, in her opinion. And she was quite certain her “every move” was a considerable exaggeration—he was the only person she felt looked at her too often and with too great an intensity—but since she was determined not to display any ruffled feathers, she let both matters go.

“I do sometimes wonder what people are thinking while they watch others dance,” she told him.

He tipped his chin toward two austere-looking matrons whispering behind their hands at the edge of the dance floor. “Just now, I imagine the majority of them are wondering why you’re dancing with an upstart and known rake.”

“
Are
you a rake?” she asked before she could think better of it. She might have asked even if she
had
thought better of it. She’d heard rumors that Mr. Hunter had seduced legions of widows and opera singers, but what was fact and what was…well, rumor, it was impossible to say. It was equally impossible to say why she cared, except perhaps that she was a bit more curious about the man than she realized.

He carefully led her around an elderly couple exiting the dance early. “Would my being a rake make me more appealing in your eyes?”

“No, it would simply make you a rake.” She studied him
for a moment as he laughed. “Do you know, I don’t believe you are.”

“Oh?”

She shrugged. “I’ve never once heard a rumor of you seducing an innocent young lady.”

“That merely suggests I’m not a debaucher of innocents.”

She frowned thoughtfully. “Is there a distinction made between being a rake and being a debaucher?”

“There is by men of sense,” he informed her. “Only the latter is liable to end with dueling pistols at dawn.”

“Oh.” She considered that. “The distinction is purely selfserving, then? Morality isn’t factored in at all?”

“We
are
discussing rakes and debauchers.”

That was true. And how very strange that they should be. And how exhilarating. No other man of her acquaintance would ever think to have such an unconventional conversation with her. A gentleman simply did not discuss rakes and debauchers with young ladies. And young ladies were not to discuss them at all.

She looked about at the other dancers. If anyone was listening—

“You’re safe, Lady Kate,” Mr. Hunter assured her. “No one can hear.”

He was right, of course, they were speaking too softly to be heard over the music. Still…“It really isn’t a discussion we ought to be having.”

“Should we change the subject?”

They should. They really should. And she would, in another minute. After one more quick scan about her, she lowered her voice and asked, “What of men who seduce other men’s wives? Are
they
rakes?”

“Cuckolders.”

“I see.” She bit her bottom lip a moment and nodded. “But equally likely to find themselves on the field of honor, I imagine.”

“Depends on how the husband feels toward the wife, and his honor.”

“So a rake pursues only certain kinds of women, such as actresses and opera singers?” She thought about that. “Doesn’t that make every man a rake?”

“Not every man. England doesn’t have that many theaters.”

She laughed as he swept her into another turn. “Tell me this, if a man pursuing a married woman is a cuckolder, what is a woman who pursues a married man?”

“Welcomed, generally.”

“Certainly not by the gentleman’s wife.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised.” He nodded toward a middle-aged man standing near the doors to the veranda. “Lord Renort’s wife encourages him to visit his mistress as often as possible.”

“Really?” Kate glanced at Lord Renort and thought about what she knew of his union to Lady Renort. It was a second marriage for both and had been heralded among members of high society as a most sensible match. The gentleman had obtained a fortune, which would certainly be of use to a man with two sons and three daughters, while the lady had acquired a title—the accompanying benefits of which would no doubt be of value to herself and her two children. In truth, the vast majority of marriages within the
ton
were arranged purely for financial and social gain, but that fact didn’t make Lady Renort’s plight any less regretful in Kate’s eyes.