Page 8 of Her Magnificent Mistake
The tension that tightened between them, taut as a bowstring, was apparently invisible to all others. Lady Mistree certainly didn’t seem to notice.
“Since you two are old friends, I see a way out of this conundrum. Bull, you dance with Miss Hawthorne. Baron, you invite Lady Marcia to the floor. I shall wander over there and examine those ferns. Then you can all go home.”
The orchestrawasfinishing up a waltz, but Marcia’s eyes had gone wide at the suggestion.
Bull had noticed. “I dinnae ken—” he began, and Marciaknewhe was objecting for her sake.
But she also knew this was the opportunity they’d been waiting for. Blast it all to hell.
“What a splendid idea!” she managed to rasp, as if she were delighted by the opportunity. “Brilliant.”
With her eyes, she pleaded with her brother tolet it go.
Yes, this would be difficult for her, and no, he didn’t know why. Some secrets were never shared, not even with brothers. Perhaps,especiallynot with brothers about their best friends.
But in the last fortnight, their investigations into the habit of dying that the Barons of Tostinham had unfortunately fallen into had turned up no evidence. In order to fulfill this contract and solve this murder, they—one or both—needed to get closer to the Hawthornes.
This was a prime opportunity, no matter how painful it might be.
She could tell that Bull still wasn’t certain of her response or her sudden agreement, but he nodded slightly. By the time he turned back to Hawk, his affable mask was back in place.
“Miss Hawthorne, I would be honored to escort ye onto the dance floor. That is…” He sent Hawk a good-natured smirk. “If yer uncle will allow it.”
Hawk’s expression was surprisingly somber as he nodded. “I would trust ye with my life, Bull. I ken ye’ll take good care of Allie.”
Bull blinked, and Allison smacked her uncle on his arm. “It is a singledance, Uncle Maxwell. Nothing is going to happen, and then we can go home.”
“I live to serve, mademoiselle,” Bull declared, offering his arm. He shot a quick glance toward Marcia, as if making certain she was still alright, before turning up his charm. “And may I say, Miss Hawthorne, how splendid ye look this evening?”
“You may say it, sir, but I shall ignore the compliment, because it is clear from your sense of dress that you have no real understanding of fashion.”
Bull’s laughter was loud and genuine.
It was obvious the two of them remembered one another, and felt comfortable teasing. Unlike…
“Lady Marcia,” Hawk said stiffly, offering his hand. “Would you do me the great honor of a dance?”
Yes.
Yes no yes.
The fantasy of a dance with Hawk, in front of everyone, was what had kept her warm in those first few years after Bull had brought him home at Hogmanay. Then the third Hogmanay when he’d returned and they’d begun their acquaintance, she’d learned there were things better than dancing.
More horizontal things.
A mistake.
Because he’d abandoned her—and yes, become a murderer.
Realizing she was hesitating too long, Marcia forced a smile—which likely looked sickly enough to be put in quarantine—and nodded her agreement.
“Oh good,” announced Lady Mistree with a satisfied huff. “I will look forward to seeing you later this week, Marcia. Baron, do be a good boy.” She waved lightly, her attention already on the far wall. “Oh look, ferns. How exciting.”
She bustled off, her tone deadpan enough that Marcia couldn’t tell how serious she was being. Wasn’t this her ball—her ferns?
It was only then that Marcia realized Hawk was still waiting for her, standing there with his hand held out for her.
Oh yes. The dread of the dratted dance hadn’t actually prevented the thing from happening.
