Free A Flirtatious Rendezvous: The Gentlemen Next Door #4 - Historical Regency Romance Novellas by Cecilia Gray Page A

in his eagerness to be sure the water was piping hot. Her mother had scolded him as they righted the cups and blotted at the damp tablecloth, waving away the serving staff who tried to intervene.
    Their movements almost seemed a dance, their arms twining around and through one other to grab a napkin or a plate, or to save a biscuit before it soaked, and between the movements her father squeezed the tender skin just above her mother’s elbow and her mother wiped her father’s brow with the back of her glove.
    Second, Hanna loved her mother, even though her last words had been ones of disappointment. Hanna had driven away yet another governess with her inability to concentrate, because she could never seem to remember her lessons. Her mother had asked if she wanted to end up in a nunnery and she’d said no, and her mother had said she’d better start acting like a lady. She remembered her mother’s scowl every day, but it didn’t seem to make a difference, because her mother loved her, and she knew it with every bit of her soul.
    Third, and most stubbornly, Hanna loved The Honorable Hayden Banks, the youngest son of the Earl of Landale, who lived next door.
    Mr. Hayden Banks was perfect.
    It was not that he was the epitome of gentlemanly good looks. In fact, his dark hair, cool black eyes, and clean, muscular frame were most unfashionable amongst the pale, lanky blond dandies that ruled the dance floors of the ton .
    It was not that he was stylish. In fact, most of her friends found him sloppy. He was often caught with his cravat loosened and sometimes even his shirt sleeves pushed up to his forearms when he thought no one was watching—which was a fair assumption, given how Hanna often spotted him this way when high in the tree between their houses, spying through his private study window.
    It was not that he was clever and witty. In fact, he was of average wit and cleverness, both of which qualities were buried beneath his genius. He was a prodigy. Only twenty-two and yet published six times in mathematical journals.
    No, Hayden Banks was not perfect in any of these respects.
    Hanna loved him because she had always loved him, and because he seemed confident and certain of everything, of every answer, of every movement. He was never plagued by doubts, and the only time Hanna felt the same was when she was with him.
    Hanna fantasized about Hayden Banks every day.
    About their wedding and how he’d gaze at her as she walked down the aisle of St. George’s. About their first kiss, which would be beneath the gnarled and knotted beech tree that stood on the border between their London homes, of course. His hand would lash out to grab her behind the neck and he’d pull her against his mouth and—
    “You’re making fish lips again.”
    Hanna shook herself out of the fantasy to look down at her father, who stared up at her in the tree with concern.
    “Just tasting the air,” she said, climbing down the mottled trunk. She swung off the lowest branch to leap to the ground and landed in a clump next to him. She glanced back at the window that allowed her to peek into Hayden’s study—for the last time, she realized with a pang. “I’ll miss the air here.”
    “What nonsense,” he said with a sigh. Her father squeezed her shoulders and blinked rapidly—the way he did when he knew she was watching, when he didn’t want her to see him cry.
    “Oh, Father.” She hugged him tight. She understood exactly—this was the house they’d lived in with her mother, the house where they had the best memories. And that, she supposed, was why her father insisted on finding a new home in the countryside and why she hadn’t protested.
    “Quickly, dear.” He cleared his throat and hurried her toward the house. “We’re needed inside.”
    She took one last glance back, and her dreams of marrying Hayden Banks shriveled away.
     
    * * *
     
    Hanna knew she was a daydreamer. So she must have drifted away whilst sitting on the couch