Honora gritted her teeth, her jaw hardening in distaste. Of course Frank and this lord were friends. They were quite similar in a way, she saw now. Both so self-assured and comely enough to catch any woman’s eye. No doubt the man in front of her was just as good for nothing as her husband and she felt a sharp stab of dislike lance through her at the thought.
The last thing I want is a friend of Frank’s spending another moment in this house. Like attracts like, after all—no man of honour would pursue an acquaintance with my husband, no matter how high and mighty he might be.
‘If you expect me to be impressed by your title, I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed. Peer or not, you can’t go about breaking into other people’s homes, even if you do know the owner.’
Lord Lovell shrugged with the perfect confidence of a man accustomed to doing exactly as he liked, when he liked. ‘The garden door only needed the slightest persuasion. I said in the darkness this house looked uninhabited. You’ll have to forgive my mistake. I’m not sure it’s one I could be blamed for making.’
Fresh annoyance coursed through Honora. It was true Wycliff Lodge had seen better days, its decline starting long before Frank brought his heiress bride to England to be its mistress. By the time he left her Honora could do nothing to halt its sorry sinking, the once fine rooms growing dreary and cracks appearing in the outside walls. Only by renting out the handful of fields around the Lodge could she keep the wolf from the door, able to afford essentials but little else.
Ma and Pa would have sent money had she asked, but Honora never would. It would humble her to dust to admit how wrong she’d been about Frank, her stilted and infrequent letters home to Virginia skating over the details of a life she was now ashamed to own. The estrangement between her and her parents was an open wound that hurt her every day, but there was no way of healing it now without the miracle of turning back time.
‘That’s very well, but it doesn’t explain why you’re here. So, go on. Tell me.’ She knew her voice was hard, but she couldn’t seem to soften it. Between this aggravating stranger and memories of Frank her chest felt clamped in a vice and cold anger flowed through her like a stream. Hadn’t she been imposed upon enough by men who thought charm a fit substitute for morals? Frank hadn’t even bothered to come to see her himself, instead sending this man to scare her in the night and then insult her home. Surely Lord Lovell deserved no politeness, tainted by his association with one who had ruined Honora’s life.
‘What does my fool of a husband want so badly he dispatched you to seek me out? Is it money? He’s finally gambled away all of his and now he demands mine? I would hope not, for he knows full well I have none.’
Her unwanted visitor hesitated, for the first time looking unsure, and Honora could have found a grim smile that she had finally discomforted him. No doubt he was more used to women simpering and throwing him admiring glances, his title and admittedly engaging face finding favour wherever he went.
Well, not here and not from me. If Frank sent him, thinking I’d fall prey to his charms, he’ll be most put out to find me entirely immune—
Lord Lovell took another step towards her and Honora pulled back, all of a sudden wary at the new seriousness in his face. His brow was creased soberly and his already deep voice lowered when he replied, his words reaching Honora’s ears and yet hardly making any sense at all.
‘He’d have no need of money, ma’am. I’m sorry to tell you—your husband is dead.’
* * *
Isaac watched her fold slowly down on to a threadbare sofa near the door, all the bluster of seconds previous bleeding out, and he hardened his heart against a distant pang of sympathy. The pistol fell from her fingers to land with a soft thud on the floor, but she didn’t seem to notice, her now empty hand coming up to cover her mouth.
‘Frank? Dead?’
She stared up at him as though half suspecting he was lying, eyes wide and lips parted likewise with disbelief. In her anger she’d been impressive, but now in shock she looked almost vulnerable—although neither state one Isaac had any intention of admiring, under these circumstances or any other.
So. I’ve done as I determined I would and that’s as far as it goes.
A murmur of guilt nagged at him and he turned his face away, determined as ever not to consider it. He had no reason to feel that way and yet still it whispered to him as it had ever since that fateful night one week ago, its voice only intensified by the sight of Frank’s striking widow mere feet away from where he stood.
Damn you, Blake. Only revealing the fact you were wed as you lay dying? Leaving me the burden of locating and telling your wife? Perhaps you thought I’d show pity to a married man, but you left me with no choice but to act after what you did to Charlotte, whether you pleaded to be spared or not.
The wife in question sat quite still, sleep-tousled black curls shining in the dancing light of the fire that threw undulating shadows across her amber skin. She was far more attractive than he had expected and briefly Isaac wondered how Frank could have neglected such a unique beauty. His first glimpse of her had been unexpected to say the least. What kind of woman came flying into a room in her nightgown waving a pistol around? She’d been like a Valkyrie swooping down to challenge him, hardly seeming to feel any fear at all. Perhaps it was no wonder Frank had fled from her, that face beguiling but fire lurking behind its angelic façade. He hadn’t been a brave man, Isaac thought with a flit of contempt—probably his wife had been too much for him to handle, leading his attention to stray where it never should have...
The thought of poor Charlotte’s tear-stained face made his insides twist and he bit down on a growl as he recalled that terrible night. His young ward was so naive, far too sweet and guileless to have been exposed to a man like Frank Blake...but hadn’t Isaac believed Blake to be a friend to him, someone who could be depended on not to treat Charlotte as Isaac had to admit he himself had once treated other women?
Perhaps his conduct hadn’t been quite as bad as Frank’s, but the fact their friendship had begun with a chance meeting over a rowdy game of cards in some shadowy den, the wine flowing thick and fast and more than one pretty girl catching Lord Lovell’s approving eye, didn’t reflect well on either man. He couldn’t deny Frank had made him laugh with his quick wit and willingness to up the stakes of every game, sometimes playing until the sun rose, and that he’d been pleased to find a friend with whom it seemed he had so much in common...until the truth came out and with it a sense of shame for his rakish actions that Isaac had never felt before.
Charlotte was barely sixteen, damn it, scarcely more than a girl, and by who knew what coaxing Frank had got her with child, then had the gall when confronted to deny it was his. She hadn’t even known what was happening when she began to show, hiding her condition beneath loose-fitting gowns and fearing she was grievously ill until finally seeking Isaac’s help. What other choice had Isaac had when he discovered the truth but to chase the blackguard down, Frank running for his life but his weak heart close to bursting with every step? Only when he keeled over on the frosty lawn of Lovell’s estate, Marlow Manor, did he seem to realise his time had come, with his last breath pleading his married state as though Isaac might show him mercy on account of whatever wretched woman he’d wed.
But he deserved none. It’s only as a kind of penance for my own sins that I came to find this Mrs Blake, in some way to make amends for how I behaved before Charlotte was dishonoured by a man who held a mirror up to my own dealings. I see now how actions have consequences I should have considered. For Charlotte’s sake from now on I shall strive to do better.
He glanced at Honora, once again trying to take her measure. He’d been anticipating more of a scene and had steeled himself to weather whatever storm of weeping Mrs Blake might rage over his head. Surely most women would have fallen to pieces, he thought as he observed her narrowly, but no such emotion seemed forthcoming, her
long lashes bone-dry and, now the first sharp shock had passed, her face settling into determined composure.
Very carefully he moved a little closer, expensive boots scuffing worn carpet. She glanced up at him, a swift suspicious thing that did nothing to dim the pretty hazel of her eyes, and not for the first time Isaac felt an unwelcome glimmer of appreciation for the elegant tilt of her chin.
Attractive. Unusually so. But enough to overcome all good sense? For a moment Isaac’s thoughts swerved in the direction of his late father and gave the answer he already knew without a shadow of a doubt.
Absolutely not.
If the previous Lord Lovell had taught his son anything it was the danger of getting too attached, a lesson Isaac had learned well—or too well, given how lightly he had always treated women, now to his lasting shame. Father had married again after the untimely passing of Isaac’s mother in childbed, when she had traded her life for that of her wailing son. The new marriage hadn’t been a joyful one and as he had grown it pained Isaac to see two lives so ruined by their ill-advised binding together, his childhood marred by shouting and sulks, arguments and bitter tears on both sides. As far as he could tell marriage was a recipe for disaster—sooner or later the arrangement would sour to indifference or rage, leaving behind sorrow that could have been avoided with the absence of a ring.
A wife would only tie him down, an unwanted responsibility likely to make him miserable in the end—he enjoyed female attention on his own terms, and there had never been any shortage of that. Only for the begetting of legal heirs was there much of a case for matrimony, but the knowledge he had caused his own mother’s death haunted Isaac like an unescapable spectre and always gave him pause whenever the dull matter of progeny crossed his mind. It was better to spare some poor creature the pain and danger of childbirth, he’d resolved years before—something he wished now he might guard Charlotte against, the idea of her sharing the fate of his mother making his blood run cold.
She was the only person in his life he truly cherished, after all, the only family he had left. The orphaned daughter of his late cousin, Charlotte had come to live with him as a sad child of just nine years old and he had grown to love her as if she were his own daughter, making her his sole heir and hiding from her the less admirable side of his character. Just as, he realised now with hideous hindsight, he should have concealed his choice of friends. The poor motherless girl would become a mother herself soon enough, with no idea how to go about it and nobody to guide her, and Isaac had nobody to blame but himself for allowing that to happen—apart, of course, from Frank Blake, whose name he had forbidden Charlotte from ever uttering again in his hearing or out and certainly never beneath the roof of Marlow Manor.
So, no. Honora’s loveliness would not be allowed to interest him and was certainly not enhanced by her connection to Frank. Association with such a character did nothing to prompt fondness, Frank’s conduct towards Charlotte souring any sympathy Isaac might have had for the wife left behind.
Still. Perhaps I ought to offer some consolation, no matter if I feel the world has suffered no great loss. It’s what she’ll be expecting, I suppose.
‘I’m very sorry to bring you such news. Do you want a glass of something to ease the shock?’
He caught the minute shake of Honora’s head, although whether it was to refuse his sympathy or the drink he couldn’t tell. She still held herself warily, mistrust clear in her every movement and her whole air entirely opposite to that of most ladies he met. Usually they warmed to him at once, his face and effortless charm drawing them in—although admittedly he wouldn’t often meet one for the first time in the middle of the night after walking uninvited into her house, then proceed to declare the death of her husband.
‘You needn’t attempt to remain stoic on my account, ma’am. I would not intrude upon your grief.’
The fact she hadn’t cried yet was...disquieting. She merely sat, hands folded neatly in her lap, and the green shawl draped around her shoulders shielding the slim lines of her figure from his reluctant gaze. If she had seemed the type to appreciate it he might have taken her hand and pressed her slender fingers, an action that usually prompted delighted flutters from its object. Instead Isaac swallowed down his unease as she slowly turned her head towards him, high cheekbones catching the light to throw her mouth into shadow.
‘You mistake me. It isn’t stoicism that renders me so quiet. I simply have no tears left to fall. My husband drained that particular river many years before and I ceased crying for him long ago.’
Isaac blinked, caught entirely off guard by her coldness. She was like a woman of fire and ice by turns. Her anger when she first leapt into the room might have burned another man and now her coolness was disconcerting, a contrast that confused him no end. Which was the real Honora Blake? And why was he suddenly, dangerously, struck by the desire to figure out the answer to that question?
‘How did it happen? I’d like to know that at least.’
Honora fixed him with a stare so direct Isaac almost looked away. It was no surprise she asked surely the most obvious of questions. She had the right to know, part of him insisted, but another held back.
Wouldn’t telling Honora exactly what had happened that night pour fresh disgrace down upon Charlotte’s already bowed head? She was beside herself with shame so deep it was agony for Isaac to witness, both for her pregnancy and for believing Frank’s lies that he had loved her, even still without knowing he had a wife tucked away in the south. If Isaac confessed he had chased Frank to his death, Honora would want to know why and nothing could persuade him to expose his ward to her contempt. Charlotte had already hidden herself away for her confinement and the baby would need to be explained somehow. For the sake of her precarious reputation the fewer people who knew the whole truth the better. Honora owed him no allegiance and there was nothing to stop her from spreading the tale far and wide should she wish, out of spite or who knew what other reason she might conjure.
‘It was his heart. He was calling on me at my home in Northamptonshire, Marlow Manor, and I’m afraid last week it gave out completely. There was nothing to be done.’
‘And the funeral?’
‘Small but proper. Only myself in attendance.’
The black curls gleamed again as she nodded, apparently lost in thought. What was running through her mind Isaac couldn’t say, although Honora showed no sign of suspicion and he felt an absurd flare of relief she didn’t question him further. Discussing the night Frank had died was something he would rather avoid and it felt something of a reprieve when she rose slowly to her feet and regarded him closely.
‘I still can’t say I’m delighted at your method of introduction, but I suppose I appreciate you coming to tell me in person.’
She glanced towards one curtained window where feeble daylight had yet to struggle through. It was difficult to know what time it was, but the shadows beneath her eyes suggested she slept poorly anyway and for the first time a spark of pity surfaced. Honora must have had a difficult time since her husband left and doubtless before that, too—but that was none of his concern. Whatever befell Frank’s discomfiting, unfriendly widow was none of his business, no matter how beguiling her countenance.
‘There’s a spare bedchamber upstairs, first room on the left. As you’re here you may as well make use of it. You’ll be more comfortable in there than in my parlour.’
He offered a short bow of thanks and she accepted it with a wordless dip of her chin before turning away, retrieving the pistol from the floor as she went. She moved with such purpose and dignity the idea of feeling sorry for her seemed suddenly misplaced, until she paused at the door and looked back, the tired resignation in her face sending a jolt through Isaac he didn’t understand.
‘Goodnight, Lord Lovell. I hope you sleep well—and don’t forget to extinguish those candles. I need them to last until spring.’
C
hapter Two
‘Who’s that man on the landing?’
At Mary’s hissed question Honora turned from her bedroom window, still worrying at a cuticle with her teeth. She’d barely slept a wink and had risen early, staring out at the frost-laden trees since dawn and long before her friend arrived to slip through the bedroom door, now hastily closing it behind her as if concerned the strange man might try to follow her inside.
‘I didn’t dream him, then?’
‘I’m afraid not. Would you rather you had?’
Awkwardly the maid set the laden tea tray she bore down on Honora’s barely disturbed sheets, cradling her swelling midsection with one hand. She was big with her third child, her two young sons already busy shadowing their father in his work as a carpenter. Honora knew Mary hoped for a girl this time, but whatever baby was born to her would be very much loved, an emotion that with a sharp pang Honora now wished, not for the first time, she had been able to experience for herself.
And now I suppose I never will. While Frank lived there was the smallest chance he might have returned one day and given me a child—now I don’t even have that.
For two long years Honora had prayed each month might be the one she missed her course and knew a life had begun inside her, only giving up her hopes when Frank disappeared without trace. He’d claimed his marital rights until the very end, she thought bitterly, all the while feeling nothing for her. Doting on Mary’s two boys and the new baby yet to arrive was her only consolation, all possibility of a son or daughter of her own now gone along with the loss of her husband.
A Mistletoe Vow to Lord Lovell Page 2