The Love and Temptation Series

by M. C. Beaton

  Honey looked about her nervously, at the bright fire in the hall crackling before the solid brass fender, at the polished floorboards, and then at the very superior individual in black knee breeches and a swallowtail coat who turned out to be the manager.

  The manager explained he had set up a truckle bed in Miss Honeyford’s room for her maid, and raised his thin eyebrows superciliously when she explained she had not got one.

  He eyed Honey’s clothes with a quick, practiced glance. Honey defiantly turned away from him and straightened her hat in the long mirror on one side of the hall. She blushed as she saw that Jasper’s and Casper’s enthusiastic farewell had left its mark—or marks. On the white of her bombazine coat were four black paw prints.

  “Have my bags taken upstairs,” said Honey, turning around, “and show me to my room.”

  The manager turned and walked upstairs, presenting to Honey’s gaze the most insolent-looking pair of shoulders she thought she had ever seen. It was as well, she thought ruefully, that Papa had bespoke her room at this inn by sending a letter by the mail coach, otherwise, she felt sure, the supercilious manager would have turned her from the door.

  The room was better appointed than most country house bedchambers. There were pretty rose and white chintz curtains at the window and the bed hangings were of the same design. Brass-bound cans on the toilet table held piping hot water, and there were two unused cakes of Joppa soap.

  Honey dismissed the manager after he had told her supper would be laid for her in the dining room as soon as she cared to put in an appearance. His manner was a little more polite. Honey was used to giving orders and her self-confidence had been restored by the comfort of the room.

  She changed her gown for a dark brown silk of old-fashioned cut after having sponged her face and combed her hair. She consoled herself with the thought that they were not yet on the main London road, and so, with any luck, she would have the dining room to herself.

  The very quietness of the posting house added to this hope as she went down the stairs. There were no noisy voices resounding from the tap. It was easy to find the dining room because each room had its sign in curly letters over the door.

  Honey bumped into a chair which was awkwardly placed just inside the door, and, being under the impression that the dining room was empty, she relieved her feelings by cursing loudly.

  “No, no, no,” urged a gentle voice. “Pray don’t swear, ma’am. Spoils the shape of the mouth.”

  Honey, who had bent down to straighten the chair, jerked upright and stared.

  Lit by two tall candles placed on a small table by the bay window sat a gentleman. As Honey stared, he took out his quizzing glass and calmly surveyed her from head to foot.

  Honey flushed and put up her chin. Lord Alistair Stewart dropped his glass and gave her a bewitching smile.

  Then he blinked and his heavy lids came down to veil the expression in his blue eyes. For Lord Alistair, youngest son of the Duke of Bewley, was not used to being viewed with just that gleam of contempt that he had caught in the hazel eyes which were studying him from the doorway. He gave an infinitessimal shrug and poured himself another glass of wine. It did not really matter what some country schoolgirl miss with an outlandish coiffure and a dowdy dress thought of him.

  Totally unaware that she was being very rude, Honey continued to stare. He was everything, she decided, that she detested in a man. He was too tall, too handsome, too indolent. From his guinea-gold hair to his gleaming hessian boots stretched out under the table, he was an exquisite example of expert valeting and Weston’s tailoring. A large sapphire ring flashed on one of his long white fingers. His cravat rose in snowy folds to a strong chin. His mouth was well-sculpted, but his blue eyes were lazy, and he looked, in fact, just the kind of man who would call simpering misses like Amy Wetherall “adorable,” thought Honey, forgetting that all the men in Kelidon had thought Amy adorable.

  “Beg pardon, ma’am,” drawled Lord Alistair, “but didn’t your mama ever tell you it was rude to stare?”

  “I am sorry,” she said stiffly. She looked about her for a table, and saw to her dismay that the only other table that was laid for supper was next to the lazy gentleman’s on the other side of the bay.

  The gentleman had obviously finished dinner, for the cover had been removed and a decanter of port, a bowl of walnuts, and a bowl of fruit were reflected in the gleaming mahogany of the table.

  Honey sat down, stared resolutely at the drawn curtains over the window, and waited. And waited. At last, she got to her feet and rang the bell, every movement feeling stiff and awkward as she was aware of the gentleman’s eyes on her.

  Another long time passed. Lord Alistair took pity on her. He rose languidly to his feet and sauntered to the door, opened it, and shouted loudly, “Waiter!” He strolled back and a waiter erupted into the room at his heels.

  “Serve the lady,” said Lord Alistair, and returned to his port.

  Soon Honey was served with mulligatawny soup followed by wine-roasted gammon and sweetbreads “à-la-daub.” She ordered a bottle of Teneriffe and then turned stiffly to the tall gentleman. “I thank you sir,” she said gruffly. “Without your help, I might not have been served.”

  “Think nothing of it, ma’am,” he said lazily. “Fact is, I had to do something about it. You see, I could have wanted something and so I share the insult.”

  Honey could really think of nothing to say to this, and so she merely inclined her head and then concentrated on finishing her meal as quickly as possible.

  But she gradually felt bolder after drinking most of the wine, and decided to ring for brandy. The waiter jumped to its summons this time. The cloth was removed and the brandy, fruit, and nuts placed before her. She searched in her reticule and brought out her cheroot case, extracted one, and turned to her companion of the dining room. “Your permission, sir?”

  He nodded, a flash of amusement in his blue eyes, and somehow Honey knew that he knew she was well aware that young ladies did not smoke cheroots in a public dining room—or anywhere else for that matter—and was only doing it as an act of bravado.

  “You are very young to be traveling alone, ma’am,” he said.

  “I am not alone,” said Honey. “I have my coachman and two grooms.”

  “But no maid or female companion?”

  “Sir,” said Honey patiently, “you have reminded me of my manners this evening and now it is my turn to remind you of yours. We have not been introduced.”

  “Easily remedied,” he said, rising to his feet and making her a bow. “Lord Alistair Stewart, bell-ringer and waiter-caller, at your service.”

  “I am Miss Honeyford,” said Honey in a flat sort of let-us-finish-this-conversation-now voice.

  “There you see, now we are acquainted. Are you fleeing the seminary, Miss Honeyford?”

  “I am nineteen years, my lord, and no schoolgirl. What on earth gave you the impression I was fresh from the seminary?”

  “The cheroot,” he said, waving his quizzing glass to and fro on its long gold chain. “It makes you look like a naughty schoolgirl.”

  “On the contrary, my lord, I often smoke cheroots of an evening when I am cozing with my father.”

  He raised his thin eyebrows and relapsed into silence.

  “And drink brandy,” added Honey defiantly.

  “And swear as you did when you entered the dining room?” he asked at length.

  “I did not know there was anyone here. I am not in the habit of swearing—except on the hunting field.”

  “So you hunt, Miss Honeyford.”

  “Yes,” said Honey with a toss of her curls. “I like it above all things. You hunt yourself, of course.”

  “No, I have no taste for it.”

  “I thought not,” said Honey, looking at him with contempt.

  “Not the fox. I have hunted with the harriers. I looked very fine in my scarlet coat.”

  “You do not wear your pinks to hunt the hare,” s
aid Honey loftily.

  “Ah, yes, that I discovered to my mortification. There I was, a veritable advertisement for Asher. And there they all were, all the myrtle-green gentlemen in their white cords, or twilled fustian frocks. Tell me, do you enjoy the kill?”

  “Yes,” muttered Honey, looking down at her lap. In fact, since the day she was first blooded, she had not stayed for the kill, being unable to bear it. But it seemed such a womanish thing to confess to.

  Honey enjoyed hunting simply because of the hard riding involved and because it put her on easy terms with the men.

  “You are not by any chance traveling to London, Miss Honeyford?”

  “Yes, I am to make my come-out.”

  “I can see you now at Almack’s, swearing like a trooper as you fall over Lady Jersey’s train.” He looked at her dress. “You will need to become a trifle more modish.”

  “I am to have a fine wardrobe when I reach London,” said Honey, putting her chin up. “It is not necessary to wear fine clothes in the country.”

  “You surprise me. There are more gentlemen, Miss Honeyford, trapped into marriage at a country house than ever ran into the snare during the Season.”

  “I am only going to stay with my aunt to enjoy the pleasures of the metropolis. You do not hunt the fox because you have no taste for it. For the same reason, I do not hunt a husband.”

  “Perhaps just as well,” he mocked. “We men are sadly old-fashioned, and a lady who hunts, drinks brandy, and smokes cheroots might be considered too intimidating.”

  “Not to a man of honesty and integrity.”

  “Ah, so you do have hopes.”

  “Yet that is not my sole reason for going,” said Honey, wondering if this tall, elegant gentleman could read her mind, could see her pleading father and hear his request to bring home a son-in-law with money who would help to manage the land. She had a sudden picture of arriving home with this elegant, lazy fop, and grinned, a gamin grin which made her look like a cheeky schoolboy.

  “Yes, you are quite right.” He smiled. “We would not suit.”

  “I never even contemplated such a thing,” said Honey.

  “No, but you thought it, and a rare joke you thought it too.”

  “My dear sir, if I may say so without offense, you are a trifle too old for someone of my tender years and so the thought never even entered my head.”

  “Very true. I am thirty and that is a great age. But I still have all my own teeth.”

  “Do the ladies examine your teeth before they contemplate entering matrimony with you? It sounds like a horse fair.”

  “They have no chance to contemplate any such thing. I have so far successfully escaped the parson’s mousetrap.”

  “My lord, you are boasting. One would think all the ladies in society were storming your doors.”

  “Well, sometimes it does seem a little like that. It is not my charm or my looks they desire, but my title and fortune.”

  “Are you rich?” asked Honey.

  “Very.”

  “Oh.” Honey scowled ferociously into her now empty brandy glass. She wondered what it would be like to be very rich, and, at the same time, it hit her with force that her father was relying on her to bring home a husband, that they were desperately in need of money. She did hope all the marriageable gentlemen were not like this lazy lord. But there would no doubt be some military gentlemen like Captain Jocelyn. Her face brightened.

  Lord Alistair watched the changing moods on her expressive face with some amusement. He had never before in his life met any female, old or young, who was so little impressed by him. For the moment, he found the novelty refreshing, although he was sure that any extended period of time in this farouche child’s company would bore him to tears.

  “Are you not nervous at venturing so far alone?” he asked.

  “I am not alone,” said Honey. “As I have already pointed out, I have a coachman and two grooms.”

  “A young lady should not be left in a posting inn to her own devices—particularly a young lady who drinks brandy like water. There are some dangers on the road that even the best of servants would be at a loss to handle.”

  “Pooh, I am equal to anything.”

  “Anything?”

  “Give me an example?”

  He leaned back in his chair and smiled at her, a wicked, seductive smile. “Imagine if I decided to subject you to an excess of civility. You could, of course, scream, but who are the servants going to believe? You or me?”

  “You, my lord.”

  He rose from his chair, looming large in the candlelight, his shadow running up to the rafters of the room. “So if I were to approach you—”

  He broke off, and sat down abruptly. While he had been getting to his feet, Honey had been searching in her bulging reticule. He found himself looking at a neat pistol held steadily in one small hand.

  “It would be silly to even ask you if you know how to use that,” he said.

  “Very silly,” replied Honey, outwardly calm and inwardly shaken by that threatening wave of masculine sensuality which had emanated from him as he had stood up.

  “And it is loaded?”

  “Of course.”

  “What an extraordinary girl you are. I am sure you will set London by the ears.”

  Honey tucked the pistol away in her reticule and rose to her feet. “I bid you good night, my lord,” she said. “I make an early start in the morning.”

  He rose to his feet again and made her a low bow. “I wish you every success during the Season, Miss Honeyford,” he said. “Try not to frighten us poor gentlemen too much.”

  Honey turned and left the room.

  Lord Alistair remained standing for several minutes after she had left, a quizzical smile on his face.

  Honey soon plunged down into sleep—and straight into Lord Alistair’s arms. He was holding her very tightly and his lips came down on hers in a searing kiss. She wanted that kiss to go on forever, and, when he released her, she cried out with loss.

  Her own cry awoke her and for several moments she lay in bed, blushing all over, feeling she had been deliberately haunted. The last man in the world she wanted to hold in her arms was Lord Alistair.

  She tossed and turned and slept in fits and starts for the rest of the night.

  Lord Alistair was crossing the hall as she made her way down the stairs in the morning. He turned and looked at her and then swept off his hat.

  Honey looked at him and blushed painfully. She mumbled something and fled outside to where her carriage was waiting.

  She fervently hoped she would never see him again.

  Her long journey during the next few days passed without incident. By dint of paying the inn servants their vails on her arrival at each posting house, she was ensured of prompt and willing service. Of course, on her departure, when it transpired there was no more largesse forthcoming, they were apt to turn surly, but there was little they could do by that time to make Honey feel uncomfortable.

  At the end of the week, she met with a setback. On her arrival at The Green Dragon in Rawson in Bedfordshire, she was told there was no room for her. In vain did she plead that her father had sent her bookings for each posting house ahead with the mail coach. The landlord professed ignorance. The Green Dragon was full to bursting point, and it transpired there had been a prize fight near the town that very day. At last the landlord volunteered the information that the only hope she had of a bed that night was some six miles west on a minor road at The Boar’s Head. Honey’s coachman listened carefully to the directions and once more they were on the road with the light fast fading from the sky.

  The last slanting rays of the sun eventually lit up the frontage of The Boar’s Head as Honey’s coach lurched around a muddy, rutted bend in the dreadful road.

  It was so old and ill-kept that it looked as if it were about to fall down and become part of the surrounding countryside. In the last century, it had been a popular place, but due to subsidence, the road
had proved unsafe for the great, lumbering stage coaches, and so the London road had moved six miles to the east, leaving it largely abandoned.

  A fantastic jumble of chimneys loomed above the roof, and two oriel windows on the front made it look as if it were glaring down the road, wishing ill luck on the fickle travelers who had deserted it so long ago.

  But on that night it had, perhaps, a more cheerful view. Three men, travelers like Honey who had been unable to find an inn in the town, could be seen moving between the inn and the stables.

  The rooms, in the old tradition, had names instead of numbers—Rose Parlor, Cliff Parlor, Crown Chamber, Key Chamber, and Moon Chamber. The landlord looked like a small tenant farmer with his large groggy face and bovine stare. His wife looked like his twin, and her broad hips in their voluminous skirts brushed either side of the stairway as she conducted Honey up to the Moon Chamber.

  The room was fireless and damp, and the towels used by the last inhabitant had been merely dried, rather than washed, and put back again complete with brandy smell and snuff stains.

  Honey became weary of all her independence. She stuck her head out of the window which overlooked the stable yard, and, seeing the groom, Abraham Jellibee, crossing the yard, she hailed him and told him to get fresh towels and hot water.

  Then she sank down into an upholstered chair, which sent up a cloud of dust, and contemplated the legend carved on the mantel:

  As trusting of late has been my sorrow

  Pay me today and I’ll trust you tomorrow.

  At length Abraham arrived with towels and hot water, grumbling that it was unbecoming to his livery to act as an inn servant.

  “Then find a servant,” snapped Honey, exasperated.

  “Don’t seem to have one ’cept a poor lass that’s mazed in the head and a liddle boy. Seems you must dine in the coffee room, miss, the roof of the dining room having fallen in this age.”

  “There are private parlors!”

  “Them’s into rooms for us grooms and such. Better I stand behind your chair tonight. There’s a mort o’ loud johnnies in the tap.”