The Love and Temptation Series

by M. C. Beaton

  But his proximity continued to upset her and so Honey at last boldly suggested to Lord Channington that they continue their conversation in the ballroom.

  He eagerly agreed, jumping up to draw her out of her chair and help her to her feet as if she were the most fragile piece of porcelain. Again, Honey felt that warm, secure, loved feeling, and left on his arm without giving Lord Alistair a backward glance.

  Lord Alistair listened with half an ear to Amy’s prattling. He was wondering when he could conveniently rid himself of Amy’s boring company. It was always thus. Their brains never matched their beauty. He was also wondering whether to warn Lady Canon that her charge had fallen victim on the first night of her debut to the charms of one of society’s most treacherous womanizers.

  Channington, he reflected, was that most dangerous of Casanovas, one who always appeared more pursued than pursuing, one who managed to deflower young virgins without that fact ever coming generally to light, since the families of the girls did their best to hush things up. What made him most dangerous of all was that he always genuinely fancied himself in love with his latest victim.

  And Miss Honeyford had looked very love-able, thought Lord Alistair ruefully. What a transformation! She did indeed look like the fairy princess that society had just dubbed her. But she had the insolence to actually dislike him! And after all he had done for her. Be damned to her! He was through with rescuing her. Let her find out about Channington for herself. Lady Canon would not know about Channington’s womanizing. It was all part of one of those nasty little undercurrents one heard in the London clubs—never, of course, frequented by women.

  He dragged his attention back to his fair companion.

  Once more, she was trilling with laughter and rocking back and forth, peeping at him through her gloved fingers.

  What a monumental bore!

  Lord Channington sat at the side of the ballroom and chatted to Honey in a companionable way. He pointed out the notables to her and kept her amused with a slightly malicious fund of gossip.

  Then, as the dancing was about to commence again, he said, “Let me suggest to Lady Canon that you go home. She must be delighted with your success this evening.”

  Honey opened her mouth to protest, but Lord Channington was already on his feet and was walking toward where Lady Canon sat with the dowagers.

  She came back with him, all smiling concern. “Of course we may go, Honoria,” she said. “Say your good-byes to Lord Channington.”

  Honey rose and swept Lord Channington a deep cursty. “I may call on you, my lady?” asked Lord Channington.

  “Certainly,” said Lady Canon. “We shall be at home in the afternoon tomorrow. Come, Honoria.”

  Somewhat to Honey’s disappointment, Lady Canon did not offer any words of praise on the road home. But her aunt was very well content. She felt it was too soon to praise Honey. The girl had behaved magnificently, but praise might go to her head and make her reckless.

  So Honey consoled herself with the reflection that there was a lot to be said for this business of being a young lady. She dreamily imagined Lord Channington back at Kelidon, taking all the cares of the estates from her father’s shoulders. And beautiful gowns were not irksome to wear. The one she had on weighed very little and the tiara of silver and gold thread was lighter than any hat.

  It was wonderful to be a success. Although she could not quite believe Lord Channington’s flattery, she still had a warm glow from the memory of having had so many gentlemen waiting to dance with her.

  It was the custom for the gentlemen to pay calls on the ladies they had danced with the night before, although some contented themselves by sending one of their servants around with a card, but she was sure Lord Channington would call in person.

  She would dream of him that night.

  But no sooner had she fallen asleep than she was locked in a dreadful argument with Lord Alistair. She wanted him to kiss her and he would not. She begged him to kiss her and he walked away with Amy on his arm, laughing over his shoulder. Honey awoke and lay there, hating Lord Alistair Stewart.

  Lord Alistair awoke at the same time and lay looking at the rushlight patterns on the ceiling. He had had a very strange dream about Miss Honeyford in which he had been trying to catch hold of her on the ballroom floor to warn her about Channington, but she kept dancing away from him, always just beyond his reach.

  She had looked very beautiful at the opera, he thought. Would any of the elegant assembly there be able to imagine a Miss Honeyford sitting in a repellent bonnet, drinking brandy and smoking cheroots? He smiled, remembering her spirit and fiery temper. Amy Wetherall would never dream of trying to stop a duel, nor would she dream of jauntering through London with her servants. And quite right, too! But Amy was a bore. He had heard her wit praised, and could only come to the conclusion that it was the old story—anything a beauty said, or the latest fashionable star said, was hailed as wit. Even the fame of Mr. Brummel’s so-called wit was often due to that servile streak in society which made them fawn on the insolent and the impertinent.

  Channington. What was the latest whispered on-dit about him? His target last Season had been the young heiress, Pamela Hudson. He had courted her assiduously, a courtship which her parents had encouraged. Then, at the end of the Season, the family had moved to Brighton, and Channington had followed. He had been seen quietly leaving an assembly with a blushing Miss Hudson on his arm. Her frantic mother had searched and searched, looking for her daughter all that night. Next day, it was all over town that Miss Hudson and Channington had eloped.

  Two days had passed and then, lo and behold, Lord Channington was once more to be seen in society. Mr. and Mrs. Hudson put it about that dear Pamela was ill, had lost her memory, and had gone out wandering on the downs.

  The Hudsons were very rich. In two months’ time, Pamela was quietly wed to an impoverished younger son whose gambling debts were notorious. Channington swore his heart was broken and that Pamela had loved this other young man all along. But it was noted by the gossips that Miss Hudson quickly left any social gathering where Channington was present, looking pale and wretched.

  There were other similar incidents, but, for some reason, Channington was always found to be innocent, or had proof that he was elsewhere when Miss So-and-So disappeared from home.

  Channington was very rich. Some said he bought his way out of trouble. Lord Alistair believed he gained such an ascendency over his victims that, when he proved false, they would not betray him.

  Lord Alistair turned restlessly and banged his pillow, which seemed to have been stuffed with bricks.

  But Channington had never before, surely, pursued a young miss who carried a pistol, and knew how to use it. On the other hand, Miss Honeyford had changed and no longer was the tough hoyden of the London road. Lord Alistair gave his pillow another thump. She had behaved beautifully at the ball and had even managed to make Miss Wetherall appear silly and coarse.

  He decided to get up and go for a ride in Hyde Park. A little fresh air and daylight were all that was needed to banish the haunting image of Honoria Honeyford.

  “I cannot sleep,” Honey was muttering as Lord Alistair was dressing to go out several streets away. “If I were at home, I could simply go for a ride. But I can go for a walk. No one will be awake, not even the servants. I can go to the Park and back before anyone is up.” Her conscience gave a nasty jab. She had given her word to Lady Canon that she would behave like a young lady. But surely Lady Canon simply meant “seem to be behaving like a young lady.” Honey gave her conscience a mental slap to make it lie down and jumped out of bed. She went into the adjoining dressing room, rubbing her eyes as she gazed at the rows upon rows of gowns and mantles, pelisses and spencers.

  It would never do to appear in the streets of London finely dressed. Honey selected one of her old kerseymere gowns and covered it with her sage-green cloak.

  There had been a shower of rain during the night and the streets smelled clean a
nd sweet. Puffy little white clouds were chasing each other across a blue sky high above the chimneys.

  Honey walked down Queen Street and along Curzon Street past Shepherd Market to Hyde Park.

  Blackbirds sang among the leaves of the sycamore trees and the morning sun sparkled on the waters of the Serpentine. Honey began to relax and feel at peace with the world. The bad memory of her dream faded. The world was new and sparkling, and Lord Channington would call that very day. Could she love him? Honey thought she could, very easily.

  The Park was deserted. There was not even one solitary rider on Rotten Row. For this moment, she had the Park all to herself.

  She began to dance, singing as she went, under the trees. Lord Alistair came trotting along the Row on horseback, his horse’s hooves muffled in the damp earth of the Row.

  He reined in as he caught sight of the figure dancing among the trees. It simply could not be Honoria Honeyford. He had banished her from his mind. He had even begun to think more kindly of Amy Wetherall.

  But the sun shone down on the chestnut curls, and only one lady in London possessed a cloak of that particular color and cut.

  He dismounted, and, leading his horse by the reins, he walked toward her, making no sound on the thick grass.

  She turned around sharply, sensing his presence.

  “You,” she said.

  “Yes, come to take the glory out of the morning for you. Why the merry dance? Does the memory of Lord Channington lend your feet wings? Go carefully there, Miss Honeyford. Channington pursues ’em and woos ’em, but never, ever does he marry ’em.”

  “Just like yourself,” said Honey coldly.

  “No, not just like myself. To put it crudely, I leave their virginity intact.”

  Bright color flamed in Honey’s face and she turned and began to walk stiffly away, like a young cat that has just lost a battle.

  “Take heed, Miss Honeyford,” he called after her, “or Channington will eat you for breakfast, gobble you up, and spit out the bones.”

  “You speak of yourself,” Honey shouted back. “Never approach me again, Lord Alistair Stewart.”

  “Gladly,” he said, swinging himself up into the saddle.

  Honey ran lightly over the turf until she reached the gates of the Park. She half expected him to pursue her, but when she looked back, he had gone.

  She was furious. How dare he spoil this wonderful morning by trying to besmirch Lord Channington’s reputation! Lord Channington was twice the man he was. And out of all the people in London, why had fate brought Lord Alistair from his bed to plague her solitary walk in the Park?

  Honey marched home, pulling the key which she had had the foresight to take with her from her pocket.

  Everyone was still asleep as she gently unlocked the door and let herself into the house.

  But when she got to her room, she found she was still boiling and seething over what Lord Alistair had said.

  Well, she would exorcise him!

  She sat down at the writing desk, sharpened a quill, dipped it in the ink well, and began to write.

  “Lord Alistair Stewart,” she wrote, “is abhorrant, abominable, acrimonious, angry, arrogant, austere, awkward, barbarous, bitter, blustering, boorish, brutal, bullying, capricious, captious, choleric, churlish, clamorous, cross, currish, detestable, disagreeable, disgusting, dismal, dreadful, dry, dull, envious, execrable, fierce, fretful, furious, grating, gross, growling, gruff, grumbling, hard-hearted, hasty, hateful, hectoring, horrid, illiberal, ill-natured, implacable, inattentive, incorrigible, inflexible, insolent, intractable, irascible, jaundiced, knavish, loathsome, malevolent, malicious, malignant, nauseating, nefarious, noisome, obstinate, obstreperous, odious, opinionated, oppressive, outrageous, overbearing, peevish, perplexing, pervicacious, perverse, quarrelsome, queer, raging, restless, rigid, rigorous, roaring, rough, rude, rugged, saucy, savage, severe, sharp, shocking, spiteful, splenetic, squeamish, stern, stubborn, stupid, sulky, sullen, surly, suspicious, tart, teasing, terrible, testy, tiresome, tormenting, touchy, treacherous, troublesome, turbulent, tyrannical, uncomfortable, ungovernable, unpleasant, unsuitable, uppish, vexatious, violent, waspish, wrangling, wrathful.”

  She sanded the paper and folded it neatly into a small square.

  “There!” she said triumphantly. “That’s what I think of you, my fine lord.”

  She undressed, fell into bed, and tumbled headlong into a dreamless sleep.

  Chapter 6

  Honey was not allowed to sleep late. Excited by all the floral tributes which had been arriving all morning, Lady Canon wanted to make sure Honey was looking as ravishing as possible when her callers arrived.

  Honey was served with a light breakfast of dry toast and weak tea, Lady Canon wishing her to maintain her slight figure. Honey’s stomach rumbled and grumbled rebelliously as she was eventually placed on a backless sofa in the center of the first floor saloon and told not to move a muscle.

  Lady Canon was satisfied with her niece’s appearance since her aim had been to make Honey appear even more beautiful in the eyes of society than she had done the night before.

  Honey was wearing the latest calypso robe. Made of rich imperial muslin of a beautiful light yellow, it was finished at the extreme edge in a line of embossed silver and gold, worked in light, open flowers, ornamented down the front and around each side of the train, the center of which depicted stars worked in small pearls and fastened in the middle with a gold stud. This confection was worn over a rich white satin train petticoat, worked around the bottom with stars of pearls and dead gold to correspond with the dress. The sleeves were of white satin, tight across the shoulders and made to hang in small folds down the arm.

  Over her head, “in graceful negligence” as Lady Canon’s maid put it, was thrown a long drapery of white Parisian net, embroidered with a pheasant’s eye pattern. She wore one of Lady Canon’s finest diamond necklaces, and diamond earrings sparkled through the net that covered her hair—the idea that unmarried ladies should not wear precious jewels having been “exploded,” as the fashion magazines put it. Anything that was out of fashion was “exploded.”

  Honey sat very still, waiting for the first of her callers. She was frightened to move, not only because Lady Canon had warned her not to, but for fear of disturbing the carefully arranged white drapery. She hoped fervently that Lady Canon would serve cakes with the wine. Honey intended to eat as many as possible. Her experience at the hanging had left her unusually biddable and she agreed to all Lady Canon’s instructions with uncharacteristic meekness.

  The floral tributes from her admirers scented the saloon. A giant bunch of pink roses from Lord Channington held pride of place. Honey tried to pass the time by guessing which gentleman would be the first to call. Lord Alistair had not even asked her to dance, so he was not expected. And a good thing too, thought Honey fiercely.

  But the last man she expected was the one who was first ushered through the door.

  “Captain Peter Jocelyn,” announced Beecham.

  Honey would have jumped to her feet, but Lady Canon coughed a warning and so she contented herself by giving Captain Jocelyn a warm smile and holding out both her hands in welcome.

  “Honey! I mean, Miss Honeyford,” cried Captain Jocelyn. “I am delighted to meet you.”

  Honey introduced him to Lady Canon, who quickly quizzed the young captain to such good effect that within minutes she had decided he was no threat to Honey’s possible romance with Lord Channington, and merely a young man from Honey’s home town with no interest in her whatsoever who had merely called to pay his respects because Sir Edmund had asked him to do so.

  Lady Canon then decided to check with Beecham to see if all the refreshments had been prepared. She murmured an apology and left the room.

  Honey smiled tremulously at Captain Jocelyn and waited for him to comment on her new appearance.

  “You do not look like yourself,” was the first thing the captain said when they were alone. “You look l
ike a guy with all that glitter and drapery.”

  “You are alone in your opinion,” said Honey haughtily. She remembered her father saying that the young men of Kelidon would always see the Honey of the hunting field, no matter what she did.

  “I say, don’t stiffen up,” pleaded Captain Jocelyn. “I called because Sir Edmund told me to tell you to write as soon as possible.”

  “I shall—today,” said Honey. “So many things have been happening I have not had the time.” She flushed guiltily as she remembered she had had time that very morning to write a list of insults about Lord Alistair.

  “There was another reason, a selfish one,” said Captain Jocelyn shyly. Honey smiled at him, liking again his honest face and clean-cut looks.

  “It’s Miss Wetherall.”

  Honey scowled dreadfully.

  “What about Miss Wetherall?” she demanded crossly.

  “You’re such a good chap, I thought you might help me. I’m awfully in love with her and I need your help. I am frightened to call on her for fear of a rebuff, and I wondered where I might meet her by chance.”

  “I do not know,” said Honey, controlling her temper. “I would think the best way to see her would be to go to the Park at the fashionable hour.”

  “That is what I thought. Perhaps I might be able to persuade you to come driving with me tomorrow afternoon?”

  “Really, Captain Jocelyn,” said Honey, trying on her grandest manner, “I have many social engagements and I doubt whether I will be at liberty to help you further your suit with Miss Wetherall.”

  He looked so crestfallen that Honey’s kind heart was touched. For once, she recognized her own jealousy of Amy.

  “On second thought,” she said gently, “I am sure I could manage an hour in the Park. You must ask Lady Canon’s permission.”