Amara Royce

by Never Too Late

  “It’s an honor to have you all in my modest shop.” She curtsied to them, not out of expectation but out of heartfelt respect. “Mrs. Browning, Mr. Browning, if you wish, I would be happy to show you the shelves where I house your work.”

  “Please, allow me to get you some tea,” she offered, once they were all comfortably situated. “I’ll only be a few moments.”

  “I will come with you, dear,” said Lady Devin, following her.

  “Oh, no, I wouldn’t dream of it. You’re my guest. Please have a seat.”

  “I insist, Honoria. Contrary to what you might expect, I know my way around a kitchen. And I will not be refused. Now lead the way.”

  She began to dread any and all conversations that took place over tea.

  “Nora, I am certain I have told you before that my cousin in Paris found herself a widow somewhat late in life and ultimately remarried,” Lady Devin said as she counted teacups and saucers. “What I refrained from mentioning, and what even my children do not know, is that she remarried a Frenchman much younger than she. The French, she told me, are far less stuffy than our English compatriots about what constitutes love.” Her voice dipped low. “She tells me she derives exponentially greater pleasures from her current match than she ever did in her youth. She says it is not so uncommon in France for the women to reach their sexual peak later than the men. I tell you, she so recommends the experience that she almost makes me want to take a discreet lover or two in order to test her theories.” She winked like a naughty schoolgirl. “Almost.”

  Honoria’s face flamed at Lady Devin’s suggestiveness, at the slightest possibility that Lady Devin might suspect what pleasures her son was capable of giving.

  Still, without shyness, Lady Devin continued. “What I am trying not so subtly to convey to you, my dear, is that my son loves you with a depth and intensity I have never seen. You make him happy. Or at least, you made him happy. These days, he swings between being a ghost and a bear, miserable either way. If he makes you as happy, then all the rest of it be damned.”

  Shocked by Lady Devin’s plain speaking, Honoria didn’t want to say what she had to say next. As terrible as it felt to lower Lady Devin’s esteem for her, she had to reveal the truth.

  “Lady Devin, you have a right to know. I don’t deserve your son. I don’t deserve his affection—or your kindness. The woman you see before you is built on a lie, a lie all the worse because it feeds on the pain and pity of others.”

  Lady Devin withdrew her hand.

  “I am not a widow.” Honoria paused, silent as the grave. “I was never married. I perpetrated a fraud to qualify for my uncle’s inheritance and keep my father’s bookshop running.” God, but ever since she’d first admitted the truth to Alex, the almost-forgotten gut-wrenching desperation that spurred that old deception had reawakened. The pain simmered afresh just below the surface of her skin. Way back when, she’d thought it a brilliant scheme, the only way out. “It was the only way I could protect my father’s legacy and stay out of the poorhouse myself.” She felt deflated, unable to fill back up with air. “You were so kind to share with me your loss, under the belief that yours was kindred to my own. And I am so sorry I abused that sacred trust. I am not equal to such kindness.”

  To her inexpressible relief, Lady Devin reached out to her again.

  “My dear, you may not have had a husband, but I know you have felt loss at your core. The loss of your parents, your only family, devastated you. I can see that it devastates you still today. You have harmed no one with this prevarication, except perhaps yourself. I do not presume to know what it is like to be in such dire straits. But I plainly see that you are a fine, upstanding woman. And I see that you love my son as much as he loves you. And you are, in every way, deserving of it.”

  Honoria couldn’t lie to Lady Devin anymore, couldn’t deny the feelings she so keenly perceived. You are, in every way, deserving of it. She fervently wished she could believe it. She carried the tray down the stairs with Lady Devin following close behind and carrying an extra plate of biscuits.

  Once Mr. Browning was sure that his wife was comfortable and that he’d spent a polite amount of time with them, he excused himself. The affectionate look he gave his wife before he walked out the door spoke volumes.

  Mrs. Browning’s eyes were kind and gentle as they looked around the room. Her manner was open as the three women conversed about many things. Yet it was clear that she and Lady Devin had come here on a mission.

  “You know something of my life story, I suppose,” Mrs. Browning said. “It is no secret that Robert and I have faced some obstacles. My failing health, my brother’s death, my father’s decree that none of the Barrett children marry—I had nothing but my work until Robert’s letters began to arrive.

  “Look upon me, Honoria, and listen well. My limbs are useless, but my heart is strong. I am six years older than Robert, and I don’t care. I love him with everything I am. And with all that loving me entails, he does so, unconditionally. We have both accomplished so much more together than we ever had apart.” She looked pointedly down at her body. “Even at my advanced age, God has blessed us with a miraculous son. Do you think I have not feared loss? Do you think, at every juncture, I have not considered the safer path? Love is not for the timid, but I see that you are no coward. Embrace the gift that is before you and hold it to you for as long as you can.”

  Nora battled in vain to prevent brimming tears from spilling down her cheeks.

  “I leave you with this reminder, which you are not, under any circumstances, to sell!” Elizabeth handed her a slim volume, her own Sonnets from the Portuguese, published just last year.

  As with many other new arrivals to the shop, Honoria remembered skimming it quickly all those months ago upon release, and they’d struck her as sweet and pretty. She’d recommended it as a wedding gift more than once. She’d memorized several of the sonnets and easily remembered the one that gave her the sharpest pain now.

  She began to recite Mrs. Browning’s words quietly: “ ‘How do I love thee? Let me count the ways: / I love thee to the depth and breadth and height / my soul can reach . . .’ ” By the time she reached the end of the sonnet, she was openly sobbing: “ ‘—and if God choose, / I shall but love thee better after death.’ ” She looked up at Mrs. Browning and leaned in to grasp her hands.

  “What if I cannot?” she asked, trembling.

  “If I can, Honoria, you can.” Mrs. Browning squeezed her hands hard. “But you must make the choice. And then you must commit to it with your whole heart. No one can convince you. Only you can make that decision.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Evans Principle # 8,526:

  Believe in happy endings, dearest Honoria, because you deserve one.

  Signed,

  with everlasting love,

  your father.

  Masquerade balls had become cliché in London society, or so Honoria had read in the society papers time and again. The grandeur of the elaborate costumes had become just another competition of strutting peacocks, male and female, trying to outdo each other and themselves with their cleverness and innuendo. And the mystery of masked identities had become a tired game. Everyone knew everyone else. By now, most everyone knew who was using the masquerade for illicit trysts with whom. Even the occasional surprising reveal wasn’t really all that surprising. Some young miss, once an ugly duckling, would be revealed like the climax of a magic trick, complete with dramatic hand flourishes, to have grown into a ravishing, elegant, heart-achingly beautiful swan of womanhood.

  Yet, as blasé as the ton had become about them, when invitations to Lady Devin’s masquerade ball began arriving at their doorsteps, people took notice. They set about planning and sketching and coordinating, and speculating about whose costumes would be most (and least) impressive.

  She had never been to a masquerade ball. So, for her, the entire experience was novel and, if she were being honest, very entertaining. Her dress, again someth
ing borrowed from Amelia’s old wardrobe, didn’t fit her character, but it was the prettiest of all the very pretty options. And, since she was masked, who could judge that she was too old to be a butterfly, fleeting as their lifespans are? She’d been mesmerized by the striking combination of orange and blue, lined with delicate black patterns, but she declined to wear the wings that went with the dress. Some things were simply too out of character. The elaborate mask edged with tiny gossamer wings and the fanning pagoda sleeves would have to suffice.

  As enthralling as the ball was at the start, its appeal eventually faded. Her natural aversion to large groups and small talk soon outpaced the novelty. Still, she was rather fascinated by the effects of masquerade: she’d been approached by no less than four nice young men so far, each clearly curious about her identity and clearly assuming she was just another young miss to flirt with. Although she’d arrived unescorted, she hadn’t been alone since the moment she stepped into the ballroom.

  She quickly became tired of the attention, of being constantly on guard, and so, when one of the flock asked, for the tenth time, clutching her hand . . . “What is your name? Can’t you give us a clue?”

  She blurted out, without thinking, “Mrs. Honoria Duchamp. Mystery solved and now you can move along.” She was horrified by her rudeness and felt sure she’d never be invited to one of these extravaganzas again—which, she thought in turn, suited her just fine. She thought identifying herself as a Mrs. would dampen their ardor, but the boys didn’t move along. If anything, their circle tightened, wolves closing in on a kill.

  “Oh!” one said knowingly. “So you are Lord Devin’s newest paramour.” He leered.

  She felt her face go red, felt her ire shoot up to dangerous levels. What had he said about her? He wouldn’t have talked about her so cavalierly, she was sure. But these boys . . .

  “I shall have to update my view of dowagers for you are surely the most delightfully sensual creature I have encountered this evening,” said another young upstart, who then had the audacity to put his hands, his scrawny, presumptuous hands, on her waist.

  “Take your hands off of me,” she said, shocked. She batted his hands away, but that only seemed to tighten the group again. Surely, they wouldn’t do anything in a crowded ballroom. She could easily raise her voice to draw attention to their . . . antics . . . but she couldn’t seem to find her voice. Her mouth went dry, her throat closed, as their collective stench of cigarettes and brandy washed over her in such close quarters. Why didn’t anyone notice this absurd clustering, anyway? Surely, a pack of leering, sniveling brats would draw some attention. But then she noticed she’d somehow ended up at the border of a dark alcove, accented with heavy drapes. The very thought that she could be in any danger here was ridiculous—crowds of people nearby, brightly lit, except for the alcoves built into this wall. She simply needed to relocate.

  “You can’t deprive us of your company. We wouldn’t dream of it.”

  One whelp lounging against a wall a few feet away said, just loud enough to carry the distance, “When you’ve tired of Lord Devin, please do consider me as his successor.” Yet his tone clearly indicated when he is tired of you.

  “You . . . gentlemen . . . should take more care when speaking with the woman I intend to make my wife.”

  Five jaws, including hers, dropped. Her sense of relief at hearing his voice was palpable—she could give the sensation a color and shape and scent. She felt it wrap around her like a thick, wool blanket. Just hearing that commanding tone of his, she knew she was safe. So very relieved was she that it took a few moments for his actual words to sink in. Even then, she couldn’t quite believe what she’d heard. It was one thing for him to talk idly about marriage in private, both of them knowing it could never happen. It was quite another for him to state his marital intentions publicly, which was fundamentally as binding as saying “I do” in front of the minister. For him to state his intent to marry an old and crotchety nobody, well, the news was destined to spread throughout the room like wildfire within the next three minutes. And the reactions would be awful.

  “And, you,” he said, pointing to the one who’d, moments ago, offensively put his hands on her waist, “would do well to keep your hands to yourself. While you still have them.”

  There he stood, proud and dashing in black and white, holding a simple white mask, no doubt as a nod to his mother’s theme. And yet his eyes held a fury she hadn’t seen before.

  Most of the young bucks around her started to stammer and rushed through whispered apologies before scattering—bolting, really—to the far edges of the room.

  The last of them, the one who’d been holding up the wall, calmly shook Lord Devin’s hand and said, “You were right, Devin. You were absolutely right. I envy you.” He then made a graceful bow to Honoria and ambled away.

  “Thank you, Hartley,” Lord Devin replied.

  Once they were out of earshot, he looked directly at Honoria and said, “Avoid that one. Stay away from them all, but particularly that one.”

  “But, of the bunch, he seemed the . . . nicest, the most sincere, which I’ll grant wouldn’t be much of an accomplishment in that particular sampling of British manhood.”

  “That is precisely why you need to avoid him.”

  “I must admit, I normally find machismo ridiculous, but I’m rather enjoying this little display of possessiveness. It’s . . .”

  “It’s what?”

  “Adorable.”

  “Nora . . .” A warning.

  “Endearing?”

  “That is slightly better.”

  “Irresistible.” She touched his cheek and looked at him, suddenly serious and breathless. “You’re irresistible.”

  His eyes darkened but he said nothing.

  “How did you know it was me?” she asked. “Did you recognize your sister’s dress?”

  “No, it was not the dress. It was your hair. I recognized those precious silver strands immediately.” He winked as she batted him with her fan. Then his eyes swept downward, assessing. “I have never seen that dress before. In fact, this couldn’t possibly have been my sister’s. The cut would never have fit her, and you can tell how exact it is from the way the pattern lines up.”

  “Oh, but then . . .” Now that he’d pointed them out, the seams were flawlessly aligned to maintain the continuity of the pattern. This couldn’t have been altered at the last minute; the designs and construction required painstaking attention. She fell silent as she realized how very much Lady Devin had given—and continued—to give her. Her face burned.

  “What could you possibly be thinking, making a pronouncement like that?” she finally caught her breath enough to ask.

  “I simply spoke the truth,” he said. She wouldn’t have thought his gaze could get more intense, but it did. “I intend to make you my wife—or to convince you to take me for your husband—or however you wish to phrase it. I intend to spend the rest of our days loving and being loved by you.” He must have seen the fear in her eyes as she glanced around the room. “It may seem like disdain, but in fact they are terrified of you—not of you as a person but of what you represent—the ebb and flow of your family’s status, the fact that your father willingly relinquished his social standing to become a merchant, and now your subsequent reentry into society as my wife. If you can fall and rise so easily, their rise can just as abruptly fall away. In a blink, they can lose all the pomp and privilege they so blithely enjoy. When you stand before them, they cannot deny the threat that looms over them. But their anxiety is none of your concern.”

  He took her hand and led her to the orchestra. She felt a tremor run through his body into hers and saw a combination of resolve and surrender in his eyes.

  “None of that matters,” he continued. “What matters is you—you and I. And anyone who disapproves can go hang,” he whispered in her ear. “I intend to show everyone, without a doubt, that I am utterly undone by you.”

  She didn’t notice his cello u
ntil he left her side to climb the steps and sit in the midst of the musicians. He nodded to the conductor. The entire audience, whose interest was already piqued by the couple, became mesmerized by the opening strands of Haydn. A low whisper ran through the crowd, spreading word of Lord Devin’s performance, remarkable not only for its magnificence but more importantly for its existence at all. Peers didn’t perform before an audience; that was something ladies did in a drawing room. Men might join in for entertainment; virtuosos might play sold-out performances in a proper hall to demonstrate their expertise; but this was something entirely different. He laid bare his soul. She felt his passion as the notes vibrated through her. His arms, his body, all of his energy so clearly went into the notes he played. And when his eyes weren’t closed, anyone could see they were locked on her, on this Butterfly Lady. As the music swelled, the sharp tilts of his head with the rhythm made his hair brush along his face, leaving it in disarray. She could even distinguish his cello from the other instruments, coursing through her, raising her to the same emotional crescendo she saw in him. As the final movement came to a close, there was an audible collective sigh, including her own, before the audience erupted with applause and shouts of “Bravo!” The sight of him expressing himself so fully and so honestly through his music—and in public, no less—left her speechless. He did this for her.

  As if that performance were only a prelude, Lord Devin made his way down from the dais. Contrary to his natural air of authority and aplomb, he looked unsure, unsteady, and, in fact, he missed the last step down from the stage. His momentum pitched him forward toward her. Their resulting embrace, abrupt and forceful, sent a gasp through the crowd. Her hands braced his chest, as his arms wrapped around her to anchor himself. With a bark of laughter, he righted himself, shook his head as if to clear it, and then solemnly, regally took both of her hands in his. In full view of the party, he then got down on both knees, her supplicant.