“Oh, no!” Honey exclaimed, looking up at the other woman. She was unused to such plain speaking. Eleanor was not unattractive, but her skin was pitted from the pox, and the ravages of the disease had left her sallow and frail. But her voice and an aura of goodness that exuded from her more than made up for any lack of personal endowments. Honey longed to say that, but knew not how to without offending. She had had few female friends other than her sister, and Nellie never spoke on serious subjects.
“Do not think me bitter,” Eleanor said, seeing Honey’s shocked expression. “We learned to deal very well together, and before my husband died, I think he even loved me a little. He was very good to me.”
Honey did not need to be told that on Eleanor’s side it was always a love match.
“May a bored gentleman interrupt your gossip for a while?”
Honey looked up to see Mr. Black standing in the door, leaning negligently against the frame, one booted foot crossed over the other. He was dressed for riding in buckskin breeches.
“We are not gossiping, Bron, merely talking quietly about important topics,” Eleanor said, snipping a thread. “You would be bored senseless in two minutes.”
The woman spoke sharply, and Honey wondered at her tone. In the two days she had been there she had noted an antagonism between Sir Gordon’s sister and his friend, but it remained unexplained.
“Claws, Eleanor, claws,” he murmured. He strolled into the room and, his eyes on Honey, circled to stand near the window.
“Where are the others? Why are you not out riding with Gordon and the other men?”
“May I not prefer the company of ladies?” he returned.
She paused in her sewing and cast him a dark look. “You usually do.”
He chuckled and sat down next to Honey. She was so very aware of him, his physical presence, an aura of barely restrained vitality that clung to him almost like a virile scent. He and Eleanor spoke quietly for a few minutes, and Honey used the time to gather her wits. The past two days had been remarkable for his restraint, she thought. He had stayed close to her, but had not overtly pressed his suit, if that was what it was. He flirted with Nellie, but not with her, and she was grateful.
Occasionally he proved to be a witty and entertaining companion. They had talked about books, finding that they both enjoyed the work of Miss Austen and had mourned her death most earnestly three years past. He was an advocate of the works of Sir Walter Scott, and had come to her door just the previous night with a copy of Guy Mannering, which novel she had confessed she had not read.
She had been in her nightdress and uncomfortable standing at her door talking to him, but he had not flirted, nor had he by any move or word made her nervousness worse, but simply bid her a good night and left her with an echoing “Sweet dreams,” his words drifting down the hall to her from his own bedroom doorway as he entered and closed it behind him.
She was even more confused about him than she had been when he was merely a visitor to her home. The stolen kiss at the ball seemed like an aberration now, and she would almost think it was all in her imagination if there wasn’t something there still, just beneath the surface of his everyday conversation with her.
“Do you not think so, Mrs. Hockley?”
With a start, Honey realized that she was meant to respond to something that Mr. Black was saying.
“I . . . I am sorry. I was not attending; what was the question?”
Mr. Black smiled at her, his tanned face creasing in attractive lines. “I was just saying that I thought the Valentine Ball need not be a masquerade, even though that was Gord’s suggestion.”
“Would it not put people to a great deal of trouble to come up with masquerade dress at a country ball?”
“My thought exactly,” he said.
They sat side by side on a brocade settee, but he never let his leg touch hers, nor did he gaze at her too warmly. Honey noticed, though, that Eleanor was watching him with skepticism in her brown eyes.
“I, too, agree,” she said. “And so I will tell my brother that the majority rules in this case. We shall have an American-style democracy just this once.”
“Or, since I outrank him, I will just claim my right to precedence!” he said glibly and laughed.
Honey stared at him, puzzled. Whatever did he mean he outranked Sir Gordon, who was a baron while Mr. Black was just “Mr.,” without even an “Honourable” in front of his name? She opened her mouth to ask, but just then Eleanor spoke up.
“I rather think democratic principle should rule just now,” she said, sending him a warning glance.
His blue eyes widened and he said, “I could not agree more. Now, as to the theme of the ball, I think the obvious, hearts and flowers, is so trite, and I was wondering if . . .”
They spoke on in amicable conversation, and she passed off his strange comment as some kind of joke, the details to which she was not privy. When she forgot to be afraid of him, Honey found Mr. Black an ideal companion in conversation. He was intelligent and yet not bookish, opinionated by not overly stubborn, and he was possessed of a ready wit that had her laughing before long.
It was after some absurd comment of his that had both Honey and Eleanor giggling that a querulous voice in the doorway made them all start.
“So this is where you are, Bron!”
It was Nellie, and Honey’s laughter died in light of her sister’s odd usage of Mr. Black’s first name and her possessive manner. Nellie took a seat on the settee on the other side of him and laid one hand on his thigh. “I have been looking for you all morning, and was told you had gone out riding with Gordon and the other men, and then I find you holed up here in the ladies’ parlor!”
Eleanor glared at Nellie and looked pointedly at her small hand resting on the muscular, buckskin-sheathed limb, but the other woman did not move. Honey was horribly embarrassed by her sister’s outrageous behavior, but there was not a thing she could do. The past two days had seen Nellie become fretful and agitated, and Honey could only think it was because she was not receiving what she felt was her share of Mr. Black’s attention.
He shifted slightly, enough that her hand fell away from his leg.
The silly chit, he thought, angrily. His campaign to win Honey’s confidence was advancing day by day with encouraging results, but this could be a blow to it. He found, to his surprise, that he not only wanted Honey, but that he liked her, too. He wondered if she would consider, once he had tempted her into his bed, making the arrangement more permanent. He had never in his life kept a mistress, finding fleeting affairs less entangling, but for the first time he found himself wondering if Honey would consent to an arrangement that would bring them both pleasure on a long-term basis.
But at the moment he had to deflect the amorous intentions of her younger sister. He had met—and bedded—women like Nellie Jordan before. She had a husband, probably one of the plodding, unexciting, faithful types who doted on his wife and allowed her far too much freedom. Now that she had the security of a worthy marriage, she wanted excitement in and out of bed, and looked to Bron to provide it.
Any other time he would not be averse to taking her to bed, for she was very pretty, and if she kept her mouth shut might be entertaining for a few hours under the covers, but he had no intention of damaging his pursuit of Honey with an ill-considered tumble with her younger sister. He would have to tell Nellie Jordan once and for all that he was not interested in her and never would be.
And yet . . .
The women chatted and he glanced over at Honey, who sat in a pool of golden light from a lamp, lit to dispel the darkness of a coming snowstorm. Her honey-blond hair glowed with soft sheen and he itched to touch it. Soon. Soon it would be spilled across his pillow rather than bound tightly in a bun. He considered his dilemma. If he rejected Nellie out of hand, she might be so humiliated she would talk Honey into leaving before he had obtained his objective.
To that end he joined the conversation, without giving Nellie Jordan
the set-down she deserved for that whorish display she had just made. No woman staked ownership of him in such a public way without a reprimand, but this once he would be forced to forget it.
• • •
Two more days passed in pleasant conversation and happy socializing. Honey found that she was enjoying herself. She looked back on her fears before they came and realized how outrageously silly they were. She had foreseen some kind of debauched reveling, with Sir Gordon, Mr. Black, and other bachelor friends. But instead there was a comfortable mix of married couples and single people and children, and the abbey was alive with preparations for the Valentine Ball. Nellie had found a friend from London among the other guests, and was content to spend most of each day with Mrs. Smythe.
Mr. Black became simply “Bron” to Honey, and he was often at her side, with only occasional warm glances and fleeting touches to indicate he thought of her as anything but a friend. Paradoxically, she found herself longing for his touch and finding excuses to brush his hand with her own.
There were only a couple of days before the Valentine’s Eve Ball. Honey and Bron worked together on the decorations for the ballroom that the women had been busily making since the beginning of the house party. She climbed a ladder to affix a lace heart over the ballroom doorway, but she slipped, and with a cry felt herself falling. Bron caught her up in his arms.
“Honey, are you all right?” he cried.
It was a thrilling moment. She couldn’t find her voice to answer. His blue eyes deepened and she lost all awareness that there were others near. His arms were strong and he held her as if she weighed no more than a child. She was breathless with anticipation as he leaned over her, his mouth was no more than five inches from hers. But a strange look crossed his face; he stared into her eyes, his jaw flexed, and he set her gently onto her feet.
“Thank you,” she said, breathlessly.
He swallowed and bowed, then turned and left the ballroom. It was unaccountable and she could not figure him out. Her upturned face and her expression must have been an invitation to kiss her, and yet he had resisted. Her heart throbbed. Did that mean he was no longer pursuing her, or had it only ever been a light flirtation on his side? She had so little experience of social flirting, for her own season had consisted of just the one ball before she was married and whisked away to Yorkshire. His behavior might be just usual for an unmarried man.
But later he found her alone in the library, entered, and shut the door behind him. “I’m sorry for leaving you like that earlier,” he said. “In the ballroom, I mean.”
He crossed the floor to where she sat, ensconced in a large leather chair reading a fascinating old tome on ancient courting traditions. She gazed up at him and was puzzled by the uncertainty of his expression.
“Why did you?” she asked.
He knelt beside her chair and took her hand in his. “I am only human, Honey. You are so very beautiful, and I am a mortal man, after all. I wanted to kiss you, but I have been so afraid since the village assembly of giving you a disgust of me.”
“Oh.” She could say no more while staring into mesmerizing blue eyes that pierced her so deeply she felt as though they physically caressed her somewhere within her very soul.
“Do I disgust you?”
He rubbed his thumb against her palm and she felt her body tremble to life, as if she were a dormant rose laying asleep under a thick coating of snow, the first soft caress of spring sunshine bringing life.
“No. Oh, no,” she whispered.
The library was dark with the early afternoon twilight of February, and his face was shadowed. He stood and pulled her to her feet. “I am so glad I do not disgust you. I couldn’t bear it, Honey, I simply couldn’t.”
Like a puppet, with no will of her own, she stood and allowed him to pull her into his arms. He cradled her securely against him and she felt the throbbing vigor that pulsated through his powerful body. Never had she been held by a man so close, and her skin prickled with awareness.
“Honey,” he whispered, as he tilted her face back and cupped it in one large hand.
Before she realized his intentions—he always seemed to be taking her by surprise—he lowered his face close to hers and kissed her, softly, gently, until a shudder passed through his body and the kiss deepened into a fierce possession of her mouth. Her outcry of startled fear was smothered and disappeared as he surged into her mouth.
For a few sweet seconds she succumbed utterly to the spell he wove with his body and his hands and his mouth. She clung to him and felt his embrace tighten. And then an icy thrill of fear pierced her and she pushed against his chest, twisting out of his arms. “What are you doing?” she cried in the silent stillness of the dim library.
His breathing was ragged. “I am making love to you. Honey, I want to . . .”
“No!” She held up one shaking hand. “You are playing off your rake’s tricks on me! I know what you are. I have heard how you London men work your wiles. I must go.”
“No! Honey, don’t go!” He grabbed her arm and pulled her back to him.
Instinctively she fought him, hammering his arm with her fist until he let go of her and stared at her in puzzlement, rubbing his arm where she had hit him.
“What is wrong? I’m not going to hurt you! I only want to make love to you.”
Wordlessly, she turned and fled the room, not stopping until she reached the safety of her chamber.
Chapter Seven
He had pushed too far too fast, Bron thought, clenching his fists against the frustrated ardor that still pulsed through his body. She had been on the precipice of surrender, had melted into his arms and nestled against his body like the sweetest little turtledove, when he held back the full passion of his desire. But his lust unleashed had frightened her.
He was haunted by the fear in her eyes, the unmistakable frantic panic in her movements. Lord, but he did not want to scare her! And why should she be so frightened? As a widow, she knew all that could happen to a woman with a man. Surely there was nothing to terrify an experienced woman in a man’s desire for her. He should be a welcome change from the dried-up old prune of a husband she had been forced to wed.
He paced to the dark window and gazed at his own reflection. For a moment he thought back to Honey as she had been twelve years before. He still had not told her of his first glimpse of her. It was so precious a memory to him he had told no one. She had been so fresh, so untouched, so sweetly innocent. By some miracle, twelve years later she still carried with her that air of untouched loveliness.
Was that the attraction for him? Was that what made him so eager to have her for himself? He had been a soldier for years, killed more men than he cared to remember, laid with women of easy virtue in Spain and Portugal, and with French courtesans in Paris. After the war he had spent years bedding the most delectable of London widows and unsatisfied wives.
And yet he did have his moments. In the name of Honey Stillwell, as she had been when he first saw her, he on occasion helped young girls escape forced marriages. When he could intervene, he even aided a broken and beaten wife to flee the clutches of a husband who was no better than an animal. But still . . . his infrequent moments of chivalry were so few and far between. His soul felt old and soiled to him, like his battle uniform after Waterloo, grimed with the filth and blood of a day of more pain and death than glory and victory.
He remembered in the midst of that bloody day at Waterloo, the longest day of his life, one single moment stood out in a day of utter misery. He was resting near a farmhouse, trying desperately to think of a way to get a message to his regiment, from which he had become separated. Out of a crack near the foundation of the old stone house there had bloomed one small, perfect flower. He was no plant expert, but it looked like a buttercup, a pale creamy yellow with delicate petals and feathery foliage, one tiny spring flower surviving on a war-torn battlefield.
He had stared at it and realized he had a choice. He could pluck it to carry with him,
as a reminder of one sweet, fragile part of a horrible day, or he could leave it to bloom and live on, untouched by his grimy hands. He had left it behind, to remain a memory.
Bron sat down in the chair Honey had vacated and buried his face in his hands. Honey was that buttercup, fragile and sweet and somehow untouched by her awful marriage, for it could not have been good with that money-grubbing old man as a husband. Should he now, with hands soiled by the memory of a hundred women or more, pluck her and keep her with him, or should he leave her to bloom on, unnoticed?
• • •
Honey stayed in her room that evening with what she told Eleanor was a headache. Eventually, after trying to figure out her own reactions to Mr. Bron Black, she fulfilled her own lie by developing a throbbing headache in truth.
The next morning she decided that it was all foolishness. She had overreacted, that was all. Bron had proved himself to be a friend, and if she was firm he would be content to leave it at that. He could do nothing to her that she did not agree to, and she had proved that despite a physical temptation the previous night, she was strong enough to push him away.
She left her room and took the back servants’ stairs, for she wished to thank the housekeeper personally for making and bringing her a tisane the previous night, when Eleanor had told the woman of her ailment. She could hear Mrs. Wedge’s strident voice as she slipped down the back hall. The housekeeper was evidently speaking with the butler about some matter, so she would just hang back and wait until their conference was through.
“I tell you, Mr. Dennis, I refuse to send my girls into that monster’s room. I said nothing when I heard we wasn’t to call him by his rightful title, even though such havey-cavey goings-on I have never heard of in this household. I held my tongue. But after the story I heard about what he done in London . . . well, I ain’t sending my girls into his room.”
Honey frowned. Havey-cavey goings-on? Someone who was concealing their title? This was the kind of thing she should not be listening to. She started to slip back down the hall on quiet slippers, but the butler’s words arrested her movement.
The Viscount's Valentine (Classic Regency Romances) Page 5