by Cora Lee
“Yet you came to London without him.” It wasn’t an accusation, but a statement of fact.
“He sent me away.” Honoria’s palm pressed against his, and he could feel the cold of her skin permeating her glove. “He is sure this is his end and wants to see me settled before he dies. I have the means to live independently, but Papa believes the world is a dangerous place for a female with no gentleman to protect her.”
“And your brother is still a child. His Grace is right to worry.” Benedict covered their clasped hands with his free one, trying to infuse some warmth into her chilly fingers. “You and I were once like family—you must know that I would always come to your aid should you need me.”
“Certainly you would, if you were in the country.”
He glanced down at their hands balanced on her knee and felt a twinge of regret. “I’m here now.”
“But for how long? And what if something were to happen to you? Then I’d be right back where I am now, without even a widow’s rights.”
“So His Grace sent you here for the Season to find a husband.”
He looked up just as her eyes darted to his. “Yes. But Benedict, who would I marry? This is my eleventh Season and I have yet to find a gentleman I could even spend an evening with, let alone a lifetime. Who could I trust enough to place all my worldly goods—and my very person—under his rule?”
“I could help you search.” When she arched a dark eyebrow at him he drew back one hand. “I may not be familiar with the niceties of the beau monde, but I know a dishonorable man when I meet one.”
“I’m sure you do.” Her mouth curved into a wry smile, and her voice regained a note of her old self-assurance. “But I have a plan that will work for both of us.”
“Of course you do.” His mind conjured up images of Honoria’s hastily concocted “plans” from their childhood and he felt the tension rising in his shoulders. But he plunged ahead. “Well then, let’s hear it.”
~*~
“I couldn’t fall asleep last night, worrying over Papa,” she told him, adjusting her hand in his clasp. For a brief moment she considered removing her own gloves and eliminating that barrier between them. But she dismissed the idea just as quickly—it wouldn’t be seemly, and they were already pushing the boundaries of polite society by being out of sight. “So I tried distracting myself with your situation.”
“A problem that may be solvable.”
“Oh, it most certainly is. But you’ll need more than just a dancing master, Benedict. There is dress to consider”—she squeezed his bare fingers—“and deportment. There are social customs to observe after you’ve met a lady who interests you, too. And I suspect you could use some practice in all of it.”
His hazel eyes were steady, but his shoulders sagged a trifle. “No doubt I could.”
“I could easily teach you. But what reason would we have for being so much together? The ton would wonder.”
“We are old friends, Honoria. I don’t think the ton would wonder too much at our association.”
“They might wonder why you were spending so much time with me when you’re supposed to be trying to find a wife.”
His shoulders dropped a fraction more. “That is certainly possible.”
“Which is why you shall pretend to court me.”
“What?”
She rested her free hand on their clasped ones. “It’s ideal, really. If you’re courting me, it will be perfectly natural to call upon me at home, to dance with me at balls, to take me driving and on other outings. We can spend quite a lot of time together without meriting more than the usual notice.”
“And you can write to His Grace to say you have a serious suitor.”
“One who is more steadfast than the band of silly admirers I have now.” Honoria patted their clasped hands. “He would be in transports of delight. You meet all of the practical criteria he has set out for me, and he’s always liked you.”
Benedict frowned, his sandy brows drawing together as he considered the idea. “But how will I look for a wife if I’m supposed to be interested in you?”
“Think of the courtship as a period of study,” she said, knowing he would relate to an academic analogy. “I shall be your instructor in the ways of wooing a lady. When you have learned your lessons well, I’ll cry off and you will be unattached.”
“Cry off?”
“Didn’t I mention the betrothal?” She flashed a grin at him, but then sobered. “I do think, for Papa’s sake, we should announce a betrothal. A courtship is not binding, but a betrothal nearly is. I believe he will find it binding enough to content him.”
Benedict lifted her loose hand from atop their clasped ones, and held both of hers in both of his. “I can see how a betrothal would ease your father’s last days, but I cannot lie to him. And you know if he is to believe the engagement is real, I would need to speak with him in person.”
“I am of age—I don’t need his permission to marry.”
“No, but there would be settlements to draw up. And His Grace would most certainly want to take care of the legalities before his time comes.”
“Then what will we do?” She could hear the worry in her voice, try though she might to keep it steady. She needed Benedict’s help much more than he needed hers, and she suspected he knew it.
He squeezed her hands and released them, turning to take up the reins. “We’ve been hidden behind these trees for far too long. And I need some time to think this over.”
She faced the front of the curricle, smoothing down an invisible wrinkle in her skirt. “Of course. I’ve asked a lot of you today.”
They drove the remainder of the path and rejoined the crowd, resuming their nodding and arm-tapping and mindless small talk. Benedict kept his expression impassive the whole while, and Honoria wished she knew what he was thinking. He was a man of honor and had been a good friend to both her and her father—which is why she had presented what she was beginning to think might be a foolish plan to him in the first place. But she knew that same sense of honor and friendship would resist deceiving her father, and that notion had kept her tossing and turning in the wee hours.
Because if Benedict refused to participate in her sham betrothal, Honoria would find herself shackled to a man who wanted her only for her bloodline or her dowry. For after eleven years on the Marriage Mart, the likelihood of finding love—going to the same entertainments with the same people she’d known all her adult life—was almost nonexistent.
And love was the only thing she wanted.
Honoria’s maid brought a folded piece of paper to her as she sat embroidering with her aunt in the drawing room after dinner. She broke the plain seal and found the message within written in a clear, bold hand:
H,
I still have my doubts, but you asked for my help and I will give it. I will call tomorrow to discuss further details.
B
Honoria let out a sigh that was equal parts relief and affection. Her dear friend had come through for her.
Her aunt must have heard only the affection. “We’ll have another gentleman caller tomorrow, then? One whom you’ll actually welcome?”
Honoria smiled. “Yes. This one I will welcome very much.”
Chapter 3
Honoria stood in the music room at Alston House a week later, taking stock of the items located there in preparation for Benedict’s second visit of the afternoon. The days that had passed since his note had developed a kind of pattern: he would call in the afternoon with the gaggle of other gentlemen hopeful of winning Honoria’s hand, then he’d return later to take her driving in the park. He didn’t seem to enjoy either activity, so she had tried to impress upon him the need to not only express his attentiveness to her, but to make sure the others noticed it as well. Sympathy would run high for a gentleman who had been thrown over by his lady after demonstrating nothing but thoughtfulness and loyalty to her.
But in an entire week, he never managed to stay in her drawing room for
more than twenty minutes. It was probably the topics of conversation, she decided. Her other callers spoke of who was wearing what at which soirée the previous night, the highlights of the latest Minerva Press novel, the beauty of the flowers they sent compared to her own—things they thought she would find interesting. But apparently they bored Benedict beyond reason.
He did show some progress during their Hyde Park outings, though. He’d become adept at asking a question about a subject near and dear to his conversational partner’s heart, and listening attentively to the reply. For the brief interviews during the fashionable hour, it was a beautiful strategy—especially with Honoria murmuring ideas to him as they drove. With just a few words he appeared courteous and personable. And, if he was truly paying attention to the answers he received, he was learning quite a lot about the people that moved in society.
Today was going to be quite a different challenge, though. Honoria directed two footmen to move aside this piece of furniture or that, to roll up the carpets and carefully place them against a wall. She shuffled through the music she had laid out on the pianoforte, set it down, then picked it all up again, wondering if any of the pieces would do after all.
Today was to be Benedict’s first dancing lesson.
“Mr. Grey has arrived—I told Engle to show him here rather than the drawing room.”
Honoria turned to see her aunt gliding through the music room door wearing a bright smile and her best yellow day dress.
Honoria returned the smile and smoothed down her own floral print. Against Benedict’s objection, Aunt Cecilia had been told about Honoria’s plan—or, at least, the part about Benedict needing dancing lessons. She was residing with Honoria for the duration of the Season, so there was no way to have him in the house for any useful length of time without Aunt Cecilia discovering him. Nor would she have reacted well had anyone questioned her at a ton event about his comings and goings.
And somebody had to provide the music.
“Good. I was half afraid he would disappear into another excavation.”
Aunt Cecilia snorted. “Not if he’s anything like his father was at that age. Lord George Grey would take on any challenge—the more difficult it was, the more effort he’d put into it. And for some men, dancing is more than a little difficult.”
“Was Lord George a good dancer?”
“I should say so. He cut quite the dashing figure, too—young ladies were setting their caps for him before they even came out.”
Honoria raised an eyebrow inquisitively. “Including you, Aunt?”
“Oh yes,” Aunt Cecilia answered without hesitation. “Not only was he handsome, but kind too. Your Mr. Grey is bookish like his mother, but he has his father’s kindness.”
Honoria was drifting toward one of the large windows that faced out onto the square, but paused to glance back at her aunt. “Do you think so?”
Aunt Cecilia nodded, heading toward the pianoforte and making herself comfortable on the bench. “Did you not see him at the Lambert ball last night? Lucy Drake was sitting all alone during the supper dance—she’s nearly as old as you, and her only dowry is those awful smallpox scars on her face. Well, your Mr. Grey went over and sat with her through the rest of the set, and was very attentive to her at supper too. They didn’t seem to talk much, but I doubt Lucy minded.”
Honoria turned her face toward the sun shining into the room and felt herself smiling. “I did not know, but I’m not surprised. He is very kind indeed. But,” she continued, turning away from the window, “you must stop call him my Mr. Grey. He isn’t—”
A masculine voice interrupted Honoria’s protest. “He is. For the next hour or so, at any rate.”
Benedict stood just inside the door, and Honoria took the opportunity to look him over. He wore a charcoal cutaway coat over a gray-blue waistcoat and buckskin breeches. His shirt and cravat were crisp and white, his tall black Hessians polished to a high shine. Every stitch on him was unadorned, even plain. But the fabrics were fine and the tailoring equally so.
They suited him remarkably well.
“Your valet seems to have taken our conversation to heart.”
Benedict gave her a little bow. “I don’t know how he put up with me all those years in Greece. But he’s like a new man since you’ve deemed my appearance to be important.”
Honoria felt the corners of her mouth curving upward again. “You look a bit changed yourself—you’re standing a little taller I think.”
“It’s probably my coat. The style is a bit tighter now than I remember. It rather forces one to stand straight with shoulders back.” He came the rest of the way into the room and greeted Aunt Cecilia, then settled himself on the largest sofa to pull off his boots—with more struggle than he probably would have liked—and exchange them for the dancing pumps he carried. “There now. If I step on your toes, there’s a chance I won’t smash them completely.”
“You used to be a fair dancer,” Honoria reminded him, leading him to the space the footmen had cleared.
“I used to be a passable dancer,” he corrected as she turned to face him.
“Then we shall begin with something easy. Aunt, the Beethoven minuet please.”
“A minuet? Isn’t that rather old fashioned?”
“Yes, but the time signature and tempo are right.”
“For what?”
She noticed a woodsy, slightly sweet fragrance as he stopped an arm’s length from her. It reminded her of the apple orchard at her father’s country seat, where she and Benedict used to read when the weather was fine.
“A waltz.”
He took a step back and the scent faded. “Honoria, no woman with any sense of propriety dances the waltz. Even I know that.”
“Some do, actually. It’s becoming more accepted now.” She held out a hand to him. “Besides, there’s very little memorizing involved in a waltz. It’s more about rhythm than specific figures, so I thought it would be a good place to start your re-education.”
He didn’t respond, and she briefly wondered if he practiced doing so. Not reacting at all often seemed to be his reply these days. Or did he simply think things over more carefully now?
She wiggled the fingers of her outstretched hand. “You never have to dance it in public if it feels too unseemly to you.”
That got a smile out of him, and came forward once more to take her hand. “Very well. You are the dancing mistress today.”
The applewood fragrance returned and she realized that Benedict was its source. Interesting considering his condemnation of wearing scent at Lady Whitby’s Black and White Ball. She took hold of his other hand and felt....something. It was the first time he’d touched her since their talk in the park, and both their hands were bare this time. Was that why it felt different? Or was it something else?
“It’s a one-two-three, one-two-three rhythm like the minuet—and you just step.” She guided him by the hands slowly around the empty space, counting aloud. “That’s right, one big step, two little ones. One, two, three. One, two, three...”
“I feel ridiculous.”
But he didn’t stop, and so she gave him what she hoped was an encouraging smile. “That’s because there’s no music.”
“Maybe there should be.”
“All right, then music you shall have. Whenever you’re ready, Aunt Cecilia. Slowly, please.” Honoria halted and gave his hands a little squeeze. How warm and strong they were. “Just listen for a few measures and get a feel for it. When you’re ready, step off and I’ll follow you.”
He nodded, his brows drawn together. In concentration or uncertainty?
Both, she decided a few moments later. The song was halfway over before Benedict made a move, and Honoria could see him mouthing “one-two-three” as he stepped with her around the center of the room, his gaze cemented to his feet. When the last note died away, his eyes met hers.
“How was that?”
“Not bad for your first try. Let’s do it again.”
&
nbsp; His nod was matter-of-fact, but his lips curved into a smile that said he was clearly pleased. Honoria signaled and Aunt Cecilia played the piece again, just as slowly as before. But Benedict was ready, and he began his steps only a few measures in this time. He held Honoria’s hands firmly and his movements were careful. But each time they repeated the song, Honoria saw his shoulders relax a fraction more and his eyes lift a little from the floor.
“I don’t know what all the fuss is about,” he said as the last note grew fainter. “There’s nothing scandalous about this.”
“We aren’t to the scandalous part yet. Should we do that next?”
~*~
Benedict was rather proud of himself—he was taking to dancing with more ease than he ever imagined he would. Not that he was a particularly clumsy man, but neither had he ever been particularly graceful. He could even imagine himself waltzing with a lady in front of an assemblage of aristocrats without fear of disgracing himself.
Then Honoria dashed his imagined scene to tiny pieces.
His eyes widened as she drew him closer and placed his right hand on the small of her back. When she reached her left hand up to his shoulder, his body went rigid—these liberties were permitted at balls and assemblies in front of other people?
“Relax.” She said the word softly, almost under her breath.
He wasn’t sure if she was speaking to him or herself, but decided that the idea was a good one in either case. He tightened the muscles in his shoulders and held them so for a moment, then let go. Some of the tension remained, but some of it bled away and he felt his shoulders loosen.
She turned his free hand palm-up and placed hers in it. “There are other positions in which to waltz, but this is the one I like best. It feels the most natural.”
“It’s like an embrace. You’ve really danced like this with other gentlemen?”
She tilted her head back and laughed a little. “Yes, though not too many times. And—fortunately—never with someone I wasn’t fond of. Are you ready?”