by Cora Lee
“You think I wasn’t afraid?” he asked softly, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. “I was terrified every moment of every sea voyage. The entire time I was in Athens I lived in fear that something ancient and priceless that I was supposed to protect would be smashed to bits, or that the constant armed conflict in Serbia was going to spill over into Greece.”
“But you went anyway. Even after you’d come home to England the first time, you went back.”
“The reward was well worth the risk.”
Her dark eyes—the same color as the chocolate he’d discovered she liked to drink every morning—lifted to meet his. “You are a brave man, Benedict Grey. Your future wife will either be immensely proud of you, or extremely frightened for your safety.”
“Which would you be?”
Her brows lifted in surprise for a moment, before dropping down as she considered her answer. “Both, I expect. Especially when you were off somewhere excavating some other historical site.”
“You wouldn’t come with me?”
She tilted her head slightly to the side. “I might. It would calm my mind to see you with my own eyes each day. But I would miss the Season tremendously. I like to dance, to gossip, to flirt—”
“I noticed.”
Her smile returned and she swatted his arm with her free hand. “What would you know of flirting? I have yet to see you do it once.”
“I may not know how to do it, but I certainly recognize it when I see it. Besides, it’s you I’m supposed to be smitten with.” He caught Honoria’s hand as it retreated and kissed it quickly.
Lady Cecilia’s gaze flickered up from her sewing, but she said nothing. It was enough, though, to remind Benedict that there was another person in the room.
“Perhaps it’s time I take my leave.” He planted a swift kiss on Honoria’s other hand and released them both. “Aren’t we working on country dances tomorrow?”
“We are,” she confirmed, her smile growing.
“Then I’ll need to rest well tonight.” Benedict rose from the sofa and bowed to Lady Cecilia, who acknowledged him with a nod.
Honoria stood with him and lit a candle from the brace burning nearby. “I’ll see you out.”
She slipped her arm through his as they maneuvered through the house down to the ground level. A sleepy footman came forward with Benedict’s hat and gloves as they reached the front door, then melted away into the dark.
Honoria set the candle on a table near the front door and turned to face Benedict. “I can’t remember when I’ve had a more delightful evening.”
“I’m not sure that I can, either.”
The light from the candle was just bright enough to illuminate her face and he found himself overwhelmed by the desire to touch her one more time. He brushed his fingers over the soft skin of her cheek, then bent forward to allow his lips to follow. When he attempted to draw back, he felt her arms slide around his shoulders and hold him in place. She raised herself up on her toes and pressed her lips against his.
If there was any rational thought left in his brain, it exited right then.
His arms came around her, pulling her snugly against his body as his mouth opened over hers. He was gratified when she followed suit and kissed him back, a bit clumsily but oh so sweetly—once, twice more before lowering herself down.
“Good night, Benedict,” she said. Her voice sounded as dazed as he felt.
“Good night,” he managed in return.
How he got through the door and down the steps, he didn’t know, but he found himself on the pavement, hat and gloves in hand, wondering what to do. Lady Cecilia had insisted they use the Alston carriage for the concert, so the ladies had come to his house in St. James Square before proceeding to the Argyll Rooms. He could probably find a hackney somewhere nearby, but decided walking at least part of the way would do him some good. As usual, he needed to think. Had he the answer to the question of his feelings for Honoria, or hers for him? Or was it simply a physical attraction that had sprung up between the two of them?
Either way, perhaps he should consider more seriously that visit to the duke.
Chapter 5
Honoria fairly bounced out of bed the next morning, despite the long hours she’d lain awake during the night.
She’d kissed Benedict!
She still wasn’t clear on what had possessed her to do such a thing, nor was she terribly sure what his response would be in the cold light of day. But at the moment she didn’t care. He had held her as if nothing was more dear to him in the world, and she’d felt so safe in his arms.
She hadn’t realized how much she’d needed that safety, that strength, until last night.
“There’s a note here from Mr. Grey,” her maid said, bustling into the room with a tray. “I thought you might want to read it while you had your chocolate this morning.”
“Oh yes, thank you.” Honoria poured herself a cup and broke the seal on the letter—he’d used his own this time rather than leaving it plain. She scanned the page quickly trying to get an overall sense of what he’d written, then went back and read again at a pace more conducive to comprehension.
“He’s asked me to visit Whitby House with him this afternoon, to take tea with his mother and the marchioness.”
“That’s exciting,” the maid replied with a bright smile.
“Or completely terrifying. I’ve met them both before, of course, but not...”
The maid nodded. Not as a prospective member of the family. For that is how they would see her, as Benedict’s potential bride. Was that how he saw her now, too? Did he feel obligated to marry her after their kiss last night, even though no one knew about it but the two of them?
Or was this just the next logical step in their ruse? It certainly made sense—if Benedict had truly been courting her, an invitation from the female members of his family would be expected. But it was not something Honoria had prepared herself for. She would have to go into their home and essentially lie to them about her future with their cousin and son.
Exactly as Benedict would do with her father.
Well, there was nothing for it—just because she had been blind to its coming didn’t mean she could avoid this complication. Especially not when her partner in this business was prepared to do much the same for her. She called for a pen and some paper and dashed off a reply to Benedict informing him that she would be ready at the appointed time.
But what to wear? She and her maid combed through the gowns in her dressing room, considering this one or that one, rejecting others out of hand. Together they pulled out several gowns for Honoria to try, and spread them out across her bed. Each time her maid got her laced in to a one, Honoria would stand in front of the cheval glass turning slowly left and right before shaking her head.
She finally settled on a blush-colored muslin sprigged with tiny roses. Ordered last month, she had yet to wear it anywhere so it could serve as a topic of conversation if need be. The color was beautifully feminine and Honoria knew she looked well in it, which gave her confidence a much-needed lift.
She was ready by the time he arrived and elected not to make him wait, though her aunt suggested that spending a few minutes alone in the drawing room wouldn’t go amiss with a gentleman. Honoria simply smiled and hurried down the main staircase.
His greeting to her was very correct, his face expressionless, as though he didn’t remember that only twelve hours earlier they had been in each other’s arms on this very spot. Nor did he reveal any emotion as he helped her into a carriage with the Whitby crest emblazoned on it.
When he settled himself on the seat across from her and not next to her, she decided she’d had enough. She stood carefully, one hand on the ceiling of the carriage for balance, and turned herself onto the plush velvet beside Benedict.
“Honoria, what are you doing?”
“You were pressed against me from shoulders to knees last night, but you can’t sit beside me?
He blushed—a full, flamin
g blush, his cheeks and ears flooded with red. “I can’t seem to think when you’re close to me.”
“That’s what every lady wants to hear, that she turns gentlemen to blathering idiots,” she replied, crossing her arms.
Benedict leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. “That’s not what I meant. I just—the nearer you are to me, the more I think about that embrace. And I need all my wits about me for this visit. We both do.”
That he couldn’t stop thinking about the two of them together wasn’t necessarily a good thing. Was he obsessing about a lack of good judgment? Was he regretting a moment of weakness?
Was he, perhaps, a little bit in love with her?
She relaxed her arms and let her hands fall loosely into her lap. “We need to talk about last night.”
He acknowledged her statement with a slow nod. “We do. But that is not a conversation to be rushed—we’ll need more time than this drive will give us. Am I still invited for dancing lessons later?”
“Yes, of course. Though I’m not sure what we’ll work on. The cotillion is for four couples, which we don’t have, and I don’t think you’re quite ready for a Scotch reel yet.”
That drew a small smile from him, though only his mouth was involved in the action. “You’re probably right about that. Do you think your aunt would object if we walked in the garden instead? We could talk then.”
“Short of leaving us alone in a room with the door closed, Aunt Cecilia is rather amenable to whatever we’d like. I think she’ll not object to a walk in the garden.”
“Good.” He reached for one of her hands and gave it the briefest of squeezes.
Then he moved himself to the seat across from her and rode the rest of the way in silence.
Upon arriving at Whitby House in Park Lane they were whisked directly upstairs to the drawing room. Benedict resumed his powers of speech long enough to introduce Honoria to his mother, Lady George Grey, and his cousin’s wife.
“Yes dear, we know Lady Honoria,” his mother laughed as she resumed her seat. “There’s no need to be quite so formal.”
Thank goodness for that. This visit was going to be awkward enough without throwing in uncomfortable formalities.
“Come sit here,” Lady George said, indicating a settee near her own chair, “and we’ll have a nice, comfortable coze.”
Honoria did as she was bid, both relieved and uneasy when Benedict made to sit beside her.
“Oh no, Benedict,” Lady Whitby interrupted when he was midway between standing and sitting, “Whitby asked that I send you to him in his study. Something about carriages or curricles or something.”
“Oh, yes.” He straightened quickly, his ears turning faintly red.
“Are you ordering a new carriage at last?” Lady George asked, clasping her hands together in her lap.
Benedict cleared his throat. “A phaeton, perhaps. A town carriage at a later date.” His eyes roamed down to Honoria. “I can’t continually borrow conveyances from Whitby whenever we wish to go somewhere.”
He was either masterfully selling their imminent faux betrothal, or he was nervous and looking to her to steady himself. Oddly, she was pleased with either motive.
When Benedict had shut the door behind him, Lady Whitby poured tea and began her genteel interrogation.
“Does he often follow you around like that?”
Honoria found she was a little insulted by the question on Benedict’s behalf—it made him sound like a lost little puppy. The man had some difficulties in ballrooms and drawing rooms to be sure, but he’d taken over the running of an operation that brought several shiploads of invaluable historic cargo to England. How many others could say that?
“He’s a bit protective, I think,” she replied, lifting her teacup to her mouth for a sip. Not a lie—he’d always been protective of Honoria—though she’d been doing her share of protecting, too, these past weeks, if in a more subtle fashion.
“That’s Benedict,” Lady George added with a warm smile. “Do you remember him after his father died? Though he was but a boy, he escorted me everywhere I went—even if it was only from one side of the house to another.”
The memory came back to Honoria in images. She and Benedict had been, what? Ten? Eleven? She remembered digging in the gardens not far from one of the old marquess’s country houses, looking for medieval battlefields and ancient settlements. And lounging on the terrace when the weather was hot, conjugating Latin verbs together. All this time she thought Lady George had asked Benedict to stay close, when in reality he’d been keeping watch over his mother.
“He’s always been mindful of those he cares for,” Lady Whitby said, her eyes flickering toward Honoria. “What’s your opinion of this phaeton he’s purchasing?”
“I was not aware until today that he was considering it.” Honoria resisted the urge to shrug. “Benedict is entitled to purchase whatever he likes.”
“I heard he was also thinking of refurbishing his house in St. James Square,” the marchioness continued with well-practiced casualness. “Or perhaps even beginning a search for a larger home.”
“Now that’s just gossip,” Lady George cautioned.
“But it would be noteworthy if it were true.”
Both women were looking at Honoria now, Lady Whitby with stark interest and Lady George with what appeared to be hope.
Drat them.
And drat Honoria’s thoughtless plan.
She sipped her tea again. “How nice for him.”
Lady George blinked, seeming to realize that she’d been staring. “Honoria, might I ask you some questions of a more...personal nature?”
Oh dear. “You may.”
“Do you care for my son?”
“Yes, of course,” Honoria responded without hesitation. That she could answer truthfully lessened some of the weight on her conscience.
“And do you want to see him happy?”
“I always have.” Another truth, another measure of weight lifted.
Lady George paused, fiddling with her teacup before asking the next question. “Do you think you can make him happy?”
Honoria carefully set her own teacup in its saucer. She knew what she was supposed to say, that she would do everything in her power to keep Benedict happy for as long as they were wed. And if they had actually planned to marry, she likely would have said such a thing. But they never had such plans, and Honoria found she could not lie to his mother after all.
“I-I don’t know. I can only hope the decisions we make are the right ones...for both of us.” Honoria realized her answer didn’t quite match the question, but knew it was the best she could do.
Lady George smiled once more, a little wistfully. “It was brave of you to answer so honestly. But then, you’ve always been a brave girl. Especially these last few years, else you would not have waited all this time for Benedict to return home.”
Double drat—she thought Honoria had remained unmarried in hopes that Benedict would propose, as if they had fallen in love early on and were parted by circumstance.
That was one myth she could not perpetuate. “You make is sound as if we came to some sort of arrangement before he went to Athens. But Lady George, we never did—it wasn’t like that between us.”
“Perhaps not,” the lady said, undaunted. “But I’ve seen the way he looks at you, and the way you look at him. Your minds may not have settled anything between you, but your hearts have done so some time ago.”
Honoria shook her head gently. Her heart had nothing to do with this, even if her body had begun to put forth its own ideas. “I don’t think so.”
But Lady George would not be dissuaded—another thing Honoria would have to discuss with Benedict when he came to Alston House.
If she ever made it there herself. This visit was beginning to feel as though it would never end.
~*~
“Thank heavens you’re here, Mr. Grey,” Lady Cecilia said as she rushed down the main staircase.
&
nbsp; Benedict’s head snapped up, the gloves he’d been removing forgotten in an instant at the worry that laced her voice. “What’s wrong?”
“Honoria took a letter up to her bedchamber to read when she returned home from her visit to Whitby House, but now she refuses to come out! I can think of only one thing that would have upset her so...”
Lady Cecilia let the word trail away, but Benedict knew what she was thinking.
Honoria must have had news of her father.
He quickly peeled off his gloves and handed them with his hat to a waiting footman. “Perhaps she will speak to me.”
Lady Cecilia waited for the footman to make his exit before stepping closer to Benedict and lowering her voice. “I’m more concerned about her well-being than I am about propriety, Mr. Grey. If she will admit you, don’t hesitate to enter.”
Benedict nodded sharply and headed up the stairs, knocking softly when he reached the closed door of Honoria’s bedchamber. When the first knock brought no response, he tried again, with a little more force.
“Honoria, it’s Benedict.”
He heard a slight rustling before the door was whipped open. “I thought you’d never come.”
There were no tear stains on her face, no puffy eyes, no signs at all that she’d been crying. She was a strong woman, but her father’s death would certainly have brought intense emotion. What was going on?
She reached for his hand and pulled him into the room, shutting the door hastily behind her and marching over to her bed. “I’ve had a letter from my father.”
He followed her part of the way. “Your aunt suspected as much. How bad is it?”
“Oh, Benedict, that’s just it—it isn’t bad at all.” She took up the folded paper that was lying haphazardly on a brilliant blue counterpane. “The letter is in his own hand, a steady hand.”
Benedict’s brows rose as he strode the rest of the way across the room. “What does it say?”
Her dark eyes lifted to his. “He is recovering.”