Chapter One
London, 1836
Miss Honora Drevenportsurveyed the crush at Lady Pemberton’s ballroom, fluffing out her lavender skirts, then frowning as she examined the more than generous rise of her hips. Gloved hand flapping against one thigh, she silently prayed for the rise of flesh to be smaller. Or at the very least appear much less…mountainousthan it seemed.
Mama liked to say Honora was full-figured.
Emmagene Stitch, Honora’s cousin and dearest friend, suggested she was merely voluptuous, in the way women depicted in Renaissance paintings happened to be.
Emmie meant it as a compliment. Truly she did.
Honora tried to take a deep breath, something she thought might calm her, but she was laced far too tightly, a necessary evil in order to fit in this stupid gown, one her mother had insisted wouldn’t complement Honora’s figure in the least.
She hated when Mama was right.
Just once, Honora had wanted to appear lovely and swanlike, because tonight, at Lady Pemberton’s ball,hewould be in attendance. Unfortunately, her body wasn’t inclined to agree with Honora’s vision.
Plumpwould be the kindest way to describe her figure. Her rounded form combined with a lack of height gave the impression Honora was a tiny teapot, minus the spout, of course. No matter that she starved herself relentlessly in her pursuit to be reed thin or that her mother continuously urged her to try one reduction method after another. Honora’s determination and good intentions were often ambushed by a delicious scone. Or a tart.
Blackberry tarts were her favorite.
Generously curved, abundant forms were not currently in fashion and hadn’t been in at least a century. Thank goodness today’s gowns were far better at hiding a young lady’s flaws than the figure-revealing dresses of twenty years ago. Even so, very few gentlemen found a pudgy form such as hers appealing.
She doubted even Culpepper did.
Her lip curled just slightly at the thought of her unwelcome suitor, a gentleman everyone but Honora thought she should wed. Honora very strongly disagreed.
Culpepper’s admiration of her had less to do with her person and more to do with the fact Silas Drevenport, Honora’s father, owned profitable copper mines and had no son to inherit them. Papa had two daughters: One bright and vivacious, and already wed nearly a year, Marianne. The other…well, the other was Honora.
She thumped her hip again, pleading with the silk to lie smoothly.
“It isn’t any use,” she muttered from behind a rather large, potted palm that had become her hiding spot for the evening. “I resemble an overgrown hyacinth no matter what I do.” Indeed, the roundness of her hips paled in comparison to the rise of her breasts threatening to spill out despite her overly modest neckline. Last year, during her first season, there had been an unfortunate wardrobe incident that had required a cloak and a hurried exit. Most embarrassing. Honora had been laughed at for weeks.
She twisted her fingers. It wasn’t the first time she’d been mocked and unlikely to be the last. The world was not kind to chubby, overeducated young ladies.
Pushing aside her thoughts of self-pity, Honora surveyed Lady Pemberton’s ballroom with a practiced eye. Scores of perfectly rounded bosoms and tiny waists flitted before her in gorgeous colors. Lovely creamy complexions, not one with a blemish. Honora’s face, in comparison, was often marked with imperfections. Nothing on any of the perfect young ladies swirling about resembled a jiggling plate of aspic. If Honora so much as shifted in her seat at dinner, the mounds of her breasts moved as if they possessed a life of their own.
At a small gathering last week in which Honora’s sister Marianne had played the piano to much applause, an older gentleman, very unkindly, had drawn a comparison between Honora’s bosom and the udders of a cow.
She’d been mortified to have overheard his comments. The wrap she’d brought because the evening was cool had immediately made an appearance.
Honora sighed, batting absently at the palm.
She’d always been chubby. Plump. Liked her desserts far too much. Mama tried to compel her to walk in the park, but Honora often declined. One could not read a book on the Babylonians or Phoenicia while in motion. And Papa, her mother claimed, had overindulged and encouraged Honora’s tendencies with books. Trips to the museum and galleries. Attendance at presentations by esteemed scientists, historians, and gentlemen intent on exploring the world.
Gentlemen like the Earl of Southwell.
Honora had found Southwell quite accidently, though she considered it fate.
She’d asked her father to escort her to a talk being given at the British Museum on India. After all, Papa shared her fascination for exotic locales and interesting historical artifacts. Mama disapproved but allowed her to go. At least she would be walking about.
And there he was. Glistening like a crown jewel in a maharaja’s turban.
Honora stared at Southwell in rapt attention the whole time he stood at the podium in the museum’s main hall, relating the details of a tiger hunt in India. The rough scratch of his voice flowed over her skin as she drank in the sheer beauty of his face. The tiger was one who’d attacked a score of villagers and had developed a taste for humans. Southwell gestured gracefully with his arms as he sought to make his points, stopping at the right moments to offer an interesting tidbit or personal anecdote. For the entire duration of Southwell’s speech, Honora was unable to take her eyes from him.
Papa pronounced himself embarrassed and shocked by her blatant admiration.
Mama finally put her foot down. Honora would never find a husband if she insisted on attending such dry affairs better reserved for educated gentlemen. She could not spend the rest of her life with her nose in a book or looking at dusty mummies and such. Honora argued and pleaded, but Mama could not be swayed. Heartbroken, Honora was forced to pay calls on ladies she didn’t even like and attend dull charity teas.
