Mama had been beside herself even though the gossip over the wager had abated fairly quickly. After all, no one had really cared overly much for poor, pathetic Miss Drevenport, if they recalled her at all. But in Mama’s mind, the stain would linger, eroding the social standing of the Drevenport family. Culpepper came forward, vowing his name would protect Honora from any further humiliation. No one would dare disparage her once she was his wife.
Except him and his mother, of course.
Mama claimed Honora to be most fortunate. After wedding Honora to Culpepper, Mrs. Drevenport had washed her hands of her troublesome younger daughter and focused on the London social whirl. Which was just as well because Honora had no desire to see her mother either in those first few months.
The first time Honora’s cousin Emmagene had come to call, she’d been turned away. Culpepper had made a point of informing her that Honora’s state was so fragile, so delicate, after what had occurred at Lady Pemberton’s, that the least excitement would shatter her sensibilities. He’d declared that no visitors were allowed until his wife regained her health. Honora hadn’t been permitted to leave the house.
Just thinking of the four long years she’d spent as Dalward’s wife made her hand shake slightly as she smoothed back the sleek coiffure she’d adopted for tonight. Her husband’s nightly visits during the first months of their marriage had been full of derision over Honora’s affection for Southwell. He’d derided Honora for her undesirability, likening her to a large, fleshy doughball he was forced to copulate with.
Was it any wonder she’d lost her once robust appetite?
Almost two years ago, over dinner, as Honora had picked at the excellent roasted chicken the cook had prepared, Dalward had died. He’d choked on a chicken bone midsentence while mocking Honora for being a barren, worthless wife. One no number of the copper mines her father owned could possibly make up for.
Honora had been suddenly free. Emmie had visited. Plans had been made. All would have been lovely except for the problem of Honora’s mother-in-law. Loretta, in a fit of pique and grief, had refused to vacate the premises, stating Culpepper had always meant to leave her this house, not Honora.
Honora had offered Loretta money. Threatened her. Begged Culpepper’s sister in Surrey to take Loretta. Nothing had worked. Her mother-in-law continued her campaign of dislike against Honora, going so far as to blame her for asking the cook to make chicken that night and anticipating Dalward would choke on a bone.
Which was so ridiculous Honora had laughed in her mother-in-law’s face.
Loretta had declared once more, in case Honora hadn’t been listening, that she was barren and worthless.
Exhausted from years of insults, Honora had replied tartly that it was Dalward’s fault she was childless. Her current lover would be more than happy to father a child. That was how the lies had started.
Now Loretta assumed Honora was tupping most of London.
She took a breath, though not a deep one, pushing aside the problem of Loretta for another time. When she’d been a new bride, Honora had been so wounded that Culpepper’s mother despised her.
Honora glanced at the newspaper on the bed, several weeks old. She had more important things to consider at present. The paper was open to an article announcing the return of the Earl of Southwell to London. He’d been attending to affairs at his country estate for nearly a year after coming back from South America but had finally decided to once more be embraced by the society that adored him. He would be in attendance at Lady Pemberton’s ball tonight, an affair held every year without fail.
How fitting.
When Honora thought of Southwell, which was often, she wondered if he even remembered Miss Drevenport, and decided it was unlikely. After all, no one else did. Certainly there had been nothing about her to merit Southwell’s regard. She’d merely been a means to win Tarrington’s wager.
Ah, Tarrington.It was time for Honora to repay him in kind.
Emmie, who had stormed into the Culpepper home despite Loretta’s best efforts, had first put forth the idea of Honora avenging herself on those who were responsible for the long-ago humiliation that had resulted in marriage to Culpepper. Wouldn’t it feel good, Emmie had said, taking in Honora’s now stunning appearance, to make Tarrington the fool? Shouldn’t Southwell feel the pain of having his heart be trampled on? And what about Anabeth?
Emmie’s own past experience with love had left her bitter and wishing she’d been able to exact her own vengeance on the man who had broken her heart. But it wasn’t too late for Honora. Emmie couldn’t avenge herself, she said, but Honora could.
Fate had already taken care of the former Lady Anabeth, now the Duchess of Denby, far more thoroughly than Honora ever could. Tarrington, the most repulsive gentleman Honora had ever known, would receive his long overdue comeuppance tonight. She’d been planning it for weeks.
But she hesitated over Southwell.
Her fingers brushed the paper, caressing the bold print displaying Southwell’s name. Even that slight touch sent a jolt through her.
Honora wanted to lash out at him. Entice him. Discard him. Embrace him. Cast him aside. Her jumbled feelings for Southwell were complicated. She detested him for what he’d done but also longed for him in the same instant. He deserved to feel the same way Honora had. She assumed it would be relatively simple. It was doubtful he’d know her as Miss Drevenport; after all, they’d only spent the length of one dance together. And Honora’s looks had changed dramatically. Even her parents had barely recognized her when she’d called upon them after Culpepper’s death. And Southwell had been gone from England for five long years. Upon his return, he’d avoided London. Until tonight.
He wouldn’t remember Miss Drevenport.
But hewouldremember the Widow Culpepper.
Honora would make sure of it.
Chapter Three
Gideon leaned againsthis cane, trying without success to ease the ache in the twisted, broken limb that served as his left leg. Cradling the glass of scotch he held, pilfered from Lord Pemberton’s study by a nervous servant, Gideon gently flexed his foot, feeling the stretch all the way up his thigh. Along with a multitude of baths so hot Gideon thought his skin would peel off, the stretching helped to ease some of the pain. But not all. That was why he needed the scotch.
He took a sip of the amber liquid and surveyed the ballroom.
