Mama dragged Honora, some weeks later, to what she deemed a suitable event, hosted by Lady Trent and held in that esteemed lady’s cavernous ballroom. Donations were being requested for the betterment of orphans, a favorite cause of Lady Trent’s, while her guests sipped tepid tea and munched on biscuits. Lady Trent was well known for her charitable endeavors.
Mama didn’t have a charitable bone in her body, but she was socially ambitious.
Southwell took the podium, and Honora wasn’t the only young lady in attendance to sigh and fan herself.
She had made a point of asking her mother to attend future charity teas as hosted by Lady Trent, because Southwell spoke at nearly all of them. He was a favorite of Lady Trent’s and close friends with her son, the Earl of Montieth.
If Mama wondered at Honora’s sudden philanthropy, she didn’t mention it; she was far too happy that her troublesome, awkward daughter was finally doing something socially acceptable.
Ah, Southwell.Honora placed a hand over her heart to stop the sudden fluttering.
The Earl of Southwell—or South, as his close friends called him—was everything Honora admired in a gentleman. An adventuresome earl, one who explored the furthest regions of the globe, he had visited some of the most interesting places in the world, often in the company of Lord Carver, head of the Geographic Society. Southwell was commanding. Self-assured. Bold. She had no trouble imagining him holding a rifle aloft as he led his men through a jungle or discovering an ancient tomb buried in the desert. His rugged good looks combined with the sense of danger and excitement hovering about his broad shoulders helped him become the embodiment of her most romantic fantasies.
Honora tugged on her skirts again, ducking as far behind the palm as space allowed. Culpepper was on the move. She could see him circling about, searching for her. The Drevenports approved of Culpepper. He was well connected and moderately wealthy, the sort of gentleman most women of Honora’s station would find appealing as a future husband. Neither her mother nor her father could understand her reluctance in accepting his suit.
Southwell entered her field of vision, sauntering across the ballroom like some sleek, sable-haired panther that inhabited one of the jungles he so often visited. His dark formal wear clung to a lean, muscular form kept fit and powerful from his activities. Southwell was so attractive. So unapologetically masculine in comparison to the dandies strutting about Lady Pemberton’s ballroom.
Mama insisted that a match with Culpepper would besplendid. That was the word she’d used. As if Honora’s unwanted suitor was a sunset or a perfect rosebud. Good Lord, Mama had said, did Honora wish to remain a spinster like her cousin Emmagene? Honora was already—horrors—in her second season. Culpepper was more than Honora could hope for given her unfortunate…silhouette.
Honora ran her hand over the bulge of her stomach, impossible to see beneath her skirts, but she knew it was there. She was squeezed so tightly in the gown she was terrified she would either faint or split the seams. The palm frond tickled her nose, and she batted it away, distressed to find a bit of her hair beginning to fuzz against her cheek and temple.
Drat.What was the point of using dollops of styling cream to keep her hair sleek? It never seemed to work.
Honora pushed aside the palm frond in irritation. She could no longer see Southwell, and she dearly wished to, but the ballroom was enormously crowded. Anyone of any decent social standing was in attendance. Splashes of color circled the ballroom, bright against the black formal wear of the gentlemen. Lovely hues of rose and powder blue. A confection in cream, dotted with ribbons. Dozens of sparkling diamonds, emeralds, and sapphires graced throats, ears, and wrists. Skirts rustled in time with the snapping of fans. Laughter rose in the air while the musicians, discreetly hidden behind a painted screen, struck up a jaunty tune.
Honora tapped her foot in time to the music. She didn’t dance well. Another fault Mama liked to point out.
“Miss Davenport, there you are.” A delicate, gloved hand pushed aside the palm frond as Lady Anabeth Wadsworth, daughter of the Marquess of Kendall, renowned beauty, and the most sought-after young lady this season, peered at Honora. Light glittered off the tiny tiara perched on Anabeth’s golden curls, nearly blinding Honora.
“Drevenport,” Honora corrected her. Anabeth, in their short acquaintance, had never once addressed Honora correctly.
Anabeth’s brow wrinkled, making her look like a distraught fairy princess. “Isn’t that what I said?”
“No, actually you—”
“Don’t you find constantly correcting others to be tiresome?”
Honora pursed her lips to stop her reply. She did find correcting others to be tedious. But she was only trying to be helpful when she pointed out the errors of others. Mispronouncing a word, for instance, or giving incorrect information could have a disastrous effect for both speaker and listener.
“I didn’t realize you were looking for me, Lady Anabeth.” There was no good reason that Anabeth should be looking for her, though Honora supposed they were friends of a sort. Anabeth and Honora often found themselves attending many of the same charity events hosted by Lady Trent, where Southwell was the speaker.
“Oh, do come out here where I can see you,” Anabeth insisted.
Tugging once more on her lavender skirts, Honora reluctantly emerged from behind the palm.
Anabeth took in Honora’s carefully styled coiffure, her smile faltering. “Oh, doesn’t your hair…look lovely tonight.”
“Thank you.” Honora patted the side of her tightly constrained tresses, braided and bound to her head with an overabundance of pins. Black as sin and more unruly than a band of orphans, Honora’s hair would never behave enough to imitate the elegant style of Anabeth’s shimmering curls. Mama had even considered if shaving Honora’s head would make the hair grow back in a more normal fashion.
Of course, Mama also wanted to scrub Honora’s cheeks and forehead with a brush soaked in lemon water and vinegar to improve her complexion.
“One should be seen at a ball.” Anabeth’s eyes roamed over Honora’s petite, plump form, and she gave a small sniff of her perfect nose. “Your cheeks are a bit…ruddy this evening. Shiny.”
“Thank you, Lady Anabeth.”
“And the color is very flattering for your complexion.” She squinted at Honora’s forehead, lips curling in mild distaste as she caught sight of the rather large blemish Honora’s maid had tried to hide behind a gathering of curls. “I’m sure you’ll be asked to dance if you just come out. You aren’t hiding back there, are you?”
“No, of course not,” Honora stammered, embarrassed to have been caught doing just that. “I was only taking a moment’s respite. The ballroom is quite warm.” It wasn’t a lie. Moisture was gathering beneath Honora’s arms; she could feel the slow slide of it on her skin.
