“He is set on wenching and drinking tonight, or so he told me.”
Lady Dacey glared accusingly at Honoria and then flicked a contempuous glance at her own gown.
Oh, dear, thought Honoria, she will now decide that the only way to attract such a rake is by reverting to her old style and manner, and she may decide she would be better without Pamela and me. The specter of Mr. Pomfret loomed before her eyes. All her previous bravery, her determination to have a say in how she ran her own life, crumbled. She felt quite cross and weepy.
The curtain rose on the second act. It was a poor opera by an unknown Italian composer and the music could not banish her angry thoughts. What was the duke doing? If he was consorting with prostitutes then it was all too easy to imagine what he was doing. There were so many prostitutes in London, and so many in the opera house plying their wares, that it was very hard for even a respectable female to avoid knowing what went on.
She felt obscurely betrayed by the duke. Lord Herne had edged his chair so close to her own that she could feel the heat of his body and smell the powerful scent with which he had drenched himself. Her head began to ache. She began to wonder if, instead of the insipid, careful letters she had been writing home, she should not beg her parents to send for her. They were her parents, after all, and surely if she made a stand, they would not force her into an unwelcome marriage. But then she knew that her parents, like most other parents in Regency England, would consider it a deep disgrace to have an unmarried daughter. Spinsters were a source of pity mixed with dislike, failures on the stage of life.
She felt a treacherous stab of impatience with Pamela. She had a husband, although that seemed to be a fact that was slipping more and more from her mind. Mr. Perryworth was a cold fish, but he did not beat her and she had a household of her own.
Honoria decided she would not think of Ware anymore, and when she saw him again—if she saw again—she would demonstrate to him by her very coldness just how little he had been in her thoughts.
* * * *
The duke was playing hazard at his club. He had drunk a great deal without any of it seeming to lift his spirits. Any time he thought of Honoria, he felt weary. Silly little chit, he told himself. Later that evening, he would go to a Cyprian ball at the Argyle Rooms and meet some real women. He realized all he had drunk was beginning to affect him when he began to lose heavily. But he was one of that rare breed of aristocrat who was determined not to pass his gaming losses onto his tenants, and so he left the tables.
Outside the club, the sooty acrid smell of London caught him by the throat. His carriage, with coachman on the box and footmen standing by the open door, waited patiently for his instructions.
“Opera house,” he said curtly, and climbed inside.
Twice on the road there, he rose to call to the coachman to take him to the Argyle Rooms but each time changed his mind and sank back in his seat.
At the opera house he avoided the blandishments of the prostitutes with practiced ease. From the buzz of conversation emanating from the house, he gathered the opera was not a popular one.
He entered Lady Dacey's box.
Honoria heard the door of the box being opened, then Lady Dacey's cry of, “Ware! How good of you to join us.”
The air about Honoria suddenly felt charged with electricity, as if before a thunderstorm. She kept her eyes fixed on the stage. She could hear the rapid murmur of her aunt's voice behind her and then the duke's answering laugh.
Pamela glanced anxiously at Honoria. Love had sharpened all her senses, and she knew in that moment that Honoria was upset by the duke's conversation with Lady Dacey. She hoped that Honoria would not do anything silly, like encouraging the attentions of Lord Herne in order to retaliate.
All Pamela could think of when the opera ended was the ball ahead. Lady Dacey's box was crowded at the end of the performance by young men, all paying court to Honoria. Some of them were very attractive, but Pamela was sure that Honoria did not really notice any of them and cursed the day when their carriage had overturned in that snow-storm. All her own fears of divine retribution came back. She herself was behaving disgracefully and every sin had its price. She bowed her head as if a weight had been put upon it.
At the ball, Honoria granted Lord Herne the first dance with every evidence of delight, and the duke danced with Lady Dacey. Pamela accepted her first partner with relief; relief at getting away from Mr. Delaney for a short time, Mr. Delaney with his Irish charm, Mr. Delaney who made her heart beat so quickly.
“I believe Honoria entertained you when she stayed at your hunting box by reading you sermons,” said Lady Dacey before twirling gracefully under the duke's arm.
“It was very ... er ... reforming,” he said with a smile.
“The dear girl started reading the psalms to me the other night, but fortunately I fell asleep.”
“Which should all go to show you that Herne is not the man for her,” said the duke.
“I think you are wrong. He is ready to settle down and mend his ways, and only see how Honoria smiles at him.”
The duke had a sudden desire to wring Honoria's slim white neck. Herne had a brooding, predatory look in his eyes. He wondered if Honoria knew she had no choice. Lord Herne was rich and influential. Lady Dacey would give her permission to a marriage and then write to Honoria's parents, who would be relieved that their daughter had secured such an eligible catch. Any protestations on her part about the character of the man would be ignored. He had seen many young misses standing red-eyed before the altar at their fashionable weddings.
He wondered whether it was his own vanity speaking to him or whether Honoria was being particularly pleasant to Lord Herne in order to get even with him for courting her aunt. He began to flirt outrageously with Lady Dacey. When he took her into supper, he noticed out of the corner of his eye that Honoria had accepted Herne's invitation and was sitting chatting to him in a flushed and animated way quite unlike her usual cold poise.
Pamela grew increasingly unhappy about her own situation. Honoria needed her help and her fulltime concentration. “Mr. Delaney,” she began. He looked at her intently, noticing the sadness in her eyes. “I have enjoyed our friendship, but even that must come to an end. No, let me speak. People will gossip so. Lady Dacey already has threatened to write to Honoria's parents about us. Besides, I am in London solely as Honoria's chaperon and must set her a good example and devote all my time to her.”
She had spoken in a low voice. They were surrounded by people. It was not the place to exclaim or protest. He would need to agree and then think furiously about what to do. So he said quietly, “As you will,” and Pamela forced a smile as she felt the bottom dropping out of her world. There was some small comfort. She had done the right thing. Now all she had to do was to wait for the pain of loss to go away.
After supper Honoria danced until her feet ached. She danced the waltz with Lord Herne, remembering that the duke had said they should always waltz together. He was waltzing with a buxom blonde and looked as if he were enjoying every minute of it. Perhaps Lady Dacey had noticed his enjoyment for after the waltz was over, she announced that they should go home.
When they arrived at Hanover Square in the gray dawn, Honoria, on alighting from the carriage saw the duke's carriage pulling up as well. “I have invited Ware to take tea with us,” said Lady Dacey, “But I am sure you are both too fatigued to join us.” This was delivered in the manner of a command rather than a statement.
Pamela and Honoria said goodnight to the duke in the hall and made their way upstairs. “What a night!” said Honoria, sinking down into a chair in her room. “If I feel exhausted now, think what it will be like when the Season begins.”
Pamela took a seat opposite her and said, “I have told Mr. Delaney our friendship must end. I cannot risk Lady Dacey writing to Yorkshire. I have been neglecting my duties as your chaperon.”
Honoria looked at Pamela's sad face and wondered what to say. Pamela had done just
as she ought, but on the other hand, when the Season was over, she had the rest of her life to face with the chilly vicar.
“You were encouraging Lord Herne tonight,” said Pamela.
Honoria looked away and said lightly, “It is the fashion to flirt.”
“There are many young and eligible men interested in you.”
“Such as Archie Buchan? They are probably all courting me because they believe me to be an heiress.”
“Nonetheless, it is dangerous to encourage such a man as Herne.”
“Pooh, go to bed, Pamela. I am well able to take care of myself.”
But when Pamela had left, Honoria paced restlessly up and down, trying not to think of the duke and Lady Dacey alone in the drawing room. She realized she was very hungry. She had eaten very little at the supper. She decided to go down to the kitchen and find something to eat rather than summon some sleepy half-dressed servant to attend her.
When she passed the drawing room, she noticed with primmed lips that the door was closed. From behind it came a murmur of voices. Her footsteps faltered, longing to listen at the door, but she went on down the stairs.
She cut herself a slice of game pie in the kitchen, drew a tankard of beer, and sat down at the scrubbed kitchen table and slowly ate and drank.
Lady Dacey was irritated with the duke. There was no sign of the flirtatious man of earlier in the evening. Instead he had given her a jaw-me-dead about the responsibility of bringing out a young girl and subjecting her to the iniquitous attentions of Lord Herne.
By the time he rose to take his leave, she was actually glad to see him go and remained sitting by the fire as he made his way out.
The duke descended the curved staircase to the hall. He had just reached the bottom step when Honoria emerged from the backstairs. She stopped at the sight of him.
She was still in her opera gown, one of those cunningly designed white dresses, heavily encrusted with embroidery, which revealed the excellence of her figure. She had removed her headdress and her brown hair curled delicately about her face and her blue eyes looked almost black.
He could not remember afterward approaching her, but suddenly he was standing next to her and the smell of her perfume was in his nostrils. They looked at each other in silence, both formal in evening dress, the duke in black coat and knee breeches, with a large diamond glittering in his cravat. He put his hands on either side of her face and bent his mouth to hers. Slowly they kissed, softly and intensely, lips only moving slightly against lips, body pressed to body, sweet emotions mingling, burning, feeling rising passion. He finally released her and said in a husky voice, “We must talk, but not now, not here.” He heard a movement from upstairs. “Tell Lady Dacey I shall call tomorrow at five to take you driving. Goodnight ... Honoria.”
He left abruptly. She heard the street door slam. She stood there for a few moments, one hand to her lips, wondering at the sudden rush of gladness, of safeness. Then she walked slowly up the stairs.
Lady Dacey emerged from the drawing room. She stopped short at the sight of Honoria. “Was that Ware leaving?” she asked. “Did you meet him?”
“Yes, Clarissa. He asked me to tell you he will be calling at five tomorrow to take me driving.”
“Oh, he did, did he? And what were you doing at this time of the day lurking about the hall waiting for him?”
“I happened to meet him when I was returning from the kitchen. I felt hungry and went to get something to eat.”
Lady Dacey gave her a long slow look and then retreated into the drawing room and slammed the door.
* * * *
When the duke returned to his own home, he found a letter waiting for him from Mr. Delaney. He read it with dismay and surprise. In it Mr. Delaney said he had borne enough. He was riding north to see “that vicar” and to ask him to release his wife.
“The mad Irish,” murmured the duke to himself.
Mr. Delaney said that Mrs. Perryworth was only to be told that he respected her wishes to end their friendship and that he had left Town.
The duke put aside the letter and then began to wonder what to do about Honoria. Before he proposed marriage to her, he must find out if her feelings matched his own. She had let him kiss her. Surely she had responded. But he had been so carried away by the tide of his own passion that now he was not sure if she had reciprocated.
He could barely sleep, although it was dawn when he went to bed. He found the day went so slowly that he could hardly wait for five o'clock to arrive to see how she looked, how she behaved, if that kiss had meant as much to her as it had to him.
At precisely five he arrived at Hanover Square and was shown up to the drawing room. Lady Dacey did not like the Green Saloon favored by Pamela and Honoria, simply because they preferred it.
The duke entered the drawing room. Lady Dacey was wearing a very dashing carriage dress of green velvet with gold frogs and epaulettes, and a bonnet decorated with cock's feathers on her head.
She smiled at him as radiantly as a young girl, holding out both hands to him in welcome. He kissed the air above both her hands and looked around. “Where is Miss Goodham?”
“Honoria sends her apologies. That tiresome sister of Mrs. Perryworth is ill again and has summoned her, and Honoria has gone too.”
His face was briefly a hard mask. “But I would adore a drive,” said Lady Dacey brightly.
He was suddenly too weary and jaded to make any protest. “Then I should be delighted to take you up,” he said.
* * * *
Honoria sat in that darkened room in Lincoln's Inn Fields and listened with half an ear to the whining of the invalid. Amy had returned to her couch. Honoria had not told Pamela about that kiss, feeling it something too precious to share. She had woken later that morning after only a brief sleep, full of excitement and anticipation, thanking God that that most unlikely of men, the Duke of Ware, had fallen in love with her.
And then at two o'clock in the afternoon, Lady Dacey had entered her private sitting room, saying, “Ware's servant has just called, Honoria. He says he is going to be too busy today to take you driving.”
Lady Dacey was just about to add that she wanted Honoria to do some shopping for her over at the mercer's on Ludgate Hill, so as to get the girl out of the house, when Pamela solved her problem by coming in at that moment to tell them that Amy had summoned her. Honoria said in a flat voice that she would go, too.
Both ladies listened to Amy and nursed their sore hearts. Pamela was trying not to think of Mr. Delaney and Honoria was trying to think of nothing at all.
* * * *
Mrs. Sarah Watkins was calling on the village gossip, Mrs. Battersby, for tea.
She talked of this and that and then brought the conversation around to Mr. Perryworth. “He lives in such a simple style,” said Mrs. Watkins. “But vicars do have very little to live on.”
“Oh, he does that through choice, not necessity,” said Mrs. Battersby. “He has a good private income from a family trust. He is related to Sir Giles Perryworth of Harrogate, that family. He must have accumulated a fortune because he spends little on his household. His wife makes her own gowns, poor thing, and they have no children.”
Mrs. Watkins, having gained the news she wanted, changed the topic. After she had left Mrs. Battersby, she walked slowly along the village street, deep in thought. Such money as she had was coming to an end and she shuddered at the idea of the workhouse. She had shrewdly sensed that the vicar had never been in love and had laid her plans accordingly. Had it transpired that the vicar had very little money, then she would have needed to find someone else.
Her steps took her in the direction of the vicarage. It was a dark windy day. She could see the oil lamp in the vicarage study burning brightly and the vicar bent over papers on his desk.
The vicar was writing to his wife, chiding her on the coldness of her letters, to ease his guilty conscience. Had he not met the delectable Mrs. Watkins, he would have found nothing wrong with his wife
's letters. Now he felt had Pamela been more affectionate, then he would not have found himself in this predicament, namely thinking of Mrs. Watkins every minute of the day.
The study window was open at the top, the vicar being a great believer in fresh air, no matter what the weather. He heard a sharp cry, borne on the wind. Jumping to his feet he looked out of the window to see Mrs. Watkins, her face distorted with pain, hanging onto the vicarage gate.
He ran out to her, crying, “What ails you?”
“My ankle,” she said breathlessly. “So silly of me. I twisted my ankle.”
“Come into the vicarage and let me have a look at it.” He put a strong arm about her and helped her along the path, glad that his cook-housekeeper had gone with the maid to the market in the neighboring town.
He helped her into an armchair in the parlor, stirred up the fire, and rushed to close the window, an act that would have surprised Pamela, who had long ago come to the conclusion that her husband thought that coldness was next to godliness.
He knelt down in front of the window as she raised her skirt to expose one neat ankle. “It doesn't seem swollen,” he said.
“These things always swell up later,” she said. He looked up at her. Her eyes began to glow. He was conscious of the emptiness of the house, of the wind howling in the chimney, of that coarse air of sensuality about her which stirred him so violently. He could not remove his gaze. He seemed to be trapped by her eyes. She gave a little sigh and moistened her lips with her tongue. Then all hell broke loose in Mr. Perryworth and he half crouched over her, kissing and kissing those full lips, lost to the world and reason.
Chapter Eight
THE SEASON HAD BEGUN.
Honoria and Pamela were both listless in contrast to Lady Dacey, who sparkled and shone in the latest of new gowns. They went to balls, parties and routs, to turtle dinners and picnics, and at several of these events, Honoria could see the tall figure of the Duke of Ware, but not once did he come near her or ask her to dance.
She was wretchedly hurt and ashamed. That kiss, which had seemed so wonderful and romantic, now appeared a dark and shameful thing, a practiced rake amusing himself at the expense of an innocent. She and Pamela returned to their prayers, foreswore their novels, and yet did not talk to each other about their sorrows. Honoria was too ashamed of being “tricked” by the duke, and Pamela felt she should not be breaking her heart over Mr. Delaney, whom, she felt, might have written to her before leaving Town.
The Sins of Lady Dacey Page 11
