Chapter 14 #2
“Don’t be nice to me,” Izzy warned her. If Clemmie was nice to her, she would weep, and that would be a fine first impression to make.
Clementine nodded, understanding at once and letting go of her hand. Instead, her voice was brisk. “How do you know him?”
“Who?” Izzy asked dully, her stomach churning as she realised her odd behaviour would need explaining.
“Don’t be obtuse and don’t treat me like I’m an idiot. You know very well who I mean. Mr Midwinter.”
“I don’t know him,” she said, honestly she supposed, which made her want to cry all the more.
Clementine let out an impatient sigh. “Fine. Don’t tell me. But would you try to remember that I’m on your side, love? Whatever it is, you can trust me. Sylvester too. If this Midwinter fellow has done something to upset you—”
“He hasn’t,” Izzy said at once. “Truly. It’s… It’s fine. I’m sorry for my behaviour. I’ll do better, I promise.”
Clementine regarded her suspiciously and shook her head. “I don’t trust you, Izzy. Not an inch. Just so long as you know that.”
Izzy just smiled, for what else could she do?
Carlton House, Pall Mall, London, 23rdMarch 1816
Ben muttered an oath under his breath. He’d been at this blasted affair for nigh on two hours, and still no sign of his quarry. Yet the information had been good. He had to be here, but then what? Exactly what could he do if he was?
Watch him, certainly. See whom he spoke to. But he needed someone who could get close to the devil, who could find the proof he needed. Unless the reverend came through with information to implicate the bastard, it was his only hope.
Ben knew well that this ought to be the sole focus of his attention tonight, but his nerves were in tatters.
In the first place, he loathed the pomp and formality of the setting, especially with everyone whispering about him behind his back, raking up his father’s old scandal and setting the fire burning again.
Oh, they were so polite to his face, for he had returned a wealthy man, and wealth could remedy so many little difficulties.
Like the abduction of a young woman, barely more than a child, and a forced marriage.
In the second… Plague take him, he could hardly think of anything else, though Isabelle Honeywell had never been second to anyone or anything in her life.
That she currently wanted to stab him through his black heart with whatever sharp object she could lay her hands on was not in question.
It was a complication he had not bargained on.
If the way he’d treated her when he’d left Little Valentine hadn’t been bad enough, pretending he had no clue who she was rubbed a good deal of salt into the wound.
Perhaps he ought to relent and admit the obvious, yet then she would undoubtedly get herself involved.
She was not the kind of woman who would happily sit back and let him do his dangerous work alone, she’d proven that much—and she had been wearing his ring.
That had nearly undone everything. She should never have worn it.
He should never have given it to her. He could have given her a note instead, for Eddie knew his hand well enough.
But no, he’d had to offer a romantic gesture because he had wanted her to remember him.
And now she was wearing the damned thing.
The shock of it had been so great that he did not know how he’d kept his countenance.
His ring. His. A thrum of possessive satisfaction vibrated through him still, down to his bones.
Of course, it was a pretty ring, and she would want to wear it for that reason alone.
That didn’t mean she thought of him, it meant nothing at all.
Yet he refused to believe it. Well, after tonight she would likely throw it in the nearest midden and never wish to see him or it again.
The desire to tell her, to explain everything, was hard to resist, but he dared not.
If she knew, it would place her in a difficult position.
Even if he could persuade her to stay out of it, knowing would put her in danger, and he’d done enough of that already.
She would think him cruel for denying their past, and perhaps she would despise him for it, but better that than see her come to harm.
He was unreliable, unworthy of her trust. He knew that much.
Any woman fool enough to depend on him ended up dead.
His enemies were closing in, and if he lost, he would hang.
If he had any sense of honour, he would keep everyone at arm’s length, let them despise him, and then they’d not be the least bit surprised when he turned out to be every bit the villain they’d suspected.
With a curse, he realised he must seek her out, for the dance he’d agreed to—damn Hartwell to Hades, the interfering lout—was soon to begin. Yet his heart thudded with anticipation.
Though he had his own reasons for being here, he could not deny how badly she distracted him.
She had been popular this evening, dancing nearly every dance, and beautifully too.
She was beautiful. He had known it the first time he had ever seen her, walking beside her father and looking every inch the country miss.
But here, dressed in satin and lace, she outshone everyone around her.
The virginal white gown was a rebuke, though, a timely reminder, if he’d needed one.
She was innocent, and he had no right to think of her.
His presence would not only taint her, it might do her irrevocable harm.
Yet he felt a surge of jealousy towards every young man who sought her out, knowing they could approach her honestly, when he could not.
They had not kissed her, though. Those men did not know the taste of her, the way she felt in his arms. They did not know that she was as bold and fiery in her responses to him as she was in every aspect of her life. His courageous Miss Honey.
She turned before he reached her, as if she had sensed his presence, which was ridiculous.
But the way she looked at him, skewering him with her sharp blue gaze, seeing right through him, it made his heart thud uneasily.
This woman knew him. She knew too much. He still did not know if he had let anything slip when he was fevered.
She had said he hadn’t, but he wasn’t sure he believed her.
He recalled the sound of her voice, sweet and steady, anchoring him to this world when it would have been so easy to let it go, to give up.
But she’d held him in place, refusing to let him slip away.
The man beside her spoke, and Izzy turned away from him to answer, and Ben froze, suddenly realising to whom she was speaking.
Hell and the devil!
Izzy turned back to the group she stood with and did her best to calm herself as he drew closer.
She would not let the wretched man unsettle her and make her miserable.
Yes, she would have the truth from him if it killed her, but then he could go on his merry way and pretend to be Mr Midwinter, or Boreas, or whatever other alias he slipped into when the mood took him.
“But I know Little Valentine very well! Do I not, Miss Honeywell?”
Irritated, Izzy pasted a smile to her face and returned her attention to the conversation, and the man who had dominated it for the past twenty minutes.
“Indeed. Lord Alveston dined with us at the vicarage.”
“And a splendid evening it was, with such delightful company. I do hope I shall be given the opportunity to repay you for your hospitality, Miss Honeywell. And Lord and Lady Beaumarsh, of course. I do not expect you to allow such a lovely young creature to dine alone with an old bachelor like me,” he added with a self-deprecating smile.
He did it very well, Izzy thought. Even Clementine, who was usually an astute judge of character, seemed charmed by him. Yet Izzy’s skin crawled.
“Miss Honeywell.”
An altogether different reaction greeted Mr Midwinter as he arrived beside their little group.
His voice set her nerves leaping, anticipation thrumming beneath her skin.
Her entire body came to attention and though she tried not to, she remembered the way he had touched her.
The feel of his hands upon her breasts, his lips and tongue.
She flushed hotly, pretending to be startled to cover her confusion, though she had known he was there, and he knew it too.
“My dance, I believe.”
He put out his hand to her, and Izzy swallowed. She wanted to touch him too badly for her own peace of mind. “Indeed, it is, Mr Midwinter.”
“Midwinter?”
Lord Alveston, damn him, spoke up before she gathered her nerve enough to take his hand.
“Is this the same fellow you said owned Winsham Castle, Miss Honeywell?”
Izzy saw Midwinter’s gaze sharpen immediately, darting between her and Lord Alveston.
She wondered what that look meant but turned back to Alveston.
“I believe so, my lord. Though you had best ask Mr Midwinter. I know that is the family name of the people who owned it, but more than that, I only know what all of society whispers.”
Lord Alveston regarded Mr Midwinter, who returned an insolent glance. “I do not believe we have been introduced,” he said coldly, examining Alveston as though he was beneath his regard.
“Oh, I’ll do the honours then,” Lord Beaumarsh said, stepping into the breach. “Lord Alveston, may I make known to you Mr Benedict Midwinter. Midwinter, Lord Alveston.”
Both men considered each other, neither giving much away. Boreas—no, Mr Midwinter—looked bored to death, but he replied to the question that had been posed to Izzy. “I am the owner of Winsham Castle, for what that’s worth. It’s little more than a pile of stone. Why, my lord?”