Chapter 15 #2
Clara gave a nervous laugh, wondering why he was interrogating her.
“I said she was rather deaf. Sometimes I believe she has selective deafness, but if I raise my voice, she hears me well enough. If she were entirely deaf, I should play the piano, for she has rather a fine one, but she says I have not the least talent and gets quite irate if I practise.”
She only said this to make him smile at her not unexpected lack of skill, for he was looking so grim-faced it made her anxious, as if she had somehow ruined his day. Yet his expression became increasingly dark. He glowered down at her, then at his horse, and at her once again.
Clara waited, sensing she was supposed to wait for him to speak but becoming fidgety the longer he did not do so.
“You like to play?”
She blinked up at him. “Very much, but sadly my aunt has the right of it. I have not the least bit of talent for it.”
“Nor ever will have if you do not practise,” he said, and so sharply it felt like a reproof.
He frowned down at his hands as his horse shifted restlessly beneath him.
He settled it again with ease, reaching down to pat the enormous animal’s silky neck.
Clara cast about for something to break the silence, which was becoming interminable, but at last he spoke.
“There is a fine piano at Hatherley Hall which will gather dust when we leave for London next week. You will make use of it whenever you wish. I shall tell Howard to expect you. Come every day if you so desire. Instruments are designed for use, and you will do my grandmother a service in keeping it in good working order. Good day, Miss Halfpenny.”
With a curt nod, he urged his horse into a trot and rode away.
The piano, she thought numbly, trying to make sense of it.
The piano at Hatherley Hall was hers to use as and when she wished.
Clara’s heart fluttered, an odd sensation that made her breathless as a strange sense of warmth enveloped her.
She stood gaping for some time after he’d ridden out of sight until Benny protested her immobility.
She set him down and the little dog looked up her quizzically, wagging his tail as if to ask what had just happened.
Clara laughed, staring at him in disbelief. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”
Cavendish House, Mayfair, London, 24th March 1816
Izzy blinked against the glare of sunlight as Janet pulled back the curtains.
“Morning, Miss Honeywell. I’ve brought you some breakfast.”
“Heavens, breakfast in bed?” Izzy pulled herself upright, smothering a yawn.
Janet settled the breakfast tray in front of her, and Izzy’s stomach gave an audible rumble.
She had barely touched the lavish supper given at Carlton House.
Eating at one in the morning seemed to her a very odd thing to do, and she had been in a state of acute anxiety after her run in with Boreas—Mr Midwinter, she corrected herself.
Thanking her maid, she reached for the steaming cup of tea.
Wrapping her fingers about the hot porcelain, she relished the heat as Janet made up the fire to a hearty blaze.
She sipped, remembering how cold and aloof he’d been…
until she pinched him, digging her fingers into the place the bullet wound lay under all that starched linen and beautifully tailored fabric.
Then those cold blue-grey eyes had blazed with a fire she recognised, and she had been glad, glad she had provoked it.
Worse, she had wanted to run straight into the flames and burn with him.
She shook her head, wondering at her own foolishness.
“Shall I lay out the pale primrose morning gown, miss? I expect you’ll have gentlemen callers after last night, and it’s ever so pretty.”
Janet held the beautiful dress out and Izzy smiled but shook her head.
“No, thank you. I shall wear my carriage dress and matching pelisse. I am expecting to be taken out for a drive this morning.”
Janet’s face lit with anticipation. “Oh, how lovely, miss. You’ll look a picture in that. What time is the gentleman calling?”
“At eleven,” Izzy replied, breaking off another piece of plum cake. She paused with it halfway to her mouth as she saw Janet’s expression of appalled disbelief.
“Eleven, miss? Lawks, but we’ll never be ready in time!”
Izzy blinked, confused. “Why, what time is it?”
“Ten o’clock, miss.”
“Ten!” Izzy stared at her. “It never is!”
It was unheard of for her not to be up before eight, and only that late if she had a lie in. Ten was decadent beyond belief.
Izzy stared at her, she would never get used to all the fuss and bother of having to dress with such a degree of nonsense.
Still, she did wish to look her best. “I’m sorry, Janet, I had no idea it was so late.
I’ll be done with breakfast in a trice,” she promised, hurriedly stuffing the cake into her mouth.
Janet laughed and shook her head, resigned to rushing about. “Nevermind, Miss. You’re not used to late nights, I’ll warrant. Shame the weather isn’t better. I don’t reckon we’ve seen a glimmer of sun so far this year. You’d best take that pretty muff to keep your hands warm.”
Izzy could not argue the point, but she didn’t care a jot for the weather. It could snow for all she cared. She was going to see Bo—Mr Midwinter—again, and she meant to discover exactly what he was playing at.
Though it galled him to do as he was told, Ben arrived at Cavendish House at eleven a.m. precisely.
Jumping down from the high-perch Phaeton, he handed the reins to his tiger, a small, wiry fellow by the name of Ray—or Renard, the French word for fox.
The nickname Ben had christened him with had less to do with his colouring, which was more sandy than red, and more to do with his narrow, sly-looking face and his ability to creep through the dark without a sound.
It was an admirable quality for a smuggler, and his knack with horses made him an exceptional tiger.
Benedict trusted him more than he trusted most people, which was to say, only up to a point.
He strode up the stairs and gave a peremptory knock on the door, which was answered almost at once.
“Miss Honeywell is expecting you, sir,” the butler told him, and Ben nodded, expecting to be kept waiting for a time, but quick footsteps on the stairs heralded an arrival, and he looked up—and all the air in the room seemed to disappear.
It had been bad enough last night, though he had heard in the nick of time that Lord Beaumarsh had returned to town with his new wife and her unmarried sister.
If he had not known that, if he had come upon her unexpectedly, he did not know what he might have done.
As it was, it had been all he could do to remain aloof. But now…
As she walked downstairs, her eyes shielded by those pretty spectacles, appeared wary, with all her former warmth restrained, as if a fire guard contained the heat.
She looked every inch the fashionable young lady, wearing a carriage dress of pale lavender silk, with a matching pelisse trimmed with swansdown.
A dove grey satin carriage bonnet framed her lovely face, trimmed with a cluster of silk violets and tied beneath her chin with wide lavender silk ribbons.
Her slender hands were encased in fine ivory kid gloves, and she carried a muff trimmed entirely with white and lilac feathers.
In short, she looked perfectly edible, and the memory of the kiss they had shared burst to fiery life in his mind.
He remembered the taste of her, the feel of her body, the silken glide of her skin as he trailed his tongue over her lush breasts, and the way she held nothing of herself back.
Not so now. She looked elegant and remote, and he’d best ensure it stayed that way.
He must stay away from her for her own good.
Not that she’d see it that way. Yet desire shot straight to his groin, and he fought not to betray so much as a flicker of what he felt as she made her way towards him.
“Good morning, Mr Midwinter. You are prompt. Shall we go?”
Ben inclined his head. “I am yours to command,” he said, hearing the slightly husky quality of the words and reminding himself sternly he was here for one reason and one reason alone: to warn her off.
She swept past him, out of the door the butler held open for her and waited by the carriage. Ben slanted a glance at Ray, who returned a bland look that suggested to Ben he’d be in for a deal of backchat when this ordeal was over.
Ben offered her his hand, denying he felt anything as she placed her fingers in his and he helped her up into her place. She stepped up with effortless grace, settling herself down as if she had not the slightest qualm about seeing him again, or about being seated so high above the ground.
Taking his place beside her, Ben nodded to Ray, who released the spirited steel grey horses and hurried around the back of the carriage to take his place.
With a light flick of the reins, the horses moved off.
Ben stole a glance at Izzy, wondering what she thought, if perhaps she was afraid of driving with him.
High perch Phaetons were notoriously dangerous, but only if the driver was a half-wit.
If one hadn’t the necessary skills, one ought not to make the attempt.
They drove in silence for a few minutes as Ben navigated his way back out onto the street.
It was quiet yet, but the fashionable set were on the move.
“A beautiful pair of horses,” she said as the carriage took them over the cobblestone of Berkeley Square. “Expensive, I should think.”
Ben’s lips twitched despite himself. “It is vulgar to speak of money, Miss Honeywell, did you not know that?” He resisted the desire to look at her, too afraid of what he might see in her eyes.
“Vulgar indeed, but a man who wore so many glittering rings on his fingers did not strike me as one who was shy about such things.”