Chapter 2
Honoria
“Where are you, Dermont?” Honoria mumbled to herself. It was a risk to predict where Dermont, would be, but she had to take her chances and the best bet was his personal study.
Being friends with the Wexfords, Honoria knew the layout of the house well enough, but when she burst into the study, she wasn’t quite as prepared as she thought she was.
She never was around Dermont. A tremor waltzed up her spine leaving footprints as if moving over sand.
She had been around the duke plenty of times, but never like this.
Alone in a relatively small space. A space that he filled with his immense and commanding presence without words.
Dermont was standing with both palms flat on the desk, austere as ever. Crisp cravat. Every obsidian hair combed neatly into place. Tight lips in a grimace as his ocean blue eyes scanned the papers before him.
“Just leave the tea on the table. I’ll see to it later,” he instructed without looking up.
As always, when he spoke her body reacted involuntarily.
Even after all these years of knowing him.
Temporary paralysis locked Honoria’s knees, or perhaps there was glue on the floor, preventing her slippered feet from moving.
Or maybe both. Either way, movement was not an option.
At least from anything beyond her face. But she was no stranger to her body’s response to him, and she knew it would pass quickly.
Her heart’s response on the other hand hadn’t seemed to dissipate over the years.
“I’m not here for tea, Dermont.”
At the unexpected voice, the duke’s head snapped up. It was a testament to his years of training in stoicism that he showed no emotion. That said his eyes did take in the closed door behind her with curiosity.
“What are you doing here, Honoria?”
Her legs begged her to sit, but her gut reassured her that to meet him eye to eye was the more impactful move. Well, as eye to eye as was possible, given the inches he had over her.
It was a long shot, but it was her only shot. “I’m here to collect on a favor.”
Nothing except his index finger flinched at her words. “A favor?”
“Yes. You owe me.”
“You must be joking.”
“I assure you, I’m not joking. I know I tend to leap before I look, but I’ve thought this through. You owe me, and I’m here to collect.”
Another nearly imperceptible flinch, this time in his brow.
He stood erect, arms crossed over his chest, his eyes narrowing to slits.
And he waited, silently. Perhaps he thought doing so would force her to retreat.
But she had a mission—father’s dying wish for her to paint a portrait of the duke and hang it in a gallery.
A mission that, if completed, would fill a yearning hole in her heart, and even more importantly would spur her sisters onto greatness.
When one succeeded, they all succeeded. That was the vision behind the Busty Bodice Club: unlace shame, replace fear, embrace love.
Their curves were no longer an object of reproach.
Their person, their essence, their unique contributions to the world were to be celebrated, and since confidence was contagious, Honoria needed to be successful in this.
Seeing he wasn’t going to budge, she continued. “My sisters and I distracted Countess Willoughby from thrusting her daughter upon you at the garden party last week.”
“And…?”
And…Well, that was the favor she was calling in, and it had to work. “A-and,” she stammed for the first time, “you owe me.”
“No.” And he dropped his head back to his papers as if they held the answers to the universe. Perhaps she could sneak a peek and find out if they had any advice for her. She took a step forward.
“You may go,” he commanded dismissively.
“Don’t you want to know the favor I’m calling in?”
“No.”
“But it’s a good one.”
“I’ll pass.”
“I think you might appreciate it, actually.”
Sarcasm bit off each word. “As much as I appreciated you rerouting Countess Willoughby? I’m good.” Lowering himself to his chair, he resumed focus on his papers.
Well, this was it then. She needed him to take her seriously. Quickly, she opened her valise and took out the long corded rope. She had the element of surprise on her side, so with swift movements, she stole close to him and started to wrap the rope around him and the chair.
“What are you doing, Honoria? I don’t have time for your ridiculous games.
” And he didn’t even fight her. He just sat back, allowing her to pull the rope tighter.
Once she had secured him, she put her knee against the back of the chair and pulled with all her might.
God, she was sweating. Hopefully she wasn’t hurting him.
But a woman had to do what a woman had to do.
She cinched it as tightly as she could and then tied a knot that no man could undo.
“There.” She huffed, wiping the sweat from her forehead, hoping that the perspiration under her arms wasn’t showing as she walked in front of him. “Now you must listen to me.”
A blank look stared back at her until he casually stood, shrugging the ropes off his person.
Drat.
“It’s time for you to leave, Honoria. I’ve put up with your games long enough.”
“But I just need to paint your portrait—”
“No.” And she didn’t fully understand what was happening next except that he was stalking her, and he continued until she retreated outside of the room.
And then he slammed the door in her face.
Right in her face. A slam. Of all things.
Not very ducal. Not very Dermont-y. And certainly not kind at all.
She stood staring at it in astonishment.
The door was closed.
Well, she huffed to herself, sometimes when one door was closed…one just burst right back through it.
She pushed her way back in. “Dermont, I really must insist—”
But large, hot-as-lava hands were on her upper arms, and for some reason those hands may have been over her mouth because she couldn’t utter a word in protest.
Back out in the hallway, she was preparing herself to charge right back in. The second she remembered how to speak. But then she heard it.
Drat. The quiet snick of the lock waylaid her determination. For now.