Chapter Eight

Honoria was so busy plotting ways to enlist the widows' unwitting assistance in delivering Mr. Flint from Addlewick that she

didn't pay any attention to the woven hamper on the floor of the carriage. At least, not until she kicked it with the toe

of her slipper.

It was the same hamper she'd taken on that irksome picnic. She was tempted to kick it again. "Whatever is this doing here?"

"Lord Vandemere returned it yesterday," Mother said absently, glancing up from the letter that had arrived just as they'd

left. Considering the elegant scrawl and the winsome smile on her lips, it was likely from Father.

Honoria often wondered how her parents' love had remained so strong throughout the years. As passionate individuals, their

fervent displays weren't only due to their mutual amour . They could also rail at each other until the roof tiles rattled. Or they could live at opposite ends of the house as if

the other didn't exist. Yet, through all their trials and tribulations, they always came back to each other, stronger than

before.

But what she couldn't understand was why her parents never seemed afraid that it would all be too much to take. Too much to

bear. And that, one day, it would all come to an end and be gone forever.

She frowned down at the hamper, blaming it for the dark cloud that descended on her thoughts. "That doesn't explain why it's here."

"Well, my inexplicably curious daughter," Mother began patiently, folding the letter and tucking it into her reticule, "after

driving you and Tally home, Oscar retrieved the dishes, hamper, shawls and pillows and returned them to Hartley Hall. Not

only that, but he'd begged an audience with our cook to extoll her with praises for the feast and, especially, for the biscuits."

"Ah. So that's the reason Mrs. Dougherty was all apple-cheeked smiles when we left."

"Indeed. She was so overjoyed that she baked a few cakes and tarts for our tea. Along with two parcels of biscuits, one of

which—I am to tell Oscar—is just for him."

Honoria wanted to despise the blackguard. Not because she thought he was scheming behind her back to win the favor of her

family's cook for some diabolical purpose, but because she knew he wasn't. Drat him. Just as she knew he hadn't been lying

to her yesterday about those biscuits having been the first he'd ever eaten.

His tell had been the embarrassment he'd attempted to conceal. And she might have felt a small twinge in the center of her

heart at seeing it.

Thankfully, he'd remedied that temporary ailment by proving himself to be a complete and utter arse.

"I daresay," Mother continued, "Mrs. Dougherty is half in love already."

"Then she falls in love far too easily."

"The first little stumble is often the easiest, and giving in to that giddy rush is so"—Roxana sighed, her eyes closing on

a smile—"lovely. Then comes the falling. Oh, that wondrous plummet into the unknown! It's positively terrifying. I cannot

wait until it happens to you."

Honoria slid a sideways glance to her mother. "Have you been spending too much time at the hatter's?"

She laughed. "No, dear. I'm not ready for the attic quite yet. It's just that your father and I are at an age of reminiscing. His letter reminded me of the longing that plagued us, that restless agony of being apart."

"Agony? It has only been a handful of days since Father and Truman left for London."

Reaching across the bench, Roxana squeezed her daughter's hand. "What I'm trying to tell you is that love is a sort of madness.

The fall turns everything upside down. And around. And over and through. It is an ever-constant and changing thing, and all

you have is each other to cling to. But that is what makes the journey so achingly beautiful. Because when you come to know

the heart of that person, only then will you understand the immeasurable capacity of your own. I want that for you and for

all of my children."

Realizing that her mother was caught in the current of another one of her romantic episodes, Honoria wished the postman's

horse had gone lame. The last thing she needed before stepping into the dragon's lair was for Roxana Hartley at her side,

offering her up as a sacrifice.

What she wouldn't give to trade places with Althea, who only had to suffer Lady Broadbent's quizzing glass this afternoon.

"Mother, surely you would agree that knowing someone— truly knowing them—takes time? A good deal of time in certain circumstances. Years, even."

"For some, perhaps. Not you and Oscar, of course. You already have a long history."

"We only just met," she lied, keeping every memory of Paris hidden behind a carefully bland expression.

"It has been seven years, dear. You were sixteen when you began writing letters to him, were you not?"

"I... suppose."

Roxana's lips curved, her chestnut brows arching suggestively. "Then, there's the matter of the sparks I saw between the two of you that first moment. That sort of animal attraction doesn't take any time at all. I thought we'd have to fetch a fire pail from the kitchen."

"I wouldn't say that there was any sort of—"

"Ah, splendid. We're here," Mother interrupted.

Honoria wasn't sure if their arrival saved her the bother of having to produce a plausible denial or if her mother had foreseen

said denial like a Shakesperean soothsayer and refused to give it any credence.

Not that it mattered. Whatever initial attraction she might have felt for that scoundrel had certainly dissipated after their

picnic.

She continued to tell herself that even as those demented moths in her midriff took flight when she saw him waiting for their

carriage and when he handed her down. And it was surely revulsion that caused her pulse to quicken when the tip of his index

finger brushed the inside of her wrist, just above the buttoned cuff of her kid glove.

"Miss Hartley," he said, bowing over her hand as the soles of her shoes settled onto the gravel in front of his.

When he did not release her, it became clear that he was waiting for her to greet him in turn. Waiting for her to address

him by the title that was not his own. The title that she had practically handed to him in Paris.

At the challenge in his gaze, her temper flared, incinerating the moths in one seething breath.

It pained her—oh, how it pained her!—but she managed a taut "Vandemere."

Then she jerked her hand free as he flashed a grin. She looked forward to wiping it off his far too smug face.

After directing a footman to retrieve the hamper, Roxana stood beside Oscar and relayed the message from their cook.

For a man who typically revealed only what he wanted others to see, it surprised Honoria to catch a brief glimpse of naked,

unexpected joy cross his countenance. And all because of biscuits.

Her throat tightened on a swallow the way it did on unstirred sugar at the bottom of her teacup. She hated him for it. Hated that he quickly concealed his response as if uncertain how to react to a show of simple kindness. And hated the fact that she could no longer murder him.

At least... not with a clear conscience.

The widows stood in the stark entry hall, like three pillars garbed in black. Alfreda Shellhorn and Millicent Fairfax did

not bother to alter their dour expressions with any pretense of pleasure in having company. Their youngest sister-in-law,

however, smiled genially.

"Welcome to Dunnelocke Abbey. How lovely it is to have visitors," Babette said in her breathy, effervescent voice. But as

a throat cleared beside her, she sobered marginally. "Though, Oscar was very naughty to send the invitation without informing

us first."

Alfreda slid a reproving glance to him. "Indeed. It is the lady of the house who sends the invitations."

"Or ladies , as the case may be," Millicent said tightly, her voice threaded with the barest hint of a Scottish brogue.

Before any reply could be offered by Oscar or the unwanted guests, Cleo Dunne entered the hall, the hem of her lavender skirt rustling, her blond head bent in conference with the slender

toffee-nosed steward walking beside her. The pair of them stopped, blocking the path of the footman carrying the hamper to

the kitchens.

Beneath a receding mousy brown hairline, Mr. Price's sparse brows lifted. Affecting a gasp, he splayed a hand beneath the

foppish waterfall of his cravat. "Dear me, I did not realize that the family's cook had taken ill."

"I had not heard of any ailment or incapacity on her part either," Cleo remarked and looked with exaggerated innocence to

the widows.

The steward swept a glance around the room and then, as if in understanding, proceeded to shift awkwardly. "Oh, I see. Though, I'm certain your esteemed guests meant no insult to Mrs. Blandings or her ability to prepare a simple tea."

Honoria bristled at his implication.

"That will be all, Mr. Price," Oscar cut in, his words sharp as teeth.

But the steward stood his ground until he received a nod from Alfreda and Millicent. Then, after an obsequious bow, he sauntered

off.

"I'm afraid that our gift has given the wrong impression," Mother interjected in her famed dulcet tone, rumored to have once

stopped a duel with the utterance of a single word. "Since our families have been acquainted for so many years, I could not

imagine arriving without a tangible display of my elation that we are all together again after so long apart."

"Aren't you a dear," Babette said with a sighing smile. Easily swayed to the enemy's camp, she came forward and began to lead

them toward the stairway. "I do hope there's cake."

Alfreda cleared her throat and gestured to the door just off the hall. "Sister, I believe our guests will be more comfortable

in this room."

"Surely, the blue—"

"Right this way," Millicent interrupted, blocking their path, her slender arm sweeping outward like Death swinging his scythe.

They were summarily ushered into the receiving room. Not the spacious blue parlor on the floor above, Honoria noted. But instead,

into a dingy yellow room with sun-faded brocade curtains, a clean but sparse rug and upholstered furniture worn thin to the

brown webbing beneath. And on the walls, where paintings had once hung, lingered rectangular and oval ghosts of golden color

not yet diminished.

"What a charming parlor," Honoria declared convincingly of the drab little room.

Alfreda's mouth twisted into a semblance of a smile, a murmured "Thank you kindly" seemingly wrenched from her soul.

When Oscar stepped into the room, Cleo sneered. "I did not realize you would be joining us, as well."

"Thought I'd get a feel for how these things are done properly. Wouldn't want to make another grievous faux pas, after all."

Unconcerned, he lowered his frame into a low-backed chair on the outer fringes of the furniture arrangement.

Honoria had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning at his quick reply, especially when his statement earned

lethal glowers from Alfreda and Millicent. Even though she didn't want to side with him, she couldn't stop herself from admiring

the way he handled the open animosity with aplomb. And yet, part of her also wondered where such a skill originated.

How much of this charlatan's life had he been kept on the outside of things, without ever truly belonging? Did he have parents?

Brothers or sisters? Other family?

Not that she cared. He was blackmailing her, after all. Therefore, he could go to the devil if he wanted companionship.

Tucking those thoughts away, she focused on removing her gloves... only to discover that two of her pearl buttons were

already unfastened.

The scoundrel!

Her accusatory gaze flew to Oscar. He arched a brow in response. Then his gaze slid down the front of her ice-blue dress with

indecent deliberateness. The wicked way his lips curved in a slow grin caused a rush of heat to creep to her cheeks, her skin

tingling where he'd touched her as he'd handed her down from the carriage.

Averting her face, she rubbed the susceptible skin over her pulse to quell the unwanted sensation and vowed to ignore him

for the remainder of the afternoon.

The tea arrived with great pageantry, a parade of servants toting trays of cakes, tarts and sandwiches.

Alfreda scowled from her perch on the edge of the sunken squirrel-colored settee. "How kind of you to have brought so many

pastries, Lady Hartley. I'm sure my cook is quite overwhelmed by your generosity."

She'd likely planned to serve the mealy currant scones that Honoria had heard mention of from one of the sculleries two days

ago as she was leaving.

"I believe you meant our cook," Millicent muttered beside her.

Cleo held her tongue, but her lips were pressed in white-edged disapproval as she poured the tea.

Babette, however, was too busy lifting the dome off the cake to notice anything else. "It looks positively scrumptious."

As the tea and pastries were served by one of the housemaids, Alfreda inquired about the time on the mantel clock. Assured

that it had been set just this morning by the butler, she dismissed the maid.

Ignoring the not-so-subtle invitation to leave as quickly as possible, Roxana smiled as she stirred her tea. "Now that your

nephew is home at last, we all have much to celebrate. You must be more than delighted by his return."

"We are happy to welcome him into the fold," Babette offered with a fond smile as she licked icing from the tip of her finger.

But when her sideways glance slid over Oscar in a slow head-to-toe sweep, it seemed a bit too fond in Honoria's opinion.

"Hmm..." Millicent murmured, eyeing the plum tart on her plate as though it were made of toads. "Though, it is a shame

he did not arrive with a considerable fortune to repair the abbey and make our fallow lands prosperous again."

"Fear not, Aunt Millie," Oscar said, his grin widening when she gritted her teeth at the moniker. "I fully intend to marry

into a fortune."

All eyes turned to Honoria.

"Oh?" Cleo perked up in her spindle-leg chair. "Have you a fortune, Miss Hartley?"

"I believe your cousin was merely jesting. He knows that I have no dowry of which to speak," Honoria said and was delighted

when the brief flicker of hope on the faces of the widows faded.

She had little doubt that they would put every obstacle they could summon in the way of their supposed nephew marrying a pauper.

Over the rim of her cup, she slid Oscar a seething glance of triumph.

"Some might think that is fortunate for you." Alfreda Shellhorn pursed her lips as she considered a marzipan lemon. "At least

you know he'll be marrying you for yourself and not everything you have, which will belong to him and to the estate the moment

you reach the altar."

Before Oscar lifted his own cup, Honoria saw that snake-tail curl of a smirk on his lips.

Her blood went cold. He knew she had two thousand pounds. But that was all she had for her future.

At one time, her actual holdings had been considerably greater. Signor Cesario was quite adept at playing the exchange, after

all. In fact, he had been rather plump in the pocket. But then there were necessary investments that had left Cesario's coffers a bit sparse.

Therefore, she knew that now was the time to bring the dragons over to her side.

"Of course, because your nephew has been out of society, he would likely require approval before being granted a marriage

license. Though, I'm certain the Archbishop of Canterbury would assist in that matter." She flitted her fingers as if the

legalities were of little consequence. "His Grace will likely take one look at Oscar's birth certificate, along with our betrothal

contract, and have all the proof he requires. Then the viscountcy and this estate will be completely and irrevocably his."

Millicent's cup clattered against the saucer in her slackened grasp.

Alfreda spluttered her tea on a cough.

Cleo blanched. "That cannot happen."

A storm brewed in Oscar's gaze. An answering smile curved Honoria's lips.

"Whyever not?" Roxana inquired. "If the children wish to wed, then I see no reason to wait."

"What our niece meant," Alfreda interjected in a carefully measured tone as she dabbed the corner of her mouth with a napkin,

"is that we have a tradition at Dunnelocke Abbey. A tradition where the male heir marries in our chapel."

Millicent nodded. "Quite true. However, at present, our chapel is in need of repair."

"Extensive repairs," Cleo added with a nod.

Honoria took a happy sip as another obstacle fell into place.

"I'm certain my husband and our tenant Mr. Lawson would be more than happy to assist. We are almost family, after all. And

besides, our situation is not quite as dire as my daughter led you to believe. She does, indeed, have a sizable dowry," Mother

declared, the lie rolling off her tongue as smooth as honey.

This time, Honoria nearly choked on her tea. She couldn't fathom why her mother would fabricate such a story. Ever since the

scandal, there had been no dowries for any of them.

But perhaps her mother merely wished to make a grand exit. A baroness could hardly do so with a dowryless daughter in tow.

Therefore, Honoria didn't give the announcement any credence.

"But that is a discussion for another time," Mother continued. "As for the wedding, I was thinking..."

As her mother continued on her fool's errand, the widows doggedly repeated their attempts to redirect the conversation to

the nonexistent dowry. And Honoria set her plate aside to enjoy the spectacle.

"Shall we wager on which side will prevail?" Oscar asked from beside her, his hand resting on the back of her chair.

She'd like to tell herself that the sudden escalation of her pulse was due to him startling her because she had not seen him

cross the room. But that was a lie. The truth was, from the moment he'd entered the parlor, her entire being had been attuned

to him, to his every glance in her direction and to every shift of his body. It seemed as though his every move sent a corresponding

vibration through her, as if they were tied together with puppet strings.

It was maddening. And now, he was caging her in on one side of the chair, the heat of him practically incinerating her clothes.

"No. I would not care to wager because I don't believe either side will win." Needing space and a heady gulp of air, she stood

and moved toward the open doorway.

He bent to pick up the gloves that had fallen from her lap and went to her, a smug grin on his lips as he thumbed one of the

buttons. "You didn't finish your cake."

"Most of it," she said as she snatched her gloves out of his grasp and began to put them on. "It was rather good cake, after

all. But I never eat the last bite."

"Why not?"

The instant his brows drew together in curious speculation, she wanted to kick herself. Her reason for never finishing the

last of anything—whether it was cake, porridge, partridge or coddled eggs—was not something she talked about.

The habit had started when she was little and a nursemaid had told her a fanciful tale about leaving an offering to visiting

angels. Then, in the months after her twin brother had died, whenever the servants had seen her crying, they would comfort

her by saying that her brother was an angel now. Ever since, she'd always left the last bite for him.

But that was a story she would keep to herself.

"It's common knowledge that one cannot have their cake and eat it, too. Much like your biscuits, which I noticed were absent from the tea tray," she pointed out with an arched look. "Surely, you do not intend to eat all of them yourself?"

"Indeed, I do. When it comes to things that bring me pleasure, I always indulge until I'm fully sated."

Was that a thinly veiled barb concerning the kiss he'd forgotten?

She narrowed her eyes and was about to strike back in kind... but just then, her mother stood, drawing their visit to a

close.

As if he pitied Honoria's failed rejoinder, he proffered an arm. "May I escort you, Miss Hartley?"

"I would prefer a slug to you," she hissed but smiled sweetly. She wouldn't want her mother to confuse animosity for sparks

again, after all. "Especially after your primitive display yesterday. You were quite rude to the Culpeppers."

Since she needed to put on a good performance for the widows, however, she laid her hand on his sleeve and walked out with

him, leaving the others a few paces behind.

"Simply playing a part, Signore. I believe you know a thing or two about that." He bent his head to whisper. "Besides, given

your current obsession about kissing, I wouldn't want those slathering puppies to have any hope that you would practice on

them."

"Who is to say that I haven't already?"

Oh, how she relished the dark clouds that swept over his gaze, a muscle ticking along in his jaw. And there was nothing he

could say in response because the others had caught up with them.

All in all, she felt that she'd won the day quite handily.