Chapter 13

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

T he grand ballroom of Lady Peabody's mansion was filled. The ladies, draped in rich satins and shimmering silks, twirled gracefully across the polished marble floor, their gowns vibrant in hues of deep emerald, sapphire, and lilac. Delicate lace adorned sleeves and necklines, and jewels sparkled at throats and wrists, catching the soft glow of candlelight from the chandeliers above. Laughter echoed lightly through the room, mixing with the lively strains of the orchestra as couples danced with effortless grace.

Groups of women gathered near the edges of the dance floor, their fans fluttering as they whispered and giggled behind them.

"There is no need to be uncertain," her father murmured. "I am with you."

"Thank you, Papa."

Honor had spent a couple of hours meticulously preparing her appearance, determined to project an image of grace and confidence and would remind society that she was the daughter of a viscount, regardless of the rumors. She wore her loveliest ballgown, a pale lilac creation that shimmered softly under the candlelight, the neckline delicately adorned with tiny seed pearls. Her hair had been swept up into a chignon, with soft tendrils framing her face. Pearls, woven into her hair added a touch of elegance. Around her throat, she wore a pearl necklace, the gleaming orbs resting against her skin like drops of moonlight.

Honor forced herself to take a steadying breath. She entered on her father's arm, her mother and sister following closely. Normally, the warmth of the ball's atmosphere would make her heart race with nervous anticipation and hope, but tonight ... tonight was different.

She sensed it immediately.

A wave rippled through the throng as they walked inside. Heads turned, glances were exchanged, and fans snapped open like weapons ready for battle. The whispers began almost immediately, hushed voices rising just loud enough for Honor to catch fragments of conversations as she passed.

"That's her, the one who—"

"—tried to trap Lord Whitby."

"I heard she deliberately cornered him."

The words hit her like a physical blow, but she kept her face composed, refusing to let them see her crack. Her grip tightened on her father's arm, drawing on the strength he usually provided, though tonight, even he seemed tense, his jaw set and brow furrowed.

They paused, allowing Honor's mother, Viscountess Shelton, to walk ahead with her chin held high, every inch the picture of dignity. Yet even she could not stop the subtle but undeniable shift in the crowd. Where once they had been met with nods and polite greetings, now they were met with whispers and pointed stares.

Honor swallowed hard, fighting the prickling sensation behind her eyes. She wanted to disappear, to shrink back into the shadows. But she couldn't. Not here. Not now. Moriah, who had been the toast of the season, stood beside her, looking as beautiful as ever in her pale lavender gown, her delicate blonde curls framing her lovely face. Yet, not a single gentleman approached. Where there had once been eager beaus vying for her attention, there was now an empty space, as though an invisible line had been drawn, warning them to keep their distance.

The viscount who had been courting Moriah, and who had promised her a ride in his phaeton only days ago, glanced their way briefly before turning his back and walking toward another group. The rejection was as clear as day.

Moriah's eyes shimmered with unshed tears, her posture rigid. She had not said a word since they entered, but the humiliation was etched in every line of her face. Honor's heart ached at the sight. She could endure the scandal, the whispers, the cruel rumors—but seeing her sister, the bright, joyful girl who had once danced at every ball, now standing as still as a statue, ignored and shunned—it was unbearable.

Their mother, too, was struggling to maintain her composure. Though the viscountess carried herself with grace, Honor saw the mortification in her mother's eyes, the slight tremble of her fan as she held it tightly in her gloved hand.

"Mama," Honor said quietly, "I believe we should leave."

"No," her mother said. "I will make the rounds and greet my friends. Moriah, you will accompany me."

She tried to not feel the sting of her mother's choice for she understood. Her sister still had a chance to make a good match. Honor stood by the sidelines as she usually did, pretending to watch the dancers but hearing only the cruel whispers.

"She's a schemer, that one."

"Poor Lord Whitby, caught in her trap."

"Of course, she's ruined now, and so is her sister."

Her vision blurred, mortification weighing heavily on her chest. She took a steadying breath and lifted her chin, determined not to let her tears fall. She would not let them see her break. Not here. Not in front of these people.

Across the ballroom, she saw her dear friend, Lady Grace, attempting to make her way over to her. Relief washed over Honor, her heart lifting. But before Grace could reach her, her mother, the formidable Duchess of Windermere, caught her by the arm. The duchess whispered something sharp into her ear, and though Grace cast a desperate glance in Honor's direction, she reluctantly allowed her mother to lead her away.

Honor bit the inside of her cheek, willing herself not to cry. Even Lady Grace, her dearest friend, had been pulled away by the iron grip of society's rules. It wasn't even an hour into the ball when her father quietly approached her. His face was pale, his mouth a thin line of barely concealed anger and frustration.

"We are leaving," he said under his breath, his voice tight. "We have been humiliated enough for one evening."

Honor nodded and followed her father, her mother and Moriah close behind. Once outside, she took in a sharp breath of the cool night air, the oppressive weight of the ballroom lifting. Her family said nothing on the ride home, the silence between them thick and suffocating. Moriah seemed to barely hold onto her composure, lifting her fingers to dash aside her tears.

Her family's reputation—her sister's debut—all of it hung in wretched balance, and she had no notion of how to resolve their situation.

Another sleepless night had left Honor exhausted, and she smoothed down the front of her gown as she made her way to her father's study. The door was slightly ajar, but she knocked softly before entering. Her father sat behind his large, oak desk, looking as though he had aged overnight. His hair was mussed, his face drawn with fatigue. Her mother sat in one of the wingback armchairs, a cup of tea clutched in her hands. Her eyes were rimmed with red, a clear sign she had been crying recently.

Her father cleared his throat, the sound breaking the tense silence, and drummed his fingers lightly on the desk. "I called upon Lord Whitby this morning," he said, without preamble.

Honor froze, her breath catching in her throat. She remained motionless, the only movement the faint rise and fall of her chest.

"Lord Whitby will call upon you this afternoon," her mother said gently, her gaze filled with sympathy. "I know this is not what you hoped for. However, after our reception last night, this is no doubt the only way we move forward. Your alliance with the earl will be seen as a suitable match."

"Seen by whom?" Honor asked hoarsely. "Why is everyone's consideration being weighed except mine—the one who is being forced to marry that libertine?"

Her mother's expression faltered, but her father's response was swift and firm.

"Marriage to the earl is the only way to restore your reputation," he said, his tone clipped. "This will allow you to regain your standing in society. A long engagement will not be necessary. The earl will procure a special license to expedite the process."

"I cannot—" Honor began, her voice breaking, but her father's hand slammed down onto the desk, silencing her.

"Without this marriage," he said sharply, "you will have no choice but to flee to the countryside and remain in seclusion for years. There will be no more seasons, no prospects, nothing ."

The words struck her like a blow, the weight of them settling heavily in her chest. But even so, the thought of marrying Whitby, of spending her life shackled to such a man, filled her with revulsion. "Then I will do that, Papa," she said. "I will go to the country rather than marry him."

"This is not only about you, Honor," he said sharply. "You might be willing to sacrifice your future, but what about your sister? Do you think Moriah will have any prospects left if you refuse? Her introduction to the ton will be tarnished before it even begins. You have a duty to think beyond yourself. If you have another suitor in mind, present him, and I will make the same offer I did with Whitby!"

For a long, agonizing moment, Honor could not find her voice. Her vision blurred, and her heart felt heavy with the weight of her family's expectations. Her father made the earl an offer to marry her. Despite his despicable behavior, he still had to be convinced, no doubt, with a staggering sum.

How could they expect her to marry a man like Whitby? How could they ask her to ruin her own life for the sake of propriety? But how could she sacrifice Moriah's happiness? How could she ignore her family's position in society? Honor's chest heaved with the effort to maintain her composure.

"I need some air," she whispered, her voice barely audible as she turned on her heel and fled.

Her mother called after her, but Honor didn't stop. It was as if her feet moved independently, carrying her toward an escape. Outside, the rain had begun to fall, a soft patter against the windows growing louder as she pushed open the door and stepped into the downpour. She didn't bother with a bonnet or cloak, the chill of the rain quickly soaking through her gown. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered but getting to the one place that always gave her strength—48 Berkeley Square.

The rain intensified, the droplets stinging her cheeks as they mixed with the slight wind whipping the hem of her gown around her ankles. The walk to Berkeley Square was at least thirty minutes, but Honor didn't care. She needed her friends—the women who had become a second family to her. Mischievous, kind, and fiercely loyal, the ladies of Berkeley Square had a way of making the impossible seem within reach. Somehow, she knew they would help her find a way out of this nightmare.

She only needed to hold on until she reached them.

But as the rain poured harder, her composure finally cracked. To her horror, the tears she had fought so valiantly to suppress broke free, mingling with the rain as she sobbed, her heart heavy with fear and uncertainty.