Chapter 19

CHAPTER NINETEEN

H onor was nestled comfortably on the chaise in the library, completely absorbed in the pages of her novel. The crackle of the fire and the soft glow of the setting sun filtering through the curtains made everything feel serene. It was a welcome change, especially now that her thoughts were no longer consumed by the memory of last night—dancing with the duke, her unplanned flirtations that had bloomed so unexpectedly. Whenever she was with him, Honor felt ... different.

I shall not think about Jasper anymore , she silently vowed, turning the page of her novel. The quiet afternoon offered a rare moment of peace after the frantic pace of the last few days, and she had seized the opportunity to lose herself in the world of Jane Austen. Persuasion was captivating, and her heart ached for Anne Elliot and Captain Wentworth.

The library door burst open. Honor looked up, startled, as Moriah rushed into the room, her cheeks flushed and her breath quick. Quickly setting her book down, Honor sat up. "Moriah, what is it? What's wrong?"

But Moriah's expression wasn't one of distress; her eyes gleamed with excitement. She practically danced over to Honor, holding out a letter with a wide smile.

"Look," she said, her voice full of joy. "Viscount Creswick wrote to me. He said he's missed me!"

Honor took the letter and glanced over the neat handwriting, a frown tugging at the corners of her lips. While she was pleased for her sister, a flicker of doubt gnawed at her. She handed the letter back with a small smile.

"I am happy for you, Moriah, truly. But are you sure you should be so quick to forgive him? He was all too willing to ignore you when difficulties arose."

Moriah's expression faltered, annoyance flashing in her blue eyes. "It's understandable, Honor. The scandal surrounding our family put everyone in an awkward position. I don't blame him for stepping back and ignoring us for a few days. And now he's returned! I have forgiven him. I am so certain that he will make me an offer."

"Do you wish to marry him?"

"Oh, yes, I have the most violent tendre for him."

"I understand, but please be cautious in your expectations."

"We are not the same," her sister said. "You have been cautious for three seasons and received no offer! What has it gained you but unhappiness?"

Honor sighed softly, watching as Moriah turned on her heel, clearly not in the mood to listen to any more of her advice. Her sister took a few steps toward the door before stopping abruptly and turning back around.

"Honor ... I must ask," Moriah began. "Why is the Duke of Windermere paying you attention? It seems ... unlikely that he wants to court you. I mean, there are so many beautiful debutantes he could choose from. What do you think his intentions are?"

The question stung more than Honor had expected, but she hid her hurt behind a composed smile. "We're friends," she said quietly, keeping her tone light.

She had no intention of telling her sister about the arrangement she and the duke had made. Not when Moriah might share it with Viscount Creswick or, worse, with those hypocritical friends who had stopped calling on her once the scandal broke.

Moriah seemed unconvinced but didn't press the matter further. She shrugged lightly, then offered a smile. "Well, I'm glad for you, too. Just ... be careful, please?"

"I will," Honor replied softly, her gaze drifting back to the book she had set aside.

With that, Moriah turned and left the room, her excitement still evident in the bounce of her step. Honor watched her go, a mix of emotions swirling within her. She was truly happy for her sister, but the doubts about the viscount lingered. He had seemed to be earnestly courting her sister, and in the days since the scandal swept through drawing rooms, he had withdrawn himself, canceling two planned outings.

Was it truly understandable? Did it now prove how inconstant and unsupportive the viscount's character was? Honor leaned back against the cushions and tilted her head to the ceiling. Perhaps she was being too hasty in her judgment. Honor picked up her book again, but the words blurred as her sister's sharp words echoed in her mind.

You have been cautious for three seasons and received no offer! What has it gained you but unhappiness?

But it wasn't caution with suitors that had kept her heart guarded and indifferent. The truth was, no man had ever stirred her, had ever commanded her attention—until the Duke of Windermere. She recalled the first time she had seen him, over three years ago at her second ball of the season. He had appeared so commanding, his tall frame cutting an imposing figure. His gaze had swept the room with chilling confidence, yet it had paused on her for the briefest moment. She could still feel the weight of it—sharp, assessing, before it moved on. But that moment had lodged itself in her heart.

Why did your gaze pause on me when so many remain politely indifferent?

Ever since, Jasper had lingered on the edge of her awareness, stealing into her thoughts and even into her dreams. She had never dared flirt with him, never allowed herself to cross that line. After all, he was a duke, her dear friend's brother, far beyond her reach. Yet his voice had always struck her as soothing and compelling, even when delivering a scathing political argument in print. She had read his published speeches and motions, drawn to his intellect as much as his presence. And then there was his smile—the one that rarely appeared but had the power to make her heartbeat quicken and her belly flutter, an unwelcome but undeniable reaction she had never felt for any other gentlemen when they deigned to dance with her.

Lifting her fingers to her lips, she recalled the feel of his mouth on hers, the heated pleasure that had swept through her like a tidal wave, pushing away all fear and doubt. It had been intoxicating and overwhelming—enough to shake her heart and stir improper longings. Something deep and inexplicable stirred within her, urging her to explore this attachment and see where it could lead.

But reason—cold, hard reason—slapped her back to reality.

"Oh, what am I thinking?" she whispered, her voice tight with frustration. "He's betrothed. He could never make me a respectable offer."

Yet even that reasoning couldn't stop the yearning spreading through her chest. Frustrated with herself, Honor pushed aside all thoughts of the duke and forced her eyes back to her novel. She needed to reassert her practical sense and suppress the shattering attraction she had always felt.

The next day, another ballroom glittered with soft candlelight and the rustle of silk gowns, the room filled with music and laughter. Moriah looked especially radiant, her pale blue gown a perfect complement to her sparkling blue eyes. She was the picture of beauty and grace, a vision that drew admiring glances from every corner of the ballroom. Honor stood quietly on the sidelines with her mother and sister, watching the evening unfold. They had been at the ball for over an hour now, and while their arrival had caused quite a stir, no one had yet approached them.

"Do you think the duke will attend?" her mother asked, her voice low as she spoke behind the fan lifted to her mouth.

"I am not sure, Mama," Honor replied.

They hadn't come to Countess Peabody's ball at the duke's request; the invitation had been received weeks before the scandal. Still, Honor had sent him a note earlier that day, informing him of her attendance, but she had yet to receive a response.

Her mother sighed, her expression fretful. "This cold reception is undoing the success we gained last evening."

"It will take time, Mama," Honor said, trying to sound reassuring, though the sting of being avoided was felt. The whispers and sidelong glances were impossible to ignore.

"Mama!" Moriah suddenly gasped, her eyes wide with excitement. "I think Lord Creswick is coming over."

And indeed, the viscount was cutting through the throng, his eyes lighting up as they found Moriah across the room. A warm smile spread across his face as he approached. He bowed graciously and exchanged mild pleasantries before asking Moriah for the next dance. She beamed and immediately accepted, her cheeks flushing as she took his arm and was swept onto the dance floor.

"This is wonderful," her mother said, smiling.

Other gentlemen came forward, requesting dances with Moriah. Her sister's joy grew with each partner, her laughter bubbling as she twirled across the floor. Honor stood in quiet support, trying her best to mask the gnawing ache in her chest. No one had asked her to dance—not a single gentleman.

It wasn't long before the next blow came. Lord Whitby was announced, and as soon as his name echoed through the ballroom, the whispers erupted around her, as sharp as needles. All at once, the pointed stares returned, directed at her with renewed interest.

"Oh dear, I am certain we are poised to witness a grand spectacle," a lady behind her gasped.

"Goodness, he is approaching her."

"It must be true they are ... connected ," someone hissed. "How does she dare show her face? Clearly, His Grace is deceived in her character."

Honor's heart lurched. To her shock, Whitby indeed approached her, striding with calm confidence. As those who had erupted in whispers fell silent, he bowed formally before her.

"Miss Shelton," he said, his voice smooth and low, "would you honor me with this dance?"

Honor froze, her fingers curling into a fist around her fan. For a moment, all she could hear was the rush of her own pulse in her ears. She lifted her chin, her gaze steady, and said, "No, thank you, my lord. I am not at all dancing this evening."

It was scandalous for a young lady to refuse to dance with a gentleman, but Honor would rather find a rat and kiss it. She allowed that cool hauteur to form her expression and a quirk to touch her mouth. The duke would inarguably be proud if he saw her. The air seemed to thicken around them as whispers rose again, but Whitby, to her surprise, didn't react with anger or insult. Instead, he gave her a polite nod, his expression somber.

Was he wearing makeup? And why did his eyes seem purple?

"I understand," he said quietly. Then, in a voice loud enough for the surrounding guests to hear, he added, "And I deeply apologize, Miss Shelton, for my part in any misunderstanding you have suffered. I drank too much and stumbled to the ground, and you were gracious enough to help me, and baseless rumors started. I hope, in time, you can forgive me."

The crowd around them buzzed with shock, some looking at her with curious eyes, others with disbelief. Honor stared at him, stunned. Whitby's public apology, coined in deceit, left her speechless. What game was he playing now?

Before she could find the words to respond, the Marquess of Hollybrook appeared at her side. Bowing deeply, he smiled at her with a playful glint in his golden eyes. "Miss Shelton, might I have the pleasure of this dance?"

Grateful for the interruption, Honor accepted his offer. Lord Hollybrook led her onto the dance floor just as the orchestra struck up a waltz, and soon, they were gliding across the floor. But her mind was still spinning from Whitby's sudden apology and his intentions.

"I suppose you're wondering why Whitby suddenly grew a conscience."

Honor's startled gaze flew to the Marquess of Hollybrook, and for the first time, she took in his appearance with a new awareness. His dark brown hair, streaked with hints of blond, gleamed in the light, accentuating the sharp angles of his cheekbones. His features were striking, and though a deep scar dissected one of his brows, it did nothing to detract from his handsomeness. He was dressed with an effortless elegance, the cut of his coat impeccably tailored. Still, Honor noted his handsomeness in a distant way, the way one might appreciate a finely crafted sculpture or painting.

"I should be more curious about why you asked me to dance, my lord," she replied. "You have never asked in all the years I've been out."

He lifted a brow, an amused gleam in his dark-golden eyes. "Ah, perhaps I now see the appeal," he said, a hint of teasing in his tone, "given his appreciation of such frank honesty."

"Who are we speaking about, my lord?" she asked.

An enigmatic smile curved his lips. "Let us, for the sake of productivity, focus on that bounder Whitby."

Honor hesitated. "I do not understand his actions. I'm not certain I wish to."

Hollybrook smiled, sweeping her in a wide arc. When he drew her closer, he said, "His apology was sincere. Or at least as sincere as someone like Whitby can be, given the circumstances. But I suspect it had more to do with the retribution Windermere carried out on your behalf."

Honor's steps faltered momentarily, though Hollybrook smoothly kept them moving across the floor.

"Retribution?" she repeated, her heart beating faster.

Hollybrook nodded. "The duke paid him a little visit—taught him a lesson in Gentleman Jackson's Boxing Club. Forgive me for distressing your sensibilities; it was a rather exacting and ruthless lesson. Whitby took quite the beating, and several of his investments were cut off afterward. No one in their right mind would risk the wrath of a duke over the likes of Whitby."

Chaotic emotions swirled inside Honor—shock, confusion, and something deeper. Jasper had done what her father hadn't —he had defended her dignity and ensured Whitby paid for his cruelty. The weight of it hit her all at once—the quiet strength behind the duke's actions, the lengths he had gone to protect her without saying a word. Her heart squeezed, and a frightful hunger surged in her heart.

"You mustn't look so surprised," Hollybrook said with a smile as he twirled her effortlessly. "Windermere might act cold, proud, and indifferent, but he takes care of those he deems important."

He deems me important?

Had Jasper asked the marquess to dance with her? Honor's thoughts were filled with gratitude, admiration, and a deeper feeling she dared not name. As the dance ended and Hollybrook escorted her back to her family, she found herself searching the crowd for the duke, her heart suddenly restless.

Honor pressed a hand to her forehead, feigning a headache as she turned to her mother. "Mama, I'm afraid I'm not feeling well," she said, her voice soft but urgent. "Would it be all right if I left early? I will send the carriage back for you and Moriah."

Her mother frowned, glancing between Honor and Moriah, who danced with a young baron. "Are you sure, my dear? It's important for us to remain as your sister has a few more dances this evening."

"I'll be fine," Honor reassured her, smiling. "I just need some rest. Please, stay with Moriah. I don't want her to miss any more opportunities."

Reluctantly, her mother nodded. "Very well; ensure you send the carriage back straightaway."

"Of course," Honor said.

Her heart pounded with relief and anticipation as she went outside, where the family carriage awaited in a long line. Once inside, she quickly instructed the driver, "Take me to 48 Berkeley Square."

The coachman tipped his hat and smiled, his expression one of understanding. He knew this routine well enough and that her trips to the ladies' club were always shrouded in discretion. When they arrived at their destination, Honor reached into her reticule and handed him a sovereign.

"Return to the ball, but say nothing of where you left me," she instructed quietly.

The coachman smiled knowingly and tipped his hat again before turning the carriage around and disappearing into the night. Honor rushed inside 48 Berkeley Square, greeted by the familiar warmth of the dimly lit entryway.

The butler, who knew her well by now, bowed in greeting. "Miss Shelton," he said with a small smile.

"Henry," she replied, nodding briefly before making her way to the wager room. She passed a few of the ladies gathered there, their laughter ringing in the room as they chatted about their recent escapades. Honor gave them a brief wave before continuing up the stairs.

At the top of the staircase, she found Lady Elizabeth, one of the members she had always gotten along with.

Lady Elizabeth, ever observant, raised an eyebrow. "What brings you here at this hour?" she asked, her voice tinged with curiosity. "I declare you have never come here this late!"

"I need your help," Honor said, grinning. "I need a disguise."

Lady Elizabeth nodded and led Honor to a nearby room. She quickly helped her out of her ballgown and into a set of gentlemen's attire that the club often kept for their more clandestine activities. Once the trousers and shirt were on, Honor tucked her long hair beneath a cap, securing the strands tightly. Lady Elizabeth adjusted the disguise with quick, practiced movements, ensuring that nothing would give Honor away.

"Are you sure about this?" Lady Elizabeth asked, handing Honor a cane.

The handle felt heavier than it looked, concealing a hidden blade within.

"I'm sure," Honor replied, knowing why her friend asked. Many members often teased her that she had taken over as the shyest member from Louisa, the Marchioness of Marsden. Even though she felt loved and accepted at 48 Berkeley Square, Honor still tended to be more of an observer. She had never participated in a dare of wager, though she burned to live so adventurously as most of the ladies here.

"Thank you, Liz."

Her friend nodded. With her disguise complete and the cane in hand, Honor slipped out of the club, blending into the night. It was only a short walk to the duke's townhouse, but each step felt heavier than the last, her heart racing with anticipation and nerves. She had no concrete plan in mind, but one thing was clear—she needed to see Jasper.

As she neared his house, Honor paused, her grip tightening around the cane. Would he be there? Would he welcome her? Or had she gone too far this time? She bit her bottom lip, wrestling with the caution that so often guided her life.

Be daring, Honor , she whispered to herself.

Shaking off the surge of anxiety, she let out a soft chuckle and slipped toward the side of the townhouse, where the gardens lay hidden in shadows. Refusing to dwell on the consequences of what she was about to do—breaking into his home—she pressed forward, her heart racing with both fear and anticipation.