Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

T he following morning, Honor stood outside her father's study and took a steady breath. After returning from the duke's residence yesterday, her mother entered her room to admonish her earlier departure. Then, her mother informed Honor that Lord Whitby planned to call upon her for an outing in Kensington Gardens this afternoon.

She did not wish to deceive her parents when so much was at stake. More than that, she realized that if she were honest about her arrangement with the Duke of Windermere, it might relieve the mounting pressure on her to marry the Earl of Whitby. The constant demands were creating unbearable tension within their family.

Taking a deep breath, Honor knocked on the door and entered when her father called her in. Her mother sat by the window, embroidering quietly, but both looked up as she approached. Her father put down the papers he had been reading, his expression one of mild concern.

"Honor," he began, "what is it?"

"I understand Lord Whitby will call in a few hours. I will not entertain him in any regard."

"Honor—" her mother began, only to stop, raising her brow when Honor clapped her hands once.

"Forgive the interruption, Mama. Your reproof is unnecessary as I am determined to carve my own path toward my future. I have something important to discuss. It is about everything that has happened."

Her mother's eyes narrowed slightly; her needle paused mid-stitch. "Go on."

Honor took a steadying breath. "I have entered into a ... fake courtship with the Duke of Windermere."

There was a beat of silence before her mother gasped, her embroidery forgotten as she placed it down. "I beg your pardon. A fake courtship? What does that mean?"

"I know it sounds unusual," Honor continued quickly, "but I believe it will work, given that connections with the ton determine one's success. I will not marry the Earl of Whitby, even if forced to go to the altar. However, with the duke's help, we can salvage my reputation without sacrificing myself to a man I do not love or respect."

Her father's brows furrowed, and her mother looked like she couldn't quite believe what she was hearing. But then, after a moment, her mother's face brightened, her eyes alight with hope.

"The Duke of Windermere?" her mother said slowly. "He has agreed to this madness?"

"It was the duke's idea. I was hardly asked to dance this season. The few times I was taken to the floor were by the husbands of a few friends. The duke is a bachelor, a very elusive catch and a most eligible gentleman. He will flatter me with attention, dance with me at balls, and take me to ride in Hyde Park, the theater or even the opera. This will create a stir, and those thinking of cutting us will now hasten to reestablish a connection with our family. This will be a great opportunity for Moriah."

A smile spread across her mother's face. "My dear, what do you think of what our daughter is suggesting?"

Her father's brows furrowed. "With the support of Windermere, it could be possible. Though young, he has been lauded for his reform motions in Parliament and garnered respect from many."

Her mother stood, her excitement palpable as she moved toward Honor. "Should the duke pay you worthwhile attention, it could restore your reputation—no, it will restore your reputation! This is a good plan."

Honor blinked, surprised by her mother's reaction, but it was clear the wheels were already turning in the viscountess's mind. Warmth rushed through her when she recalled that her mother had first encouraged her daughters to make love matches.

"We must make the most of this, my dear," her mother continued, her eyes gleaming. "What can we do to support you?"

Honor smiled. Her mother's enthusiasm was infectious, and she felt a deep sense of relief for the first time in days.

"I think," Honor began carefully, "a new wardrobe would help. Bolder colors, more fashionable ballgowns, hats, and bonnets."

Her mother's face lit up even more. "Of course! A fresh wardrobe is exactly what you need. You shall have the finest gowns in London, my dear. Vibrant colors to complement your features. Yes, this will work splendidly."

Honor glanced at her father, who had remained silent. He sat back in his chair, considering her.

"You are certain this is what you want, Honoria?"

"I am," Honor replied, meeting his gaze.

Her father gave a slow nod, his stern features softening slightly. "Very well. If the Duke of Windermere will stand by you, then you have my support."

Another wave of relief washed over Honor as she smiled at both of her parents. "Thank you."

Her mother beamed, clasping her hands together. "Oh, this is marvelous, Honor. I shall make arrangements for the dressmakers at once. We will have you dressed to perfection for the next ball."

A few days later, Honor stepped through the doors of her home, feeling utterly exhausted but brimming with excitement. For the last week, her days had been filled with appointments at one of London's premier modistes, endless hours of fabric swatches, fittings, and visits to several shops. New gowns in daring colors that she'd never dared to wear before were being prepared for the transformation she was about to make in society.

Her heart swelled with a sense of purpose as she recalled her visit to 48 Berkeley Square earlier this morning. She had outlined her plan to her friends, who had all promised unwavering support. Together, they had shared laughter, wild ideas, and much-needed encouragement.

As she entered the hallway of her father's townhouse, a footman presented her with a folded letter. Curious, Honor took it, her breath hitching when she saw the seal of the Duke of Windermere. She quickly reached for a letter opener and slit the seal, her heartbeat quickening.

An invitation from the Marchioness of Tilby will arrive shortly. You must attend the ball and prepare for the show we are about to put on .

J

Honor hurried up the stairs, the letter clutched in her hand. Reaching her bedchamber, she kicked off her shoes, rushed to her bed, and dropped onto the soft covers. She lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling. A smile tugged at her lips, and she let out a breathy laugh, her heart pounding with anticipation.

Jasper strode purposefully down Bond Street, his thoughts icily composed. He rarely visited Gentleman Jackson's Boxing Club, a place known for training the best fighters of the nobility. Fighting was not his usual method of settling grievances, but today was different. Today, he had a lesson to teach—and it would be learned the hard way.

He entered the club, walking down the long hallway to the large, open room assigned for training; the room seemed to hush momentarily. The men inside, many of whom frequented the club for sport and status, exchanged surprised glances. Jasper was not known for making appearances here. He was met with respectful nods, and a few political cronies greeted him.

The Marquess of Hollybrook made his way over, curiosity plain on his face.

"Windermere," Hollybrook said with a grin, "I didn't expect to see you here. How long has it been since you visited? What brings you by?"

Jasper scanned the room, noting the familiar faces, until they landed on one in particular—the Earl of Whitby, who was lounging smugly in one corner, clearly enjoying the admiration of a few sycophants. Predictably, Whitby was flaunting his boxing prowess, enjoying the attention from the younger set.

"I have a lesson to teach a blackguard," Jasper said with indifferent civility.

Hollybrook raised an eyebrow, glancing toward Whitby.

"Ah," he said, understanding dawning in his dark-golden eyes. "I see."

When Jasper walked over and stopped before Whitby, his eyes widened slightly. His smug smile faltered slightly, but he recovered with a sneer.

"Your Grace," Whitby said with mock surprise, "to what do I owe the pleasure? Surely, you're not here to dirty your hands in the ring?"

"I'm here to challenge you to a round," Jasper said, his voice cold and calm.

Whitby chuckled. "What if I am not of a mind to dance with you in the ring?"

Jasper inclined his head. "I have more ... devastating ways to deal with you. However, I never thought a man of your ... standing would fear a challenge."

The crowd's attention shifted. All eyes now focused on the brewing tension.

Whitby's surprise quickly turned to arrogance.

"Fear a challenge?" He laughed lightly, though his amusement didn't quite reach his eyes. "I wouldn't have thought you were foolish enough to risk your dignity, Your Grace. But if you wish to lose it to me, I won't object."

Jasper's expression remained impassive. "Get in the ring."

There was no further discussion. Whitby, clearly confident in his own abilities, shrugged off his jacket, still smirking as he made his way toward the ring. Sensing something more significant than a friendly match, the onlookers gathered around, murmuring among themselves.

Jasper removed his jacket without ceremony, handing it to one of the attendants, then wrapped his wrists with thin leather strips. His movements were precise, controlled, and betraying none of the fury simmering beneath his composed exterior. Honor had defended herself admirably, but the fact that her father made no effort to hold that blackguard accountable was something Jasper couldn't ignore. The subtle inquiries he'd had his man of affairs conduct revealed something even more troubling: Viscount Shelton had offered to settle Whitby's staggering gambling debts—thirty thousand pounds—as an inducement for the earl to marry the very lady he had so shamelessly ruined.

Once inside the ring, Whitby's earlier arrogance had fully returned. He danced around Jasper, throwing light jabs, clearly thinking this would be a quick victory. But Jasper merely smiled. The first punch he landed was quick and hard, connecting cleanly with Whitby's jaw. The earl stumbled, his expression shifting from cocky amusement to startled shock. Jasper followed up with a series of rapid jabs, each one delivered with precision.

Whitby struggled to find his footing, his counters missing by inches as Jasper easily dodged or blocked his attempts. The crowd, which had initially cheered for the sport, began to grow quieter as they realized this wasn't an ordinary match.

Jasper's blows were relentless. He moved with a purpose, his punches sharp and calculated, each landing with the force of a man who had come to settle a score. Whitby, now struggling to keep up, threw wild punches in desperation, but Jasper evaded them all, his fists landing squarely on the earl's torso and face. As Whitby's stance faltered once again, a hush fell over the room, the atmosphere thick with tension.

It was no longer just a match—it had become something darker, more personal. They could sense that Jasper was delivering more than just physical punishment. This was retribution.

"Who close to the duke did Whitby wrong?" someone asked.

"Windermere's sister is out, perhaps ..."

"It is best not to speculate," another voice cautioned.

Whitby's knees buckled under the weight of the final blow, and he crumpled to the ground, blood trickling from his split lip. His chest heaved with labored breaths as he stared up at Jasper in pained disbelief. Unmoved by the earl's disheveled state, Jasper turned and walked out of the ring, his expression unreadable. He collected his jacket, ignoring the murmurs and stares of the men gathered around.

Hollybrook, who had been observing the entire scene, followed him out. As they walked silently toward Jasper's parked carriage, Hollybrook glanced sideways at his friend.

"You handled him quite thoroughly," he said lightly, though his tone was edged with caution. "That, my friend, was brutal. More than his pride took a beating."

"But deserving," Jasper said, shrugging into his jacket.

For a moment, his friend regarded him in fascinated silence. "You are willing to make an enemy of the earl for her?"

"Yes. And it is detestable of our society that I could not sully his character publicly for his actions without it sullying her reputation, though she is the innocent in all this."

"You do not question of whom I speak," Hollybrook said.

"Indeed, I do not."

"Now, would you mind telling me who Miss Shelton is to you?"

Jasper paused, his jaw tightening as he considered the question. He didn't answer immediately, his thoughts briefly flickering to Honor—her strength, vulnerability, and the fire she ignited in him. After a moment, he said quietly, "Someone important."

"A lover?"

"No, she is not a lover. She is only a friend."

A soft denial whispered through him, a part that wanted Honor Shelton in his arms, passionately arching underneath his body as he introduced her to pleasure.

By God, have I ever wanted another woman with such immediacy and intensity, all provoked by a simple kiss?