Honoria’s body was saying yes, but Gus could see that her mind was working through a series of arguments about his proposal, and taking her to a decided no.
Well at least she knew where he stood; and he knew she wanted him. And he certainly wanted her. More negotiations would have to follow. More wooing. How he was supposed to go about that, he wasn’t sure.
He’d complimented her painting—sincerely, as it turned out. And he’d kissed her, and she’d kissed him back quite ardently, instead of slapping him with her paint brush.
He still had a chance with her, he just needed to puzzle out the right tactic.
“We’ve shocked your maid,” he said. “I take it she’s never seen you in the arms of a man other than your husband?”
“She’s never seen me in any man’s arms.” She shook her head. “That kiss was… a revelation. But I must say—”
He set his finger to her lips. “Say nothing.” A revelation, was it? Well, then, he definitely had a chance. He just needed to forestall any more buts and learn what else she was looking for in a husband. “My offer stands on firmer ground than ever.” If only she knew how firm he was feeling. “But be assured, I won’t invade your bedchamber. I’ll wait for an invitation.”
He tucked an escaping curl behind the feminine shell of her ear, dropped a kiss on her forehead and crossed the hall to his own room.
Rompole was there applying a shoe brush to a boot with some violence. “Annoying woman,” he said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Not Lady Twisden.” Rompole looked away, biting back a smile. “I mean her scrawny maid, Bixby.”
“And when did you encounter her? She wasn’t along for the picnic. Where are the others?”
“Which question do ye want me to answer first?” Rompole raised an eyebrow, and when Gus crossed his arms, he laughed. “The young sir spotted a gaggle of red-haired young ladies he knew and had me haul all of them to a fine house and return the carriage. I ran into that woman on the street, and she buttonholed me again with questions, fretting and complaining all the way home.”
“Again?”
“Aye. Pain in my arse, she’s been.”
Gus shrugged out of his coat. “What is Lady Twisden’s maid asking about?”
“France. Her lady is fixing to travel there come July and is taking her along. She don’t want to go. Don’t want to get on a packet boat. Don’t want to deal with foreigners especially since she don’t speak the language and her lady only knows a smattering.”
He crossed to the small chest of drawers where a bottle of brandy stood three-quarters full and poured himself a dram.
Honoria had plans. What an idiot he was. He hadn’t thought ahead to what she would do after York. He’d supposed she’d return to Twisden Manor—in fact, Wes had implied that she’d return there, at least when he wasn’t plotting her marriage to Ripton. And he himself, being another male dunderhead, though not so great a one as Wes, had fixed on preventing the abomination of a marriage to Ripton and never questioned the notion of Honoria returning to Twisden Manor.
“Where in France are they going?”
“Bixby ain’t going there. Looking for another position and wringing her hands over it. Can’t be responsible for her lady when it’s just two ladies traveling alone, an’ she’s not to tell the young sir else he’ll hop on the boat and go with them. She had a mind to do just that, ’ceptin’ then they’d have him along and he’s a thorn in her side and everyone else’s.”
Wes would want to follow Honoria to France just like he’d followed her to York. Perhaps he’d think to bring Ripton along as well for the trip.
But two women alone traveling through France—Bixby was right. Honoria was smart, and solid, but not sophisticated. And if she didn’t have friends there to guide her…
Rompole frowned and shook his head. “Can’t say as I disagree with her about the lad.”
He raised an eyebrow at his valet. Further chastisement wasn’t needed because he couldn’t disagree either. Wes was young, and lively. Gus had enjoyed Wes’s company in Brampton and at Twisden Manor, and, finding himself a bit bored at the time, had jumped at the offer of hospitality in York. Where Wes’s mother—stepmother actually—was concerned, the young sir’s exuberance led to a tendency to be overbearing.
The lady wanted to travel. He’d like to see France again himself, and not with a saber in hand. It would make for a lovely honeymoon destination. Bixby could travel on to Whitlaw Grange, if she wanted to stay in her lady’s employ, and they’d hire a temporary French maid for the new Mrs. Kellborn.
Would she trust him? Would she believe his good intentions? Would she say yes?
He needed to know exactly where she wanted to go.
“Rompole,” he said. “I have an assignment for you.”
* * *
“You take up too much room.” Honoria nudged the backside wedged up next to her in the bed. When her bedmate lifted his head and yawned, she pulled her hand from under the covers and ruffled his ears.
In the days since his master’s marriage proposal, Sir Sancho had moved from his safe hidy-hole under the bed to the soft coverlet on top. He’d performed his extermination duties admirably; it had been days since he’d dropped a prize at her feet, so she’d allowed him the comfortable respite.
Since her elder sister, Emily went off to be married, Honoria had always slept alone, even during her marriage. When Sir Melton’s hounds found their way into her bedchamber instead of his, she swiftly chucked them out. Surprisingly, she didn’t mind the little terrier’s presence. In fact, even in this smallish bed, he took up little room. Besides, he was always a gentleman, rather like his master.
Reminded of the master in question, she reached for the book on the bedside table. Morning had broken with enough light for her to peruse Galignani’s Paris Guide. It was the last in a series of travel guides delivered from the shop in Bookbinder’s Alley, all for Augustus. Gargiolli’s guide to Florence had been the first, followed by Nibby’s Roman guidebook, and Miss Starke’s highly detailed travel memoirs, Adapted for the Use of Travelers and Including a Guide to Sicily.
Sicily! Having read the historical account included, she’d added the island as a desired destination.
She’d intercepted the books and burnt her candles to nubs reading them before having Meg deliver them to Augustus’s room. Odd that, despite spending almost every day in his company, he hadn’t mentioned a desire to travel. And she didn’t bring it up. They’d attended a party, a picnic, a musical night, and visited a gallery, always in company, never alone.
What was he up to? Perhaps she should just walk across the hall and knock on his bedchamber door, hand him the book and ask.
No doubt though, it would be Rompole answering. Augustus would be out on an early morning ride.
She pushed back the covers and stood. Patience’s ball was tonight, and it seemed possible that there would be a betrothal announced—perhaps more than one. She’d promised to pay a call on her niece and help with last minute preparations, but nevertheless, she must find a moment in this busy day to speak with Augustus.
Chuckling, she shrugged into her robe and went to the washstand. Perhaps she’d confess that she’d waylaid his books, and he could help her plan her itinerary. In fact, she’d bring the Paris guide to the breakfast table, and give it to him in person.
* * *
Gus was the first to arrive at the breakfast table.
The surly housekeeper entered after him with the coffee urn, a plate of toast, and a question about his eggs.
He was comfortable with her directness; she reminded him of Rompole. His own housekeeper was just as efficient, but far more deferential. In the many long months since he took up residence at Whitlaw Grange, he’d kept a close eye on the servants, and gone over all the estate books himself. His housekeeper, his butler, and his steward, all local people, happy for the work, ran a tight and honest ship. He was content to leave them to it.
He hadn’t realized how much wanderlust he was feeling until Wes invited him to visit York. And if Honoria wanted to travel to the Continent—well, he’d be happy to show her every old church between Calais and Palermo.
“What, ho? Up already? And you went riding. Why didn’t you wake me?”
Wes had arrived.
Gus slid the plate of toast his way, wished him good morning, and teased him about sleeping late.
“You’ll wish you slept in when you’re yawning through the steps of a quadrille, Gus. And don’t forget, you’ve promised to dance with all the young ladies. Isn’t that right, Mother?”
Honoria stood in the doorway carrying a book. When he smiled at her, her color rose in that enticing way he wanted to explore more.
Gus pulled out the chair next to his and waved her over. “You promised me two dances, Honoria, my love. They must be waltzes.”
“I say.” Wes looked up from his cup. “Are you flirting with my stepmama, Gus?”
The young buck had finally noticed.
“What have you there?” Gus ignored him and nodded at the book.
“This was delivered for you yesterday, Augustus.”
“A book?” Wes asked. “What book?”
Gus reached for the tome, sliding his hand around her much smaller one, feeling the jump in her pulse. “It’s the latest travel guide to Paris, Wes. Did you have a chance to look at it, Honoria?”
She smiled, and then laughed and took her seat. “I couldn’t help myself. It’s so filled with fascinating details.”
“You must feel free to borrow it. I have others for Florence, Rome, and Sicily. Those are at your disposal as well.”
Wes’s knife paused above the marmalade dish, and he looked up. “You’re making a Grand Tour, Gus? Why, what with the war, I never had one myself. Father always talked about what fun he had on his. When are you leaving? After the races, surely. We’ll dash home then, and I’ll prepare to go with you. Mother, you can keep Twisden Manor in hand while I’m gone, can’t you?” He gazed toward the window. “Paris,” he said, dreamily.
Honoria’s gaze had dropped to her empty plate. Gus reached for her hand and squeezed it.
“Actually,” he said, “I’ve lost interest in the races. And, much as I enjoy your company, Wes, I have a different traveling companion in mind for a visit to Paris.”
She turned an astonished gaze on him, her face flooding with delicious color.
“Yes.” He smiled. “Paris. Then Lucerne, Venice, Florence, and the ruins in Rome. A packet to Sicily. Then, perhaps a stop in Malta. I have a friend there who would welcome our visit.”
“See here.” Wes had stood. “What—”
“Oh, sit down, Westcott,” Honoria said.
He felt her small hand rotate within his and squeeze him back.
“I’m not returning to run Twisden Manor,” she said. “That is your responsibility, and if you need a hostess, your grandmama will relish the duty until you find your own Lady Twisden.”
Wes remained standing, his color rising, his glower deepening.
“My intentions are entirely honorable,” Gus said.
“Are they? And you, Stepmama. Father’s been dead little more than a year.”
“Yet you were anxious to hand me over to Ripton,” Honoria said calmly. “Who, by the way, Wes, is most assuredly not interested in marriage.”
The red flames in his cheeks deepened to purple.
“You didn’t know,” Honoria said. “But of course. You thought he was a gentleman like your father, or you.”
“I’ll speak with him,” Wes spluttered. “With father dead, I’m the head of this family and—”
“Don’t be a goose,” Honoria said. “He’s no different than many of your father’s other friends. Probably like many of the young gentlemen you know. And he’s your near neighbor. You’ll want to keep on good terms with him.”
“He’s different than me,” Gus said. “I repeat, my intentions are entirely honorable.”
Whatever thoughts flew through Wes’s young brain contorted his lips and brows until he finally resumed his frown. “You must speak to me first, Gus.”
“Westcott,” Honoria said. “You are the child of my heart. I love you, and I would never shame you, and though you are the head of the family now, this house in York is mine until Midsummer. Mrs. Dunscombe,” she signaled the housekeeper who was lurking, eyes bright with interest. “Sir Westcott will take his breakfast in the drawing room. Please see that he’s comfortable there.”
“Mother!”
“Augustus and I need a private moment. Close the door on your way out, Wes.”
“You may issue your challenge later,” Gus said, unable to resist the urge to tease the lad.
“There’ll be no need for that,” she said. “We will come in and speak with you in a moment.”
* * *
When the door closed, Augustus took her other hand in his, sending her heart pounding, as if it wasn’t already slamming her ribs like a blacksmith’s hammer.
“Which of the guidebooks was your favorite, Honoria?”
She let out a breath. “You knew? How—”
“Bixby told Rompole.”
That news wasn’t surprising. Her maid had been fretting since they left Westmoreland. She was a countrywoman with no spirit of adventure. “The traitor.”
“She fell into my plan readily. According to Rompole, she really doesn’t want to travel.”
His thumb swept over the back of her hand, and her breath tightened around the familiar scent of shaving soap, and leather, and horse, addling her brain further.
“We may have just met,” he said, “but I’ve known of you through my mother’s letters. How lucky Twisden is, she used to say. He’s found such a clever and good lady. She wanted me to find someone like you to take as my bride. And then, when I met Wes, he said the same thing, that you were clever and good.”
“And old,” she whispered.
Gus threw back his head and laughed. “You can imagine my surprise when his stepmama turned out to be a pretty young widow not at all in her dotage. I wanted to yank him up by his neckcloth and shake him.”
“I should like to have seen that. Though… he is rather taller than you.”
“But not as experienced with yanking neckcloths.”
“Very true.” Wes was a pudding head sometimes. Taking up his father’s baronetcy had puffed him up too much. “Imagine him trying to fight a duel with you Augustus. I worry about him.”
“He’ll be all right, Honoria. I don’t think he’d ask to meet over just any small slight. He adores you, you know.”
Tears sprang to her eyes, and she squeezed them back.
“I’ve a great deal of experience I could apply to advising Wes as his stepfather.”
Moisture flooded her throat and she couldn’t speak.
“That is, advising by letter. Otherwise, in-person talks will come after the honeymoon. And only when we are in the neighborhood of Westmoreland and not traveling.”
He had more traveling in mind than the Grand Tour he’d outlined today? “But what about your estate?”
“We’ll spend time there, as well. You must paint those ruins for me. After our honeymoon.”
Dizziness threatened, and the squeeze of his hands steadied her.
“I have good people in place at Whitlaw Grange, and I’ll take you there first when we return. Perhaps by next spring or next summer. We’ll invite the rest of my newly discovered Twisden relations.”
Hadn’t she thought of visiting for a christening then? A child to hold and to love. It wasn’t impossible.
She blinked back tears and shook off the thrill of that hope. “I thought that you had an interest in Ivy or Iris. A younger woman would—”
“No,” he said. “Never. It’s been only you, Honoria, from the moment I crossed your threshold. This inheritance was a surprise from a childless relation on my mother’s side. If you and I don’t have a child, I suppose we shall just have to leave Whitlaw Grange to Wes.”
His dark eyes glowed with intensity, reminding her of Sir Ebenezer, who’d simultaneously frightened and intrigued her. Augustus didn’t frighten her.
What sort of man was he? He’d served the Crown honorably for decades. He’d been a good son to the mother who’d shared stories in letters to Wes’s grandmother. He’d been patient with Wes. He had a regard for family. He wasn’t a weasel like Ripton, or an oaf like Sir Melton.
And he hadn’t laughed at her painting.
And his kiss…
She freed her hands and tugged him close. “When do you plan for this journey to begin?”
He reached under his coats and produced two documents. “This,” he said, “is a letter from an agent in London.”
She perused the lines. He’d booked passage three weeks hence to Calais on the King George for himself and his wife.
Three weeks. She couldn’t become his lady in three weeks’ time. They’d first need to call the banns and then marry, and then still have time to travel to catch the packet…
She was falling into his plan just as Bixby had.
A firm finger lifted her chin. “Honoria, my love, I have more than ample funds to pay for the trip. This other document is a license from the bishop here. We have five days to fashion a proper settlement—you may keep all your dower, and I will provide for our children out of my funds—and then we’ll be married at the Minster.”
“You obtained a license. That was very… very confident of you.”
“Yes. What say you? Will you be my bride?”
She glanced at the agent’s letter again. Travel to France. As the bride of this man… who she wanted.
She wouldn’t go as his mistress. She’d meant what she said about not disgracing Wes. And he meant what he said about his honorable intentions.
And… children. He was thinking of that too, and why not? She wasn’t too old for children.
When his fingers brushed her cheek, she had a good look into his eyes and saw a hint of uncertainty, a touch of vulnerability, a dogged determination. And admiration. For her, a plain widow of three-and-thirty.
Their lips met, drawn together by matching desire, and need, and true regard. Hearts pounding in time, their tongues dueled and long moments later Honoria found herself on his lap, her hair spilling around her shoulders.
And then suddenly, he’d set her back, one hand cupping her breast, the other her cheek. “An answer, my lady.”
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, yes, yes.”
* * *
It was Sir Sancho who finally interrupted them. Gus heard the door to the breakfast room open and paused with his hand down the front of Honoria’s gown. He saw a flash of white fur and heard the dog scamper past and went back to his ministrations.
Moments later, Sancho pounced on Gus’s boots.
“Stop it,” Gus said. “You’re scratching the leather. Rompole will skin you alive.”
With a defiant bark, Sancho pounced again.
Honoria drew in a sharp breath and he followed the line of her gaze.
A dead mouse lay at their feet—a gift from Sir Sancho. She squirmed, breathlessly sucking air and then jumped off his lap and pointed.
On the table, a mouse munched on the corner of toast he’d abandoned for sweeter things.
“To arms,” he said, and tossed the terrier onto the table.
Her hands flew first to her cheeks, and then over her eyes. “Not on my breakfast table,” she wheezed.
Locks of hair fell over her cheeks and shoulders. She looked ridiculously tumbled and lovely, her lips pink and puffy, her bodice loose.
In moments, Sancho had conquered, and by the time Honoria opened her eyes he’d arrived at her feet with his offering, leaving a battlefield of splashed coffee, toppled salt cellars, and forks strewn about like the sabers of the fallen.
Her eyes squinted hotly. “Sir Melton’s hounds—”
“Were ill-behaved. I know. Wes told me.” He’d been just as appalled at the stories as Honoria.
“I won’t have—”
“No, Honoria. I wouldn’t have had to send him into the fray if we’d been paying attention. It was our fault, you see. In the future, we must pay better heed. And your rules, my love, will apply. We’ll even prevent him from sleeping under our bed if that is your wish.”
A fresh wash of color rose in her cheeks.
“Or on our bed.” He laughed. “Yes. I heard he’d weaseled his way into a more comfortable spot. Bixby told Rompole.” He went to the door and found, as he suspected, both her maid and his valet lurking. He beckoned them in, crossed the room and took Honoria in his arms.
“Rompole, Bixby, you may be the first to wish us happy. And then, Rompole, dispose of these bodies. Bixby, your mistress needs your assistance.” He dropped a kiss on her forehead. “Honoria, my love, I’ll just go speak with the head of the family. Why don’t you join us in a few minutes?”
She smiled, and then laughed. “Oh, I will. Melton wasn’t much of a disciplinarian with the lad. Don’t thrash him too badly when you take him in hand.”