On a Long Ago Night (2 page)

"A failed one," Cousin Kate added. "You used to

have a sense of style. It was society's loss when you ran

off to hide in the country."

"Yes," Honoria drawled cynically. "Society lost a

scandal to gossip about."

"Derrick Russell was a fool to throw you over, after

what you'd been through. You should have defended

yourself, you know."

"Father needed me more." Besides, no one really

knew what she'd been through. She had needed to escape,

as much as her father had needed her to care for him. "I

don't intend to discuss the past," she added with steel in

her voice, "and I do not wish to hear Captain Russell's

name mentioned ever again."

Lady Kate drew herself up indignantly, but the

nearby footman stepped forward before she could speak.

He took a folded parchment invitation from the hand of a

guest who had just entered, and Honoria gratefully turned

her attention back to her duties as hostess. She had not

expected to have so many old wounds opened this

evening, nor had she expected the pain to still be so fresh

and sharp after so many years. She was happy for any

diversion.

"The Viscount of Brislay and the Honorable James

Marbury," the footman announced.

Honoria turned her weak-eyed scrutiny on the

newcomers.

Though the men who came toward her were both

tall, one was slender, while the other's broad shoulders

were set off to perfection by an expertly tailored black

frock coat. Even with all the stirred-up pain coursing

through Honoria, the larger man riveted her attention

instantly. Something in the graceful way he moved and

the confident tilt of his head sent a strange sensation

through her. His hair was dark brown and wavy and his

complexion sun-kissed, glowing bronze beneath the blaze

of candles in the chandeliers. He had heavy arched brows,

a wide, full-lipped mouth, and a strong, stubborn jaw.

She could make out no more details without her

spectacles, yet she could imagine his eyes. She had had a

necklace of amber once. She remembered the clear,

golden glow of the beads as she held the strand up in the

intense Mediterranean light, how warm they'd felt as

they'd played through her fingers, how beautiful and

sparkling. His eyes should be like that: captured sunlight.

"Brislay brought his bastard, I see," Lady Kate

whispered, using her fan to cover her words.

Honoria turned a swift, shocked look on her cousin.

"A bastard? At my father's ball?"

"And a fine bull of a lad he's turned out to be. My

son tells me he's taken the sporting clubs by storm with

his boxing and riding and fencing skills. That crowd's

taken him up as the latest fashion, but the viscount was

wise to introduce the boy to society here. Wise, if not

discreet," she added, as she seemed to notice finally that

Honoria was appalled.

Honoria's thoughts tumbled in shocked outrage. A

bastard! It was not proper. She would not have it—not in

her father's house! She didn't care how close her father

and the Viscount of Brislay were, nor did she care if

Brislay chose to be kind to his byblows. Admirable

behavior had nothing to do with correct behavior. Queen

Victoria was very different in the matter of morals and

propriety than the unscrupulous, lackadaisical uncles who

had held the throne before her. If word got back to her

and her high stickler of a companion, Baroness Lehzen,

that Lady Alexandra Pyneham had allowed herself to be

introduced to someone's illegitimate son, the duke's

standing at court and in the political arena would be

damaged. And Honoria took the idea of reform very

seriously. She could not walk into the House of Lords,

but her father could. So as usual, she must take it upon

herself to protect him.

For decorum's sake, she could hold her tongue and

offer her hand. For propriety and politics' sake, there was

but one thing she could do. People would gossip either

way, but disapproval would fall on the unfortunate young

man who should not be here, rather than on the good

name of the Duke of Pyneham.

Honoria turned her back before the men reached her.

Head held high, spine as stiff as a board, she walked

away from them. If Lady Katherine greeted the viscount

and his bastard, that was fine. If her father should choose

to speak to the men when they approached him, that was

his choice; it would not be the same as actually being

formally received. Upholding the family's position,

Honoria fled at a dignified pace toward the back of the

room. Stares and whispers followed her, as she knew they

would.

But she did not look back—not even when she heard

his
voice.

Because, of course, it could not be
him
at all.

"Was it something I said?"

James Marbury was well aware of just having been

insulted, but for his father's sake, he lightened the

moment with a joke.

"Hardly, James." His father put a long-fingered

aristocratic hand on his arm. His right arm, James

noticed; his sword arm. Edward Marbury, Viscount of

Brislay, looked beyond the little woman who had put

herself between them and the tall, proud creature

everyone was watching walk away. "I believe the lady of

the house must suddenly be indisposed."

That was clearly nonsense, but James nodded his

agreement. The Cut Direct had just been issued to him by

the hostess of the ball. He almost laughed, as he was used

to a direct cut hurting a great deal more than his pride. "It

is not so serious, sir," he said with quiet reassurance, "if

there is no blood involved." He received an understanding

smile in response. It was good to see how the deep lines

around his father's mouth and eyes lightened when he

showed pleasure.

Though James was furious with the woman who had

dared insult his father, he had learned long ago when not

to let his true feelings show. The scars on his back

twinged a little beneath the fine linen and wool clothing,

reminding him of the days when keeping his feelings

masked was necessary to staying alive.
I might have liked

her
, he thought. Now she was his enemy. He wondered if

he should show her how dangerous it was to be his

enemy. He did not recall her face, for he had been caught

by the sight of her flame-red hair. He had a weakness for

red-haired women.

It was that weakness that drew him on, as much as

his temper, more than any need for revenge. He kissed the

hand of a handsome older woman who looked him over

boldly and told him to call her Lady Kate. Then he

excused himself. He knew it was not wise, but could not

help but follow the very tall red-haired woman.

James stalked her as carefully as a hunting cat

through the crowded rooms. Heads turned to follow his

progress. Many had seen the duke's daughter's behavior,

and word of it spread in a wave to those who had not. Yet

he ignored everything but his chosen prey. He spotted her

standing amidst a group of hired musicians, staring at a

huge portrait of a horse. The musicians watched her

warily as they attempted to set up their instruments. She

was in their way, he thought, and too arrogant and

thoughtless to care. James approached with caution, and a

smile that spoke clearly to anyone who cared to note it

that he was intent on conquest. The whispers about

propriety would change to speculations of seduction soon

enough. He had nothing to lose, but the haughty,

disdainful woman would have to live with what she had

started.

What the devil is the matter with me? What have I done to

that poor young man
?

Honoria thought, as she discovered she'd come to a

halt in front of the place where the musicians were setting

up to play for the ball. She returned to her senses with an

abrupt rush of mortification. She'd let fear of scandal

cause her to act like a fool. She stared at the painting of

her grandfather's favorite hunting horse as her thoughts

whirled. Such unkindness was not usually part of her

normal behavior. She'd been cruel to a man who'd had the

misfortune of being born out of wedlock—hardly

something a Pyne should take offense at.

She would have liked to blame her unconscionable

behavior on her father for his scheming, or Lady Kate for

her bluntness. She did think that if Lady Kate hadn't

mentioned the man, that with one exception, Honoria

loathed above all others, she might have handled meeting

the Honorable James Marbury with her usual aplomb.

For the footman had announced Marbury by a title

that would belong to the Viscount of Brislay's heir. She

couldn't recall ever hearing that her father's friend was

married, but he would not be likely to name a bastard his

heir. Lady Kate's gossip must be wrong. She should not

have paid attention to her cousin's tattling.

"Oh, no." She sighed. "My behavior was not only

utterly reprehensible; it was totally groundless," she

whispered to her grandfather's horse. "And where did this

peculiar inclination to talk to paintings come from?"

Aware of a violinist eyeing her nervously, she

stepped back—into a solid, living wall. Before she could

whirl around, a voice whispered in her ear, "Perhaps

you're afraid to speak to a real, living man."

Honoria lifted her head defiantly. "I'm not afraid of

you," she announced to the man who wasn't there as his

finger slowly traced down the side of her throat. Her

pulse raced in the wake of that invisible touch.

"Perhaps you'll learn to be." His other hand touched

her waist. She was drawn subtly, slowly, ever closer

against him.

She was trembling and her knees had gone weak, but

she attributed this reaction to the fact that she had gone

completely mad. She refused to faint when a large, warm

hand came to rest on her shoulder, but it was a near thing.

The room whirled around her, her already faded view of

her surroundings worsened as darkness threatened on the

edge of her vision. A sound like the buzzing of angry

bees filled her ears.

His hands were not touching her, of course, nor did

she really feel the warm, solid body she knew too well for

her own good pressed against her back. This was some

sort of fever dream, a hallucination. Perhaps she was sick

in bed, fighting for her life with a high fever, her presence

at the ball just a nightmare brought on by illness. She

longed for that to be true.

But then—she
was
mad… or she wouldn't be

hearing his voice. She had never, in all these years,

imagined hearing his voice. She'd remembered it, of

course—every deceptive or cruel word. But never before

had he come into her dreams and said something new. He

had always stayed safely in her past.

Well, not safely. Nothing about him was safe—not

even the memories.

"Turn around and look at me."

She shook her head, which did nothing to help the

dizziness. "Go away. I don't want you here. Leave me

alone, you bastard."

"My parents are married,
señorita duquesa
."

Of course. They'd had this conversation before.

"My parents were married," he insisted. "So you should

not call me that." He paced back and forth, his large

presence filling the small but opulent bedroom. He wore

a heavy brocade robe of scarlet and black with nothing

on beneath it. It was loosely tied, so it showed off his

broad chest and the occasional flash of strong, sturdy

thigh as he moved. She curled her bare legs beneath her

on the end of the bed and watched as he restlessly

crossed from one side of the Oriental rug to the other. A

flame flickered behind the colored glass shade of the

lamp on the table beside her, throwing rainbows among

the shadows on the wall, and on her naked skin. The

breeze that came in through the latticed window brought