Lady in Red
The words hung between them a full moment as his face froze into a mask of pure fury. His eyes blazed, his lips thinned, twin white lines appeared at either side of his mouth. Honoria took an impulsive step back, but Treymount would have none of it. He caught her by the elbow and then, without a word, firmly led her toward the terrace doors, threading them between couples and back to the place where he’d found her with Radmere, to the side of the room where they could have a little privacy, though not much.
The orchestra changed to a lively waltz, and immediately there was a flurry of activity as partners changed, people took their places, and others fled from the floor.
“There really is no need for us to say anything else, is there?” Honoria said somewhat breathlessly, assailed by the need to leave and get some fresh air, air that wasn’t quite so charged with awareness. “Thank you for the lovely dance, but enjoyable as it was, I am afraid I must leave.”
“Not yet you don’t,” he said, fury evident in every line of his body. “Though you may have the ring in your possession, in reality, you know that ring belongs to me.”
“Not anymore.” Her heart was thundering madly, her hands damp. “I know you don’t like this situation any more than I. But if you do not agree to my terms, I will sell the ring to someone else. I will have no choice but to sell it.”
“You promised me a week.”
She shrugged, trying to manage a light laugh. “Let us not pretend. You have no intentions of accepting my offer and I know it. We are both wasting time by waiting a week. The season is soon to begin and I wish for my sister to be presented with all accompanying pomp and circumstance. That will take clothing, jewelry, shoes, and other purchases. It’s truly a pity you wouldn’t agree to sponsor her, as it would have been a far easier path for us both.”
Marcus clenched his fists, vaguely aware of the music humming around them, the faded murmur of voices as people passed by. It was all a blur, for his attention was entirely focused on the world’s most stubborn woman. She stood before him, her chin firmed, her eyes sparkling a challenge that he felt all the way to his soul. “You may not sell that ring.”
Her eyes narrowed. “If I decide to sell this ring, or throw it into the Thames, you cannot stop me.”
Marcus almost reached for her. It was only through sheer determination that he managed to keep his hands at his side. By God, he longed to grasp her arms and shake some sense into her.
Unaware of her close escape, the blasted woman smoothed her skirts and said, “Now if you will excuse me…” She turned on her heel to walk away.
But Marcus could not allow that. He grabbed her arm and spun her back to face him.
She gasped, colored, then looked around wildly.
Realizing they could be seen, Marcus released her arm. “Before you leave, I will have your word that you will not sell the ring until I have made my decision.”
“I promised you a week and a week you shall have, but not a moment more.” Her eyes glinted up at him, a pure and rich hazel, green mottled with brown and gray, surrounded by thick chestnut lashes that curled and tangled at the corners.
His gaze traveled past her eyes to her wide brow and on to the sweep of her hair. Thick and soft, it curled back from her forehead, the rich chestnut strands and the streak of white curving a line to the tiara. It was almost ludicrous, the large, ornamental, and obviously fake jewels that sparkled in her hair. “A bit much, that.”
Her hand went to the tiara. “You think so? I wondered, but Portia said—”
“Portia?”
“One of my sisters. She is fifteen and hopelessly addicted to fashion. She seemed to think the tiara was quite the rage.”
“I see them all of the time, only…not on you.” Although somehow the sparkle of the jewels did suit her. He found himself imagining her with nothing but the tiara on…laying on his bed…her hair trailing over pillows…His body reacted, hardening, his breathing growing heavier. When had Honoria Baker-Sneed developed into such a sensual woman? And why hadn’t he realized it before?
“No, I am not the type of woman who would normally wear a tiara,” she said, her rich voice thrumming through him. “Although I did think it wouldn’t hurt to wear one just for this evening. It…well, it gave me courage.”
“Courage? For what?”
She didn’t answer, and he suddenly knew the answer. He’d been right. She’d known he’d be here—she’d anticipated and even wished for this meeting.
That was an intriguing bit of information. If Marcus wished to regain the ring, he needed to know more about his enemy, the intrepid Honoria Baker-Sneed. More than the fact that she was an excellent bargainer, had a weakness for antique snuff boxes, and looked damnably fetching in a blue ball gown and a fake tiara. “Tell me, Miss Baker-Sneed. If you are not the sort of woman who would normally wear a tiara, what kind of woman are you?”
Her brows rose and she regarded him for a long moment. “Are you attempting to soften me up by pretending an interest in my life?”
“I don’t think that’s possible.”
“You don’t think what’s possible? Pretending an interest in my life?”
“No, softening you up. I merely asked a question.”
She looked utterly unconvinced. “I don’t know that you need such personal information.”
He shrugged and looked away, trying his damnedest to appear uninterested. He knew women. He’d bought more than his fair share of trinkets for the opposite sex, had played more than his fair share of feminine games to know that disinterest was a light to a fire.
And it worked. She was silent a moment, then she burst out, “If you must know, I am sadly addicted to bonnets. I have far more than I should, and every time I visit town, I find myself longing for another.”
“There,” he said, bowing a little. “That didn’t hurt, did it?’
“No. I suppose not, though what your purpose is, I do not pretend to fathom.”
“Perhaps I just wished to know a bit more about my adversary.”
She pursed her lips, and he found himself looking at her tender mouth and wondering if it would taste as good today as it had two days ago. “I suppose that makes sense,” she said. “Tell me, Treymount, what kind of man are you? What worthless items do you collect beyond the antiquities I’ve seen you cart off from various auctions?”
Marcus almost smiled. She was as direct as an arrow. “I suppose I own far more than my fair share of footwear. I cannot seem to have enough riding boots.”
She looked surprised. And somewhat pleased. “What a delightful fault to have!”
“Not according to my valet. But then, he has to keep them all polished.” Marcus decided that it would be lovely to show this prim miss his boots. The ones located in the dressing room off his bed chamber. Way, way in the back of his dressing room.
The thought of Miss Honoria Baker-Sneed walking through his room, her body draped with nothing but a sheet from his bed, made his body stir with more awareness.
Damn, there it was again—that surprising flash of heat that sparkled between them. Marcus crossed his arms over his chest. “It’s a good thing I came to this ball.”
She fastened those amazing hazel eyes on him. “Why?”
“Because if I had not been here, no one else would have saved you from that rakehell, Radmere.” Marcus rocked back on his heels, complacent and ready. “You are too much an innocent to be with someone like that scoundrel.”
“I am not an innocent. Besides, I had no problem dealing with Radmere.”
“Men, all of them, are not to be trusted with a lady alone.”
She eyed him for a disbelieving moment. “I take it you don’t include yourself in that grouping?”
“Oh, but I do count myself.” He leaned forward so his breath stirred the hair at her ear. “Miss Baker-Sneed…Honoria…you shouldn’t trust me either.”
She didn’t flinch, didn’t draw back. That rather pleased him. It pleased him even more that when she did spea
k, her voice brushed over him, warm and cinnamon scented with just the hint of a tremor. “I have an older brother, you know. And I know all manner of ways to defend myself.”
“You may be able to hold off Radmere, but your wiles would not work on me.”
“Do you think?” she replied with that damnably knowing smile that irked him to his boots.
That did it. It was in that moment that Marcus knew he was going to kiss the stern and stubborn Miss Honoria Baker-Sneed. Not here, of course, not in public. He had no wish to end up leg-shackled to the woman. But by damn, she was far too challenging to be ignored, an entrancing combination of bravado, pride, and self-sufficiency that just begged to be taught a thing or two, and he was just the man to do it. “You are a very warlike woman, Miss Baker-Sneed. Or perhaps…perhaps I should call you Diana, the huntress.” He leaned back a bit and regarded her thoughtfully. “You look very much like a presentation of Diana I saw at the British Museum. One of the Elgin marbles, in fact.”
“I am only warlike when necessary.” She seemed so firm in her declaration, rather like a statue come to life.
Marcus found himself stepping closer. Now his legs brushed against her skirts. He bent slightly, his lips almost at her temple. “Miss Baker-Sneed, allow me to make a suggestion. If you would be more reasonable in what you desire for that ring, I would go away and you would not have to deal with me at all. But until you do that, I plan on being very nearby. Watching. Waiting. And I will not always be this polite.”
She stiffened and flashed him a look of such intensity that for an instant he would have paid to have her alone. Bloody hell, but she was a woman of outstanding passion. Of verve and energy and something else that called to him. He was not used to a woman who possessed such strong opinions. The women he knew simpered and smiled and agreed with whatever he said.
But this woman was not accommodating and she was far from impressed with his title and possessions. Which had the strange effect of making him want to touch her all the more. To taste her. To sweep her into his bed and prove to her once and for all who was the master here. For it was not her.
So long as he had breath in his body, it would never be her.
Her eyes sparkled green fire. “My lord, I have but one thing to say to you. Never underestimate a woman intent on making a profit. I will have the money I desire for this ring. And I will not sell it to you unless you agree to my request—all of it. I will give you the rest of the week to think on it, and then…” She smiled, a pleased, none-too-nice smile, one he rarely saw on a female’s lips. “And then it will be gone, lost to you forever.”
With that, she turned on her heel and walked away, through the crowd and out the door, leaving Marcus standing at the side of the room. He should have been furious, but instead he found himself strangely pleased. So pleased that he even stayed through two more dances and did his duty to the daughter of the house by dancing with her, and even that painful experience didn’t put a dent in his solidly good mood.
For if there was one thing Marcus enjoyed, it was a challenge. And Miss Honoria was proving to be all that and more.
Chapter 9
See that woman standing by the refreshment table not looking our way? No, not the one in pink; the one in green. Miss Heneford may seem to be uninterested in me, and indeed, that is what she wishes me to think. A lesser man would fall for such an obvious ploy. And a much lesser man would charge ahead, spurred by the challenge she threw when she pretended she could not recall my name upon meeting me again on arriving this very evening. Fortunately, I am not a lesser man. I refuse to rise to such pitiful maneuvering. Instead of attempting to gain her attention, I shall stand here and wait. She will come, see if she does not.
Lord Southland to his friend and acquaintance, Mr. Cabot-Hewes, while not looking at the refreshment table at Carlton House
Honoria sat alone at the breakfast table. She’d startled the servants by arising so early that she almost beat the sun. Mrs. Kemble had hurried to rouse the cook and get breakfast set out on the wide buffet. Honoria, her mind sunk in thought, had not noticed. She’d accepted the pot of steaming tea and Mrs. Kemble’s assurances that breakfast would be forthcoming. Then she’d sat at the long table, staring at the talisman ring.
It sat snuggly on her finger, glimmering in the morning light. Strange, but it had seemed brighter at the ball, shimmering as if set with diamonds. But here, in the breakfast room, it cast off just a faint shimmer, as if it was as sleepy as she. For a moment Honoria allowed herself to remember the dance she’d shared with the marquis. Though she was loath to admit it, he was an excellent dancer. She wondered if he thought her awkward. After all, she hadn’t had much practice, and the steps, though familiar, had been difficult and—
Oh for the love of—what was she thinking? Who cared what the marquis thought? She certainly didn’t. She rubbed the ring absently, smiling a little when she noticed that it glowed a bit more brightly now.
Mrs. Kemble entered the room with a huge platter. Soon the buffet table was piled with silver trays. “There ye are, Miss Baker-Sneed! Shall I call the others?”
A thumping sound on the steps precluded Honoria from answering.
Mrs. Kemble chuckled. “Never mind. There they are now.” She retired through the servant’s door to fetch another jar of marmalade.
The wide paneled door to the breakfast room flew open. “Well?” Portia was still tying her sash, her hair hastily braided and pinned. Panting from her dash down the steps, she planted herself before Honoria. “Tell us everything!”
Olivia plopped into a seat at the far end, hiking the chair so it faced Honoria more squarely. “Cassandra would not allow us to stay up to meet you when you returned, and we must know what happened.”
Juliet and Cassandra entered together. Juliet frowned at Olivia. “You promised you wouldn’t ask anything until Cassandra and I arrived.”
Olivia blinked. “Did I say that?”
“Yes, not two minutes ago on the stairwell.”
Olivia looked at Honoria and gave an awkward smile. “Oh.”
Cassandra took the seat next to Honoria. “I thought you would be too tired to talk when you returned, so I sent them all to bed.”
“You were right,” Honoria said, taking a bracing sip of tea. “I was tired. And much too exhausted to talk.” Which was a complete falsehood. Had she really been tired, then once she’d pulled on her night rail, tied her hair into a braid, and slipped between the covers, she would have immediately fallen into a deep sleep. But as it was, she’d lain awake, hour after hour, rethinking her conversation with the marquis.
George wandered in, rubbing his eyes and yawning. He sniffed the air, then grinned. “Mmmm! Brisket!” He was at the buffet before anyone could reply, pulling the cover off of a large silver salver.
Honoria pretended to be busy with the teapot. She could not shake the thought that she’d erred last night. Why had she allowed her wretched temper to get away from her? Blast it, she’d probably put the man into such a passion of disapproval that he would rather be tied to a wild bull than buy the ring from her for anything near a decent price.
Olivia leaned over to see what was on George’s plate. “Did you leave any brisket for the rest of us?”
He grinned. “A little.”
She cuffed him on the shoulder. “You are such a pig.”
“Honoria?” Cassandra’s gentle brow folded with worry. “You look fatigued. Was the evening difficult?”
Olivia mussed George’s hair as she went by him to the sideboard. “Honoria can’t be tired; she returned fairly early. The hall clock had barely chimed one.”
“One?” Portia poured a dollop of crème into her tea. “Is that all?”
Juliet selected a piece of toasted bread and placed it in the center of her plate. “All Honoria wanted to do was speak with the marquis about the ring. That shouldn’t have taken much time.”
Portia sniffed. “If I had been at the ball, I wouldn’t have left until the ve
ry last dance.” She frowned at Juliet’s plate. “Just one piece of toast?”
Juliet poked at it with her fork and wrinkled her nose. “I read about a new reducing diet in the Morning Post.”
Cassandra frowned. “You only eat toast?”
“Oh no. I can have a boiled potato in vinegar for lunch and a little—a very little—lamb for dinner. But nothing more.”
Portia rose from her chair. “I, for one, am not going to reduce. Whatever man I find will just have to take me the way I am, large or thin.”
Olivia cut a piece of bacon. “All you need is a wealthy, titled man who will accept a slightly plump, poor woman as a potential bride.”
Juliet giggled. “Now that’s a lovely plan; I really don’t see how it could fail.”
Portia sniffed again. “Stranger things have happened.”
“Not in real life,” Juliet said, cutting her toast into tiny pieces and spreading it out so that it filled her plate.
“What do you know about real life?” Portia picked up a plate and began to fill it. “Notice that I didn’t say the wealthy man had to be handsome. If I’m not, I don’t expect him to be. That’s only fair.”
Olivia looked up at that. “Fair? You expect him to be wealthy and you’re not. What’s fair about that?”
“Yes, but I can have children. Therefore, I bring my own value to the marriage. The least he can do is possess enough of an income for our family to live comfortably.”
Olivia curled her nose. “You would sell yourself as a breeding machine?”
“Only for a very large sum of money,” Portia said calmly. “And it’s not as if I don’t like children; I love them. I hope to have ten or eleven, at the least, wealthy husband or no.”