He was occasionally the bane of her existence, but he was, at heart, a good person. Reasonable, too. He would realize that Mrs.
Royle’s gathering was exactly the sort of event that made him want to gouge his eyes out. She’d long wondered why he ever went to London for the season; he always looked so bored.
Honoria sealed the letter herself and brought it downstairs, handing it to a footman to deliver to Marcus. When Marcus’s reply arrived several hours later, it was addressed to Mrs. Royle.
“What does it say?” Cecily asked breathlessly, rushing to her mother’s side as she opened it. Iris, too, crowded in, trying to peer over Cecily’s shoulder.
Honoria hung back and waited. She knew what it would say.
Mrs. Royle broke the seal and unfolded the missive, her eyes moving quickly across the writing as she read. “He sends his regrets,” she said flatly.
Cecily and Sarah let out wails of despair. Mrs. Royle looked over at Honoria, who hoped she was doing a good job at looking shocked as she said, “I did ask. It’s just not his sort of entertainment, I think. He’s really not terribly sociable."
“Well, that much is true,” Mrs. Royle grumbled. “I can’t remember more than three balls last season at which I saw him dancing. And with so many young ladies without partners. It was downright rude.” “He’s a good dancer, though,” Cecily said.
All eyes turned to her.
“He is,” she insisted, looking a bit surprised that her statement had garnered so much attention. “He danced with me at the Mottram Ball.” She turned to the other girls, as if to offer an explanation. “We are neighbors, after all. It was only polite."
Honoria nodded. Marcus was a good dancer. Better than she was, that was for certain. She never could understand the intricacies of rhythm. Sarah had tried endlessly to explain the difference between a waltz and common time, but Honoria had never been able to grasp it.
“We shall persevere,” Mrs. Royle said loudly, placing a hand over her heart. “Two of the other four gentlemen have already accepted, and I am certain that we will hear from the others in the morning."
But later that night, as Honoria was heading upstairs to bed, Mrs. Royle took her aside and quietly asked, “Do you think there is any chance Lord Chatteris will change his mind?"
Honoria swallowed uncomfortably. “I’m afraid not, ma’am.” Mrs. Royle shook her head and made a little clucking sound.
“Such a pity. He really would have been the feather in my cap.
Well, good night, dear. Pleasant dreams.”
Twenty miles away, Marcus was sitting alone in his study with a hot cup of cider, mulling over his recent missive from Honoria. He had burst out laughing upon reading it, which he imagined had been her intention. Perhaps not her primary intention—that had certainly been to stop him from attending Mrs. Royle’s party—but she would have known that her words would amuse him to no end.
He looked down at the paper again, smiling as he reread it. Only Honoria would write him such a note, begging him to decline the invitation that she had put forth but two sentences prior.
It had been rather nice, seeing her again. It had been an age. He did not count the numerous times their paths had crossed in London. Such meetings could never be like the carefree times he had spent with her family at Whipple Hill. In London he was either dodging the ambitious mamas who were absolutely certain their daughters were born to be the next Lady Chatteris, or he was trying to keep an eye on Honoria. Or both.
In retrospect, it was remarkable that no one thought he was interested in her himself. He’d certainly spent enough time discreetly meddling in her business. He’d scared off four gentlemen the previous year—two of them fortune hunters, one with a cruel streak, and the last an aging, pompous ass. He was fairly certain that Honoria would have had the sense to refuse the last, but the one with the cruel streak hid it well, and the fortune hunters were, he was told, charming.
Which he supposed was a prerequisite for the position.
She was probably interested in one of the gentlemen who would be attending Mrs. Royle’s party and didn’t want him there to ruin things for her. He didn’t particularly want to be there, either, so in that they were in agreement.
But he needed to know on whom she had set her sights. If it wasn’t someone with whom he was familiar, inquiries would have to be made. It wouldn’t be too difficult to obtain the guest list; the servants always knew how to get hold of things like that.
And maybe if the weather was fine, he would go for a ride. Or a walk. There was a path in the woods that wandered back and forth across the property line between Fensmore and Bricstan. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d walked it. It was irresponsible of him, really. A landowner ought to know his property in intimate detail.
A walk it would be, then. And if he happened along Honoria and her friends, he could converse with them just long enough to get the information he needed. He could avoid the party and find out who she planned to set her cap for.
Marcus finished off his cider and smiled. He couldn’t imagine a more pleasing outcome.
Chapter Three
By Sunday afternoon, Honoria was convinced she had made the right choice. Gregory Bridgerton would make an ideal husband.
They had been seated next to each other at the supper at the Royles’ town home a few days earlier, and he had been utterly charming. True, he had shown no signs of being particularly smitten with her, but neither had he seemed taken with anyone else. He was kind, courteous, and had a sense of humor to match her own.
More to the point, Honoria thought that if she made the effort, she had more than a passing chance at capturing his interest. He was a younger—no, a youngest son—which meant that ladies hoping to snag a title would consider him beneath their notice. And he would probably need money. His family was passably wealthy and would likely provide him with an income, but younger sons were notoriously in need of dowries.
Which Honoria had. Nothing staggering, but Daniel had revealed the amount to her before he’d left the country, and it was more than respectable. She would not enter into a marriage empty- handed.
All that was left was to make Mr. Bridgerton see that they were perfectly matched. And Honoria had a plan.
It had come to her in church that morning. (The ladies went; the gentlemen somehow managed to get out of it.) It wasn’t terribly complicated; she needed only a sunny day, a halfway acceptable sense of direction, and a shovel.
The first was easy, and indeed already a given. The sun had been shining brightly when she’d entered the small parish church, which was probably what had given her the idea in the first place.
More to the point, it was still shining when she left, which, given the vagaries of English weather, was not something one could always count upon.
The second would be trickier. But they had taken a walk through the woods the day before, and Honoria was fairly sure that she could find her way again. She might not be able to tell north from south, but she could follow a well-tended path.
As for the shovel, she was going to have to figure that one out later.
When the ladies returned to Bricstan after church, they were informed that the gentlemen had gone shooting and would return for a late lunch. “They will be extremely hungry,” Mrs. Royle announced. “We must adjust our preparations accordingly."
Honoria was apparently the only one who did not realize that this meant she required an assistant. Cecily and Sarah immediately rushed upstairs to choose their afternoon dresses, and Iris spouted some nonsense about a stomachache and fled. Honoria was immediately drafted to serve on Mrs. Royle’s committee of two.