Honor (2 page)

Honor raised one hand to her hat to keep a sudden gust of wind from catching it. “My aunt’s.”

Davis idly ran his hand down the glossy hindquarters of one of the two matching black horses standing there, its head held by a liveried coachman. “These beauties must have cost a pretty penny.”

Honor ignored his crass comment and regarded him with customary coolness. “This has been a most interesting conversation, Mr. Davis, but I really don’t have any interest in pursuing an…acquaintanceship.”

His jaw tightened. “So Robert Davis isn’t good enough for the likes of you, Miss Steel Stays Elliott!”

His use of the epithet angered her, but she didn’t show it. “I’m sorry if I offended you, but—”

“You’re all alike, aren’t you? Spoiled little proper Bostonians who think they can do whatever they please because Papa has money and they live in a fancy house and buy their fancy clothes every spring in Paris.” He shivered again, this time with passion rather than the cold. “And you, Miss Steel Stays, are the worst kind, a rich woman going to school to ease her boredom, taking the place of some decent, hardworking man who just wants to better himself.”

Honor’s eyes narrowed. She was too well-bred to correct him. Proper Bostonian women preferred plain, unostentatious clothes that had aged a bit, none of which were ever purchased from Parisian couturiers such as Worth—except by Aunt Theo, of course, but then, she would shudder to be mistaken for a proper Bostonian. As for a rich papa, Honor no longer had one, nor did she have a mother, for that matter. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Davis…”

Robert Davis flung his books down with a clatter, grasped Honor around the waist, and pulled her toward him. She dropped her own books in surprise. Before she could step back out of danger or shove him away, he crushed her against his hard chest and his mouth came down on hers in a punishing kiss.

For a heartbeat Honor felt cold, smooth lips pressed against her own with a demanding insistence, and then an unexpected answering warmth flaring deep within her own body.

“Hey, stop that!” she heard Simms, the coachman, shout from far away. “Unhand Miss Elliott!”

Before Simms could accost him, Davis released Honor, taking only a second to glare at her triumphantly before scooping up his books and striding off without a backward glance.

Rage swept through Honor like a forest fire, and this time she couldn’t hide it. She cupped her trembling hand around her mouth and shouted, “Damn you! I’ll have you arrested!”

He turned around but kept on walking. “There’s no law against kissing a woman in public.”

Simms reached Honor’s side. “He didn’t hurt you, did he, miss?” he said, stooping to retrieve her books.

Honor shook her head, her indignant gaze still on Davis’s retreating form.
“He only kissed me,” she shouted so he would hear her, “and a disappointing experience it was, at that.” She turned to Simms. “Take me home.”

Simms handed her into the brougham and they departed. When Honor glanced out the rear window, she saw that Davis was waving a mocking good-bye.

“The effrontery of that man!” She slammed her books down on the seat and settled herself against the soft leather squabs. Her heart still raced, and her lips still felt bruised from his kiss.

She was used to his obnoxious behavior in class, constantly arguing and contradicting her at every opportunity, like a tenacious bull terrier worrying a trouser leg. Yet just a few moments ago he had acted like anything but an adversary.

Honor nervously tugged at the gold engraved locket she always wore on a black satin cord. Gradually the heat of her anger cooled, and rationality took over. She put herself in her antagonist’s place, all the better to understand him.

Davis obviously resented those of wealth and privilege, and judging by his ill-fitting, threadbare clothes and belligerent attitude, he had known neither. If that was the case, what was his motive in seeking her out after class?

She put him out of her mind. She had more pressing concerns than Robert Davis.

Unlike nearby Beacon Hill, with its narrow cobblestone lanes and elegant brick row houses in earlier Federal and Georgian styles, Commonwealth Avenue resembled a wide, airy Parisian boulevard with a tree-filled park running down its center and houses with decidedly Gallic flair.

Arriving at number 165,
Honor paused to study her aunt’s house. She had never thought it particularly fancy. Well, perhaps the tall, arched windows on the first and second floors qualified as fancy. And it did boast two drawing rooms, a casual one for the family on the first floor and a more elaborate one for receiving guests on the second, but then, so did every other house on the avenue. She supposed hot-water heating might be considered a luxury in Robert Davis’s estimation if he was used to coal fires. To Honor, the four-story structure was simply home.

The moment Honor stepped into the paneled foyer, the butler materialized out of nowhere to take her cape. “And how was school today, miss?”

“Stimulating as always, Jackson, but not for the usual reasons.” Peeling off her gloves, she noticed a large wooden crate in the foyer. “What is this?”

“Another painting from Paris.”

“Aunt Theo didn’t tear it right out of its crate the moment it arrived?”

“She wasn’t here when it arrived, miss. She’s gone hunting.”

“Gone hunting” meant that Theodate Putnam Tree was off seeking a new addition to her art collection or her wardrobe and wouldn’t return until she had bagged her quarry.

“Alone?” Honor asked, removing her hat and smoothing her glossy black hair with a practiced hand.

“With Mr. Saltonsall.”

Who else? Honor smiled to herself.

After having gone upstairs to her own room to change into a comfortable tea gown, Honor was passing through the foyer on her way to the library to study when the front door suddenly flew open, and her aunt Theodate came sweeping in like a blast of autumn wind.

“But you must admit he was vastly entertaining,” she was saying to the tall young man beside her laden with several hatboxes of various sizes.

At forty, the widow Tree was as tall and slender as her niece, with prematurely white hair that was a family trait and eyes as black and mysterious as midnight.

The moment her gaze alighted on the crate, she clasped her hands together with glee. “Oh, Wes, it’s finally arrived!” She fluttered one gloved hand in Jackson’s direction when the butler appeared. “Jackson, take those boxes and bring us something to open the crate with before I expire of suspense!” Her long skirts had barely settled before she was in motion again, sweeping across the foyer to kiss Honor on the cheek. “How was school today, sweet Portia? Did you win any of those mock trials?”

Honor smiled, exchanged greetings with Wes, who was still struggling to transfer the hatboxes to Jackson, and said to her aunt, “My professor thought so, though my classmates disagreed.”

“They’re only men.” Theo tugged off her blue kid gloves and flung them at the long hall table. She missed and turned to Wes, who finally had his hands free. “Will you bring the painting into the drawing room so that we can unpack it?”

Wesley Saltonsall, who was Honor’s age, spent more time squiring Theo around Boston than working for his family’s vast shipping business. Though he did not possess a formidable intellect, he was a perfect specimen of masculine beauty and charm, with a talent for making people comfortable in any social situation.

He was also Theodate’s lover, a well-kept secret that even Honor would never have guessed if she hadn’t discovered them dallying upstairs one quiet afternoon.

He grinned, displaying irresistible twin dimples. “Of course.”

Wes pulled the crate into the downstairs drawing room and unpacked while Theo watched impatiently. As soon as Wes slid the painting out of its protective crate, Theo tore off its paper wrapping with the eagerness of a child on Christmas morning. Then she stood back to admire her latest purchase.

She clasped her hands to her bosom. “How magnificent!”

The still life depicted plump oranges arranged on a blue and white cloth, with a bowl of apples in the background.

“They look good enough to eat,” Honor said. “Who painted it?”

“Paul Cézanne,” Theo said, darting this way and that to examine it from all angles. “This is the first of his works that I’ve purchased, but it certainly won’t be my last.”

They were so engrossed in admiring the painting that they didn’t pay attention when the doorbell rang. Jackson did. He went to the door and returned seconds later.

“Excuse me, Miss Honor, there is a gentleman here to see you. He says his name is Robert Davis.”

Robert Davis had never before encountered a butler. He wondered if they all looked as though they wore starched drawers.

“If you’ll wait one moment,” this one said, “I’ll see if Miss Elliott is at home.” He closed the door, leaving Robert to wait outside in a late afternoon chill growing colder by the second.

He clasped his arms for warmth. She had to be here. She told him she was going home. He had seen her get into the carriage.

The door opened. The butler said, “Miss Elliott will see you,” and stood aside for Robert to enter.

The foyer was the same size as the one at his boardinghouse, but there was no lingering odor of last night’s cooking, just a subtle, well-bred hint of beeswax polish. The fine parquet floor and dark wainscoting had a soft, lustrous patina that betrayed their costliness. He wondered if the inhabitants ever took such luxury for granted. He knew he never would.

He barely had time to glance at a gold-framed oval mirror hanging over a narrow table placed to receive gloves and canes before a woman emerged from a doorway. Immediately her dynamic presence dominated the foyer.

“How do you do, Mr. Davis?” she said in a warm, refined voice, extending her hand. “I am Theodate Tree, Honor’s aunt.”

Not a common Alice or Mary but an exotic
Thee-
o-date.

He stared. Her youthful, unlined face and dark brows clashed with that cloud of white hair. Then he remembered his manners and took her delicate hand in his large one. Should he shake it? Kiss it? Finally he just bowed over it. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Tree.”

The black eyes, so similar to her niece’s, twinkled. “Mrs. Tree. I’m a widow.” Before he could comment, she turned in a crisp rustle of taffeta and headed back to the doorway. “Do come and join us.”

Inside the drawing room, Honor and a tall young man stood admiring and discussing a painting of fruit. He wondered why they thought it worthy of such expansive praise. It was just a picture.

“Mr. Davis,” Honor said coolly. “This is a surprise.”

He swallowed hard. Gone was the uniform of prim white shirtwaist and long skirt she usually wore to class. Now she was dressed in a shimmering, loose-fitting gown with no corset to restrain her subtle curves, but she still wore her ever-present locket. She had let down her hair and caught it back with a green ribbon so that it tumbled past her shoulders in a soft black cloud. He wanted to wrap it around his fist and bury his face in it.

“…and this is Wesley Saltonsall,” Mrs. Tree said, “an old family friend.”

“Davis,” he said, extending his hand and smiling a perfect, dimpled smile.

Robert sized him up as they shook hands, then dismissed him as nothing more than a good-looking Brahmin who probably had never pulled on his own drawers in his life. “Saltonsall.”

Honor said, “To what do we owe the pleasure of this call, Mr. Davis?”

“I needed to talk with you.”

She regarded him with the same expression he had seen so often in class, a thoughtful, assessing look that told him she was examining the issue from both sides and carefully weighing all possible outcomes. “And it couldn’t wait until class tomorrow?”

“No.”

“Very well. Follow me.” She glided toward a door at the end of the hall, and he caught the faint, sweet scent of roses. “Aunt Theo, we shall be in the library. Don’t be alarmed if you hear glass breaking.”

Mrs. Tree’s tinkling laughter echoed through the foyer. Robert kept his gaze on Honor’s proud back.

Once inside the library, Honor closed the door behind her and turned to face him. “What do you want, Mr. Davis? After the way you insulted me this afternoon, I—”

“I didn’t insult you. I kissed you.”
And I’d do it again, right now, if I thought I could get away with it.

“To kiss me without my permission is to insult me.” She walked toward him. “I don’t appreciate men I barely know taking such liberties.”

He bowed his head and tried to look contrite. “I don’t know what the devil got into me. After you drove off, I realized that I had behaved badly. That’s why I’m here, to apologize.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me. I’m here to say I’m sorry.”

“I see.”

“And you’d better accept this apology, because I won’t make it again.”

Her obsidian eyes flashed in a rare display of anger. “Contrary to what you may think, I don’t carry a grudge. I accept your apology.” She paused. “One thing puzzles me. Why did you come here to deliver your apology in person? You could have waited until class tomorrow.”