On a Long Ago Night (14 page)

Captain Russell approaching that makes you look so sour?"

Honoria made out Derrick's form a moment after her cousin

spoke. She caught a gleam of gold hair in the lamplight and a pale

oval of face, a suggestion of broad shoulders. Was that a hint of

desperation underlying his confident swagger as he moved closer?

She turned her back, ostensibly to speak to Lady Asqwyth.

This didn't stop him. "I must speak with you, Honoria.

Alone."

The intensity of Derrick Russell's whispered entreaty when

he came up behind her was more annoying than disturbing. He had

bad breath as well. Too much wine, and not only from tonight's

meal, she thought, was the cause of the sour stench that hung about

him. Possibly it was an outward manifestation of his rotten soul.

Lady Asqwyth put her hand over her mouth and tittered at the

sight of Derrick Russell standing so close behind Honoria. Lady

Asqwyth, of course, knew that they had once been betrothed.

Almost everyone else in the music room did as well. Everyone was

watching. Was
he
in the room? Did he care who she was with or

what she did? And did she care if he cared, or not? She decided that

she did—if she could in any way hurt him. Such maliciousness was

foolish, she supposed, since the man was heartless and soulless and

had no personal interest in her at all. If she could manage to get

even some small measure of revenge, would it be sweet? She had

no way of knowing, having never even contemplated revenge

before. The thought that she might make him uncomfortable was a

pleasant one. Of course, showing Derrick any attention might make

Marbury think he could still use Derrick against her. She would

disabuse him of the notion, if necessary. Right now, it would be

politic to disabuse Derrick of any notions he might have as well.

She'd managed to fight her grimace into almost a smile when she

turned to face Derrick. "Alone?" she questioned, as coquettishly as

she could manage. "That would hardly be proper, Captain Russell."

That she could pronounce his name with anything approaching

civility delighted her.

"We have a past relationship." He sounded as if he thought

that what they had once meant to each other somehow granted him

private privileges. "I hope to renew that relationship," he added for

everyone nearby to hear.

He spoke with a sincerity that twisted in Honoria's guts. Her

soul and heart might have been affected as well, if another

apparition from her past were not occupying those hollow, aching

spots.

"Derrick," she said quietly to her former fiancé "you are such

a nuisance." She sighed and stepped toward the garden door. "All

right. Five minutes." He hesitated until she glanced over her

shoulder upon reaching the glass door. Apparently Captain Russell

had forgotten that she was as used to giving orders as he was.

Oh, that's right; he had
never
known that side of her. Her

smile was quite genuine and sharp as a sword when she said,

"Come along, Derrick. Cousin Kate," she added imperiously, "we

need a chaperone."

She did not wait to see if they followed her as she went into

the garden. She did hear a man's hearty laughter as she exited, but

she refused to think who the man might be.

Cousin Kate wisely stayed on the terrace while Honoria

marched to a bench in the middle of the garden. She was aware of

roses and moonlight, but the scene was incongruous with her mood.

When Derrick put his hands on her shoulders, she shook him off.

"Don't you dare," she snarled, so fiercely that the Scourge of

Barbary took a startled step backward. Scourge, indeed. She had to

force down a bitter laugh before she could go on. "How
dare
you

come to my father's house?" she demanded.

He gestured dramatically. She could barely make the

movement out in the dim light with her dim vision. "I was invited.

Your father invited me himself." He sounded smug, pleased, sure.

Her voice was deadly calm. "And why do you think he

invited you?"

"Because you need a husband. You have not wed, Honoria."

"That is in no way relevant to you, Captain. You requested in

your letter that I forgive you," she went on, before he could make

some false declaration of tender sentiment toward her. "Very well,

I forgive you. I didn't think it was possible, but having laid eyes on

you again, I see that holding a grudge against such a pathetic twit

as you is not worth the effort. It would be beneath me." No, she

would save her hatred for the one who deserved it the most. She

could spare some contempt for Derrick Russell, however.

"I have had my solicitor make inquiries about your current

circumstances, Captain. Unfortunately, I was not able to present the

results of those inquiries to my father in time for your invitation for

tonight's function to be withdrawn. I assure you, there will be no

further invitations."

Derrick stood very straight and tall. She supposed that he

probably looked quite fierce—not that she cared.

"You love me," he announced.

"Irrelevant," she responded. She clasped her hands before her

and added coldly, "Also, your tense is incorrect."

"Your father will accept my suit. We will be betrothed

again."

"The information about your gambling debts will be on

Father's desk in the morning, along with information of a less

savory nature. I was unaware that there were any brothel keepers in

London quite so foolish as to extend credit to their customers.

You've run up quite a bill for services rendered."

"Honoria!"

She had no idea why the man sounded so horrified, but took

delight in shocking him. "I realize a long, and unsuccessful, sea

voyage can exacerbate certain tensions common to the male

anatomy, but really, Captain Russell, such excess is hardly sensible

for a man of your limited funds."

"How can you speak so, so—"

"Frankly?" she supplied. "Maidenly modesty is something I

lost years ago. I hardly need to remind you of that, since it was at

your suggestion."

"Honoria," he went on doggedly, as though reciting from a

memorized scenario, "I have come to rescue you from a lonely

spinsterhood. To offer you my hand in honorable marriage. And—

and—"

"The pleasures of the flesh? The comfort of the marriage

bed?" she asked with a sickly sweetness.

The smug satisfaction returned to his voice. "Precisely."

"I'd rather not risk the pox, than kyou very much, Captain

Russell."

"A maiden should not know about such things."

"I am not a maiden." Why did she have to keep reminding

him of this indelicate fact?

He took a sly step closer. He lowered his voice

conspiratorially. "But your father does not know that you were

dishonored. The world does not know the truth."

She ignored the threat of blackmail, well aware that she could

play the game better than he could. "You are a desperate man with

a ruined career who wants my fortune and the place in society I can

give you."

"Yes," he had the grace to admit, adding with a very poor

show of sincerity, "but that is not all I want from you, Honoria. I

was wrong. I have wronged you."

He sounded as if he had just played his winning card.

Honoria could not hold back her laughter. "Oh, Derrick, go away."

"Go away?"

He came toward her again. She put a hand out to hold him at

arm's length. "You lied to me when you told me you loved me."

"I do love you."

"You never loved me. You told me so yourself."

"That was the lie."

"Please. I have eaten a rich dinner; I cannot bear to pour such

treacle on top of lobster."

"You always did like to eat."

"That's my Derrick: remind me that you think I'm a cow. A

stupid, spotted bovine. No, you didn't call me bovine—I don't think

you actually know any words with Latin roots. Cow is a good

English word, and you used it quite plainly to describe me."

"I was ill. Delirious."

She responded with several short, rude words of Anglo-

Saxon derivation that any sailor was sure to recognize. "Go away,"

she repeated. "Attempt to contact me again, or attempt to inform

my father of your version of our shared past, and not only will my

solicitor's report make its way to the Admiralty, but I will

personally draft a letter detailing your abominable behavior in

Algiers. I will send this letter not only to the Admiralty, but to the

Prime Minister, the newspapers, the Queen. Dear old Lord

Wellington might find it amusing to call you out as a coward, cad

and traitor."

She felt light as a feather, happier than she'd been in years.

The threat of revenge was proving to be quite delicious.

"You would not dare!"

"If my father is in any way hurt, I most certainly will."

"You could not bear the public humiliation any more than I

could."

"Do you want to find out?" she asked. Her words were soft,

but he seemed to hear the danger at last.

Derrick backed up a few steps. "You are distraught," he said

in the mild, polite, insufferably superior tone a male used when a

woman made any show of opposing him. "It has been many years

since we have seen each other."

"Not enough."

"I will give you time to recall what we meant to each other.

To reflect. To remember." He whispered the words, as though they

would conjure up memories of sensual delight. "I'll leave you now.

The Season is only beginning, Honoria," he went on relentlessly.

"We're sure to see quite a bit of each other. Given time and

association, you will realize that you still love me."

Fortunately, Derrick finally chose to make a strategic retreat

before she called for footmen to eject him bodily from Pyneham

property.

"That felt good, didn't it, fox-hair?" James murmured from

the concealment of a topiary bush. He could tell by the tilt of her

head and the spring in her step as she rejoined her
duenna
and went

back inside. The conversation between Honoria and the fool had

been intense, but not loud. He had had to get very close to overhear

as much as he had. He and his father had made their farewells and

left by the front door only moments after Honoria had marched the

idiot outside. James had had to rush around to the back of the

house, jump over the garden wall, and stealthily speed to his hiding

place. He'd had a few moments of furious worry that he would

arrive to find Honoria in her "dear Derrick's" arms and he was still

tense and snarling, even though the kiss he'd imagined had not

happened.

It's not jealousy
, he told himself, despite the tightness around

his heart, the anger that clawed inside him, and the discovery that

his fists were balled in tight knots. And all that only at the thought

of the fool's touching Honoria.

James made himself assess the scene with a cooler head. He

had not been forced to use the scheming, devious part of himself

for some time, but that did not mean he had lost the capacity to

study the weaknesses and strengths of others, or to know how to

use those strengths and weaknesses to his own advantage.

She had made it clear she would not be blackmailed. James

rubbed his chin thoughtfully. That was not good. Then again, she

had also said that she would not let her father be hurt. Her father

was her weakness—that was good.

Having Russell in the picture was most definitely not good.

Russell seemed to think that he could charm his way back into

Honoria's good graces. Who was to say that the fool was not right?

She had thought she loved him once; they had a history together.

They had their place in the British aristocracy in common. Russell

was right about having many opportunities of seeing Honoria as the

Coronation Season progressed. He would be there, at parties and

balls and at the theater, in his dress uniform and medals, smiling

and dancing attendance on the woman whom he had once tricked

into thinking she loved him. Who was to say Russell would not be

able to trick her again?

"Me," James Marbury said. He was not jealous, but Honoria

belonged to him. "I paid good money for her," he added, and

looked up at the upper stories of the duke's townhouse. He did not