Oh, dear. Had she gone too far? She scrambled for a different topic. “Your Grace, I understand you were in India prior to coming home.”
“Ah, she’s not only serious, but well informed. I was indeed. Stationed there in the service of king and country.” He directed his attention to Mr. Weatherby seated on Honoria’s right. “I understand you are also familiar with India, sir.”
“Only marginally. My wife is more acquainted with the country than I am. I merely traveled there to beg her to marry me.”
Honoria couldn’t help but sigh. “How romantic.”
Mrs. Weatherby glanced lovingly at her husband. “It was. And a little dangerous.”
Burwood cocked his head. “Malaria?”
Mrs. Weatherby shook her head. “No. A duel. But my father knows of several people who succumbed to that horrible illness.”
The conversation fascinated Honoria. She had so many questions, both for Burwood and the Weatherbys. “Is that how you came by your bronzed complexion, Your Grace?”
He jerked back. “From malaria?”
Oh!She wanted to crawl under her chair. “Forgive me. No. From the Indian sun.”
“Ah, of course. My mistake, my lady. I should have made the connection. Yes. The sun is intense. Much different from our cloudy English skies. I fared better than poor Merrick. It took him time to adjust, as his skin is naturally fairer than my own.”
Honoria darted another glance toward Drake.
With a captive audience and his face alight with excitement, he gestured animatedly, something he did when narrating a tale—especially one in which he elaborated shamelessly. The Drake she remembered wasn’t as serious as Burwood implied, and she relished that he’d shared that small part of himself with her.
He glanced toward her. For an instant, their gazes tangled, and his smile vanished like a phantom fog. Just as quickly, he turned away, his smile and attention toward his companions returning in full measure.
A dull ache pinged in Honoria’s chest.
“He seems a fine fellow,” Ashton said.
“He is. Wouldn’t you agree, Lady Honoria?” Burwood signaled for the remove. “Lady Honoria and Merrick are acquainted. It would appear our world is smaller than imagined.”
As footmen replaced the dishes on the table with the next course, all eyes within the vicinity turned toward Honoria in question. She barely choked out the response. “His father was my father’s steward, and Mr. Merrick served as a groom.”
Ashton and the duchess exchanged a glance. Had they made the connection to the scurrilous lies that Drake had taken her innocence eight years prior?
Honoria felt more exposed than if she’d been standing on the table, serving as an epergne.
Thank heavens neither of them enquired further.
Rather, as if sensing her discomfort, Ashton redirected the conversation. “Speaking of malaria, Mr. Merrick asked if I knew of any cures.”
Burwood’s attention jerked back to Ashton. “Do you?”
“Nothing beyond what is currently prescribed for treatment, which is to mitigate the symptoms when an attack occurs.”
Why would Drake ask about malaria?
Burwood abruptly became tight-lipped, simply nodding and staring at the new course before them.
Chatter replaced the tense silence as guests served themselves portions of roasted meats and savory vegetables. Although each dish presented was a favorite of Honoria’s, every bite was tasteless.Conversation around her became as indistinct as buzzing of insects. When she sensed Burwood or Mr. Weatherby directing a comment toward her, she merely nodded and smiled, all the while sneaking glances at Drake and his entourage of admirers.
Mercifully, supper ended, topped off with pieces of chocolate-covered marzipan. She frowned at the confection she normally would have devoured with alacrity.
“I must have been misinformed,” Burwood whispered, confusion painting his face.
“Pardon?”
