A new silence rose between them, not as uncomfortable as the first. Perhaps she also was reminiscing. Confirming his suspicion, she sighed, the sound wistful.
Words came from his mouth, unbidden, as if they grew tired of waiting and refused to be contained any longer. “You look beautiful, Honoria. The same—but different. I’ve been trying all day to figure out why.”
She jerked her gaze away. “It’s been eight years, Drake. I’m not that girl any longer.”
“No,” he agreed. Sadness hovered around her, giving her a tragic air. He glanced again at the book in the crevice. Like Juliet, had Honoriadrugged herself with a sleeping draught, waiting for love to return and revive her, only to wake and find her love dead beside her? He almost laughed at the accuracy of the analogy. “I’m not the same naïve boy, either.”
“There is a hard edge to you, Drake.”
“Battle does that to a man.” It was an easy enough answer and, although true, wasn’t the primary reason for his alteration.
A shadow of discomfort flitted across her face. “Is that how you met Burwood? In the military?”
He nodded. “He saved my life.” Drake kept the particulars to himself. “I owe him a great debt.”
“How heroic. If the ladies present learn of it, he shall be even more popular.”
Drake barked a laugh. How could she still turn his sour mood around? “Is that even possible? Don’t all you aristocratic women yearn to marry a duke? Heroic or not?”
Her gaze shifted to her lap. “Not all.”
Something that died the day she told him she wouldn’t marry him, stirred to life. And as before, a bittersweet ache rose in his chest. “Why haven’t you married?”
“Why haven’t you?” She pulled in an audible breath. “Or have you? Is there a wife who’s not present?” Her voice trembled at the wordwife.
Anyone else would have missed it. But even after eight years, he was still in tune with her. The beast stirring inside yawned and stretched, threatening his sanity all over again. “I asked you first.”
She gave the tiniest nod. “It’s clear you’ve been abroad, otherwise you wouldn’t have to ask at all. Have you heard ofThe Muckraker?”
“The gossip rag?”
“The very one. I have been featured in it frequently the last few years. Enough to scatter most eligible gentlemen to the four winds.”
What?His Honoria? “I find that hard to believe. Whatever could you have done to be in a scandal sheet?”
“One doesn’t have todoanything to be in that horrible publication. Yet, it doesn’t stop whoever is behind it from spreading vicious gossip. If you must know, the first reports were lies about us.”
Heat flared in his chest on her behalf. “What did they say about us?”
Color bloomed on her cheeks, and she cast her gaze away. “They were lies. Does it matter?”
“It matters to me. Please, tell me.”
Her gaze shot to his. “You had already left for the military, but rumors circulated that I had been despoiled by a servant.”
Oh, God.Lies, indeed! And she had faced it alone. Is that why she hadn’t married? “What else?”
The enigmatic curve of her lips reminded him of the Mona Lisa, except—no offense to Da Vinci—Honoria was much more beautiful.
“The Muckrakertook great joy in reporting how two separate men courted me but chose to marry other women.”
“The cads! Give me their names!”
To his amazement, she laughed. “One of them is a guest. Dr. Marbry. And it was I who told him to marry Priscilla. It was clear he loved her, though he refused to admit it. They are very happy, and I am happy for them.”
“And the other man?”
“An even more innocuous situation. Lady Charlotte’s brother, Lord Nash Talbot. Both our families insisted upon the match, but neither of us wanted it. We agreed to a pretense to buy some time—for him to secure funds for an investment, and for me to reach twenty-five when my father promised to release my dowry. In the interim, he fell in love with a lovely American woman.” Mirth lit her green eyes. “I quite enjoyed arranging secret rendezvous for them.”
