“Thank you.” Hollis looked up at Donovan.
“Shall I call for you in an hour or so?” he asked, looking at his pocket watch.
“No need. Eliza will see that I am sent home under proper escort.”
He nodded and slipped the watch back into his pocket. He smiled. “How beautiful you look, madam. I should think today is an excellent day to look for a husband. There are bound to be many wealthy gents roaming about the staterooms.”
Hollis rolled her eyes, but she could feel herself blushing. “Do you mean to go out this evening?”
Donovan’s smile turned wry, and even though she understood that there could never be anything between them, his smile always caused her heart to flutter just a little. He was perhaps the most handsome man she’d ever known. “Better you don’t ask,” he said ebulliently. He put his hand on her elbow and turned her about so she was facing the door and the gentleman who was patiently waiting. “You’re not to fret, remember?”
“I’m not fretting. I haven’t the slightest bit of fret in me. I’ve already forgotten you.”
Donovan laughed. “Go, enjoy your time with your sister and your niece. Bring home a story.” With that and a wink, he turned to go.
Hollis watched him walk away with a definite spring in his step. Just as he turned to exit the gate, she saw the confused gentleman now striding purposefully across the courtyard at such a pace that the hem of his greatcoat kicked out with each step. He no longer appeared uncertain about anything at all—he looked perfectly at ease. He was following along where all the other gentlemen seemed to be going in groups of two or three, talking and laughing and carrying on as if they thought they were headed to a pub after a cricket match.
“Mrs. Honeycutt?”
“Oh! Yes,” she said to the underbutler, remembering herself, and stepped in through the door.
CHAPTER TWO
All of London iseagerly awaiting a glimpse of the Duchess of Tannymeade, nee Miss Eliza Tricklebank, who is recently returned to London with her husband, the duke, and her newborn daughter, the heir to the Alucian throne. Princess Cecelia is said to be a little cherub with the green eyes of her mother and the dark hair of her father. Speculation as to who might be a suitable marriage match for the tiny princess has already begun in earnest, with the two-year-old son of a certain English minister receiving the most bets at a White’s gentlemen’s club.
It is inconceivable that a parlor game involving the young princess can entertain so readily when credible whispers of trouble persist in royal circles. It would behoove us all to remind ourselves of the true import of this summit.
Ladies, a reminder that stiff crinoline is a danger to your health. Do have a care when standing cliffside, as a good strong wind could send one racing out to sea like a balloon, which, unfortunately, the late Mrs. March of Scarborough discovered.
—Honeycutt’s Gazette of Fashion and Domesticity for Ladies
THISWASTHEsecond time Hollis had been escorted into St. James Palace like royalty, and the second time she felt as if she was perpetuating a terrible lie. She was much more at home in her drawing room, her feet before the fire.
Bellingham wore white gloves and a pristinely tied neckcloth as he led her up the main staircase and then down a long hall, past portraits and marble consoles and a spectacular view of St. James Park. He turned another corner and they carried on down another very long hall, past more portraits and enormous urns and velvet draperies, until they arrived at the door that led to the suite of rooms reserved for the Duke and Duchess of Tannymeade. He rapped twice. Someone inside opened promptly. The underbutler stepped through, bowed, and announced grandly, “Mrs. Hollis Honeycutt.”
“Hollis!” Eliza cried happily from somewhere inside the room, and as Hollis stepped across the threshold, she spotted her sister darting through a veritable sea of people to reach her.
Hollis scarcely had a moment for a footman to take her bonnet and her cloak from her shoulders when Eliza burst through the maze and threw her arms around Hollis, bouncing them up and down like they used to do when they were girls. “You’relate, darling. Where have you been? I feared you’d miss it altogether.”
“I’m so sorry, Eliza. It couldn’t be avoided.”
It could have been completely avoided. Her pride and determination to prove Mr. Shoreham wrong was proving to be a bit of an obstacle.
Eliza stood back to examine Hollis’s gown and nodded with approval. “It’s beautiful. Caro said it was good, but not quite as good as the gown she’s made you for the ball.”
“But it’s sotight,” Hollis groaned, and glanced down at the ice-blue skirt. She pressed her hand to her middle in a pointless attempt to relieve the tight binding of her corset.
“It’s supposed to be tight! Waistlines are all the thing. Not that I care a whit for mine.” She laughed—of course she did—because it hardly mattered what Eliza wore. She looked regal, as if she’d been born to be a queen instead of the daughter of a justice. Eliza was fuller than when she’d left London, but then again, she’d married and given birth in the meantime. To Hollis’s biased eye, her sister was gorgeous. Herlifewas gorgeous. She had a wonderful, handsome husband who adored her. She had a cherub of a daughter. She had a palace and servants and jewels and gowns, and would one day sit on a throne. Eliza had always been enviously pretty to her younger sister, but since bringing baby Cecelia into the world, she seemed practically to glow. Is that what love and companionship and motherhood did for a woman? If so, Hollis yearned for it terribly.
“I beg your pardon—will you not greet me?”
Hollis would recognize that male voice anywhere and turned around. She’d known Lord Beckett Hawke all her life. Beck, the older brother of Hollis and Eliza’s dearest friend, Caroline, and the closest thing to a brother Hollis had ever had. He was insufferable and never tired of telling her what to do, but he also loved her and supported her when she needed him the most.
Just recently, an elderly uncle had passed away with no surviving heirs, and Beck had been made an earl. He was now Lord Iddesleigh. He had a new estate that was several hours from London and surrounded by nothing but a village that Beck had privately proclaimed only slightly larger than a horse turd.
He was the only one in the crowded sitting room who was actually sitting, enthroned on a red velvet chair, one leg crossed over the other like an old grandfather calmly surveying his brood. He tilted his head and examined Hollis. “How lovely you look. Come here and tell me what you’ve been about. You never call anymore, Hollis. There was a time I couldn’t rid my house of you, and now I can hardly entice you to come round at all.”
“What on earth are you talking about?” she asked, laughing. “I dined at your house not three days past. Why are you sitting there as if you’re ready to receive your tenants’ rents?”
