Incomparable Lord Meath Novella: A Rebellious Sons prequel (Rebellious Sons .5)(11)

She and Sally had done their best to make Lady Isabell presentable. She was beautiful even in a night dress, but a new gown and coiffure had seemed to give her confidence. A seamstress had adapted her best pre-made gown by basting ruffles to the bodice to fill out the lady’s too-slender figure so she looked just like a fashion plate in shimmering emerald silk. Honora had hoped to keep her uncle distracted with business, leaving Lord Meath to re-discover the treasure under his nose.

But Belden had gone with him, drat it. If both men had entered the parlor with marriage on their minds. . . The decision would be up to Lady Isabell. Could a young girl be trusted to see the wisdom of marrying her charming, but not wealthy, young neighbor rather than a rich old man who lived in a distant city?

Of course, a man like Lord Meath who kissed anyone wearing skirts might not be the sort of loyal spouse a young lady deserved. But the upper echelons of society were accustomed to those sorts of flirtations. For the sake of her sisters, surely a practical young woman could learn to accept that.

Honora had a niggling doubt about the rather impetuous young lady being so complacent. Setting down her napkin, she excused herself and hurried upstairs to see if she could control the situation.

She encountered Meath guarding the closed parlor door. In shock, she gripped her shawl more firmly and glared. “What are you doing out here? Aren’t you supposed to be telling Lady Isabell about her horse and sisters?”

“I knew you’d interfere, so I waited for you. Your useful maid is in there to observe propriety, and Wexford should be here momentarily. You and I are superfluous, my dear. Shall we walk in the park?”

“Belden? He’s in there with. . . ?” She froze in alarm as she grasped the situation. Could she shove past the wretched viscount? Send a maid in to stir the fire? A tea tray. . . . Meath took her arm and steered her away. “I can almost hear the cogs whirling, my dear. It won’t do at all. Your uncle is a grown man and knows what he’s about. This is a business deal to him. I told Wexford to bring a solicitor, but he won’t, no more than he has arrived on time. Neither of us is in any position to tell our elders what to do.”

His hand on her arm sent her head spinning. His kiss last night. . . She’d not been able to sleep for dreaming of where such a kiss could lead. She’d woken up throbbing with need. Really, she had to shake this unreasonable fog his presence induced. She had learned respect for her elders from an early age. She had no reason to question her uncle’s immense experience. “But Isabell. . .” she whispered in protest as Meath mercilessly dragged her down the corridor. “She knows nothing of the world. Surely there is some lady who can guide her?”

Honora stumbled as the viscount led her toward the front stairs, the ones Wexford was hurrying up, sans solicitor and looking anxious. She developed the spine to shake off Meath’s hold and curtsied in the earl’s path. “My lord, if there is any way I may assist you or your daughter—”

He looked gray and harassed. “I held the creditors off until after the race, but they are at the door, prepared to take my horses. It’s far too late to help me, young lady. I hope you’ll look after Bell.” He rushed off without explaining.

“He and Belden hammered out an agreement yesterday.” Meath took her arm again, more sympathetically this time. “It’s up to Bell now.”

“You didn’t even offer?” she asked in despair. “The three of you have sold that child as if she were one of your wretched horses!”

“I couldn’t save Wexford,” Meath said with a shrug. “My pockets aren’t that deep. He’s a good man. He and his late wife practically raised me as their own after my mother ran away to the continent. My father abandoned me here with a tutor, after I got sent home from every school I ever attended. Wexford showed me the foolishness of my rebellion—if only by example of what I did not want to be. After my accident—well, let us say I would not be alive today were it not for him. I had to help him, don’t you see?”

Honora heard his plea through her own grief, but she could not accept that there was nothing she could do, that it was all out of her hands. She’d not been this helpless since childhood. She had spent years ensuring that she’d never be helpless again. Tears stung her eyes, and she shook off his hand again. “I must salvage what I can from this wretched situation. You may see yourself out, sir.”

She wrenched away, and back straight, marched off to battle.



* * *



Evan thought he ought to let her go. He’d done what he had to do. He’d bared his damnable soul by explaining his appalling childhood. He couldn’t help it if Miss Stiff-Rumped Honora Hoyt could not see past her own concerns to sympathize with another’s.

He had a perfectly comfortable home, a fine life, good friends. He didn’t need her. He wanted her, certainly. There had been a hole in his life he hadn’t known how to fill. He recognized the fever now—he needed new challenges. Last night, he’d thought Miss Hoyt was the perfect solution. She would lead him a merry dance every day, and their children would be spectacular. But she obviously held him in contempt.

Surely there were other women to fill the role of challenging wife, now that he acknowledged the need. Evan limped out to his waiting gig and pondered the problem. He’d always thought he’d go to London when he was ready to marry, but Miss Hoyt had showed him yesterday the selfishness of that notion. He had to acknowledge that she was right, that most women he knew preferred the comfort of family and the familiar. He had not only his leg to work against his chances of marrying, but his Irishness. There was a solution to that, too, but did he wish to apply it?