Page 38 of A Taste of Miss Honey

Izzy swallowed a laugh as her sister winked and turned her attention back to the conversation at hand.

Rather to Izzy’s surprise, by the time they began making their way towards the ball, her dance card was nigh on full. Though she knew this was Beaumarsh’s doing and had little to do with her personal allure, it gave her a little much needed courage.

The music reached her first: the lively swell of violins, and the undercurrent of voices, of laughter, of galloping feet and swishing silk gowns as dancers made their way up and down the room.

They crossed the threshold into the Great Drawing Rooms and Izzy held her breath, taking it all in as her heart hammered. Standing before the glittering crowd felt much like standing on a precipice, waiting for someone to decide she did not belong and give her a quick shove.

“The Earl and Countess of Beaumarsh, and Miss Isabelle Honeywell.”

Their names rang out as the footman announced them and Izzy had to fight the desire to hide behind her sister’s skirts. Curious faces turned their way, for whilst Beaumarsh was a familiar sight, his new bride was still a novelty. Many ladies fluttered their fans, gazing with undisguised admiration at the splendid figure Beaumarsh cut as he entered the room, but the men turned to admire Clementine too, and with good reason. Pride swelled in Izzy’s chest, for her sister looked every inch the countess, and she thought there was hardly a woman here who could hold a candle to her, despite the excess of fabulous silks and glittering jewels that assaulted her eye at every turn.

Izzy suspected she would warrant little more than a passing glance, which suited her very nicely. But to her surprise, she noticed the young men's attention sharpen, settling on her as she walked past them.

Turning her head, she glimpsed herself in a vast mirror and it was the strangest sensation: herself but not herself, as if her face had been pasted onto a fashion plate. The fashionable creature looking back at her wore a gown of white satin, high-waisted, with a deep flounce of white-blond lace at the hem. Over the satin was a sheer gauze overdress, lightly embroidered with tiny knots of blue silk and the short sleeves were trimmed with narrow bands of lace. This elegant young creature wore a head-dress à la toque à la Rubens, composed of white lace, and ornamented with feathers and precious stones. White kid gloves and a simple string of pearls completed this ensemble. The very image of an innocent debutante, thrust onto the marriage mart for the consideration of her worth. She felt at once indignant and unworthy, and very much like an imposter.

“Beaumarsh, you dog!”

Izzy leapt at the sound of the booming voice behind her, as did half the ballroom. People turned, tutting and shaking their heads but making no other protest at the shocking lack of manners as they saw who it was.

“Hartwell,” Beaumarsh said, with the kind of fond exasperation usually reserved for beloved but badly behaved canines.

Izzy turned, hardly surprised that no one had taken the fellow to task, as a man who seemed to bear more in common with your average oak tree rather than a human male strode towards them.

“Heavens,” she whispered, clutching her fan a little tighter.

Her sister shot her an amused glance. “Brace yourself. Sylvester pre-warned me about his friend, Hart.”

“Where the devil have you been? I swear it’s an age since you showed your face, you devil. Here I am hearing endless tales about Beaumarsh’s beautiful countess, but do I see a glimpse of her? Not a bit of it, and me your dearest friend.”

“Since when?” Beaumarsh replied, regarding the fellow with a puzzled expression.

Hartwell shrugged. “I’m everybody’s best friend, you dolt. Stands to reason. Now, introduce me before I take offence.”

“Well, as you asked me so nicely,” Beaumarsh drawled. “Hartwell, may I have the honour to present my countess, Lady Beaumarsh, and my new sister, Miss Isabelle Honeywell. My dear, this great oaf is Leo Cleveland, the Marquess of Hartwell. Izzy, don’t let the fellow tread on you.”

Izzy smiled as Hartwell grinned at them both and then executed a remarkably elegant bow for a fellow of his proportions. “Ladies, a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I hope you will both stand up with me in the unlikely event you have any dances left?”

Clementine laughed and pencilled him in for the quadrille, a dance that was becoming extremely fashionable, especially at Carlton House. He then turned to Izzy, his warm hazel eyes dancing.

“I don’t bite,” he said amiably. “And I’m not half so likely to tread on your toes as Beaumarsh here, who gets distracted admiring himself in the mirrors as he goes by.”

Izzy choked, darting a glance at Beaumarsh, who seemed to take this in good heart, which was sensible, really. So, Izzy duly wrote his name on her card beside a country dance. She had just finished writing when a sudden buzz of tension thrummed through the room. Izzy looked up to see Clementine turning to see who had caused the stir.

“Might have known. It’s Midwinter,” Hartwell replied, shaking his head. “The devil likes to make an entrance.”

“You know him?” Clementine asked, getting in before Izzy could ask the same question.

Hartwell nodded, deftly swiping a glass of champagne from a passing servant. “Yes. We met as lads. My family had—not unreasonably—had enough of me and sent me to stay with my French cousins in Paris. During the Treaty of Amiens, it was. I was probably seventeen, sixteen at most. I fell in with Midwinter there. He’s younger than me in years but a good deal older in vice. We got into many scrapes and had a thoroughly grand time.”

Izzy smiled before craning her neck again to see if she could get a look at the intriguing nobleman, but there were so many people, and so many fashionable ladies wearing turbans and toques and great plumes of feathers, it was hopeless. And then suddenly, there was a lull, and the crowds parted, and all the breath left Izzy’s lungs in a great whoosh.

Her heart thudded, erratic and heavy in her chest, and for a moment she swayed, almost reaching out and caught hold of Lord Hartwell to steady herself. She remembered, just in time, that one did not go about grabbing noblemen in such a fashion and steeled her spine. Yet her stomach churned, her skin flushing hot and then cold as she attempted to convince herself she was seeing things. The memory of a kiss that had imprinted itself on her very soul assured her she would know him if she saw him again, and that there would be no doubt, and yet… and yet…

It was impossible. But there he was. Or was he?

It was him, but not him. The same, yet so indescribably different she could not put the two versions of him together. His pale blond hair had been cut severely short, far shorter than fashion dictated, and a world away from the salt-tangled charm of her smuggler. It suited him, highlighting his chiselled features, high cheekbones, and that elegant profile, giving the impression of a diamond, glittering coldly against his dramatic black evening clothes. His eyes were still the cold grey blue of a northern sea, yet the humour and mischief she had seen there was gone, swept away by the dangerous currents that seemed to swirl about him.

Every inch of him seemed to have been remade, carved in cold marble instead of the flesh and blood man she had known. Beneath the gleaming façade, however, she knew it was he. She felt it in her bones, though her mind refused to believe it.

He cut through the crowd, everyone moving away as if a predator prowled through their midst, and they dared not get too close. Conversations died, fans halted, and though the music kept playing, it seemed to be far away, in another place entirely. Izzy was drowning in a sea of confusion, delight and sheer bewilderment vying for supremacy, but she was not the only one who watched him with avid attention. Every eye followed his progress through the room as if awaiting the thrill of imminent bloodshed.

He appeared indifferent to their scrutiny, bored to death by the lavish surroundings and everyone here.

How could it be him? And yet, how could it not be? Could he have a long-lost twin?

The idea was ludicrous, and yet not half so mad as the idea that Boreas, notorious smuggler wanted by the Crown, was here at Carlton House!

He scanned the ballroom languidly, recognition glinting through his icy reserve as he saw Hartwell. There was the tiniest pause as he noted Beaumarsh and Clementine, but he moved towards them, and then his gaze slid in her direction. She held her breath, expecting recognition of a different kind, either appalled or delighted, but his attention slipped from her with such ease Izzy felt an icy tide had swept her away with it.

The man she had nursed in the shadows, the man whose kiss had lit a fire that was burning even now, was gone. In his place stood Benedict Midwinter, as cold as cut glass.

Izzy’s heart clenched, pain and disbelief slicing through her as this new incarnation of the truth stood before her.

And she could not look away.