Page 39 of A Taste of Miss Honey

Chapter 14

Dancing on Ice.

Carlton House, Pall Mall, London, 23rdMarch 1816

“Midwinter. Stop giving us all frostbite and come and meet my friends,” Hartwell demanded, his voice easily heard over the murmur of nigh on four hundred people and a full orchestra.

Boreas, or whoever he was, glanced at Hartwell and sighed, his irritation palpable, but he made his way towards them.

Izzy couldn’t breathe. Her stomach was in a knot, and she felt suddenly cold, though the room was close and stuffy. The chandeliers overhead glittered, as coldly beautiful as the man standing before them, despite the glow of hundreds of candles.

“Lord Beaumarsh, Lady Beaumarsh, Miss Honeywell, might I have the honour of presenting Mr Benedict Midwinter? He’s not half so hoity-toity as he makes out, that’s just his public face. You can relax, Ben. Beaumarsh is all right, and as for the lovely ladies here, they speak for themselves.”

Far from relaxing, Mr Mindwinter’s gaze was cool and assessing as he bowed, scrupulously polite. He did not look directly as Izzy, instead addressing Beaumarsh. Her breath caught at the slight and a shaft of pain pierced her chest, forcing her to concentrate hard on keeping her composure.

“I congratulate you on your bride, Lord Beaumarsh.”

Hurt and anger tightened the knot in Izzy’s stomach, and the urge to hit him, to demand he stop pretending not to know her, was nigh on irresistible, but making a scene here was out of the question. She was too aware of the curious eyes of those who stood as close as they dared, determined to discover more about the scandalous and beautiful man who had joined them. Beaumarsh thanked him for his comment and Mr Midwinter’s attention slid to Clementine.

“I hope the ton is treating you kindly, my lady. It is not for the faint of heart. Survival in these environs requires nerve and a tongue like a rapier.”

“Something you have in spades, eh, Ben?” Hartwell said with a chuckle. “He can eviscerate a fellow if he’s so inclined. The only man I’ve seen to match him is Sheringham. Where is Sherry? Ain’t he in town yet?”

“I believe Lord Sheringham is coming up with Hawkney in a week or two,” Beaumarsh replied.

The talk turned to people the men knew, and who was or was not yet in town, and the conversation drifted about Izzy like fog. Unlike many of the ladies around them, who put their fans to brisk use to create a welcome breeze, Izzy was chilled, and only clutched the delicate thing in her hands, so tightly she risked snapping it. The desire to pierce through this this strange armour he had donned made her wild and, before she could think better of it, she turned directly to him.

“Have you been in town long, Mr Midwinter?”

The conversation halted, and for the first time he was obliged to turn his attention to her. He met her gaze, his eyes showing not the slightest glimmer of recognition, only indifference and a desire to extricate himself from a tedious conversation as soon as possible.

“No.” For a dreadful moment she thought he would say no more, a cut that would not augur well for her social standing. But at the last minute he added, “I came from France only a few days ago. I’ve lived there all my life, but Hartwell here is determined I reclaim my birthright as an English gentleman.”

“Only a few days ago?” she echoed, staring at him incredulously.

How easily he lied, and how different he sounded. As Boreas his voice had been warm and, whilst she had guessed he was somewhat educated, for he spoke far better than any other man of his class, she had never thought him a gentleman. Yet now he spoke with the precise, clipped accent of the upper classes and it seemed entirely natural to him. She held his gaze, daring him to keep up the pretence with her. She could understand that he might need to adopt a persona, that he was here for a purpose, but surely he could acknowledge her with a look, a touch. It need not be obvious.

“And you have never been to England before?” Izzy heard the slightly challenging note to her voice, but as she wanted to put her hands about his throat and throttle him, it was the best she could manage.

Not so much as a flicker of surprise or interest shone in his eyes, which told her all she needed to know. If he was really someone else, the accusation in her voice would be a shock to him, or a provocation.

“Izzy,” Clementine murmured, concern practically radiating.

“Ah, you English,” he said languidly, “always so convinced that there is nowhere else in the world but here, that you are the centre of the universe, when, in fact, you are no more important than anyone else.”

Had it not been for the glitter of amusement in his eyes, he might have had at least half the guests—those who were listening in, at least—up in arms, but oh, he was so charming that everyone simply laughed. Everyone except Izzy, who knew what he was saying.

You are not special. You are no one to me.

The sense of betrayal was hard to bear. She had nursed this man. She had saved his life, and then they had shared a kiss that…that had changed her somehow, that even now lingered on her skin, on her lips. And he dismissed her as being no more important than anyone else. She, to whom he owed his next breath. After everything she had done to save him, did he think her so hen hearted she could not share in whatever it was had brought him here? Or did he think her too stupid to keep his secret? Oh, he would pay for it. Resentment burned in her blood.

“Are you not English, then? Did you not just tell us you had come to reclaim your birthright as an English gentleman? Is that not true? But which part, I wonder? The bit about being English, or about being a gentleman?”

There was a short, taut silence, as everyone gazed at Izzy in mute shock.

Izzy could not meet her sister’s eyes, belatedly aware that any inappropriate behaviour reflected on her too, and she had likely just wrecked things for them both. Yet when he could have ruined her in that moment or have given her a withering set-down of the kind she certainly deserved, his lips curved into a wicked smile that made her pulse quicken.

“You would do well not to believe a word I say, Miss—?”