Page 44 of A Taste of Miss Honey

The duke looked rather baffled at this. “He is a secret. Why?”

Clara, rather surprised that he had the slightest interest, hesitated. She disliked having to explain her situation to anyone—her being a charity case was hardly something she wished the world to know—and yet she found she didn’t mind telling him. He already thought her a ridiculous creature, much as he did her dog, so it hardly mattered. “My aunt is my only living relation, and… and I am entirely dependent upon her charity. She tolerates my presence in her home because I am useful to her, but… but a dog…!” Clara shook her head, suddenly too emotional to say more.

Hawkney stiffened, and Clara felt a blush rise to her cheeks. Lord, she was a fool for speaking to him so carelessly. Now he would despise her again, and he’d seemed to unbend a little the last few times they had spoken. Benny raised his head, licking her chin as if to reassure her, and she held him closer, comforted by his warmth and solidity.

“She treats you as she would a servant?”

There was a strange note to his voice, one that made her nerves prickle though she could not say why.

“Well, I… I would not say that precisely,” Clara said, awkward now.

He stared at her, his expression unreadable. “No. I don’t suppose you would, though I don’t doubt you ought. Does your aunt employ other staff?”

“Yes, of course,” Clara said at once, somewhat insulted that he considered her little more than a servant, and not wishing him to believe her a drudge. “We have a maid of all works, and a lady who comes and cooks for us. I am not used so hard, I assure you. I simply make tea, and keep my aunt company, and shop for her, and write letters, and fetch and carry when she needs something. Small things only, which are quite within my capabilities.”

He regarded her, his expression hard, and Clara felt increasingly ill at ease. He looked away abruptly before he spoke again. “You said your aunt was deaf, but you read to her?”

Clara gave a nervous laugh, wondering why he was interrogating her. “I said she was rather deaf. Sometimes I believe she has selective deafness, but if I raise my voice, she hears me well enough. If she were entirely deaf, I should play the piano, for she has rather a fine one, but she says I have not the least talent and gets quite irate if I practise.”

She only said this to make him smile at her not unexpected lack of skill, for he was looking so grim-faced it made her anxious, as if she had somehow ruined his day. Yet his expression became increasingly dark. He glowered down at her, then at his horse, and at her once again.

Clara waited, sensing she was supposed to wait for him to speak but becoming fidgety the longer he did not do so.

“You like to play?”

She blinked up at him. “Very much, but sadly my aunt has the right of it. I have not the least bit of talent for it.”

“Nor ever will have if you do not practise,” he said, and so sharply it felt like a reproof. He frowned down at his hands as his horse shifted restlessly beneath him. He settled it again with ease, reaching down to pat the enormous animal’s silky neck. Clara cast about for something to break the silence, which was becoming interminable, but at last he spoke. “There is a fine piano at Hatherley Hall which will gather dust when we leave for London next week. You will make use of it whenever you wish. I shall tell Howard to expect you. Come every day if you so desire. Instruments are designed for use, and you will do my grandmother a service in keeping it in good working order. Good day, Miss Halfpenny.”

With a curt nod, he urged his horse into a trot and rode away.

The piano, she thought numbly, trying to make sense of it. The piano at Hatherley Hall was hers to use as and when she wished. Clara’s heart fluttered, an odd sensation that made her breathless as a strange sense of warmth enveloped her. She stood gaping for some time after he’d ridden out of sight until Benny protested her immobility. She set him down and the little dog looked up her quizzically, wagging his tail as if to ask what had just happened.

Clara laughed, staring at him in disbelief. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

Cavendish House, Mayfair, London, 24th March 1816

Izzy blinked against the glare of sunlight as Janet pulled back the curtains.

“Morning, Miss Honeywell. I’ve brought you some breakfast.”

“Heavens, breakfast in bed?” Izzy pulled herself upright, smothering a yawn.

Janet settled the breakfast tray in front of her, and Izzy’s stomach gave an audible rumble. She had barely touched the lavish supper given at Carlton House. Eating at one in the morning seemed to her a very odd thing to do, and she had been in a state of acute anxiety after her run in with Boreas—Mr Midwinter, she corrected herself.

Thanking her maid, she reached for the steaming cup of tea. Wrapping her fingers about the hot porcelain, she relished the heat as Janet made up the fire to a hearty blaze. She sipped, remembering how cold and aloof he’d been… until she pinched him, digging her fingers into the place the bullet wound lay under all that starched linen and beautifully tailored fabric. Then those cold blue-grey eyes had blazed with a fire she recognised, and she had been glad, glad she had provoked it. Worse, she had wanted to run straight into the flames and burn with him. She shook her head, wondering at her own foolishness.

“Shall I lay out the pale primrose morning gown, miss? I expect you’ll have gentlemen callers after last night, and it’s ever so pretty.”

Janet held the beautiful dress out and Izzy smiled but shook her head.

“No, thank you. I shall wear my carriage dress and matching pelisse. I am expecting to be taken out for a drive this morning.”

Janet’s face lit with anticipation. “Oh, how lovely, miss. You’ll look a picture in that. What time is the gentleman calling?”

“At eleven,” Izzy replied, breaking off another piece of plum cake. She paused with it halfway to her mouth as she saw Janet’s expression of appalled disbelief.

“Eleven, miss? Lawks, but we’ll never be ready in time!”