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Prologue
England, Little Bridgeton, August 1804
Can your heart actually break? Honey wondered as the pain that had ripped through her chest and brought her to her knees began to subside.
The words Luc had just yelled at her rang in her ears. “Stop following us. We don’t like you anymore. You’re a pest.”
She watched the two boys race across the meadow toward the group picnicking under the trees. She bowed her head, hoping that if she couldn’t see them it would hurt less.
It didn’t.
A slow trickle of tears began to roll down her cheeks. Sensing something, she looked back up and saw Mr. St. James walking toward her. Quickly she brushed away her tears, but unfortunately they had companions who insisted on following the same path down her face.
Mr. St James immediately saw the tears, and gently asked, “What’s wrong?”
She looked at the picnic group, and he followed her gaze. “Oh. Something to do with the two young lords. What happened?”
With an unladylike sniff, she looked up at him. “They won’t play with me. Last year they played with me all the time.” She stood up, rubbed furiously at the tears on her cheeks, and after another sniff asked, “What did I do wrong?”
“Oh my dear, you did nothing wrong. You are eleven, and the difference in your ages, though only a few years, is showing. They are young men now.”
“But…“
“Those rapscallions have other things on their minds. Well, not their minds actually…” He thought for a moment, opened his mouth to say something but stopped, and strangely his cheeks went quite red. “Don’t worry. It will be different in a few years.”
The boys were reclining on a rug, smiling up at three girls seated on chairs that had been placed under the tree by footmen. Luc was smiling in particular at Mary Evans.
Honey frowned. “Last year Luc called Mary a wet goose. Why is he now looking at her like that?”
“Ummm. It’s difficult to explain, but young men of that age go through a period where they don’t use their brains very much.” He then winked at her and added, “I know I didn’t, and I’m still young enough to remember that quite clearly.”
Well, that made sense—anyone using his brains wouldn’t have that silly expression on his face when he looked at Mary.
That’s what she liked about Mr. St. James. He explained things to her. Or tried to. He wasn’t always very good at it, and she didn’t always understand what he was saying, but at least he tried.
Honey told herself that whatever was going on it didn’t matter. When she was older, Luc was going to smile at her the way he was now smiling at Mary. He was going to pay her lots and lots of attention—she just knew it as surely as she knew her name was Honoria Ruby Birdwell.
Mr. St. James gave her a hug and said, “In a few years time they will be the ones chasing you and begging for your attention, so you can have your revenge then.”
“I don’t want revenge. I just want Luc,” she said firmly. “I’m going to marry him.”
His eyes widened, and there was a brief period of silence. Then, “Does he know that?”
“Not yet, but he will,” she said with total confidence.
“Why do you want to marry him?”
Honey shrugged her shoulders before remembering a young lady did not do that. But Mr. St. James wouldn’t mind—or tattle on her.
“I just know that I will,” she said. “As soon as I saw him, I knew. I thought he felt the same way. He listens to me and stops Devon from teasing me—I knew he would always be there for me.” Forlornly she added, “At least he was last year. Now…”
“Well, my dear, until you marry Luc, I will listen to you and be there for you. Always. Never forget that. Now, shall we join the others?”
She nodded. As they crossed the meadow, she gave another scrub at her face just in case there was still evidence of tears.
When they reached the picnic, her mother and father saw her and smiled in welcome—though her mother’s smile turned to a frown when she saw the grass stains on her dress. With a sigh, her mother ignored them and patted the cushioned seat beside her, “Come and sit down, Honoria.”
At the sound of laughter, Honey glanced over at Luc and the others. He was smiling at Mary in that besotted way again. As Honey rubbed her chest to ease the sudden stab of pain, she caught sight of Mr. St. James watching her.
He mouthed the words, “Remember. Always.”
1
Little Bridgeton, November 1813
Not one of the men met her criteria.
The man she sought would be taller than her, not too slim nor too large, and dark-haired. He had an olive complexion and dark, forest-green eyes framed by thick eyelashes any woman would covet.
Ria had never thought it would be this difficult. Tightly gripping her gold lace fan, she gazed around the ballroom fruitlessly, trying to find him.
Flickering light from the beeswax candles showed masked guests dancing in the center of the room, surrounded by others chatting and laughing.
Many of the revelers appeared to have descended from the mythological paintings in the ballroom ceiling. Their host, of course, was Bacchus, god of wine and giver of ecstasy. Ria was the only Persephone, her gold mask delicately embroidered with six scarlet pomegranate seeds. The same pattern was repeated in gold on the bodice of her ruby-red silk gown.
At most masquerades masks did little to hide the identity of guests. Here, however, some people definitely wanted to be incognito. Like Ria, they went to great pains to hide their faces at this notorious annual bacchanal.
As she looked around, she tried to appear unconcerned by the uninhibited behavior of the revelers. An
y sign of surprise in such company as this would bring attention to her. As an uninvited guest, that was the last thing she wanted.
