to browse, no friends with whom to gossip.’
Honoria felt a wash of guilt—for once the initial distress had worn off, she had been bored. That was certainly not her aunt’s fault, however. ‘You mustn’t think I mean to complain! Truly, I don’t miss London—except the shops, perhaps.’
That much was true. Even the name London called up bitter memories. She’d discovered in the most painful fashion that, far from possessing good friends, someone in London had disliked her enough to construct an incredibly intricate scheme to ruin her. So incredibly intricate, not even her own brother had believed she’d had no part in it. And so ruthlessly effective that, even after a month, the mere thought of that night still made her so sick with humiliation and distress she could not yet bear to sort out exactly what had happened.
Shaking her thoughts free, she continued, ‘There may not be as many amusements here, but I love Cornwall. The cliffs, the sea, the countryside, the wild beauty of it. I can see why you decided to settle here.’
‘You’re sure? Certainly Foxeden, with its wide vistas overlooking the endlessly changing sea, suits me, but it’s not for everyone.’ Aunt Foxe chuckled. ‘It is, however, a very effective location if one wishes to keep one’s family from meddling in one’s affairs, for which I’ve always been grateful.’
‘As I am grateful to you for taking me in.’
Aunt Foxe gave her a fond look. ‘We reprobates must stick together, eh?’
The afternoon of her arrival, Honoria had confessed to her aunt every detail of her disaster in London, wanting that lady to fully understand the completeness of her disgrace, so she might send Honoria away immediately if she preferred not to be tainted by the scandal. After listening dispassionately, Aunt Foxe had embraced her and, to Honoria’s everlasting gratitude, told her she was welcome to stay for as long as she wished.
She was tempted now to ask her aunt how she had ended up in Cornwall. Growing up, Honoria had overheard only bits and pieces about a forbidden engagement, a dash to the border, capture, exile, her lover’s death at sea. But although Honoria had come to know her mother’s renegade aunt much better over the last month, she still didn’t feel comfortable baldly asking for intimate details that her aunt, a private person, had not yet volunteered.
The opportunity was lost anyway, for Aunt Foxe had started walking toward the door. ‘Tell Dawes to bring tea to my sitting room once you’ve dried and dressed.’ Pausing at the doorway, she turned back to add, ‘There might even be some new fashion journals from London for you to peruse.’
A momentary excitement distracted Honoria, for pouring over La Belle Assemblée had been one of her favourite occupations in London. ‘That would be delightful! I didn’t know you subscribed!’ Certainly Honoria hadn’t found any fashion journals in her aunt’s library when she’d first inspected the room a week or so after her arrival.
Aunt Foxe winked. ‘I must have something to amuse my guest, mustn’t I? I’ll see you shortly.’
As her aunt exited the room, Honoria’s heart warmed with gratitude. Aunt Foxe must have ordered the periodicals just for her. Once again, she was struck by that lady’s kindness.
She had known her great-aunt but slightly at the time of her impulsive decision to seek refuge here. During their few childhood visits, she’d noted only that Miss Alexandre Foxe seemed to answer to no one and that her relations with her niece, Honoria’s mother, seemed somewhat strained. Since her own relations with Mama had always been difficult and at the time she was sent out of London, staying with someone who had no connection to her paternal family held great appeal, Honoria had immediately thought of coming to Cornwall rather than proceeding, as directed by her brother Marcus, to the family estate in Hertforshire.
The fact that independent Miss Foxe was not beholden in any way to the Carlows was almost as appealing to Honoria as her recollection that, on one of those rare childhood visits, Aunt Foxe had pronounced Verity, already being held up to Honoria as a paragon of deportment, to be a dull, timid child.
Given the slightness of their previous acquaintance, Honoria still marvelled that her aunt had not sent her straight back to Stanegate Court, as John Coachman had darkly predicted when she’d ordered him to bring her to Foxeden.
She was deeply thankful to her aunt for taking her in and, even more, for giving credence to her story. Unlike her nearer relations in blood, that lady had both listened to and believed her, though she could come up with no more explanation than Honoria as to why someone would have wished to engineer her great-niece’s downfall.
Even after over a month, it still hurt like a dagger thrust in her breast to recall her final interview with Marcus. More furious than she’d ever seen him, her brother had raged that, rash as she’d always been, he’d have expected better of her than to have created a scandal that ruined her good name at the same time it compromised her innocent sister’s chances of a good match and distressed his newly pregnant wife. When he contemptuously cut off her protests of innocence, by now as angry as Marcus, she’d listened to the rest of his tirade in tight-lipped silence.
Despite their wrangling over the years, she would never have believed he would think her capable of lying about so important a matter. His lack of faith in her character was more painful than the humiliation of the scandal.
Marcus needn’t have bothered to order her to quit London. She’d had no desire to remain, an object of pity and speculation, gleefully pointed out by girls of lesser charm and beauty as the once-leading Diamond of the Ton brought low. After her fiancé’s repudiation and the final blow of her brother’s betrayal, she’d been seething with impatience to get as far away from London and everything Carlow as possible.
Wrapping the robe more tightly about her, she walked to the window, sighing as she watched the roll and pitch of the distant sea. As for Anthony—that engagement had been a mistake from the beginning, as the tragedy in the town-house garden had revealed only too clearly.
It was partly her fault for accepting the suit of a man she’d known since childhood, for whom she felt only a mild affection. A man she’d accepted mostly because she thought that if she acquiesced to an engagement Marc favoured, her elder brother might cease dogging her every step and transfer his scrutiny to Verity. The prospect of getting out from under his smothering wing was appealing, and if Anthony proved tiresome, she could always cry off later.
She smiled grimly. Well, she no longer needed to worry about crying off—or about wedding to please her family, binding herself for life to someone who was probably the wrong man. Unless some local fisherman fell in thrall to her celebrated beauty, she’d likely never receive another offer of marriage—certainly not from anyone who could call himself a gentleman.
’Twas amusing, really. She’d chosen Anthony Prescott, a mere Baron Readesdell, over a host of more elevated contenders because she’d thought that he, having known her from childhood, would be more likely to prize her independent spirit and restless, questing mind as much as her beauty and connections. Anthony’s speed in ridding himself of her after the scandal proved that a desire for a link to the powerful Carlow family and her sizeable dowry had been the true attractions.
If this boon companion from childhood who knew her so well was the wrong sort of man for her, who could be the right one?
The image of the blue-eyed, black-haired free-trader popped into her head. He certainly was handsome. Even with his hair slicked back and cold seawater dripping off that powerful chest and shoulders, he radiated a sheer masculine energy that had struck her in the pit of her stomach, setting off a fiery tingling
