LITMIR.BIZ

       CHAPTER TWO

      LADY HUMPHREY’S ANNUAL spring musicale was widely regarded as The Event at which the ladies of the ton would reveal their fashionable aspirations for the new social Season, and every year, one lady inevitably stood out. In 1798, Lady Eastbourne wore a gown with cap sleeves, which many considered so risqué and yet so clever that tongues wagged across Mayfair for weeks. In 1804, Miss Catherine Wortham shocked everyone by declining to wear any sort of lining beneath her muslin, leaving the shadowy shape of her legs on view to all.

      In the bright early spring of 1812, it was Miss Honor Cabot who left quite an impression in her tightly fitted gown with the daringly low décolletage. She was dressed in an exquisite silk from Paris, which one might reasonably suppose had come at an exorbitant cost, given the amount of embroidery and beading that danced across the hem, and the fact that Britain was at war with France. The silk was the color of a peacock’s breast, which complemented her deep-set blue eyes quite well. Her hair, as black as winter’s night, was dressed with tiny crystals that caught the hue of the gown.

      No one would argue that Honor Cabot wasn’t a vision of beauty. Her clothing was always superbly tailored, her creamy skin nicely complemented by dark lashes, full, ruby lips and a healthy blush in her cheeks. Her demeanor was generally sunny, and her eyes sparkled with gaiety when she laughed with her many, many friends and gentlemen admirers.

      She had a reputation for pushing the boundaries of the polite and chaste behavior expected of debutantes. Everyone had heard about her recent foray into Southwark. Scandalous! The gentlemen of the ton had playfully labeled her a swashbuckler.

      That evening, after the singing had been done and the guests had been invited to promenade across Hanover Square to the Humphrey townhome for supper, it was not the swashbuckler’s exquisite and daring gown that caused tongues to wag. It was her bonnet.

      What an artful construction that bonnet was! According to Lady Chatham, who was a self-proclaimed authority in all things millinery, the prestigious Lock and Company of St. James Street, a top-of-the-trees hat shop, had designed the bonnet. It was made of black crepe and rich blue satin, and the fabric was gathered in a tiny little fan on one side, held in place by a sparkling aquamarine. And from that fan were two very long peacock feathers, which, according to Lady Chatham, had come all the way from India, as if everyone knew that Indian peacock feathers were vastly superior to English peacock feathers.

      When Miss Monica Hargrove saw the bonnet jauntily affixed atop Honor’s dark head, she very nearly had a fit of apoplexy.

      Word spread so quickly through Mayfair that a contretemps had occurred between Miss Cabot and Miss Hargrove in the ladies’ retiring room, that it did, in fact, reach the Earl of Beckington’s townhome on Grosvenor Square before Miss Cabot did.

      Honor was not aware of it when she snuck into the house just as the roosters were crowing. She darted up the steps and into the safety of her bedroom, and once inside, she tossed the bonnet onto the chaise, removed the beautiful gown Mrs. Dracott had made especially for her and quickly fell into a deep and dreamless sleep. She was rudely startled from her slumber sometime later when she opened her eyes to see her thirteen-year-old sister, Mercy, bending over her, peering closely.

      It gave Honor a fright, and she cried out as she sat up, clutching the bed linens to her. “Mercy, what in heaven?” she demanded.

      “Augustine bids you come,” Mercy said, examining Honor closely from behind her wire-rimmed spectacles. Mercy was dark haired and blue eyed like Honor, whereas her sisters Grace, who was only a year younger than Honor’s twenty-two years, and sixteen-year-old Prudence, were fair haired and hazel eyed.

      “Augustine?” Honor repeated through a yawn. She was not in a mood to see her stepbrother this morning. Was it even morning? She glanced at the mantel clock, which read half past eleven. “What does he want?”

      “I don’t know,” Mercy said, and bounced to a seat at the foot of Honor’s bed. “Why are there dark smudges beneath your eyes?”

      Honor groaned. “Have we any callers today?”

      “Only Mr. Jett,” Mercy said. “He left his card for you.”

      Dear Mr. Jett—the man simply could not be persuaded that Honor would never consent to be courted by him. It was her lot in London society to attract the gentlemen for whom she could never, in her wildest imagination, find an attraction for in return. Mr. Jett was at least twice as old as she, and worse, he had thick lips. It vexed her that women were supposed to accept any man whose fortune and standing were comparable to hers. What about the compatibility of souls? What about esteem?

      The closest Honor had come to such depth of feeling was the year of her debut. She’d fallen completely in love with Lord Rowley, a handsome, charming young gentleman who had aroused her esteem to a crescendo. Honor had been so very smitten, and she had believed—had been led to believe—that an offer was forthcoming.

      An offer was forthcoming...but

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