Page 62 of A Duke in the Rough

No, the weight of things rested squarely upon his own shoulders. He had flirted with Anne—as well as Miss Whyte and Lady Miranda—in a vain attempt to test Honoria’s feelings.

It had been impulsive, and now he paid the price for his foolishness. At least it was only anattachment. Whatever that truly meant in society’s definition. They weren’t actually betrothed—yet, although he had no doubt Anne expected a proposal to be forthcoming.

As he strode down the hall, his destination the library, he passed Lady Charlotte. With all the seriousness of Honoria, she possessed none of Honoria’s softness to temper it—as if life had stripped away any joy from her. He found it sad.

She studied him with those dark brown eyes. “You appear distraught, Mr. Merrick.”

“Would you please see to Lady Honoria? She may be in need of a friend.” He said no more, but hurried away to avoid any further questioning.

At last in the library’s sanctuary, he closed the doors behind him, only to jump at Simon’s voice.

“There you are. I suspected you would make your way here after seeing Miss Weatherby. What happened?”

An odd sight, Simon in a library. With him, seated on the chair Honoria had occupied the first night of their reunion, Aunt Kitty didn’t mince words. “Did you do something foolish, boy? Didn’t propose to the chit, did you?” She shook her head. “Attempting a difficult jump on a stubborn horse—and sidesaddle no less. What is wrong with youth these days? Reminds me of my husband’s great nephew Charlie Dickens. The boy thinks he can make a living writing novels. And as much as I enjoy reading them, those who write them are typically penniless and starving. Such foolishness. Can you even imagine?”

Drake and Simon exchanged a glance.

“That’s fascinating, Aunt Kitty,” Simon said, “but perhaps we should get back to the matter at hand.” He turned toward Drake. “Did you propose?”

“Not exactly.”

Aunt Kitty huffed. “Either you did or didn’t. It’s like being with child. You either are or aren’t.”

“She asked if we were forming an attachment, and I told her I supposed we were.” He ran a hand across the back of his neck. “What was I to say? It’s my fault what happened to her, and I vowed to do whatever I could to make it up to her, if she would only recover. I promised God.”

Aunt Kitty shook her head. “Never a good idea. The fellow seems to have a strange sense of humor.”

“Anne accepts me as a simple man of business with no title, no vast wealth, no connections to society”—he shot his gaze toward Simon—“except you. She seems to believe we would be included in most events because of you.”

Simon lifted his eyebrows. “That doesn’t seem to indicate she’s totally immune to the lure of a title. Are you completely certain she’s looking at this whole thing clearly?”

“No,” he admitted. “I don’t think she has true feelings for me. She seems to have romanticized the whole incident with the fall.” He plopped into the empty chair, his body numb. “What am I to do?”

“Someone needs to talk some sense into that girl,” Aunt Kitty said. The old woman began to rise, her hand shaking as she bore her weight on her cane.

“Wait,” Simon said. “I have an idea.”

As they listened, Drake had to admit Simon’s idea was a good one, but he worried his friend might be throwing himself on his sword to no avail.

Crumpled on her bed,Honoria cried until every drop of liquid seemed drained from her body. Then she cried some more. Finally exhausting her supply of tears, she rose from the bed, washed her face, and fixed her hair. She needed to make an appearance downstairs before someone came looking for her.

Eyes still red, she cast her gaze away from the mirror to the small box on the dressing table. Her father had given it to her on her sixteenth birthday, and she took it everywhere with her. Inlaid with mother-of-pearl, the polished mahogany case held her most treasured possessions. She removed the top contents, exposing the thin paper on the bottom. Carefully, she lifted it from its container and peeled back the edges. Encased inside sat the pressed and dried forget-me-nots Drake had given her over eight years ago. She ran a finger across one faded blue flower.

Fragile from age, it crumbled under her touch.

Just like her hopes and dreams.

She stared at them a few minutes longer then, with painstakingcare, rewrapped them and laid them back inside the box. It was time to move forward with her life.

Downstairs, she made her way to the library in search of another book. The older woman Drake had introduced as Burwood’s Aunt Kitty sat in one of the chairs by the hearth.

Honoria tipped her head toward the woman. “Countess. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“Not at all, my dear. My nephew and his man of business just left, and I was hoping for more company.” Her lined faced cracked into a smile. “At least someone who enjoys a good book as you do.”

Honoria’s thoughts immediately turned to Drake, who not only loved books but had taken hers, resulting in her decision to come to the library—where she apparently had missed seeing him again by mere moments. Yet, something about the countess’s comment perplexed her. “How did you know I enjoy books?”

As if batting at a pesky fly, the old woman waved the question away. “I just know. I can tell a lot about a person from the way they speak and how they conduct themselves. It’s an inner eye so to speak.”

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