Incomparable Lord Meath Novella: A Rebellious Sons prequel (Rebellious Sons .5)(15)

“I’ve never had servants,” the lady said faintly. “Or anyone who feared for me. I had no notion. . .”

Meath overrode the confession by drawing the horses to a halt and shouting jovially, “Ahoy, me lads, nice evening for a hunt, is it now?”

Honora pinched her nose as Belden stormed down the steps.

“What is the meaning of this, Meath?” the marquess bellowed. “Had you wanted the gal for yourself, you should have said so.” He turned an angry gaze on Lady Isabell. “And what have you to say for yourself, leaving us all wondering if you ran away with this rake?”

Honora noticed her uncle not only didn’t see her now, but hadn’t worried about her earlier, probably hadn’t even known she wasn’t in her room—or cared.

She really ought to let Meath and Bell take the blow for their unseemly behavior. Belden was entirely capable of casting aside the whole notion of marriage and walking away, and her life could return to normal. But it was almost Christmas, and she couldn’t be so mean-spirited.

And the sight of the young sisters weeping over the cruel parting Belden had demanded had already aroused Honora’s dangerous temper. That her uncle hadn’t worried about her only added fuel to the flames.

“Parker, help me down, please,” she called in her sternest tone to one of the footmen, making her presence fully known to the rest of the party. “Apparently his lordship is too far in his cups to remember his manners and recognize that ladies need assisting.”

Behind her, she heard Lord Meath mutter, but she was in no humor to care about his opinion.

“Honora,” Belden shouted, turning his glare to her as if just now seeing her. “Explain yourself, please.”

“I will not,” she said stoutly. “I’m of an age to act as I think best. You will apologize to your bride and to Lord Meath for your insults. And then you will send books and fruits and Christmas cakes to her little sisters and acknowledge their importance.”

She did not linger to see how Meath climbed from his impossible position with his gimpy leg, nor how Lady Bell reacted to her betrothed’s displeasure. If Honora was to be consigned to the country, she might as well learn to stand on her own and say what she thought for a change.

Which might mean having a true Christmas holiday, with all the finery and music she had missed these last years. She would think of it as a bonus for a decade of service. She smiled grimly as she made her plans.



* * *



Evan couldn’t hurry after the outraged Miss Hoyt, although he’d prefer to follow the lady and fling Bell to the wolves for her flightiness.

The marquess hadn’t even acknowledged what his brilliant niece had done to protect them with her chaperonage! Without Miss Hoyt, this entire episode would have been a disaster. He’d have to remember to think as society did and not behave like the rural Irish chieftain he’d become these last years.

He waited until Bell’s tears, apologies, and feminine wiles had turned the tide of the marquess’s wrath before excusing himself and going in search of Miss Hoyt. His knee hurt abominably. He wanted nothing more than a stiff drink and his bed after the emotional upheaval of the evening, but he had not sunk so low in his selfishness that he’d let the lady’s actions go unnoticed or unappreciated.

Rapping on her door, he waited to hear if anyone stirred, with the full intention of flinging it open if she denied him. Instead, to his surprise, the door opened, and the lady stood there in partial dishabille, with her gleaming chestnut tresses over her shoulder and a brush in hand. He could only clench his fingers helplessly at all that shiny silk begging to be touched.

Her long-lashed brown eyes widened. She obviously hadn’t been expecting him.

He’d never been caught tongue-tied in his life, but the sight of Miss Hoyt in dishabille had. . . done the opposite of unmanning him. He was a selfish idiot, but he managed to stop the door before she could slam it. “I have come to grovel and to offer gratitude and whatever it might take to show my appreciation for your presence this evening.”

“Then you will go away and leave me alone,” she said curtly, turning her back and retreating to her dressing screen. “You may close the door behind you.”

“I will find out what is keeping your maid as soon as I am done groveling.” He checked the corridor, saw no sign of servants, and entered the room.

“Her absence is quite simple. I trained Sally well. Belden can pay her substantial wages to serve his bride. Once I leave his house, I cannot. She is with Lady Isabell.”

Meath grimaced. “He would turn you away? His own niece?”

“Of course. It was just a matter of time, anyway. After this evening, it will be sooner. He cannot tolerate a female standing up to him. I would have preferred to buffer Lady Isabell for a while, but her tears will work as well. I do not do tears.”

“Thank all the heavens for that,” he said prayerfully. “If I fetch your tea and find a maid for you, will you forgive me enough to speak to me in the morning?”

“This is none of your fault. I know that. You need do nothing except show up at the wedding to give Lady Bell a friendly shoulder to cry on, should she need it. Now, go away.”

“You have beautiful hair, you know.” He wanted to hold her and console her and promise her everything would be fine, but he’d wasted those six months a decade ago in complaining instead of courting. He didn’t have any rights—yet.