Incomparable Lord Meath Novella: A Rebellious Sons prequel (Rebellious Sons .5)(6)
Here was someone who understood about caring for others, and suffered for the knowledge. Honora was glad she hadn’t been burdened with such emotions, or she might have curled up and died long ago. She worked hard for her security now, so that she could offer aid to others when she was able. Lady Isabell was a larger task than she’d ever tackled before, but it was Christmas, and a child with the courage of this one deserved help—or meddling, which was all she could truly offer.
Honora turned to the maid pouring water for the patient. “Sally, would you tell Lord Wexford that his daughter is awake? Then if you would, consult with the housekeeper about a seamstress who might have a bodice and skirt made up for the lady to wear for now.”
Sally dipped a curtsy, left the water on the bedside table, and departed. The earl’s daughter, on the other hand, looked mulish. “I want my riding clothes.”
“And they will be returned to you, clean and repaired, at our expense.” Honora definitely would not mention the thrown stone to this stubborn miss. Harrow barely had a feather to fly on and could scarcely recompense the family for their losses. Somehow, she would have to persuade her uncle to part with some of his dragon’s hoard for the benefit of those harmed by his execrable choice in friends.
And then she would do a little matchmaking. Lord Meath might be a trifle reckless and uncouth, but unless he had changed, she thought he was a good, brave man who needed a wife. And it was obvious Lady Isabell was young and beautiful and needed a good home. Problem solved.
Honora was rather pleased with herself, even though it stung just a little that the one eligible gentleman who had ever paid her any attention would soon belong to another. But even back when they’d met, she’d accepted that the handsome viscount was only conversing with her because his leg was hurting, and he couldn’t dance. When he’d left without a word of farewell, she’d packed away the last of her childhood fancies and faced her future like an adult. She had no illusions about love and romance now.
* * *
Comfortable by the fire where he could put up his bad leg and sip whiskey to ward off the chill of the damp manor, Evan was pleased when Lord Belden declined the offer of the supper buffet downstairs and ordered a meal brought up to the parlor. The company below might be preferable to the ugly negotiations between the marquess and the earl, but Evan was done with pretentious London society. He’d be at home now, drinking his own whiskey, if it were not for Wexford.
Well, and possibly because of Miss Hoyt, he admitted as she swept into the parlor in a flurry of ribbons and ruffles. Good sensible ribbons and ruffles, perhaps, but soft, feminine ones that enhanced those lovely curves he’d admired years ago. He’d been a fool to reject all of London when this gem enhanced every room she entered.
Bell limped in behind her, looking decidedly worn about the edges in a dowdy gown obviously not cut to fit her, with her arm bound and carried in a sling made of a silken shawl. But someone had taken the time to dress her glossy hair as he’d never seen it before. Accustomed to the little girl in braids and breeches, Evan took the time to observe the young lady his neighbor had become. Bell was a stunner, no doubt, but he wasn’t interested in gangly youth. Or in a girl who stabbed him with her eyes.
He shrugged at her distress. “I warned you about riding that mare in the race,” he said to her wordless glare. “Women have no business in a man’s world.”
Lord Belden and Wexford had politely stood at the ladies’ arrival, so Evan forced himself to do the same. He’d been too long from society and had forgotten the manners his mother had once beaten into him.
“Sit, gentlemen. Lady Isabell has been ordered to rest for the next few days, but she will not until she knows what has become of her mare. Lord Meath, perhaps you would pull up a table and chair by the fire so she may dine with us.” Miss Hoyt gestured for everyone to take the seating arrangement that existed in her head alone.
Not one to obey commands, no matter how politely made, Meath pulled a chair up next to the table Wexford was using and practically shoved Bell into it before she toppled. “Don’t be any more of a lack-wit than you’ve proved to be, Bell. Take it from one who knows.”
The earl leaned over to pat his daughter’s hand. “Jim has Little Dream. He sent word that she’s bruised her foreleg, but he thinks the ligament is sound. She’ll be fine to race in a few weeks.”
Bell wilted into the chair looking fragile and vulnerable, Evan noted. The devil child had never been fragile in her life. But the stately marquess was studying her with masculine interest, and Evan’s own inner devil emerged. The marquess had the blunt to settle Wexford’s debts with a flick of his fingers and could keep Bell and her sisters in luxury for the rest of their lives. As much as Evan hated to admit it, the man who had been the only father he knew had dug his own hole. There was no reason his daughters should be dragged down into it, not with the holidays and visions of Christmas cakes just around the corner.
“Miss Hoyt, will you join me?” Evan carried over a chair to the fire and moved another table between them—as she’d suggested he do for Bell.
She bestowed a frosty look upon him for his disobedience but took the chair offered. Once he sat down, she leaned over to whisper for his ears alone. “I am quite capable of looking after myself, my lord. I had thought you might lend a hand to the young lady who has been so sorely misused this day.”