Page 8 of Forgetting the Earl
“Of course. I’m only surprised you have.” Southwell leaned against the wall, the upper part of his body partially hidden in shadows.
“Only partially. I don’t read German, of course, my lord. My father gave me a translated version of Spix’s travel through Brazil and the Amazon basin. But only the first volume is in English as I’m sure you know. I suppose I’ll have to learn German should I wish to read the other two. I find his descriptions of the animals and plants of that part of the world very intriguing. Though there are horrible diseases in the Amazon.”
“Yes, Spix died of one.”
Though she couldn’t see his face, Honora could feel the intensity of Southwell’s gaze, as if he was studying her.
“There is a recent account by Smyth and Lowe, two of Her Majesty’s naval officers. The pair started in Lima, Peru, crossed the Andes, and traveled the length of the Amazon. Fascinating, Miss Drevenport. Have you heard of it?”
“Yes.” If her mother continued to forbid the purchase of books she deemed inappropriate, Honora would never get to read Smyth and Lowe’s account. She was hoping her father would order a copy.
“Perhaps”—he leaned forward, and Honora caught the mint on his breath—“I shall lend you mine after I’ve read it.” The muted light from the ballroom caught against his features. There was a great deal of confusion stamped on the planes of his face, as if she puzzled him.
“Is something wrong, my lord?”
“No, it’s only—” His mouth was mere inches from hers.
Honora became quite light-headed at the thought of touching her lips against his. She immediately shut her eyes, mouth parted, wondering if she’d hit her head and the last hour had been nothing more than a dream. Would Southwell kiss her?
The brush of his lips caught against the skin of her cheek.
She kept her eyes firmly shut, wanting to linger in the moment. Someone was whispering in an excited way on the terrace. She heard her name and Southwell’s. Honora reluctantly opened her eyes.
“South, there you are.” Tarrington’s snide tone came from behind her. “And with Miss Davenport, of all people. You didn’t nearly need to go so far.” He looked down his patrician nose at Honora. “Lord Carver is here.”
“A moment,” Southwell said, attention fixed on Honora. Regret colored his eyes.
“But Lord Carver ishere,” Tarrington said pointedly. “This is quite ridiculous. I’m not even sure why we are resorting to such subterfuge.”
A gentleman chuckled softly to Honora’s left. Two couples were watching her, the ladies laughing behind their hands. Honora dipped her chin sharply, staring at the tips of her slippers peeking out from beneath her skirts. Her stomach pitched, the feeling she was on uneven ground making her legs unsteady. Panic beat against her ribs.
“There is no subterfuge. I am taking the air. I’ll join you shortly.” Southwell sounded so angry.
“My lord—” Honora started, intending to excuse herself. Something was thickening the air around them, compelling her to flee at the arrival of Tarrington.
“Oh, this is rich,” came Tarrington’s reply. “You’ve won, fair and square, South. No need to belabor the point.”
“Shut up, Tarrington,” Southwell snapped.
“You don’t get an extra bit of coin for being out here with her. Good God, aren’t you afraid she’ll launch herself at you like a bloated warship?”
“Not another word, Tarrington.”
Tarrington held up his hands. “Fine. I meant no offense. You’ve already had your sensibilities offended enough for one evening.”
Another snicker. A burst of laughter.
“You should go back inside, Miss Drevenport, and not linger.” Southwell turned to her; his words cool. Polite. The easy friendship blooming between them before Tarrington’s arrival had dissipated. The tips of his fingers brushed hers. “I enjoyed our discussion and the dance.”
Honora blinked against the blinding pain across her heart, hearing the mockery directed at her. This was all some sort of jest at her expense. “I doubt that very much.”
“I did, Miss Drevenport. Sincerely.” Southwell hesitated before spinning away from her and following Tarrington to the terrace doors. He wandered inside without looking back, likely too embarrassed at having been caught with the utterly disgusting and forgettable Honora Drevenport.
Her palms grew slick, and she had to resist the urge to wipe them against her skirts.
Someone snorted in the darkness, like a pig. She heard her name again. Smothered laughter, as if caught in the palm of someone’s gloved hand. Dozens of eyes regarded her through the window to the left of the terrace doors. Lady Anabeth among them, lovely features no longer friendly but distorted by maliciousness.
They’re laughing at me. As if I’m an exhibit in a sideshow.
