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“Yes, but the sooner the better, obviously,” Lydia remarked.
“The Caldwells are holding a ball in a week’s time,” Honoria said slowly, an idea forming. “And I can make certain that you’re both invited.”
* * *
The way Honoria made certain that Lydia and her beloved were both invited was by forging the invitations and instructing the footmen to send them out later that morning. Just a couple of extra people, surely Lady Somerville would think Caldwell was the one to send them out, and the earl would assume it was his aunt’s doing.
And apparently, the way Caldwell’s aunt persuaded him to come to London and host the ball post haste, was by sending out the invitations on his behalf for the ball he was apparently hosting a week from now.
He had no choice but to relent, which meant that everyone was working from dusk until dawn, preparing the place for the ball.
A week was not enough time to organize such a sizable event, but Caldwell’s aunt apparently assured him she’d take care of the decorations and bring her cooks and other servants to help with all the preparations both before and even on the day of the ball.
Honoria hoped that would be enough, because the time was ticking away, and the place didn’t look even half ready. She stood in the grand entrance hall, watching as servants scurried about, cleaning and rearranging the furniture in preparation of the event.
It would be a small ball, though, less than a hundred attendees, for which Honoria was grateful.
And as much as she wanted to be cross with the situation, she had to admit, she loved the buzz of people hurrying around her, the bustle of preparing the house for the upcoming ball.
She missed that part of her former life. There was a time when she’d thought she was born to be a perfect hostess. Just using Caldwell’s flowers from his own garden, they could have thrown the most elaborate ball England had ever seen. Perhaps, for Elise’s come out, they could—
Honoria caught herself, her heart giving a tiny ache. I won’t be here for Elise’s come out.
“Hart?”
Honoria turned to find Caldwell descending the stairs, dressed in his riding attire. Something about the sight of him—those tight buckskin breeches, the fitted coat, the riding crop clutched in his hand—sent a jolt through her senses. Even all these years after seeing him naked by the stream, she couldn’t help but remember the way he looked beneath those clothes. “Good, you are here. I needed to talk to you.”
“Yes, my lord?”
“I have an important… uh… engagement I must attend. But my aunt insisted on taking Elise to a modiste today.” He drew out his timepiece from his pocket and frowned at it. “She’ll be here in about an hour. And as much as I adore my aunt, she can be… well, she is much like a thistle—growing wherever she pleases, yielding to no one’s will, and treading on everything in her path.”
What a heartfelt description. “She sounds… lovely?”
“Right, yes. But I am afraid if Elise is alone with her, she will give in to her demands and end up with a wardrobe to my aunt’s taste rather than her own.”
Honoria pursed her lips. She understood the issue but didn’t understand what she could do about it. Besides, Elise was quite strong-willed. Granted, even strong-willed young ladies could be pressured into doing things they didn’t want, especially at such a vulnerable age. “Do you want me to stall her so you can go with them?”
“Goodness, no.” Caldwell gave a restless tap of the riding crop against his thigh. “I want you to go with them.”
Honoria blinked. “Me? A-a servant? You want me to go with Elise and advocate for her against a countess?”
“She’s not a countess,” he quickly interrupted. “She is a marchioness, a dowager marchioness to be exact.”
“Oh, that’s better then?” Honoria grimaced as the earl breezed past her, striding toward the door.
“Yes, very well,” he said, as usual, not paying full attention to her replies. “She will arrive in an hour and take you to the modiste in her carriage. She knows you’ll be joining them and is looking forward to meeting you.”
“My lord.” Honoria instinctively stepped forward, her hand outstretched.
He paused, a hand on the doorknob, glancing back over his shoulder.
Honoria could not help but admire the beauty of his face and the grace of his posture. The way he stood there, with sunlight streaming through the window to catch the gold in his brown hair and illuminate his features, would have made a beautiful portrait.
She wished she could capture the moment, a keepsake to remember this part of her life… to remember him.
“Yes?”
She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. “I needed to speak with you about…” She faltered, uncertain how to phrase it. “A private matter.”
