powerless, and that her captor was looking at
her in a bold way that she could only define as covetous.
It sent unnatural heat through her that shook her resolve
even more than the fear.
That disturbing glitter in his expressive, honey-
colored eyes changed to hard determination when he
said, "You will do as I say."
She eyed the blank pages, and noticed the inkwell
and quill pen, and the man's bright eyes. "What do you
want from me?"
"You can write, can't you? And read?"
She bridled at the hint of suspicion in the Spaniard's
tone. Lifting her chin proudly, she replied with a tart, "Of
course. In several languages."
"He laughed ," she said. "The—bastard, laughed." How
well she remembered his laugh—lusty, boisterous, alive .
And so full of triumph, brimming and bubbling with wild
glee when he laughed at her that afternoon in his cabin.
"The faithless, lying, scheming—!"
"Who, my lady?"
Huseby's voice brought Honoria back to the present,
where she sat at the writing desk in her suite with a great
stack of correspondence laid out before her. She blinked,
adjusted the spectacles on her nose, and frowned up at her
maid. "Have I been talking to myself very much,
Maggie?"
At the use of her first name, the neutral expression
on Huseby's face softened considerably, becoming more
friend than servant. They were alone in the room as
afternoon wore into evening. Honoria vaguely recalled
sending her secretary off to her favorite bookseller with a
long list some time ago. She'd gone through tiring hours
of fittings with her dressmaker in the morning. The
woman and her assistants were still pouting because of
losing the battle over their employer's own taste versus
the artiste's longing to try her hand at all the latest styles.
She was more comfortable setting fashion than trying to
be fashionable, and was not going to pretend to try to fit
in again. People her size didn't fit in, they stood out, and
might as well enjoy the unavoidable.
A housemaid had left a pot of tea and a plate of
sandwiches on a corner of the desk a while ago. The tea
was cooling, and Honoria had no appetite. Another maid
had made up the fire against the evening chill and drawn
heavy velvet curtains, muffling the sound of rain
pattering against the window glass. The room was full of
shadows despite the gas lights glowing in wall sconces.
The brightest spot in the room was around her desk,
where a tall branch of fragrant beeswax candles behind
her head added both light and warmth to the area. A
footman
had
delivered
yet
another
stack
of
correspondence a half hour or so ago, but there was a lull
in the household traffic for the moment.
"Alone at last," Honoria said. She took the
opportunity to stretch her arms tiredly over her head and
out to her sides. She finally brought her hands to rest,
folded demurely, on top of a letter she'd been reading
over and over while her thoughts ranged wildly into her
misspent, misguided past.
Maggie Huseby moved a pile of fabric swatches
Cousin Kate had left and sat down in the chair nearest
Honoria's desk. "You've been talking to yourself quite a
bit since yesterday, my lady," Huseby answered Honoria's
question. "It's a habit I'd thought you'd outgrown."
"So had I," Honoria confessed. She sighed. There
she was, feeling sorry for herself—another bad habit
she'd tried to eschew. She eyed the fabric swatches that
Huseby had put on the desk. The colors and materials
were rich: velvets and brocades in emerald green, royal
blue, peacock, cream, champagne, old gold, turquoise,
silver gray, and midnight.
"You've gotten us quite worried, those of us who're
up from Lacey House," Huseby went on. "We're used to
you sometimes going for days without speaking a word.
Do you recall those two new chambermaids at Lacey
House who thought you were mute?"
Honoria smiled slightly, recalling the incident a few
months before. "I didn't mean to frighten those poor
her in a bold way that she could only define as covetous.
It sent unnatural heat through her that shook her resolve
even more than the fear.
That disturbing glitter in his expressive, honey-
colored eyes changed to hard determination when he
said, "You will do as I say."
She eyed the blank pages, and noticed the inkwell
and quill pen, and the man's bright eyes. "What do you
want from me?"
"You can write, can't you? And read?"
She bridled at the hint of suspicion in the Spaniard's
tone. Lifting her chin proudly, she replied with a tart, "Of
course. In several languages."
"He laughed ," she said. "The—bastard, laughed." How
well she remembered his laugh—lusty, boisterous, alive .
And so full of triumph, brimming and bubbling with wild
glee when he laughed at her that afternoon in his cabin.
"The faithless, lying, scheming—!"
"Who, my lady?"
Huseby's voice brought Honoria back to the present,
where she sat at the writing desk in her suite with a great
stack of correspondence laid out before her. She blinked,
adjusted the spectacles on her nose, and frowned up at her
maid. "Have I been talking to myself very much,
Maggie?"
At the use of her first name, the neutral expression
on Huseby's face softened considerably, becoming more
friend than servant. They were alone in the room as
afternoon wore into evening. Honoria vaguely recalled
sending her secretary off to her favorite bookseller with a
long list some time ago. She'd gone through tiring hours
of fittings with her dressmaker in the morning. The
woman and her assistants were still pouting because of
losing the battle over their employer's own taste versus
the artiste's longing to try her hand at all the latest styles.
She was more comfortable setting fashion than trying to
be fashionable, and was not going to pretend to try to fit
in again. People her size didn't fit in, they stood out, and
might as well enjoy the unavoidable.
A housemaid had left a pot of tea and a plate of
sandwiches on a corner of the desk a while ago. The tea
was cooling, and Honoria had no appetite. Another maid
had made up the fire against the evening chill and drawn
heavy velvet curtains, muffling the sound of rain
pattering against the window glass. The room was full of
shadows despite the gas lights glowing in wall sconces.
The brightest spot in the room was around her desk,
where a tall branch of fragrant beeswax candles behind
her head added both light and warmth to the area. A
footman
had
delivered
yet
another
stack
of
correspondence a half hour or so ago, but there was a lull
in the household traffic for the moment.
"Alone at last," Honoria said. She took the
opportunity to stretch her arms tiredly over her head and
out to her sides. She finally brought her hands to rest,
folded demurely, on top of a letter she'd been reading
over and over while her thoughts ranged wildly into her
misspent, misguided past.
Maggie Huseby moved a pile of fabric swatches
Cousin Kate had left and sat down in the chair nearest
Honoria's desk. "You've been talking to yourself quite a
bit since yesterday, my lady," Huseby answered Honoria's
question. "It's a habit I'd thought you'd outgrown."
"So had I," Honoria confessed. She sighed. There
she was, feeling sorry for herself—another bad habit
she'd tried to eschew. She eyed the fabric swatches that
Huseby had put on the desk. The colors and materials
were rich: velvets and brocades in emerald green, royal
blue, peacock, cream, champagne, old gold, turquoise,
silver gray, and midnight.
"You've gotten us quite worried, those of us who're
up from Lacey House," Huseby went on. "We're used to
you sometimes going for days without speaking a word.
Do you recall those two new chambermaids at Lacey
House who thought you were mute?"
Honoria smiled slightly, recalling the incident a few
months before. "I didn't mean to frighten those poor
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