Free Jane Ashford by Man of Honour

amethyst that her Aunt Eleanor had pressed upon her before the wedding.
    “I shall never wear them again, child,” her aunt had said sadly. “And they will look so lovely on you. You can wear such things now that you are to be wed, you know.”
    So she had taken them, and she was glad now. Her black hair was again pulled up in a knot to show the earrings, and she had draped a diaphanous wrap over her elbows. Altogether, she thought as she looked in the mirror, it was an elegant outfit.
    “Lovely,” said a voice from the door.
    Laura turned, wide-eyed, to see Eliot standing there. For a moment she found it difficult to breathe; he looked so very impressive in his evening clothes. His dark, hawk-like face was set off to perfection by the snowy linen, and his tall elegant figure was at its best. He came over to her and raised her hand to his lips. “You will do me great honor tonight,” he said.
    “Thank you,” replied Laura. “It is a pretty dress, is it not?”
    He smiled. “Yes… but it is not the dress I meant.” To himself he was thinking that he had been fortunate in his choice. His wife was beautiful and everything he could wish in terms of birth and breeding. He had been right to use rational judgment in this matter and not allow his emotions to sway him. The accident of their union, in which he had acquiesced because it suited him, had been a happy one.
    Clarissa hurried into the room. “Am I late?” she said. “I am sorry. That silly Nancy dropped some Denmark Lotion on my dress. We had to sponge it out.”
    Eliot laughed. “Are you a devotee of facial nostrums? I wouldn’t have thought it of you.”
    Clarissa had the grace to blush. “Nancy bought it for me. But I do not think I shall use it. What a smell!” They both laughed at that, and in good humor started down the stairs to the waiting carriage. Clarissa wore peach-colored crepe this evening, and Eliot remarked on the charming picture the two sisters made as they sat together in the rear seat.
    ***
    When they arrived at Vauxhall, Clarissa exclaimed at the trees hung with colored lanterns, the tiers of boxes about the stage, and the winding paths through the gardens adorned with statues and pavilions. She had only one complaint about the evening’s entertainment. “I think you might have asked one of your most charming friends to accompany us,” she told Eliot. “Am I to be without an escort?”
    He smiled. “I might say that I hoped to keep two such lovely ladies to myself,” he replied, “a compliment which should silence your objections. But in fact I have arranged that Lord Anthony Trilling meet us at our box.” He directed a conspiratorial glance at Laura as he added, “He is a baron, I fear, not a duke. I could not provide a duke on such short notice.”
    Laura stifled a gurgle of laughter and looked a bit guilty, remembering what she had told him about her sister when they first met.
    Clarissa merely looked puzzled. “Why should you want a duke?” she asked. “Most of them are quite old, I understand. What is Lord Anthony Trilling like?”
    “That, I shall let you judge for yourself. I see he is before us.” And Eliot ushered them toward the box where a man sat alone waiting for them. When he saw them approaching, he rose and bowed. Eliot nodded in response. “Laura, this is my friend, Tony Trilling. My wife, and her sister, Miss Clarissa Lindley.”
    The gentleman said everything that was proper, and they sat down around the table in the box. Lord Anthony had already procured some of Vauxhall’s famous rack punch and the paper-thin slices of ham for which it was famous, and the ladies sampled the latter. As they ate, they looked about them with great interest. The lights, the brilliant crowd, and the music formed an almost hypnotic combination to observers so unused to the gaieties of London. Their escorts watched them with appreciative amusement for a while, until Laura turned back and caught her husband’s eye. She