The Trouble with Honor (23 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

M
ONICA’S MOTHER BELIEVED
Mr. Cleburne was a perfect match for Honor in every way, most particularly because it meant Honor would be living at Longmeadow.

Not London, where Monica would be stepping into her role one day as the new Lady Beckington. But at Longmeadow, where Monica would only need see her in summer, when London was unbearably hot and fetid.

Monica didn’t ride as well as Honor—none of them did—and she’d assumed Honor would ride far ahead, pausing to speak to acquaintances, then trotting back to the party, where Monica would labor along with her horse. But nothing was further from the truth. Honor rode at a sedate pace beside the vicar and behind Monica and Augustine. She hardly seemed herself.

They were so slow, thanks to Augustine’s clumsy handling of his horse, that Monica could overhear Honor and Cleburne’s conversation. The vicar asked what diversions Honor enjoyed. Honor replied she enjoyed gaming. The vicar chuckled indulgently and made a remark about the games of the devil. Honor asked if he ever bet on horses, that everyone at Longmeadow found a coin or two for that purpose.

Mr. Cleburne said he did not.

Monica would have given anything to see the expression on Honor’s face at that moment, but alas, her task was to train her eye to her horse, lest she fall.

Monica knew Honor was perturbed when they stopped for their picnic. Augustine busily instructed a footman where to lay the blanket and the basket of food the cook had prepared. Honor stood to one side, tapping her crop lightly against her skirt, staring out across the lake.

Monica asked lightly, “Mr. Cleburne, I’ve been meaning to inquire, how do you find Longmeadow now that you’ve been there a time?”

“Oh, very well, indeed,” he said, as if he could say anything less before Augustine.

“You’ve met the fine families there?”

“Naturally. They are my flock.”

“I am sure you have discovered many young, unmarried woman in your flock,” Honor said.

Mr. Cleburne blushed. Monica realized then how inexperienced the man was. “Perhaps one or two have allowed an interest,” he said modestly. “But none that I found suitable,” he quickly amended.

“What do you mean? There were
none
that caught your interest?” Honor asked.

Mr. Cleburne smiled nervously. “No, I...I consider myself a man of discernment.”

The man was a fool, Monica realized. He hadn’t the slightest idea how to entice a woman like Honor Cabot. He was no George Easton, a surprising thought that caused her to chuckle unexpectedly.

Honor and Mr. Cleburne looked at her. Monica gaily remarked, “What a lovely day!”

Honor’s gaze darkened.

“We have our picnic!” Augustine said, making a grand gesture to the setting the footman had made for them.

The four of them eased themselves down on the blanket and helped themselves to fruit and cheeses while the footman filled their wineglasses. Augustine had stretched out on his side, and his belly, Monica was chagrined to see, was spilling onto the ground beneath his waistcoat. They spoke of nothing of import, and even when Augustine brought up the reception for Lord Stapleton, Monica resisted a yawn. But then Augustine suggested Honor invite Mr. Cleburne to accompany her.

Honor’s head came up. She looked at Monica, then at Augustine, clearly caught off guard.

Mr. Cleburne sensed her fluster, for he said, “I couldn’t possibly impose.”

“No imposition,” Augustine said easily, and stuffed a pair of grapes into his mouth.

“But I should not impose on
you,
Mr. Cleburne,” Honor said, recovering slightly. “The reception will be crowded and...and noisy.”

“Oh, I scarcely mind that,” Cleburne said congenially. “I am sure I have suffered worse at the country dances.” He laughed.

Honor glanced away, her jaw clenched. “Unfortunately,” she said, shaking her head to the wine the footman silently offered, “the building is not well ventilated.”

“Then I suppose I shall remove my coat,” Mr. Cleburne responded, and smiled at Monica and Augustine, as if they were playing a game.

“Then it’s all settled,” Augustine said triumphantly. “Mr. Cleburne shall be your guest.”

“Yes,” Honor said. “Thank you, Augustine, for the idea.” She stood up. “Please, excuse me.”

Mr. Cleburne hastened to find his feet.

“Oh, no, Mr. Cleburne, do keep your seat. I mean only to stretch my legs.” Honor whirled and began to walk. Or march, really, her riding habit billowing out behind her.

Cleburne looked helplessly at Monica and Augustine. “Have I said something wrong?”

“Not at all, Mr. Cleburne,” Monica said, and held out her hand so that he might help her to her feet. “Honor can be rather...”

“Mercurial?” Augustine offered innocently.

“That was not the word I was searching for,” Monica said kindly.
Stubborn
was more in line with her thinking. “She is the restless sort. I’ll see to her—enjoy your wine,” she said, and straightened her bonnet before marching after Honor to the edge of the lake.

When reached by her nemesis, Honor was ripping apart a rush, one bristle at a time. When they were girls, her mother had brought them to this very lake to feed the ducks. Monica remembered Honor, with her dark hair streaming behind her, chasing the ducks at the edge of the lake, trying to catch them as Monica’s mother shouted at her to stop. Monica had been afraid of the ducks, and she was suddenly reminded of how Honor had held her hand while Monica had thrown her breadcrumbs to the honking beasts. When had those young girls parted ways? Honestly, Monica couldn’t recall any longer.

She glanced at Honor from the corner of her eye. “You seem rather cross.”

Honor bestowed a withering look on Monica. “Cross is the
least
of what I am. You know that very well.”

“I suppose I do,” Monica said, and shrugged, looking out over the lake. “I don’t understand you, in all honesty. Mr. Cleburne happens to be an excellent match for you—”

“An excellent match?” Honor shot back and glanced over her shoulder at the offending gentleman. “Why do you believe that? Because it is
your
idea to broker a marriage? Ah—don’t even
think
of denying it,” she said when Monica opened her mouth to do precisely that. “I know very well you suggested it to Augustine. He would not have thought of it on his own.”

“Even if I did suggest it, or even if you suggested to Mr. Easton that he should court me, it’s all beside the point,” Monica said pertly, taking pleasure in the flicker of culpability that flashed in Honor’s eyes. “Mr. Cleburne is a perfect match for you because he
is.
He is devoted, he is kind and his reputation is irreproachable. Can you really ask for more?”

“Yes!” Honor exclaimed. “Yes, Monica, I can ask for more. Perhaps
you
can’t, or won’t, but
I
ask for more.”

“Why isn’t anything ever
good
enough for you?” Monica demanded crossly. “How can you find a man who most women in your position would consider a
very
good match beneath you? Why must you always have
more?
”

“I don’t think Mr. Cleburne is beneath me, for heaven’s sake. But I think he is as far removed from me in spirit and temperament as a man could possibly be. And furthermore, why don’t you ever want more, Monica? Why won’t you believe in the
best
possibilities, instead of taking the first offer?”

Monica gasped. “Don’t you dare disparage Augustine to me!”

“I wasn’t—”

“You were!” Monica insisted. Now she glanced over her shoulder at her fiancé. Augustine, sitting cross-legged, enthusiastically regaled Mr. Cleburne with some tale, judging by the wave of his hands. “I happen to be quite fond of Augustine. And I have done what every woman is exhorted to do, Honor. I have made a good match. There is nothing
wrong
with that. I am happy. Can you not see it? Can you not be happy for me? Happy that I will marry him, happy that the banns have been posted?”

Honor’s eyes widened. “They’ve been posted?”

“Yes!” Monica said crossly. “Must you look so astounded? Augustine told you that we wished to marry before his father... Well, you know very well what I mean. I have accepted my life and his offer, and I am
happy
.”

“Do you not hear yourself?” Honor demanded, suddenly turning to face her. “Wouldn’t you rather find true, consuming love than merely accept your life and an offer?”

Sometimes Honor was ridiculously childish, and Monica couldn’t help but laugh.

Honor’s brows sank in a confused frown. “Why are you laughing? Do you
love
Augustine?”

“Will you stop?” Monica exclaimed through her laughter. “I told you, I esteem him!”

“But do you
love
him?”

“For God’s sake, Honor! I will come to love him. Love develops over time, with familiarity, as two people move through life as one. You act as if there is some other alternative! What alternative is there? To wait indefinitely? For what? For a knight to come along and quite literally sweep me off my feet?”

“Yes!”
Honor cried with frustration.

“Dear God, you are maddening,” Monica snapped, and looked away, angry with herself for allowing Honor to vex her.
Again.

“We will never have alternatives if we don’t demand them,” Honor said, and folded her arms tightly over her middle.

Monica rolled her eyes. “And what alternative will you demand, pray? That you do not marry? That you may continue to flit from this soiree to that?” she asked, gesturing around them.

“I mean that unless women demand to follow their heart’s true instincts, we will never be allowed to do so. Society will insist we marry
well,
and that is
all
they will ask of us.”

“Ah. And your heart’s true instincts are not Mr. Cleburne.”

“Not in the least.”

“Have you ever considered that perhaps your heart doesn’t have a true instinct? For surely, if it did, you would have acted on it by now.”

Honor’s eyes widened. She looked almost insulted for a moment, but that quickly gave way to another expression. She seemed to be considering what Monica had said, mulling it over for a long moment. “Goodness, I think you may be
right,
Monica.”

“I am?” Monica said, startled.

“Yes.” Honor nodded thoughtfully. “If I don’t act, who will?”

Monica suddenly had a sinking feeling she’d unwittingly unleashed a beast from its cage. “Honor Cabot, what are you thinking?” she demanded. “You’d best not cause trouble—”

“Trouble? No,” Honor said sweetly. “You’ve helped me clarify a thing or two. We’d best go back to the gentlemen, do you suppose?” She smiled warmly at Monica, then started back toward the men, suddenly strolling along as if she hadn’t a care in the world.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

L
ONDON SCARCELY MANAGED
to crawl out beneath the leaden skies on the afternoon of Lord Stapleton’s reception. A stiff wind and the smell of rain in the air only increased George’s uncharacteristically somber mood, and he wouldn’t have minded in the least to have remained in bed all day, a pillow over his head, his eyes closed against the world.

But Finnegan had other ideas, it would seem, as he had polished George’s boots and laid out his gold waistcoat and navy superfine coat to don for the reception. It looked, George thought, almost naval in appearance.

George was generally annoyed when Finnegan laid out his clothes as if he were addled, but this afternoon he was glad for it, because he doubted he would have been able to dress himself with much care. He’d been walking around in a melancholy fog for two days, obsessed with thoughts of Honor, remembering in exquisite and torturous detail the afternoon in his salon.

There was no help for him. He was a fool, a bloody fool for having agreed to help her in the beginning. He was an even bigger fool because he was mad for her. He’d broken his one cardinal rule: never believe he was one of them. After a life spent trying to be someone, to be recognized, he’d learned to keep proper society at arm’s length, to protect himself above all else.

In this case, he’d missed his steps, had fallen out of line, had looked to his left and right and, in doing so, had ruined his life. It had happened so quickly, so easily, too—when a daring, beautiful woman presented a challenge to him, his rule had held up like cotton batting in fire, disappearing completely.

The most enraging part of it was that George did not want Honor to marry a bloody vicar. He did not want her to marry at all. He wanted things to remain as they were, with opportunities to be in her company, to hear her clever mind spinning out wretched ideas to create a bit of mayhem in her society, to keep him properly diverted from the lack of a name, the loss of his fortune. From who he was.

It was an absurdly preposterous wish. And an astoundingly intense one.

To confound his thinking even more, there was part of him that didn’t entirely trust Honor. It was a truth he grudgingly admitted to himself. Yes, he loved her. And there was a part of him that believed she loved him, as well. But she was a woman of the
ton,
and she had come to him seeking a way to keep her fortune and standing. In spite of what they’d shared, in spite of his strong feelings—or hers, for that matter—he could not bring himself to believe she would ever truly give that up to settle for someone like him. Or that Beckington would ever consent to someone like him as a possible match for her. And though passion had flared hot and wild between him and Honor, he couldn’t help but wonder if this...this thing between them, this intangible, intense thing wasn’t merely pleasure for her.

How could it be anything but?

Oh, yes, George was a miserable man.

But in that misery, he was irrationally determined to lure Monica Hargrove to him. He told himself it was to keep her from making Honor’s burden of her family dilemma any worse by presenting potential offers for her hand. A smaller voice suggested it was even more personal than that—he’d been rather astounded that his attempts to seduce the debutante had failed.
A kiss
. That’s what was required. One small kiss of her lips, and all the reticence would melt right out of Miss Monica Hargrove. She’d be eating from his bag of oats or he’d find another way to tether her.

Dressed like a sailor for the occasion of honoring a war hero, George stalked downstairs so gruffly that the daily maid Finnegan had hired—to clean or to bed, George didn’t know—scampered out of his way like a frightened little hare.

Finnegan was waiting in the foyer with George’s hat and gloves. “What a splendid surprise,” he said, bowing slightly. “You’ve combed your hair.”

George snatched the hat and gloves from Finnegan. “Today, Mr. Finnegan,” he said, stuffing his hands into the gloves, “may very well be the day I throttle you.”

“Very good, sir,” Finnegan said, and opened the front door.

* * *

O
N SUCH A
gloomy day, Burlington House was predictably crowded. All of the illustrious guests had crammed inside the gallery, standing shoulder to shoulder, the din of their voices echoing against the cavernous ceiling. George couldn’t imagine how he’d find anyone, but he pushed through the crowd all the same, muttering his apologies for stepping on this toe or elbowing that back, receiving some less-than-welcoming looks for it.

He spotted Sommerfield first, his girth affording him a bit more space than most. Standing beside him was Miss Monica Hargrove, her expression full of tedium. George wasn’t entirely certain what he would say, but he started for her.

Miss Hargrove turned her head, and when she saw him, she straightened slightly. She seemed perplexed, and then her brows dipped into something of a frown. In a mood, was she? He’d change that. George stepped around a couple in his progress toward Miss Hargrove and was startled by the sudden appearance of Honor in front of him. “Mr. Easton,” she said, and put her hand on his arm.

George looked down at her hand on his arm, her touch incinerating his sleeve, marking his skin underneath. “May I have a word?”

“Not now, love. There is another woman I should like to address.”

“George...please.
Please.
” She smiled as she glanced to her right. George followed her gaze and saw Cleburne standing there.

“Mr. Cleburne, will you excuse us a moment?” she asked.

“Yes, of course. Good day, Mr. Easton,” he said, and with a curt bow, he took several steps away. But not far enough that Honor was out of his sight, George noticed.

George didn’t speak; Honor tugged him to one side.

“Go back to your suitor, Cabot. You’ve nothing to fear, I do not intend—”

“I beg of you, don’t speak to her!” Honor interjected frantically. “Don’t even look her way. It’s over, it’s done—I should never have begun this madness!”

“It’s not your scheme any longer, love. It’s mine. I told you I would fix things for you.”

“I don’t need you to fix anything for me. I don’t
want
you to fix it!”

George paused and looked down at her. “
Why?
Is Cleburne suddenly to your liking?”

“No!”
she exclaimed, and looked nervously in the direction of the young vicar. “That’s certainly
not
what compels me. It’s that I...” She rose up on her toes to look over his shoulder.

“You what?” he asked.

Honor sank down, bit her lip.

George frowned, imagining all manner of nonsense. “What is this sudden shyness? What is it?”

“I am not
shy,
” she said, as if the very notion offended her. “But I am afraid.”

“Of what?”

“Of
you,
” she admitted.

Something toxic began to brew in George. He suspected this was the moment she would say that she had come to realize that theirs was not a relationship she could maintain, not with an urgent need to find an offer for her hand. He stepped back. “Go on, then, say it. Don’t let maidenly angst stand in your way.”

“I love you,” she said.

Stunned, George gaped at her.

“Are you shocked?” she asked, smiling at someone who passed by. “Well, I do, Easton, I love you so, with all my heart,” she said, stacking her hands and pressing them against her breast. “What am I to do? I’m not supposed to love you, but I do. I don’t want you to seduce anyone but me. I want you all for myself. I want
you.
”

He had never desired to hear those words more, and yet he had never wanted so desperately
not
to hear them. “What you think you
want
is impossible,” he said brusquely. “How many times must I tell you so?”

Her eyes widened with surprise. And then narrowed with anger. “Why must every blessed thing with you be so
impossible?
”

“Because it is,” he snapped, feeling inexplicably, inexcusably angry with her. He was feeling the same thing, had been feeling for days that rusty, unfamiliar crank of love in his chest, and it made him furious. As much as he loved her, he wouldn’t taint her with the rumors that swirled about him. Worse, he had nothing. He had less than nothing now, thanks to his missing ship. He could offer this bright star in his galaxy
nothing.

“But I thought... You admitted to affection for me. You
missed
me.”

He could see unshed tears beginning to glisten in her eyes. It was a rare glimpse of innocence from this young woman, and for some reason it made George even angrier. She was naive in ways he could not begin to fathom, and he’d allowed it, had encouraged it, had
taken
innocence from her. “It is time you accepted life for what it is, Honor. You can’t recast it to meet your whims.”

She looked truly wounded by that. “A whim? Do you think I
want
to love you?” she asked, heedless of anyone around now. “Do you think that it eases my life in any way?”

George’s heart constricted, squeezed by so many emotions, so many things he didn’t want to feel. He gazed into the beautiful face, into the eyes of a daughter of the Quality, who had been trained to high-step into salons and advantageous matches just as surely as he was trained to not desire them. She had been trained to seek fortune and, more important, standing.

She could
not
love a man like him. It was
impossible
.

Her naive ideas of love and noble sacrifices would fade with time.

But then Honor surprised him yet again. It was almost as if she could feel the doubts raging through him. She put her hand on his arm and said, “I
do
love you, George. I know you don’t believe me, but I love you in a way I never believed was possible. I beg you, tell me the truth. Tell me you feel the same.
Please.
”

A flash of panic and an age-old ache swept through him. He peeled her fingers from his hand and stepped back. “I beg your pardon, Miss Cabot, but I cannot possibly tell you what is not true.” George did the only thing he could do—he turned away and walked. Fled, really. He looked wildly at the crowd in that hall and felt the walls closing in, pushing the air from the room. He stalked from the reception, out into the cold gray day.

He did not look back. He didn’t have to. The image of the hurt in her eyes was forever burned into his memory.

And because George left in such a fashion, a prisoner of his birth and his experiences, because he believed that the vicar
was
a good match for her, and that he was the worst match for her, because he took himself to Southwark and gambled and drank the remainder of the day, trying desperately to block her words from his ears, her image from his eyes, he did not hear the Earl of Beckington had died until well into the following afternoon.