The Trouble with Honor (24 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

D
EATH HAD CREPT
in when the Beckington household had least expected it. The earl had been at breakfast that morning, smiling as the girls talked about their plans for the day, and reminding Augustine, when he grew impatient with Mercy, that she was a girl yet.

A congenial Augustine had agreed and had turned the talk to the reception for Lord Stapleton that afternoon, pondering who might attend. Honor had wondered aloud if Grace was still abed after an evening spent at the Chatham residence. The earl had said she must be exhausted, having endured the unending stream of words from Lady Chatham.

Prudence had recalled a silly story about Mrs. Philpot’s chickens that had gotten loose in Grosvenor Square, and dissolved into giggles as she’d related how the poor woman had run after them, her skirts lifted to her knees. It had made the earl laugh until he couldn’t catch his breath.

After breakfast, Mercy had offered to read to her stepfather—truly the only father she’d ever known—but he’d smiled fondly at her and assured her he’d had quite enough tales of wolves who ate humans.

When Honor thought of that morning, she thought of her mother, not the earl. Her mother had sat beside her husband, quite subdued, staring at her plate. Had she sensed that death was so near them? Or had she slipped into the private world she increasingly inhabited?

There was one more thing Honor remembered about the last time she would see the earl alive. When she’d stood to go, she had leaned down to kiss him goodbye. He’d caught her hand in his and said, “You’re a good girl, my love. Never let anyone convince you otherwise.” And he’d smiled.

Honor had laughed. He’d been telling her she was a good girl since the day she and Monica had slipped out of the back of the church during Sunday services to meet a pair of boys. Not just any boys, mind you, but stable boys who were charged with looking after the parishioners’ horses.

“I think you are the only one who believes it, my lord. But I shall endeavor to remember.”

The earl had patted her hand, then had let it slip from his grip.

Honor wished she was the good girl the earl had always believed her to be. She wished she’d been a better daughter to him, had spent more time with him.

His funeral had been a blur of activity. So many people had come, so many embraces and offers of condolences. So many rituals and so much black.

The day after the funeral, Grace had left for Bath.
“Stay,”
Honor had begged her.

“I can’t,” Grace had said grimly. “We’ve no time to lose.”

Honor had said goodbye to Grace that morning, holding her sister tightly. She’d told herself that Grace’s plan was just as fraught with opportunities for failure as hers had been, and that by all rights, Grace would be home in a matter of weeks. But Grace’s departure had felt like the final blow, the last door to shut on the life as they’d known it.

Honor had stood on the street, watching Grace’s coach disappear around a corner. And even then, she’d remained standing there, looking down the street. Waiting. Watching.

For what, Honor hadn’t known.

She’d felt great despair that morning. She’d lost the most important people in her life in a matter of days. The earl. Her dear sister Grace.
Easton.

Her disappointment was devastating.

Now it had been a fortnight since the earl’s death, a fortnight of grief so deep that Honor had lost her appetite and seemed only to eat when Hardy urged her to do so. It was nonsensical—Honor had known that the earl was not long for this world, had believed herself prepared for his departure. Nothing could have prepared her, however.

His absence was felt throughout the house. Augustine seemed anxious in his new role, and the entire staff seemed to be in the doldrums. Prudence and Mercy whispered to each other, their black clothing making them look tired.

But Honor’s grief ran so much deeper than her stepfather’s death.

She mourned George just as deeply.

Lord, how she missed him
. And hated him, too. At least, she tried to convince herself she hated him. With his rejection of her, he’d reopened old, deep-seated wounds. She felt as if she were reliving the nightmare of Lord Rowley all over again. Honor had been destroyed by Easton’s rejection of her, and had it not been for Mr. Cleburne’s kindness in seeing her home, she’d feared she might have collapsed at the reception.

Since that horrible afternoon, she’d not seen George and had heard nothing of him. He hadn’t come to pay his respects, and even at the funeral service, she’d scanned the dozens upon dozens of mourners gathered, certain she would see his reassuring smile. He did not attend.

At the gathering after the funeral, she happened to overhear two gentlemen speaking of the war. One of them mentioned that Easton’s ship was missing and presumed captured or sunk, and with a chuckle added that his fortune had sunk along with it. Honor wondered if he’d truly lost his fortune, if he would be reduced to mean circumstances. She hated him...but she wished she could help him, too.

Her heart was whittled away by her hurt, and it had turned to dust. She could feel it—a powdery, insubstantial thing in her chest.

One gloomy, damp afternoon, as Honor and Prudence strolled about the square—they were desperate to be out of doors—Prudence reported that she’d heard Monica saying that she might wed within the next few weeks, but her mother had corrected her to say that likely she would wait another year, given the prescribed period of mourning for the earl.

“Perhaps in theory,” Honor said thoughtfully.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t believe Augustine can do without her for a full year,” Honor said. “He’ll think of some way. Even if it were to take a year, how long will it be before Mamma begins to speak again and the words coming out of her mouth are as mad as her appearance? Her madness will affect us all, Pru. The only thing that has truly changed for us is that the rituals of mourning have added another complication to our lives.”

“I don’t want to say it, but...”

“But what?” Honor urged her sister.

Prudence shook her head. “I am quite worried for Mamma. I overheard Mrs. Hargrove and Augustine talking.”

A slight shiver of fear ran through Honor. “Mrs. Hargrove? Or Monica?”

“Mrs. Hargrove,” Prudence repeated, and glanced across the square to Beckington House. “She said that she worried for Mamma’s health, and, naturally, Augustine agreed. But then Mrs. Hargrove said there was a place in St. Asaph that could provide care for people like Mamma.”

“St. Asaph?” Honor said. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“Mercy and I hadn’t, either. We looked for it in the pages of the atlas. Oh, Honor—it’s in Wales! It is very far from London—it’s far from everything!”

Honor’s heart skipped a few beats.

“Miss Cabot!”

Prudence and Honor both started and glanced around. Mr. Cleburne was striding across the square toward them.

“God help me,” Honor muttered.

“I beg your pardon,” Mr. Cleburne said as he reached them. “I hope I’m not imposing. I happened to see the two of you here and thought perhaps you might like some company.”

“I was just saying to Honor that perhaps we ought to turn back. Mamma might need us,” Prudence said.

“But surely you might use a bit of fresh air,” he said hopefully, forgetting, perhaps, that London air was the farthest thing from fresh.

“Go and see after Mamma, Pru,” Honor suggested.

Prudence looked at her uncertainly, but Honor winked. “Mr. Cleburne and I will be along shortly.”

When Prudence had left them, Cleburne smiled at Honor and gestured to the walk. “Thank you, Miss Cabot.” He fell in beside her, his hands at his back. “I am grateful for this opportunity to be alone in your company, in truth,” he said. “Your family’s tragedy has necessitated my stay in London, but I really must return to Longmeadow and my flock there. I plan to take my leave a week from Saturday.”

“I’m certain your parishioners have missed you terribly,” Honor agreed.

He smiled sheepishly. “May I compliment you, Miss Cabot? I have admired your strength during this time of great sorrow. You’ve been a true pillar of comfort for your family.”

She hadn’t been a pillar of comfort in the least. She’d been stumbling about, completely lost in her grief.

“Miss Cabot, I...” He paused midstride. “Miss Cabot, I have come to esteem you,” he blurted.

Honor swallowed down a sudden lump of terror. “Thank you for that, Mr. Cleburne, but I beg you not to say more, as I am in mourning—”

“But that is precisely why I must,” he said earnestly, and reached for her hand. Honor looked at his hand. “I beg your pardon, am I too forward?” he asked.

She blinked. Were he any other gentleman, she would have laughed, for that question would have been a jest. But Cleburne mistook her hesitation for fear, and smiled reassuringly. “You have nothing to fear from me, Miss Cabot. I would protect your virtue as my own. Think of this as a touch of comfort.”

What Honor thought of was her night with George. In comparison to him, Cleburne was an unswaddled babe left in the woods.

Her silence made him nervous, she could see that. “Do you think that perhaps we might—after a suitable period of mourning, naturally—come to an understanding with one another? I’ll be frank—Sommerfield is perfectly satisfied with the idea. I know I am not a London dandy, or...or any of the men you might have consorted with prior to our acquaintance, but I am a good man, an honest man and I would cherish you all our days.”

Honor didn’t know what to say to him. She didn’t dare speak her heart for fear of angering Augustine or hurting Mr. Cleburne. But neither could she encourage him. She thought frantically as she pulled her hand free. “I can’t say that this...conversation comes as a surprise,” she said, and the poor man actually blushed. “There is much to consider, Mr. Cleburne. My sisters and my mother not the least of them.”

“Of course. They are welcome at Longmeadow.”

“You may have noted that my mother is unwell,” she said bluntly.

He smiled. “I would consider it my Christian duty to help in any way that I might.”

Of course he would. She nodded, her mind spinning, her thoughts on George, who had told her flatly that her love for him was “impossible.” She should accept Cleburne’s offer, should accept the truth of her life as George had so boldly told her to do, and yet...yet she couldn’t seem to shake the thoughts of George from her mind. “May I have a day or two before...we talk?”

Cleburne seemed a bit disappointed by her request but rallied gamely and said, “Yes, of course. One must thoroughly consider all aspects.”

Cleburne accompanied her to the house, but he did not come in, claiming he had some calls he must make.

She made her way upstairs, feeling heavy in her limbs and her heart, and walked down the long hall to her mother’s suite of rooms. She knocked lightly on the door; Hannah opened it instantly. Just behind Hannah, Honor could see Mercy, her arms outstretched, practicing dance steps as she hummed a tune.

“How is Mamma?” Honor whispered.

“The same, miss. Says little and hasn’t an appetite.”

Honor nodded and stepped inside. Her mother was dressed in her widow’s weeds, standing at the window, looking out over the square. “Mamma?” Honor said.

“She’s not listening today,” Mercy said, sinking into a deep curtsy.

Honor walked across the room and touched her mother’s arm. She started, then looked at Honor and smiled. “Darling,” she said.

“Are you all right? May I get you something?”

Her mother didn’t answer, just turned her gaze to the window again.

“Mercy, you’ll stay with Mamma?” Honor asked as Mercy twirled again, the black ribbons of her mourning dress flying out behind her.

“When might I have my dance lessons again?” Mercy asked, dipping and swaying to one side.

“When we have properly mourned our stepfather,” Honor said. “Where is Pru?”

“Playing another dirge on the pianoforte.” Mercy sighed.

Just as Mercy had said, Prudence was playing a lugubrious song when Honor found her.

“Have you come, too?” Prudence asked. “Mercy has already tried to persuade me to leave off.”

“I wouldn’t think of it,” Honor lied. “But I need your help. Will you keep an eye on Mamma this evening?”

Prudence stopped playing. “Why? Where will you be?”

“I have something I must do.”

“What is it?” Prudence pressed.

Honor really didn’t know the answer to that. She only knew she’d not accept Easton’s rejection of her. Unlike her experience with Rowley, this time Honor was certain of the feelings Easton had shown her, and she wasn’t going to walk away as if she had no say in it. “Darling, bear with me. I shall return by nightfall.”

“All right,” Prudence said lightly, and began to play again. “Do remember what the earl always said of you, Honor—you’re a good girl.”

Honor looked at her sister with surprise.

Prudence smiled a little. “You think me a child, but I’m not,” she said, and played a heavy chord.

Honor smiled fondly. “No, Pru, you’re not. You’ve grown up far too quickly.”

“Grace warned me. She said someone must remind you that you’re a good girl, or you will forget it entirely.”

Honor laughed. She missed Grace so! “I shall remember. But this afternoon, you really must bear with me.”

“I will,” Prudence said lightly. “I always do.” She smiled playfully at her sister and resumed her playing. “Have a care, Honor.”

As she went out, it was not lost on Honor that even the children were telling her to be careful now.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

I
N A CLOAK
, with the hood pulled over her head, Honor used the alleyways and mews to wend her way to Audley Street. A fine mist hung over the street. She hurried up the steps and rapped on George’s door. It seemed several long, torturous minutes passed before the door swung open. Mr. Finnegan stood there, looking at her curiously. He stooped down and peered under her hood to see her face. “Miss Cabot?” he said, his voice full of surprise.

“Yes, I...”

He abruptly grabbed her arm, pulled her inside then glanced up and down the street before shutting the door.

“I beg your pardon,” Honor said breathlessly, her anxiety having the best of her now. “I know this must seem highly unusual, but it is important that I speak to Mr. Easton. Is he at home?”

“He is,” Finnegan said warily.

“Then...then could you please tell him I have called?”

Finnegan sighed. He shook his head.

Honor’s heart sank. She’d come only to be rejected again.

“I shan’t tell him you’ve called—I think it best that it come from you, madam,” Finnegan said, and put his hand to the small of her back, ushering her deeper into the foyer. He pointed to a long hallway. “Walk until you see a green door on your right. That is his study, and you will find him within.”

She looked uncertainly at Finnegan, then peered down the dimly lit hallway. “Should you not warn him?”

“If I tell him you’ve come, he might very well draw a pistol.” He smiled as if amused by that. “When you see him, you will understand. Green door,” he reminded her, turning away. “Don’t knock. It will do no good. Just enter.”

Honor clenched a fist against the swell of nerves and started down the hall. She found the green door easily enough, and when she glanced back to the foyer, Finnegan had disappeared.

Honor looked at the door. She pushed the hood off her head, smoothed her hair and considered the door handle. When she thought of all the things she’d done, of all the risks she’d taken and then laughed about, she could never recall being afraid. Not even the night she’d gone to Southwark. But tonight, her fear was almost choking her. She didn’t know how she would ever bear it if he turned her away. But she wasn’t going to marry Cleburne without hearing the truth from his lips. Either he loved her, or he had used her. The man had to tell her the truth.

She reached for the handle and slowly turned it, opening the door only partially. She put her head into the opening and looked in.

The only light in the room came from the hearth. She could see the back of George’s head over the top of a chair, his feet crossed and propped on an ottoman. One arm was draped over the side of the armchair, a snifter of brandy dangling from two fingers, the amber liquid glowing in the soft light.

She stepped in and quietly shut the door behind her.

“Damn you to bloody hell, Finnegan!” he snarled. “I’ve told you to leave me be. Do you
want
me to shoot you? Come round here, man, and I will happily oblige!”

Honor undid the clasp of her cloak and let it fall to the ground.

“Don’t creep about behind me,” George snapped. “Do you know that you are perhaps the
worst
valet in all of England? God help me to understand why I ever accepted you into this house.”

The beast in him had certainly come out to play, hadn’t it? Honor smoothed her gown and started forward.

“If I’d had half a wit, I would have turned you out as Lord Dearing did. I could have brought a goat into my house and been assured of less trouble than you give me.”

Honor cocked a brow at that. Finnegan seemed a perfectly nice man to her. She moved to stand directly behind George, debating what she would say. All of her carefully rehearsed words had flitted out of her mind.

“Get
out,
” George growled. “I don’t want to hear you. I don’t want to
smell
you. I don’t want your food or wine or whatever it is you’ve brought me now. I do well enough with my whiskey and brandy. Take a good look around this room and see what I mean. They are my friends.”

“They are not your only friends,” Honor said.

George came up so quickly at the sound of her voice that he knocked over the ottoman. He whirled around, and his eyes went wide with shock at the sight of her. His gaze scraped over her face. And then he carelessly dropped the snifter onto the carpet as he surged forward, catching Honor in his arms, burying his face in her neck, her hair. “Dear God, where have you
been?
” he moaned into her hair.

A tear coursed Honor’s cheek. If he hadn’t held her so tightly, she would have slapped him. “I would ask the same of you!”

He kissed her, his hands on her body, in her hair. He crushed her to him, kissing her hard and holding her tightly, as if he feared he would lose her if he let go. “My God, I have missed you.”

Honor’s fear gave way to desire. The way he was holding her, looking at her, kissing her—she’d never felt so desirable, and she would not shy away from it. She would take what she could for as long as she could.

There seemed so much to say, but it was lost in the onslaught of his passion. George sank back into the chair, carrying Honor with him. His mouth was warm and wet on hers, as tormenting as it was pleasurable. Every touch of his mouth, every caress of his hand jolted her to her marrow. She clung to him, to the strength in his arms and his torso, to the heat that radiated from him.

He groped for the hem of her gown and slid his hands up, finding her waist, lifting her and settling her on the hard ridge of his erection. A shiver of yearning shimmered down her spine, and she moved against him, gasping at the sensation of his hardness against the softest part of her. As his tongue swirled around hers, his hands caressed her sides, her torso, her breasts.

Honor forgot about everything else—she saw, she felt, she thought, of only George. Sparks of desire flared through her as she pressed against his body, riding on a crashing wave of affection and love for him, a need to make him happy, to please him. It seemed as if the sensuality washed over them both, forming a curtain between the world and her and this man.

George eagerly explored her body with his hands and his mouth, sliding over warm skin, pressing and kneading her to a peak of pleasure. He sank his fingers into her hair, pulled a tress free and brushed it against his face. He put his mouth on the hollow of her throat and sighed against the wild beat of her pulse. Honor’s heart galloped, heedless of its direction or speed.

George clawed at his trousers, lifting up, sliding them down his powerful hips and thighs, his cock standing erect and eager. He lifted her again, then guided her to slide down onto it.

White-hot sensation slammed at her ribs and her groin. Honor closed her eyes and bowed over his head as George began to move in her, pressing up and sliding down, making her pant with anticipation of her release.

He cupped her face, pressed his forehead to hers. “You cannot imagine the power you hold over me, woman.”

She pushed a lock of hair from his brow, kissed his temple. “I love you,” she said.

“No,” he said, sliding deeper into her, filling her up, shifting her about to slide even deeper.

“I
love
you,” she said stubbornly. He growled against her skin, dipped a hand between them, stroking her to madness. Honor matched the rhythm of his body in hers, eagerly meeting each thrust of his flesh into her. She encircled his neck with her arms, teased his lips and tongue with hers. Her craving for him was building, filling her up, reaching for more and pushing her over the edge of reason and decorum. She rode him, wanting to feel it all, to experience the fall from as high a point as she could reach.

His fingers swirled around the core of her pleasure, sliding deep inside her, moving faster. He grabbed her chin with his hand. “Open your eyes.” She did as he asked, looking into his eyes the very moment he pushed hard into her, and she fell from the mountain, tumbling down, head over heels.

She went limp, but he surrounded her with both arms, pushing harder into her, making her feel all of it, every last moment of it, riding her to an explosive climax that shattered with a guttural cry against her breast. A moment later, he sagged into the chair, still holding her, seeking his breath, his cheek against hers. His heart was beating so hard that she could feel it in her heart.

“You have destroyed me for any other,” he said. “There is only you, Honor.”

Those words meant more to her than the physical pleasure he’d just shown her. Honor sat up, cupped his face in her hands and tenderly kissed his lips, lingering there.

He kissed her cheek, her forehead, and shifted, his body falling out of her. Honor rearranged herself so that she was sitting on his lap, her head on his shoulder. Neither of them spoke; they gazed into the fire, watching the flames dance with every gust of wind down the flue.

But the blood continued to pump through Honor’s veins, flowing hot. George must have felt it, too; he put his palm to her cheek, kissed her temple.

“How did I come to love you so?” she asked with wonder.

“You mustn’t love me,” he said.

She sat up and twisted about to look at him in disbelief. “Do you think to tell me it is impossible
again?
If so, you must tell me that you don’t love me as I love you.”

He shifted his head, as if to look away, but she caught his face in her hand. “
Say
it,” she demanded. “Say you don’t love me, and I will leave and I will never bother you again. But if you do love me, then for God’s sake, stop telling me it’s impossible!”

George’s eyes rounded. And then the corners of his eyes crinkled with his smile. “Bloody hell,” he said, and gathered her to him again. “You’re far too brazen for your own good. You will have your way, for God knows I love you. I love you more than I think is possible for my heart to bear.”

Honor gasped with delight. She feathered his face with kisses. She could see his love in the way he looked at her, could feel it in the way he stroked her arm.

“But you
mustn’t
come here. If anyone saw you—”

“I don’t care if they do,” she said.

“
I
care.”

“Why? If it bothers you so, you should be offering for my hand—”

“Bite your tongue!” he said gruffly. He moved her off his lap and stood, stooping down to pick up the snifter he’d dropped. “The new Earl of Beckington would never allow a marriage, and besides, you have a perfectly good match in the vicar.” He walked onto the sideboard.

Gaping at his back, Honor gained her feet. “The vicar!” she exclaimed crossly. “Why is it that everyone believes Cleburne is best for
me?
How can anyone possibly know what is best for me? It is an infuriating assumption, especially coming from
you.
”

He seemed properly chastised for that and held up a hand. “You’re quite right. But, Honor...
darling...
Beckington will never allow it. Your affection, my affection does not change who or what I am. It does not change the fact that my fortune is sitting at the bottom of the sea.”

She did not like what he was saying. She wanted him to rebel with her, to believe as she did that they were meant to be together, somehow, some way. “Doesn’t love count for anything?”

“Of course it does,” he said softly, and walked across the room to clasp her face between his hands. “But it’s not enough, Honor. Not in the world you and I live.”

“Why isn’t it enough?” she demanded, and pulled his hands from her face. “What matters
more
than that, really?”

“You know very well. Influence matters. Money matters. You have lived a life of privilege. You are welcome in any parlor in London. Your clothing is of the best quality, you have the finest shoes—”

“They are all just
things,
” she exclaimed angrily. “Do you really think so little of me? That I would put gowns and shoes above love?”

“Honor...how could you possibly understand? Those are things you’ve possessed all your life, and at present, they are things that I can’t give you.”

“I’m not asking—”

“You’re not asking for any of it, I know,” he said, and stroked her cheek with his knuckle. “But I have nothing. I invested all but this house in a ship that has gone missing. You deserve better than the likes of me. The love between us was never meant to be, darling. You must accept it.”

He wasn’t listening to her, and she was sinking into a pit of anguish. “How many times must I say it? I want to be with you always, to lay with you, eat with you, tell you that your dancing is wretched—”

George shook his head.

Honor felt her heart all but explode. She reached for his lapels, grabbing them. “I’ve never felt so sure of anything in my
life—
”

“Dear God,” he said, wrapping her in his embrace, forcing her to be still. He tenderly kissed the top of her head. “Neither have I. But there is far more at stake than you are willing to admit. Deep down, you know what I am saying is true. Deep down, you know very well that Honor Cabot cannot marry a bastard son who dallies in trade. One day you will thank me for making you see it.”

She shoved against him. “I will
thank
you?” she said angrily. “I don’t care if I ever step foot in a ballroom again! I know only that I love you, George. Perhaps you don’t love me as you say. Perhaps you have made me believe it so that you could use me—”

“Don’t be foolish,” he snapped.

“Then what has you so afraid?” she exclaimed.

“Afraid!” His smile faded. His gaze roamed her face, searching, seeking...what? What was it this man needed to love her as she loved him? George suddenly grabbed her arms and yanked her to him. He kissed her, a hard, possessive kiss. And then he held her, cupping her head against his shoulder.

Honor closed her eyes and held her breath.

“I don’t deserve you,” he muttered.

“That’s not true—you deserve the best of everything. You are the son of a prince and the nephew of a king, and you deserve all the things that have been denied you.”