The Trouble With Honor (The Cabot Sisters #1)

“No, thank you, Mr. Easton. I should like to keep my wits about me.”


His gaze flicked over her, and if Honor wasn’t mistaken, she saw the tiniest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

“May I assume Commerce meets with your approval?” he said, picking up the cards.

“Certainly.” She withdrew ten pounds from her reticule and placed it on the table.

“May I introduce you to Mr. MacPherson,” he said, and as Honor greeted the other player, George began to deal the cards.

The din around them was increasing, and it felt to Honor as if twice as many people were gathered around their table than when she’d first entered. She felt a bit queasy as she picked up her hand and saw the pair of aces.

They played the first round without talk. Honor had been taught how to gamble by her father. He’d thought it quite diverting to introduce his young daughters to games of chance and even more entertaining to watch them giggle and trick his friends. She still remembered a trick or two.

It was quickly apparent that Mr. MacPherson was no match for her or George and bumbled his way through the first round, betting on cards blindly, even when Honor withdrew.

As George raked in his winnings, he looked at Honor, silently assessing her.

They played the second round, and while Honor had the winning hand, she allowed George to believe it was his. But as he took the winnings, he frowned at her. “You are careless tonight, Miss Cabot.”

“Am I?” she asked innocently.

“How much is left of your infamous ninety-two pounds?” he asked.

“Enough,” Honor said pertly. “How much money do you have?”

The men around them hooted with delight, and even George smiled a little. “Enough,” he said.

When George won the third hand, in spite of her obviously superior draw of cards, he looked at her with exasperation. “I can’t guess what you are attempting to do, but if you want to give me your money, by all means, give it to me and go. Let the gentlemen here play a gentleman’s game.”

This was her moment, her turn to deal, and Honor’s hand shook as she accepted the deck of cards. “Shall we increase the stakes, Mr. Easton?” she asked lightly. “That might speed things along.”

He laughed. “With what? I’ve taken most of your purse.”

“I had in mind something other than money.”

There were a few audible gasps, and with it, Honor understood that what tatters remained of her reputation had just fluttered out the window. She had to win now. Her heart raced, her palms were turning damp. She’d just anted everything she had—everything. Her heart, her future, her prospects.

George was looking at her as if he were trying to work a puzzle. “Go on.”

“If you win,” she said, speaking as if she were playing a parlor game with children, “I will leave this gaming hell and I will never see you again.”

Men around her bellowed with delight, calling out to George that he was a fool. He leaned forward and said, “And if you win?”

Honor swallowed and somehow managed to shuffle the deck without shaking. “If I win—” she glanced up, looked him directly in the eye “—you will extend an offer of marriage to me.”

That remark was met with utter silence. For a moment. And then pandemonium erupted in that room. Suddenly everyone was shouting as men called friends to come and witness, others shouted at Honor to leave the gaming hell, that she had brought dishonor on the Beckington name.

But George...George... He regarded her stoically, his eyes boring through hers. “That’s impossible. I’ve told you, Cabot—impossible!”

“Only because you refuse to believe in the possibilities.”

“I withdraw,” MacPherson said, standing. “I will not be party to this... Whatever this is.”

Neither Honor nor George noticed his departure.

“You are making an abominable and foolish bet,” he said angrily.

“I don’t agree.”

“Then allow me to instruct you on just how foolish it is,” he said angrily. “If you win, I will indeed make that offer. And you will be forced to live in a style to which you are quite unaccustomed. By that I mean there will be no servants. No gowns. No pretty things. There may not be a roof over your head.”

She hoped she wasn’t shaking.

“Ah, Easton, at least a pretty thing,” someone said, and others around him laughed.

She was back on her heels, but nonetheless determined. There was no other man for her, no one who was of a like mind, who understood the sort of woman she was. She did not relish a life of hardship, but neither did she fear it. Her heart raced even harder. Honor had walked her private plank, and she wasn’t turning back now. She began to deal.

“You will not be invited to fancy Mayfair salons,” he continued. “You may not even have meat on your table.”

Honor finished dealing and picked up her hand. “Do you intend to play or prattle, Mr. Easton?”