The Trouble With Honor (The Cabot Sisters #1)

He wrapped his fingers around hers.

“Call on me tomorrow, at Beckington House, please. I can explain more openly there.”

“I cannot, for the life of me, imagine how much more open you could possibly be, Miss Cabot.”

“I knew you would agree,” she said, suddenly full of delight.

“I have not agreed to anything.”

“I shall be waiting for you at half past two. The girls will be at their studies and Augustine at his club. Thank you, sir,” she said again, her voice full of the gratitude she felt. “I am in your debt.” She moved to knock on the ceiling to signal Jonas that this ride was over.

Only then did she realize that Mr. Easton was still holding her hand.





CHAPTER FIVE

HONOR RETURNED TO Beckington House breathless from her dangerous rendezvous, her heart still beating wildly, and floated into the foyer where she found Prudence and Mercy quarreling loudly.

“Honor!” Prudence cried the moment she saw her older sister. “Please do tell Mercy she is to return my slippers at once!”

“Mercy, please return Pru’s slippers at once,” Honor said without looking at Mercy’s feet.

“But why must she have them always?” Mercy countered. “I can’t see what harm there is in borrowing them on occasion.”

“You don’t see the harm?” Prudence demanded. “Honor, you really must do something. She’s completely without scruples! If you don’t insist she hand them over, I shall remove them from her feet myself!”

“Mercy, really,” Honor said absently as she untied her bonnet, her fingers running over the same velvet fabric Easton’s fingers had stroked. The fingers that had stroked the skin of her arm, her face; she shivered lightly at the recollection. “They belong to Pru, and you have a wardrobe full of slippers.”

“What’s this about slippers?” The girls’ mother, Joan Devereaux, Lady Beckington, appeared from the corridor. “There will be no forceful removing of slippers, my dears.” Her blue eyes were bright; there was no sign of the distant fog Honor noticed in her mother’s eyes when she wasn’t entirely present. Joan Devereaux was a regal woman, the epitome of elegance and grace, and had once been considered one of the more handsome women of the ton. She smiled warmly at her daughters, looking between them. “What are you girls about?”

“Only the usual sort of thing, Mamma,” Prudence said imperiously, and began striding for the grand staircase. “Mercy has a wretched habit of borrowing things without permission, and with no consequence!”

“That’s a bit dramatic, my darling Pru,” Lady Beckington said as she watched her daughter flounce up the stairs.

“Of course you would say that—you’re not the injured party!” Prudence tossed over her shoulder, and disappeared into the corridor at the top of the stairs.

Lady Beckington sighed and looked askance at her youngest daughter. “Mercy, darling, you really must learn to ask to borrow things instead of taking them. I suggest you go and apologize to your sister and return the slippers. Now go and dress for supper.”

“But we’ve only just had tea,” Mercy complained.

“Go on, darling,” her mother said, giving her a gentle push in the direction of the stairs. To Honor, she offered her arm, which Honor was happy to take. She let the ribbons of her bonnet flutter behind them as they walked. She noticed that the embroidery on her mother’s sleeve was damaged—the threading was coming loose. “What’s happened here?” she asked, bending over it to have a look.

“What?” Her mother scarcely glanced down at her sleeve. “Never mind it. Where have you been this afternoon?” she asked as they began to make their ascent.

“Nowhere, really.” She gave her mother a sheepish smile.

“I know you better than that, Honor. I would guess that your absence from tea involved a gentleman.”

Honor could feel herself flush. “Mamma—”

“You don’t have to tell me,” she said, squeezing her hand fondly. “But your poor mother hopes that you are at least considering the idea that the time has come for you to settle on a single suitor and think of marrying as you ought.”

“Why ought I marry now?” Honor asked. The thought of marrying now was unnerving. She felt too...unfinished.

“Because you should,” her mother said. “There is a whole new world awaiting your entry. You needn’t be timid about it.”

“Timid! They call me a swashbuckler, Mamma.”

“Yes, well, perhaps you are a swashbuckler in the ballroom. But I know my girl, and I think your heart is yet bruised.”