The Trouble With Honor (The Cabot Sisters #1)

GEORGE EASTON LEFT the assembly in the company of a gentleman Honor didn’t recognize. He had not so much as looked in her direction in the short time he was there, but she nevertheless assumed he’d lived up to his end of the agreement.

She also assumed that if he’d been even a fraction as potent as he had been with her at Beckington House, Monica was properly reduced to a bag of weightless feathers by now. God knew that Honor had been so reduced by him, her heart racing well after he’d gone, that ethereal kiss lingering on her lips for hours afterward. That Monica would be suffering so was something Honor really had to see for herself.

Honor searched the crowd for Monica, finally spotting her at table in the company of Agatha Williamson and Reginald Beeker.

She did not look like a weightless bag of feathers.

She actually looked a little sullen.

Oh, no. No, it couldn’t possibly be. Honor was marching across the room before she even realized it.

Monica was so intent on what Mr. Beeker was saying that she did not, at first, notice Honor. “Oh,” she said, clearly surprised to see Honor standing before her. “Good evening.”

“Good evening,” Honor said brightly. “Miss Williamson, a pleasure to see you again. Mr. Beeker, how do you do?” she asked politely as that gentleman scrambled to his feet.

“Likewise, I’m sure,” Miss Williamson said.

No one invited her to sit, but that did not deter Honor. “May I join you?” she asked pleasantly.

Mr. Beeker eagerly pulled a chair out for her. Honor sat and smiled at Monica.

“Shall I fetch us some drinks?” Mr. Beeker asked.

“Would you be so kind?” Honor asked before Monica could speak.

“You’ll need some help,” Miss Williamson said.

“Thank you,” Mr. Beeker said, and smiled at Honor before departing with his trusty aide on his quest to bring back four drinks.

“Well, then? To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, Honor?” Monica asked drily.

Honor laughed. “Only a desire to greet my old friend.”

“Mmm,” Monica said, taking Honor in. “Your gown is lovely.”

If there was one thing that could be said of Monica, she appreciated a fine gown when she saw one. “Thank you,” Honor said. “As is yours,” she added, thinking the dark green suited Monica’s complexion very well. “Did Mrs. Dracott fashion it?” she asked, referring to the much-sought-after modiste.

“No,” Monica said tightly. “Mrs. Wilbert. Mrs. Dracott has many commissions at the moment, what with the Season. But she’s done very well by you, hasn’t she? I suppose there is even a bonnet that matches the gown?” she asked, her gaze narrowing slightly on Honor.

“Good Lord, you’re not still angry about the bonnet, are you?” Honor asked with a dismissive flick of her wrist.

“No angrier than I was the summer you wooed Mr. Gregory away,” Monica sniffed.

Honor laughed with surprise. “We were sixteen years old, Monica. Really, why must you always bring up old hurts?”

“I’m not bringing up an old hurt, but an old scheme,” Monica said. “That’s always the way with you, isn’t it? One scheme or another?”

“Scheme!” Honor protested. “Shall we speak of schemes? Do you recall the Bingham dance, and how you and Agnes Mulberry took the last two seats in the Bingham coach, when I was the one who’d been invited and, in turn, invited the two of you? I had no other means of attending and you knew it very well.”

“Just as well as you knew that you had not invited me to the soiree at Longmeadow.” Monica clucked her tongue. “A lost invitation, indeed!”

Honor lifted her chin, wisely choosing not to recall that summer after all. “Never mind that, Monica. I came to offer my felicitations, not rehash the summer of your sixteenth year.”

“Felicitations? For what?” Monica asked.

“Am I mistaken?” Honor asked. “Augustine said that you were very keen to marry and that it may occur sooner rather than later.”

Monica suddenly laughed; her light brown eyes sparkled. “My dearest Sommerfield!” she said gaily. “You misunderstood him, Honor. He is so keen to marry me that he speaks of Gretna Green with alarming frequency.”

“Then you’d best marry him straightaway,” Honor said. “One can hardly say when another man might come along so keen to marry you, can one?”

“Pardon?” Monica said laughingly. “Really, Honor, I know you too well, and I know you did not traverse the ballroom to ask after my wedding. That’s not the least bit like you. Or me, for that matter.”

Honor couldn’t help but laugh. “True,” she agreed. “But as we are to be sisters, I hoped we might turn over a new leaf,” she said. “No more bickering over bonnets and whatnot.”