The Trouble With Honor (The Cabot Sisters #1)

Another deeper trickle of warmth rushed down his spine at the use of his Christian name. He was standing on dangerous ground here, soft pliable ground into which he could sink quickly and become mired. That it had happened so quickly shook him enough that George abruptly moved to the door. “Once more, Miss Cabot. No more than that. But don’t mistake me for someone who cares for you or the consequences of what you’re doing.”


“Oh, I won’t,” she quickly assured him. “Never.” And she smiled.





CHAPTER ELEVEN

“WHY ARE YOU smiling in that way?” Grace demanded when Honor finally emerged from the receiving room. Prudence and Mercy flanked her, and all three of them eyed Honor suspiciously. Such distrusting young things! Clearly, Honor had taught them well.

“Am I smiling?” she asked quite honestly. She thought she’d waited long enough to remove any stain of delight from her cheeks at that unexpected, remarkable experience on the settee. “I’m happy that the rain has eased, aren’t you? It’s dreadful being cooped inside.”

“But it’s raining even harder than before,” Prudence pointed out.

“For heaven’s sake, are you going to stand there gawking at me, your mouths open wide enough to attract nesting birds?” Honor demanded, and pushed through the wall of sisters on her way to the stairs.

The wall was instantly on her heels.

She was not going to tell them anything. It was none of their concern. None of them could be completely trusted to keep a confidence. And there was simply no way to describe such a tantalizing, exceptional moment with George Easton. It was the sort of erotic experience that curled one’s toes, and upon which one might reliably dream for years or decades to come. She was certain of it, for she would never forget it.

“Why are you scurrying away like a guilty cat?” Grace called out from behind her.

“Because I wish to be left alone!” Honor tossed back. Not that her declaration had even the slightest effect on her sisters; they remained on her heels.

“Must you all follow me like a flock of sheep?” she demanded crossly. She wanted only to float into her rooms and recline on her chaise longue and recall the way Easton’s eyes sparkled so enticingly when he was cross with her. To privately study exactly how those moments on the settee had occurred and to devise a way to make sure it never happened again, no matter how much she might yearn for it! As much as she had enjoyed it—breathed it, felt it in every bit of muscle—that sort of thing could ruin everything, her whole wobbly little plan! She could not entertain his advances again, not more than once, and most assuredly no more than twice more.

She walked into her room, her sisters right behind her. Mercy immediately fell onto Honor’s bed as she had dozens of times before, sprawled across the silk coverlet with her fists propped under her chin, waiting for the chattering to begin. Prudence, likewise at home in Honor’s room, went to the vanity and began to sort through her jewel box without the least bit of consciousness.

But Grace remained standing, waiting impatiently for Honor to speak. “Will you say nothing of your private meeting?”

“Grace, darling, you know how these things are,” Honor said airily. “A gentleman calls. He inquires after your health, and that of your family—”

“You’re to have a chaperone when a gentleman calls,” Mercy said. “Miss Dilly said.”

“I am aware of the rules,” Honor said. “Did your governess also tell you that sometimes rules are meant to be broken?”

Mercy gasped. “No,” she said, her eyes widening with delight. “Are they?”

“No,” Prudence said firmly. “You mustn’t listen to Honor or Grace, Mercy. They don’t do as they should.” She frowned at Honor. “I beg you, don’t give Mercy the slightest encouragement.”

“We are moral women,” Grace said, gesturing to her and Honor. “It was perfectly all right for Honor to receive Mr. Easton. She does not require someone in the room to protect her virtue, because she guards it quite closely.”

Honor pretended to be busying herself at the wardrobe so that Grace would not see her blush.

“Pardon, Miss Cabot.”

Kathleen, the housemaid who often helped them with their hair and with dressing, stood at the threshold, her cap a bit askew. “His lordship Sommerfield asks that you come to tea, as we have guests.”

“Guests?” Honor repeated. Her heart skipped a beat or two—Mr. Easton had only just left Beckington House. “Who?”

“Miss Hargrove and Mr. Hargrove. He asks that you join them and Lady Beckington in the green salon.”

Honor’s heart plummeted; she could imagine the Hargroves arriving just as Easton had left the house. She exchanged a fearful look with Grace, who, judging by her expression, was undoubtedly thinking the same thing. “We’ll be down straightaway,” Honor said. “Thank you, Kathleen.” She turned to her younger sisters. “Go, go, and keep Mamma company while I don something more presentable. Pru, offer to play your new song for Miss Hargrove until Grace and I arrive.”