The Trouble With Honor (The Cabot Sisters #1)

So did Honor smile, although it hurt her to do so.

“Oh, my dear, Honor doesn’t concern herself with such things,” Augustine said jovially.

“Well, I’m all aquiver with anticipation,” Grace said as Hardy entered that moment with the tea service.

“Shall we see you at the ball, Honor?” Teddy said as Hardy filled china cups and plates.

Teddy had arranged himself artfully at the mantel, an elbow on the polished mahogany, one leg crossed so casually over the other it must have taken him several minutes to perfect.

“Me? I’d not miss one of the most important balls of the Season,” Honor said laughingly.

Augustine chortled. “Yes, for what is a London ball without the Cabot girls to grace it?”

“How glad I am to hear it!” Monica said. “I sincerely hope that a bachelor gentleman might catch Honor’s eye. On my word, Lady Beckington, sometimes it seems as if your eldest daughter does not want an offer for her hand!”

“That’s quite true,” Honor said pleasantly. “I don’t attend balls to seek an offer. I attend for the pure diversion of it.”

Monica laughed as if Honor had intended that as a joke.

“You’ve no interest in marriage?” Teddy asked.

“Not at present,” Honor said. “Contrary to what you might believe, Teddy, not every unmarried female is in singular pursuit of marriage.”

“Well, of course not,” Monica agreed. “However, some should be. After all, your sisters’ collective happiness rather depends on you, doesn’t it?”

Augustine looked confused. “How do you mean, dearest?”

“Just that I should think the younger girls would not be free to accept an offer if the eldest is not yet married.” She smiled and shrugged lightly and turned her attention to her plate. “But I suppose that can’t be helped if you are against it.”

“Honor has been against it since the business with Rowley,” Augustine said casually. “I think she still carries a bit of a flame for him, do you not, darling?”

“Pardon?” Honor could feel her face warming. “No! Of course not. Not at all.” She looked frantically to Grace.

But it was her mother who saved her. “My daughters have always been in high demand in our society, and I think it must be rather flattering and pleasurable. Why ever not should she enjoy it?”

“They take after their mother,” the earl said, and Honor’s mother beamed at her husband.

Hardy served tea, and when he was satisfied that everyone had been suitably attended, he quit the room.

Prudence asked, “What will you wear, Grace?”

“Wear?” Lady Beckington repeated.

“To the ball, Mamma,” Grace said.

Her mother’s face suddenly lit with excitement. “A ball!” she said. “Who is kind enough to host one?”

It seemed to Honor as if the entire room ceased to breathe. Every head turned toward her mother, and she looked around at them, expecting an answer.

“The Prescott Ball, Mamma!” Mercy said, as if the lapse in her mother’s memory was not the least bit curious. “Don’t you recall? We were only just speaking of it.”

The countess looked blankly at Mercy.

“Goodness, Mercy, she could scarcely hear a thing, what with all the prattling between us,” Grace said quickly.

Monica, Honor noticed, was staring intently at her mother. Panic began to pound in her veins, and she quickly interjected, “Mercy, darling, we’ve not had the pleasure of hearing you play the harp.”

Mercy looked startled.

“Go on, then, Mercy. Don’t be shy,” Honor said, and waved at her youngest sister to play.

Mercy took a seat behind the harp. She looked uncertainly at the room. She adjusted her spectacles, put her hands on the strings, and with a great frown of concentration, she plucked a loud, disharmonious chord.

“E-sharp,” Prudence whispered loudly.

Mercy nodded and tried again. At least the chord seemed to be in tune, but Mercy’s handling of the harp was far from delicate. She played a truly torturous rendition of the song. Honor noticed how often Monica stole a glimpse of her mother, who sat staring at the table, nervously picking at the cuff of her sleeve.

As Mercy laid heavy hands on such delicate strings, Honor moved to take a seat between Monica and her mother and smiled broadly at Monica. “Does she not show promise?” she whispered.

It had the desired effect—Monica shifted her gaze to Mercy.

When Mercy had finished the song—at least, Honor thought she had finished, although it was impossible to know—the earl asked her mother to return him to his rooms. He walked stiffly and slowly across the room, pausing to speak to Monica and her brother, his breath shallow and wet as he moved.

On the morrow, Honor would devise a way to ask Lord Prescott to invite George Easton to his ball. With a glance to Monica, who was watching Lord and Lady Beckington’s laborious departure, she realized Monica knew something was amiss, and she was far too clever not to guess at it, and sooner rather than later.