The Trouble With Honor (The Cabot Sisters #1)

Honor’s face fell. “Well, now you’ve made me seem perfectly foolish, my lord.”


“No, I—I don’t mean that,” Sommerfield blustered. “I mean to say of course you are very welcome at Longmeadow, Mr. Easton. But the racing is all in fun.”

“Dearest—” Miss Hargrove said, and laid a finger on her fiancé’s arm.

“And it’s rather a lot of fun,” Honor quickly interjected before Miss Hargrove could persuade her fiancé differently. “A lot of friendly wagering. You must come, Mr. Easton. There’s always need for a gentleman to serve as dance partner, and I am certain we will all appreciate an experienced card player.”

Sommerfield’s eyes widened, but Honor was on a mission and would not allow anyone to speak.

“Are you familiar with Longmeadow?” she eagerly continued.

George stared at Honor. He knew precisely what she was doing, arranging another “invitation.” It grated on him, but at the same time, Miss Hargrove was watching him expectantly.

“It’s my stepfather’s seat, just one hour to the northwest from here,” Honor continued.

“Yes, you must come, Easton,” Sommerfield said now, nodding his head firmly. “That’s that, my good man. We must have you at Longmeadow!”

He turned his happy smile to Miss Hargrove, who said, with much less enthusiasm, “Yes, we must have you, Mr. Easton.”

“That’s very kind,” he said. “Thank you.” George was glad that the music had begun again, giving him an escape from what was to him his own personal nightmare. “Miss Cabot, will you do me the honor?”

“Have a turn, Honor. He’s a grand dancer,” Sommerfield said, as if he had stood up with George himself.

“Well, then, I’d be delighted,” she said and held out her hand.

George took it and gripped it hard. Her expression did not change. “Will you excuse us?” he asked Sommerfield.

*

NEITHER HE NOR Honor noticed Monica’s thin smile fade behind them.

“You are a splendid dancer, my love,” Augustine said to her. “I do wish I was a better companion for you.”

“You are the perfect companion for me, Augustine.”

“Are you certain?” he asked, taking her hand and squeezing it much too hard. “For I would be lost without you, my darling.”

“I am certain.” She meant that with all her heart. Augustine was a kind soul, a gentle soul. She was happy with him. So why, then, would Honor wish to draw them asunder? That was precisely what she was doing—Monica was certain of it. “Let go of my hand before you break a bone, dearest.”

“Oh!” Alarmed, Augustine quickly relinquished it.

Monica glanced once more in Easton and Honor’s direction. They were standing on the dance floor, waiting for the musicians. Honor had turned away from him, was speaking to Miss Amelia Burnes while Easton watched the orchestra.

She saw nothing that should make her the least bit suspicious, but Monica knew that somehow, Honor had put Easton up to this. She was very astute when it came to these things, and she had not been the least bit swayed by Easton’s pretty words to her. It made no sense; there was no reason that a man like George Easton should suddenly discover an interest in her, particularly as everyone in town knew she was to marry Augustine.

She’d understood that Honor was involved the moment she’d invited Easton to Longmeadow. Honor, who never gave men another thought, so determined to have Easton, of all gentlemen, at Longmeadow. Oh, yes, Monica had known Honor Cabot far too long, and she knew when that one was up to mischief.

“I’m positively parched,” Augustine said, as if he’d danced the last three sets. “Shall we fetch some champagne and perhaps sit a bit, my love?”

“Yes,” she said, and moved along with her fiancé, her mind whirling.





CHAPTER FOURTEEN

EASTON LOOKED PERTURBED when the orchestra began to play. Honor stepped forward, curtsied as she ought. “You have me at a disadvantage,” he said. “I am not familiar with this music.”

“It’s a waltz. You’ve not seen it danced?”

He frowned at her as she took his hand and placed hers in it, then held it out. “You know very well that I do not inhabit ballrooms or assembly rooms.”

“Then perhaps you should engage a dance instructor. I understand Monsieur Fornier is excellent. He counts the French nobility among his students.”

“I don’t need a dance instructor,” he huffed. “I don’t intend to dance. I am only here because of you, for which I am questioning my sanity.”

“And I am forever thankful,” she said graciously. “Your other hand should rest in the middle of my back,” she said, and put her other hand on his shoulder.

He put his hand on the small of her back, just above her hip, and arched a brow. “This seems rather scandalous for a group of blathering debutantes.”

Honor arched a brow, as well. “And it is quite diverting for them, too. Your hand should be higher on my back.”