The Trouble With Honor (The Cabot Sisters #1)

“I’ve done all that I might do for you.” His smile was prurient.

He couldn’t mean it, surely he didn’t mean it. “We shall expect you in a fortnight,” she said stubbornly, panicking. “The guests begin to arrive on Thursday.”

He shook his head, then gave her an indulgent look as he touched her temple, brushing a strand of hair away from her eyes. His gaze was so soft that Honor felt a little fluttery. Light. As if she could float away into the chandeliers like a tail of smoke.

“You must go and dance straightaway,” he murmured. “Let everyone see you smile at someone else. You’d not want their last impression of you to be leaving the dance floor with me.”

“I don’t care,” she said earnestly, but Easton put his hand on her arm and gently held her back.

“Yes, you do. Go now, before people talk.”

Was he right? Honor truly didn’t know anymore. Everything was beginning to feel turned on its head. She didn’t care if people talked. She didn’t care that he was a bastard son. She didn’t want anything but him.

“Go,” he said, more sternly, giving her a bit of a push.

Honor moved without thinking. She walked around the balcony to the main staircase, aware that he was watching her. She told herself not to look back, begged herself not to look back—

Honor looked back.

George Easton was standing where she’d left him, his gaze fixed on her. And she could feel it in her, burning a path all the way down to her toes.





CHAPTER FIFTEEN

WHEN MONICA HAD accepted Augustine’s offer of marriage, her mother had promptly brought in a maid. “A future countess must know how to use the services of a lady’s maid,” she’d explained.

“But she’s not a lady’s maid,” Monica had pointed out, watching the industrious girl polish the panes of her window.

“She will do,” her mother had said confidently.

But Violet didn’t do. The girl was as ignorant of what was required of her as Monica was about what a lady required. Privately, Monica didn’t believe she needed a lady’s maid. She was perfectly capable of donning her own clothes and rising on her own volition every morning.

Her mother, however, was determined that her daughter would know what was expected of her as a lady of privilege and leisure. Monica’s future as a countess was a topic that greatly interested her mother and her eldest brother, Teddy. They talked about it at every opportunity.

This morning, Monica could smell the hot chocolate from across the room when Violet entered and placed a cup next to her bedside.

Monica yawned, stretched her arms overhead and pushed herself up, propping the pillows behind her back. She picked up the cup of chocolate as Violet opened the draperies. Rivulets of rain coursed down the windowpanes.

Violet began to pick up the articles of clothing Monica had tossed aside as she’d come in this morning. “Did you enjoy the ball, miss?” she asked.

“Very much,” Monica said through another yawn. “But I thought it overly crowded.”

“Aye, I’m not one for crowds,” Violet said, moving about the room. She had no reservations about chatting freely with Monica. “I accompanied Mrs. Abbot to the market this morning, and such a crowd you never did see!” she said, and began to talk excitedly about her trip to the market.

Monica scarcely heard anything she said—something to do with figs, she thought—and was contemplating what she might wear for the day when she heard the name Beckington. Monica paused. She turned to look at Violet. “Pardon?”

Violet looked up from her work. “Miss?”

“What was that you said about Beckington?”

Violet frowned thoughtfully. “Oh!” she said, as recollection dawned. “Naught but that we saw a footman from Beckington House searching about. Mr. Abbot, he was there, and he said he knew the lad, as he’s driven you to Beckington House and said the fellow was always there to greet him.”

“You went to the market in Mayfair?” Monica asked, confused. It seemed quite out of the way.

“Oh, aye, to Mayfair. Mrs. Abbot, she prefers the butcher there. But the ham was dear! I said to her, Mrs. Abbot, you might have a ham for a few shillings in Marylebone, but she said the ham was not the quality Mrs. Hargrove preferred—”

“Violet, what about Beckington?” Monica interrupted before Violet explained different cuts of pork. “You said the footman was searching.”

“Oh, him! Aye, he was searching for Lady Beckington.” Violet smiled and picked up the wrap Monica had worn to the ball the night before, running her hand over the silk.

“For heaven’s sake! He was searching for Lady Beckington in what way?” Monica prodded.

“Aye, she was lost. He said she’d gone for a walkabout and hadn’t come back when they’d expected her. I said to Mrs. Abbot, a walkabout, in this foul weather? And Mrs. Abbot, she says, she no doubt has a boy to hold an umbrella over her head.” Violet giggled.