The Trouble With Honor (The Cabot Sisters #1)

“Nothing! I am merely supposing that someone will appear to you, and then happily you might put the business with Rowley behind you.”


Honor could smell something quite foul in this room and in those words, and folded her arms defensively. “There is no business with his lordship. I’ve not seen him in more than a year. I understand he is ensconced in the country with his lovely wife and their new son.”

“I know you were stung by it, Honor,” Monica said with great condescension. “But you can’t allow it to color your opinion of all gentlemen.”

“For heaven’s sake!” Honor complained. “You’ve not the slightest idea what you are talking about!”

“I am only trying to impart that times are changing. The earl is quite seriously ill. Augustine will marry—even if it were not me, he’d marry someone, wouldn’t he? You can’t avoid the natural progression of things. You really should think of marrying a good man.”

“A good man such as Mr. Cleburne, I suppose?” Honor said wryly.

Monica smiled broadly. “He does seem very kind, does he not?”

How Honor wished Monica was standing next to a window so she might push her out of it. “I am so thankful to have you looking out for my happiness,” she said. “And while you impatiently wait for that happy moment that I am wed, I shall leave you to your renovation of Longmeadow and seek out Mercy. Good day, Monica.”

“Good day, Honor,” Monica responded, her voice singing with delight.

Honor walked from the room, leaving not the slightest trace of unhappiness behind her, lest Monica sense it. She would find Mercy and suggest that her tales of ghosts and goblins were not gruesome enough.

She stalked past the portrait gallery, the “drafty” breakfast room, the library, the formal dining room and the ballroom. She walked past the smaller salons and the yellow drawing room that took the western sun. She imagined what Monica might do with it all, and felt a knot of anger curling in her belly.

But she had no right.

As much as it galled her to admit it, Monica was right—Longmeadow was not her house; it was never intended to be her house. Honor would marry one day, and no doubt she’d live in a respectable house with a respectable man. But that house would not be Longmeadow with its hidden staircases and cold river and miles of green fields for girls to run and play. It would not be Beckington House in London with its marble foyer and grand salon where tea could be served to dozens at once. It wouldn’t be this life at all, and the only way that Honor might hold on to it, at least until her sisters were out, was to keep Monica from destroying it, from unraveling it a thread at a time, just like her mother’s sleeve.

Honor had steadfastly put off the inevitable these past two years, unwilling to feel the sting of disappointment again. Lord Rowley had broken her young, foolish heart, and Honor had found refuge in the Beckington wealth. The trappings of it had given her the freedom to keep a distance from her heart as she flitted to this event and that. She no longer knew if she was desperate to save the cocoon the earl’s wealth gave her, or her sisters.

Honor didn’t know her own mind any longer. Everything was so muddied now, and growing murkier every day. She couldn’t keep Easton from her thoughts. Not for a moment.

Her heart was filling with that man. He was haunting her dreams, lurking in the shadows of her every waking thought since the Prescott Ball. He had resided like a brilliant comet in her memory—he had streaked across her night sky and had disappeared. But he was a bastard son, so wrong in so many ways, and yet so right...

Dear God, was he coming?

She clenched her fists at her sides and marched on. She despised the way women pined for men, hoping they would appear at this event or that. Easton had said he wouldn’t come, and yet here she was, hoping. She looked expectantly toward every coach that pulled up before the massive stone columns that marked Longmeadow’s grand entrance, hoping for him. But coach after coach had come and gone, and George Easton had not come.

He is not coming.

Surely she might admit that to herself now. Surely she might make an effort to stop reliving the moments she’d spent in his arms, awash in the mysterious connections between man and woman, her heart singing, her body yearning for his touch. Surely she might allow that George Easton was a dangerously sensual man, and while he had opened a carnal world to her, it had not been as meaningful to him as it had been to her. He had indulged her far more than she might have hoped, had made her heart flutter madly, had filled her mind with lustful images and tender thoughts...but it had been all play to him.