The Trouble With Honor (The Cabot Sisters #1)

She had known from the beginning that he would not indulge her scheme forever; of course he wouldn’t. What man would? Even she had never believed her plot would accomplish anything but to perhaps postpone the inevitable. Honestly, she couldn’t even think of Monica now. Everything seemed so different.

If she admitted all of this to herself, she could reason that her disappointment in his not coming was absurd! She should not be disappointed in being relieved of his wretched dancing. Or that he didn’t fawn over her as the young bucks of Mayfair were wont to do. She rather liked fawning and dancing! She should not admire his blue eyes that seemed to always shine with amusement, and neither should she be enamored of a man for the sole reason he would share her general annoyance at the grand form Monica had displayed at supper last night.

Because the moment she allowed those disappointments to gain ground, the ache in her head would move to her heart, whittling away at it until there was nothing left but dust.

*

THE NEXT AFTERNOON, after luncheon, while the gentlemen rode about the thousand acres that made up Longmeadow, young Lord Washburn, who had graciously offered to stay behind and entertain the ladies, treated them to a poetry reading in the chapel. The ladies gamely trooped down the tree-lined lane to the small medieval church that had, at some point, been renovated to suit the needs of an earl.

Honor was well acquainted with Lord Washburn. He’d come into his title of viscount when his father’s heart had suddenly stopped beating one day. He’d always been brash, loud and vexing, and then suddenly, with a title, he’d been one of the most sought-after gentlemen in all of Mayfair. Washburn had taken to his new role with great enthusiasm, and on more than one occasion had insinuated to Honor, and then to Grace, that either of them might be the lucky young woman to win his heart.

Neither of them had the slightest desire to even try.

Today, Washburn randomly chose a young woman to affix his brown eyes upon as he read, and Honor was not pleased to see him affix them so often on Prudence. She was not yet seventeen, and frankly, her head was too easily turned.

Honor gazed at the rafters and idly wondered how long she might be trapped here. She sighed and glanced to her right—and gasped so loudly that Miss Fitzwilliam, sitting directly in front of her, glanced back over her shoulder with a look of alarm.

Honor quickly put a finger to her mouth and smiled apologetically, then glanced to the window once more.

He had come.

It was him, Easton! He and another gentleman trotted on horseback down the lane to the house. His back was to her, but Honor recognized the way he sat his horse, the broad shoulders and the glimpse of his brown hair brushing over his collar beneath the brim of his hat.

Her heart felt as if it was swelling in her chest with happiness. She could scarcely catch her breath, her heart was pounding so. Had he come for her? Had he missed her, had he thought of her as she had thought of him?

Honor was suddenly and violently desperate to quit the chapel.

Washburn had reached the crescendo of his current sonnet, had stepped away from the pulpit so that he might wave his arm around a bit. When he finished his sonnet, he crossed his arm across his heart and bowed deeply, graciously accepting the polite applause from the group of assembled young ladies. As two young women in the front row urged him to continue, Honor made her escape.

She fairly dashed out the back, bursting into the bright sunlight and pausing a moment so that her eyesight might adjust. She hurried along until she rounded the corner of the stables, taking care to walk and not run, smoothing her hair when she dipped behind the well house. She ran up the steps from the stable to the main drive, and walked quickly around the corner of the house, arriving on the drive just as Easton removed a bag from his horse’s rump and handed it to a footman.

Honor paused to take a deep breath, then walked serenely and slowly into the men’s midst. She stepped around the head of his horse. “Oh! Mr. Easton! You have come,” she said far too breathlessly to convince anyone she was surprised to stumble upon him there in the drive.

His smile was so warm that it quietly filled her up like a tub of honey. He tipped his hat. “How do you do, Miss Cabot? Begun any new schemes? Created any bedlam in anyone’s life?”

She laughed quickly, loudly, then took another steadying breath to reduce her ardor before smiling brilliantly at him. She could scarcely contain her joy at seeing him, or the urge to throw her arms around his neck and kiss him.

Easton frowned. “I will ask you kindly not to smile at me quite like that, Miss Cabot. I have come against my better judgment, and frankly, I’ve lost all respect for myself.” He bowed.

“Then why did you come?” she asked cheerfully.

“Because I feared the chaos that would rain down on this august occasion if you were left to your own devices. It is my duty as a gentleman to spare these good people your unhinged thinking.”

His declaration made her deliriously happy. She could feel her smile widening.