The Trouble With Honor (The Cabot Sisters #1)

She did not like to think he was here because of Monica. She wanted him to be here for her.

“It went exceedingly well, if you’re wondering,” he said. “Much like humoring a child—”

“Humoring a—oh!” Honor exclaimed. “It is comforting to know that your esteem for yourself never wavers!” She stepped around him, intending to stalk away before she said something she’d regret, but Easton was not content to let her go. He stopped her with a hand to her abdomen as she tried to pass.

“Don’t you dare flounce away from me in a snit, madam.”

“I am neither flouncing nor in a snit,” she said, pushing his hand away.

“Yes, you are. You’re angry that your little scheme is not working and are directing your frustration at me.”

That wasn’t it at all. Her frustration was too ill defined, directed at everything and everyone. “You are quite right, Mr. Easton,” she said imperiously. “I am directing my frustration at you. I truly believed you were the man for this, could turn any woman’s head—”

“I beg your pardon once more, but you claimed that. I never did.”

“I don’t want you to do it!” she blurted.

Easton blinked. “Pardon?”

What was she doing? Honor put her hand to her forehead and closed her eyes, trying to make sense of her feelings. “You were right. It was a ridiculous notion, and one that has failed miserably.”

“Have a care, love,” Easton muttered, and smiled reassuringly. “I’ve not given up, and frankly, I never thought you would. I’ve never met a more tenacious and stubborn—”

Honor lifted her head, her eyes narrowing.

“Pardon,” he said with an easy smile. “Determined person in my life.”

“I was. I am,” she quickly amended. “But this...this is folly. Childish folly. I don’t want you to do it. Please.”

“Well, yes, but... Good God, you are defeated,” he said, pretending shock. “Where is the swashbuckler?”

The swashbuckler had deserted her. She felt nothing but fear and uncertainty and a strong desire for the man standing before her. She shrugged halfheartedly. She felt torn and pulled in so many conflicting directions, everything twisted all around, and in the midst of it were her growing feelings for Easton.

“Dear God,” Easton muttered, his gaze sweeping over her face. “Stand right where you are, Miss Cabot.” He walked a few feet away to hail a passing footman with a tray laden with champagne flutes. He returned and handed a flute to her. “Cheer up. That’s a command,” he said. “I won’t allow the one shining star in this bloody ton to lose her flame. I’ll even dance if I must.”

That brought her head up with a swell of tenderness. “Really?” she asked hopefully.

He smiled at her earnestness. “Really.”

That admission gave Honor a new breath of exhilaration for reasons that didn’t seem prudent or even reasonable. She suddenly felt much lighter as she sipped her champagne. She looked into his pale blue eyes, filled with the warmth of his concern for her. “I need some air,” she said simply.

His eyes sparked in the low light of the hallway. “I thought you’d never admit it.”





CHAPTER NINETEEN

SHE GLIDED DOWN the hall before him, the train of her gown sweeping elegantly behind. George had no idea where she was going, but when they passed the French doors that led out onto a viewing balcony, he caught her hand in his. “Here,” he said.

“It’s raining,” she said, but she did not pull her hand free of his.

“If I am not mistaken, there is an eave over the balcony.” George opened the door and with a quick glance behind them, he stood aside so she could slip out.

Honor stepped out into the cool, damp air and took a breath. She closed her eyes and lifted her face to the fine mist that hung over Longmeadow. Given the weather, there was no one wandering the grounds, no one outside at all. George pulled the door shut and the cacophony of so many people gathered in one place fell away. It was quiet out here, the only sound the slow patter of rain on the eaves.

“I feel as if I can breathe for the first time tonight,” Honor said, and bent her dark head and looked down, over the railing. She placed the flute of champagne on the railing and brought her hands to her bare arms.

George put his flute aside and shrugged out of his coat. He draped it over her shoulders; Honor smiled gratefully. “Thank you.” She dipped her head, touched her nose to the shoulder of his coat, as if she were breathing it in.

“Now then,” he said, picking up his flute and sipping once more. “What has happened to bring about this sudden melancholy?”