The Trouble With Honor (The Cabot Sisters #1)

“My point is that Mr. Cleburne is a good man, an educated man, with an untarnished reputation and a perfectly respectable occupation.”


That sounded so rehearsed that Honor’s heart was suddenly in her throat.

“Will you say nothing?” Augustine asked.

Honor shook her head, not trusting herself to speak.

Augustine frowned thoughtfully and began to walk in a tight little circle, given the lack of space in the office. “I think we must accept certain truths, mustn’t we, dearest? My father is not long for this world. God willing, he will see me happily married, starting a family of my own, but in recent days, I have come to doubt he shall live as long as that.”

“Oh, Augustine, you—”

“That means,” he rushed ahead, “that it will be up to me to determine how best to settle you and your sisters.” He smiled, clearly proud of himself for having delivered his speech properly. “Oh! And naturally, your lady mother,” he amended quickly.

“Augustine, what are you saying?” Honor said, choosing a new tack. “Are you turning us out?”

“What?” Augustine looked horrified. “No! No, no, no, of course not,” he said anxiously, and reached for her hand, grasping it tightly. “How could I turn you out? You are my sister, Honor, in my heart as well as in name. But don’t you see?” he pleaded. “I shall be making my home with my wife, and it wouldn’t do to have six adults under one roof, what with different opinions and...and schedules,” he said, as if he were uncertain what conflict there was between six adults.

Honor’s heart was now sinking away from her throat, passing through her chest, falling, falling, falling. “Don’t say it, I beg of you,” she said. “Don’t say that you will put us away from you.”

“I would never!” he said, seeking to assure her. “But surely you must understand my dilemma.”

“And surely you must understand that we’ve no place we might go, Augustine. We are entirely dependent on the earl, as we have been for many, many years. You know that we are.”

“Yes, I know,” he said with a sympathetic wince and squeeze of her hand. “Which is why we—that is, me—would like to see you and Grace properly matched as soon as possible. That’s the best solution for all, I think. You must admit, you’ve had quite a lot of time to settle things, and now it is time. Really, it rather solves all of our problems, does it not? And frankly, Mr. Cleburne is as fine a match as you might hope to make.”

She jerked her hand free. “No!”

Augustine’s expression changed. He looked as hard and stern as she had ever seen him. “You will have the husband you need in Cleburne, and he will make you comfortable at Longmeadow. And if you are at Longmeadow, we will see each other quite often.”

He couldn’t mean it. “A vicar, Augustine? Do you think that is the best I might expect? You might at least let the Season take its course!” she said, reaching for anything that might give her time to think her way through this sudden problem.

“But...but your father was a bishop,” Augustine said, clearly surprised by her objection. “And Mr. Cleburne may be a vicar, but he is a wealthy one.”

“I don’t care about his wealth,” Honor said. “I care that he is a man I scarcely know, a vicar at Longmeadow no less, with no society other than widows and orphans. What do you think, that I shall pass my days embroidering and taking long walks?”

“Do you harbor some grievance against Longmeadow? For you have seemed perfectly at ease there all these years!”

“I am very fond of Longmeadow. I should not like to spend all my days in the country any more than you would!”

“I would be very grateful if I were to spend my days at Longmeadow and not in a meaner house in a meaner part of England!” Augustine said sharply, his cheeks mottling with his anger. “And do you not think that perhaps the country might not be the best place for Lady Beckington? Away from the society you apparently covet? Have you thought of that?”

Honor was shocked.

“Allow me this, Honor. As I am to be the Earl of Beckington sooner rather than later, and you shall be my ward. I want... No, I demand, yes, I demand that you marry. If you cannot produce someone of your own choosing, then I should very much like you to do your very best to find some common ground with Mr. Cleburne with the hope of making a match. Do I make myself clear?”

“I can’t believe this!” she protested.

“Well—” he pressed his lips together for a moment “—believe it.”

Honor’s head began to spin with the threat of marrying the anxious, hopeful vicar in the salon and, confusingly, George Easton. “You might at least allow the gentleman to make an offer before you command it.”