The Trouble With Honor (The Cabot Sisters #1)

George knew of that reception; everyone knew of it. Hundreds would attend it, he guessed, as Stapleton was being honored for his bravery in the war. “I hope you’ve not come here to ask me to engage in parlor games with Miss Hargrove at that reception.”


“To what?” She looked surprised, as if the thought had not crossed her mind. “Of course not!” she said, recovering and giving him a withering look. “I told you, I hope you never speak to her again.” She sighed, put her hands to her waist. “It was foolish. And in trying to...to dislodge her, I’ve only made the situation worse for myself.”

He didn’t like the look in her eye. “What has happened? I can see that something has.”

Honor shook her head. “Oh, George,” she said, sounding almost defeated. “I’ve nowhere else to turn—”

A knock at the door startled them both; Honor turned away and walked to the window, pretending to peer out.

Finnegan entered with a tea service, moving with swift efficiency across the carpet and depositing the heavy silver tray onto a small table. He smiled; his attention was on Honor, and George could see the look of appreciation he gave her figure. “Shall I serve?”

“No, thank you, I will,” George said, glaring at him.

Finnegan looked at Honor again, and George was reminded that one day, he would indeed put his fist in his valet’s face or dismiss him. But for the moment, he shoved Finnegan toward the door. “That will be all, thank you, Finnegan.”

Finnegan grinned and started for the door.

“We won’t need you again,” George hastily added, lest Finnegan devise some reason to return for another look.

When Finnegan went out, George locked the door for good measure. He turned back to the room and gestured to the tea. “Shall I pour?”

“I don’t care for tea, thank you,” Honor said distractedly.

“All right. Then will you tell me what has happened?”

“What has happened is that a new vicar has come to Longmeadow, and he is quite unmarried.”

A lump of resentment instantly formed in George’s chest.

“Augustine has told me, with uncharacteristic determination, that if I cannot produce an offer for my hand, then I must allow the vicar to court me properly, and then...then I must marry him.”

That news left George speechless. He couldn’t imagine Sommerfield insisting on anything, much less that. That he had filled George with a sudden and uncontrollable rage.

“In fact, I am to be home by five o’clock,” she said, glancing at the mantel clock, “as Mr. Cleburne has invited me and my sisters to attend a church service with him.”

George pushed a hand through his hair as a wave of bitter disappointment roiled through him. This was just what he’d expected. So why, then, was it so gut-wrenching to hear? He supposed he’d hoped that nothing like this would happen until after he’d managed to remove himself from the circle of Honor’s life. “And if you don’t do as he asks?”

She shrugged. “I suppose he’ll find another way to remove us from Beckington House. Some way that is far less convenient than marriage, I’d wager.”

“I see,” he said tightly.

“No,” Honor said. “No, George, I don’t think you do. You may choose who you will marry. Or who you will not marry. But that’s not a choice I have. I’ve managed to delay it a year or two, but I suppose I’ve always known that, eventually, I would be forced to marry.”

George couldn’t find the words to express his bitter disappointment, even to himself. He was a jumbled mess of raw, unfamiliar feelings, and for a man who had steadfastly avoided feeling, he felt decidedly unsteady.

He glanced uncertainly at the tea service, then abruptly turned away, stalked to the sideboard and poured two whiskies. He crossed the room and handed one to Honor, who took it hesitantly, staring down into the amber liquid.

“He seems kind,” George grudgingly offered. “You might come to esteem him.”

Honor sipped from the glass. She winced, pressed her hand to her chest then sipped again.

An alarming swell of fondness for her bloomed in him, and he felt entirely lost, adrift on a sea of feelings he had struggled to avoid all his life. He suddenly despised Monica Hargrove. It was an irrational surge of anger—this wasn’t her fault—but he could see her hands all over this forced engagement. All in retaliation for what he’d done.

He put aside his whiskey glass. “I can fix things, Honor. I can undo this.”

“You can’t,” she said wearily. “No one can. It was bound to happen, and I’ve no one to blame but me.”

“But it doesn’t need to happen now. Not like this,” George said angrily. “I should have heeded your advice, but I merely toyed with her. Now she will feel the full force of my ardor—”

“George!” Honor said, alarmed. “You mustn’t do anything! We’ve tried and failed, as you yourself warned me we would—”