The Trouble With Honor (The Cabot Sisters #1)

The four of them eased themselves down on the blanket and helped themselves to fruit and cheeses while the footman filled their wineglasses. Augustine had stretched out on his side, and his belly, Monica was chagrined to see, was spilling onto the ground beneath his waistcoat. They spoke of nothing of import, and even when Augustine brought up the reception for Lord Stapleton, Monica resisted a yawn. But then Augustine suggested Honor invite Mr. Cleburne to accompany her.

Honor’s head came up. She looked at Monica, then at Augustine, clearly caught off guard.

Mr. Cleburne sensed her fluster, for he said, “I couldn’t possibly impose.”

“No imposition,” Augustine said easily, and stuffed a pair of grapes into his mouth.

“But I should not impose on you, Mr. Cleburne,” Honor said, recovering slightly. “The reception will be crowded and...and noisy.”

“Oh, I scarcely mind that,” Cleburne said congenially. “I am sure I have suffered worse at the country dances.” He laughed.

Honor glanced away, her jaw clenched. “Unfortunately,” she said, shaking her head to the wine the footman silently offered, “the building is not well ventilated.”

“Then I suppose I shall remove my coat,” Mr. Cleburne responded, and smiled at Monica and Augustine, as if they were playing a game.

“Then it’s all settled,” Augustine said triumphantly. “Mr. Cleburne shall be your guest.”

“Yes,” Honor said. “Thank you, Augustine, for the idea.” She stood up. “Please, excuse me.”

Mr. Cleburne hastened to find his feet.

“Oh, no, Mr. Cleburne, do keep your seat. I mean only to stretch my legs.” Honor whirled and began to walk. Or march, really, her riding habit billowing out behind her.

Cleburne looked helplessly at Monica and Augustine. “Have I said something wrong?”

“Not at all, Mr. Cleburne,” Monica said, and held out her hand so that he might help her to her feet. “Honor can be rather...”

“Mercurial?” Augustine offered innocently.

“That was not the word I was searching for,” Monica said kindly. Stubborn was more in line with her thinking. “She is the restless sort. I’ll see to her—enjoy your wine,” she said, and straightened her bonnet before marching after Honor to the edge of the lake.

When reached by her nemesis, Honor was ripping apart a rush, one bristle at a time. When they were girls, her mother had brought them to this very lake to feed the ducks. Monica remembered Honor, with her dark hair streaming behind her, chasing the ducks at the edge of the lake, trying to catch them as Monica’s mother shouted at her to stop. Monica had been afraid of the ducks, and she was suddenly reminded of how Honor had held her hand while Monica had thrown her breadcrumbs to the honking beasts. When had those young girls parted ways? Honestly, Monica couldn’t recall any longer.

She glanced at Honor from the corner of her eye. “You seem rather cross.”

Honor bestowed a withering look on Monica. “Cross is the least of what I am. You know that very well.”

“I suppose I do,” Monica said, and shrugged, looking out over the lake. “I don’t understand you, in all honesty. Mr. Cleburne happens to be an excellent match for you—”

“An excellent match?” Honor shot back and glanced over her shoulder at the offending gentleman. “Why do you believe that? Because it is your idea to broker a marriage? Ah—don’t even think of denying it,” she said when Monica opened her mouth to do precisely that. “I know very well you suggested it to Augustine. He would not have thought of it on his own.”

“Even if I did suggest it, or even if you suggested to Mr. Easton that he should court me, it’s all beside the point,” Monica said pertly, taking pleasure in the flicker of culpability that flashed in Honor’s eyes. “Mr. Cleburne is a perfect match for you because he is. He is devoted, he is kind and his reputation is irreproachable. Can you really ask for more?”

“Yes!” Honor exclaimed. “Yes, Monica, I can ask for more. Perhaps you can’t, or won’t, but I ask for more.”

“Why isn’t anything ever good enough for you?” Monica demanded crossly. “How can you find a man who most women in your position would consider a very good match beneath you? Why must you always have more?”

“I don’t think Mr. Cleburne is beneath me, for heaven’s sake. But I think he is as far removed from me in spirit and temperament as a man could possibly be. And furthermore, why don’t you ever want more, Monica? Why won’t you believe in the best possibilities, instead of taking the first offer?”

Monica gasped. “Don’t you dare disparage Augustine to me!”

“I wasn’t—”

“You were!” Monica insisted. Now she glanced over her shoulder at her fiancé. Augustine, sitting cross-legged, enthusiastically regaled Mr. Cleburne with some tale, judging by the wave of his hands. “I happen to be quite fond of Augustine. And I have done what every woman is exhorted to do, Honor. I have made a good match. There is nothing wrong with that. I am happy. Can you not see it? Can you not be happy for me? Happy that I will marry him, happy that the banns have been posted?”

Honor’s eyes widened. “They’ve been posted?”