The Trouble With Honor (The Cabot Sisters #1)

“Yes!” Monica said crossly. “Must you look so astounded? Augustine told you that we wished to marry before his father... Well, you know very well what I mean. I have accepted my life and his offer, and I am happy.”


“Do you not hear yourself?” Honor demanded, suddenly turning to face her. “Wouldn’t you rather find true, consuming love than merely accept your life and an offer?”

Sometimes Honor was ridiculously childish, and Monica couldn’t help but laugh.

Honor’s brows sank in a confused frown. “Why are you laughing? Do you love Augustine?”

“Will you stop?” Monica exclaimed through her laughter. “I told you, I esteem him!”

“But do you love him?”

“For God’s sake, Honor! I will come to love him. Love develops over time, with familiarity, as two people move through life as one. You act as if there is some other alternative! What alternative is there? To wait indefinitely? For what? For a knight to come along and quite literally sweep me off my feet?”

“Yes!” Honor cried with frustration.

“Dear God, you are maddening,” Monica snapped, and looked away, angry with herself for allowing Honor to vex her. Again.

“We will never have alternatives if we don’t demand them,” Honor said, and folded her arms tightly over her middle.

Monica rolled her eyes. “And what alternative will you demand, pray? That you do not marry? That you may continue to flit from this soiree to that?” she asked, gesturing around them.

“I mean that unless women demand to follow their heart’s true instincts, we will never be allowed to do so. Society will insist we marry well, and that is all they will ask of us.”

“Ah. And your heart’s true instincts are not Mr. Cleburne.”

“Not in the least.”

“Have you ever considered that perhaps your heart doesn’t have a true instinct? For surely, if it did, you would have acted on it by now.”

Honor’s eyes widened. She looked almost insulted for a moment, but that quickly gave way to another expression. She seemed to be considering what Monica had said, mulling it over for a long moment. “Goodness, I think you may be right, Monica.”

“I am?” Monica said, startled.

“Yes.” Honor nodded thoughtfully. “If I don’t act, who will?”

Monica suddenly had a sinking feeling she’d unwittingly unleashed a beast from its cage. “Honor Cabot, what are you thinking?” she demanded. “You’d best not cause trouble—”

“Trouble? No,” Honor said sweetly. “You’ve helped me clarify a thing or two. We’d best go back to the gentlemen, do you suppose?” She smiled warmly at Monica, then started back toward the men, suddenly strolling along as if she hadn’t a care in the world.





CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

LONDON SCARCELY MANAGED to crawl out beneath the leaden skies on the afternoon of Lord Stapleton’s reception. A stiff wind and the smell of rain in the air only increased George’s uncharacteristically somber mood, and he wouldn’t have minded in the least to have remained in bed all day, a pillow over his head, his eyes closed against the world.

But Finnegan had other ideas, it would seem, as he had polished George’s boots and laid out his gold waistcoat and navy superfine coat to don for the reception. It looked, George thought, almost naval in appearance.

George was generally annoyed when Finnegan laid out his clothes as if he were addled, but this afternoon he was glad for it, because he doubted he would have been able to dress himself with much care. He’d been walking around in a melancholy fog for two days, obsessed with thoughts of Honor, remembering in exquisite and torturous detail the afternoon in his salon.

There was no help for him. He was a fool, a bloody fool for having agreed to help her in the beginning. He was an even bigger fool because he was mad for her. He’d broken his one cardinal rule: never believe he was one of them. After a life spent trying to be someone, to be recognized, he’d learned to keep proper society at arm’s length, to protect himself above all else.

In this case, he’d missed his steps, had fallen out of line, had looked to his left and right and, in doing so, had ruined his life. It had happened so quickly, so easily, too—when a daring, beautiful woman presented a challenge to him, his rule had held up like cotton batting in fire, disappearing completely.

The most enraging part of it was that George did not want Honor to marry a bloody vicar. He did not want her to marry at all. He wanted things to remain as they were, with opportunities to be in her company, to hear her clever mind spinning out wretched ideas to create a bit of mayhem in her society, to keep him properly diverted from the lack of a name, the loss of his fortune. From who he was.