The Trouble With Honor (The Cabot Sisters #1)

It was an absurdly preposterous wish. And an astoundingly intense one.

To confound his thinking even more, there was part of him that didn’t entirely trust Honor. It was a truth he grudgingly admitted to himself. Yes, he loved her. And there was a part of him that believed she loved him, as well. But she was a woman of the ton, and she had come to him seeking a way to keep her fortune and standing. In spite of what they’d shared, in spite of his strong feelings—or hers, for that matter—he could not bring himself to believe she would ever truly give that up to settle for someone like him. Or that Beckington would ever consent to someone like him as a possible match for her. And though passion had flared hot and wild between him and Honor, he couldn’t help but wonder if this...this thing between them, this intangible, intense thing wasn’t merely pleasure for her.

How could it be anything but?

Oh, yes, George was a miserable man.

But in that misery, he was irrationally determined to lure Monica Hargrove to him. He told himself it was to keep her from making Honor’s burden of her family dilemma any worse by presenting potential offers for her hand. A smaller voice suggested it was even more personal than that—he’d been rather astounded that his attempts to seduce the debutante had failed. A kiss. That’s what was required. One small kiss of her lips, and all the reticence would melt right out of Miss Monica Hargrove. She’d be eating from his bag of oats or he’d find another way to tether her.

Dressed like a sailor for the occasion of honoring a war hero, George stalked downstairs so gruffly that the daily maid Finnegan had hired—to clean or to bed, George didn’t know—scampered out of his way like a frightened little hare.

Finnegan was waiting in the foyer with George’s hat and gloves. “What a splendid surprise,” he said, bowing slightly. “You’ve combed your hair.”

George snatched the hat and gloves from Finnegan. “Today, Mr. Finnegan,” he said, stuffing his hands into the gloves, “may very well be the day I throttle you.”

“Very good, sir,” Finnegan said, and opened the front door.

*

ON SUCH A gloomy day, Burlington House was predictably crowded. All of the illustrious guests had crammed inside the gallery, standing shoulder to shoulder, the din of their voices echoing against the cavernous ceiling. George couldn’t imagine how he’d find anyone, but he pushed through the crowd all the same, muttering his apologies for stepping on this toe or elbowing that back, receiving some less-than-welcoming looks for it.

He spotted Sommerfield first, his girth affording him a bit more space than most. Standing beside him was Miss Monica Hargrove, her expression full of tedium. George wasn’t entirely certain what he would say, but he started for her.

Miss Hargrove turned her head, and when she saw him, she straightened slightly. She seemed perplexed, and then her brows dipped into something of a frown. In a mood, was she? He’d change that. George stepped around a couple in his progress toward Miss Hargrove and was startled by the sudden appearance of Honor in front of him. “Mr. Easton,” she said, and put her hand on his arm.

George looked down at her hand on his arm, her touch incinerating his sleeve, marking his skin underneath. “May I have a word?”

“Not now, love. There is another woman I should like to address.”

“George...please. Please.” She smiled as she glanced to her right. George followed her gaze and saw Cleburne standing there.

“Mr. Cleburne, will you excuse us a moment?” she asked.

“Yes, of course. Good day, Mr. Easton,” he said, and with a curt bow, he took several steps away. But not far enough that Honor was out of his sight, George noticed.

George didn’t speak; Honor tugged him to one side.

“Go back to your suitor, Cabot. You’ve nothing to fear, I do not intend—”

“I beg of you, don’t speak to her!” Honor interjected frantically. “Don’t even look her way. It’s over, it’s done—I should never have begun this madness!”

“It’s not your scheme any longer, love. It’s mine. I told you I would fix things for you.”

“I don’t need you to fix anything for me. I don’t want you to fix it!”

George paused and looked down at her. “Why? Is Cleburne suddenly to your liking?”

“No!” she exclaimed, and looked nervously in the direction of the young vicar. “That’s certainly not what compels me. It’s that I...” She rose up on her toes to look over his shoulder.

“You what?” he asked.

Honor sank down, bit her lip.

George frowned, imagining all manner of nonsense. “What is this sudden shyness? What is it?”

“I am not shy,” she said, as if the very notion offended her. “But I am afraid.”

“Of what?”