The Trouble With Honor (The Cabot Sisters #1)

He seemed properly chastised for that and held up a hand. “You’re quite right. But, Honor...darling...Beckington will never allow it. Your affection, my affection does not change who or what I am. It does not change the fact that my fortune is sitting at the bottom of the sea.”


She did not like what he was saying. She wanted him to rebel with her, to believe as she did that they were meant to be together, somehow, some way. “Doesn’t love count for anything?”

“Of course it does,” he said softly, and walked across the room to clasp her face between his hands. “But it’s not enough, Honor. Not in the world you and I live.”

“Why isn’t it enough?” she demanded, and pulled his hands from her face. “What matters more than that, really?”

“You know very well. Influence matters. Money matters. You have lived a life of privilege. You are welcome in any parlor in London. Your clothing is of the best quality, you have the finest shoes—”

“They are all just things,” she exclaimed angrily. “Do you really think so little of me? That I would put gowns and shoes above love?”

“Honor...how could you possibly understand? Those are things you’ve possessed all your life, and at present, they are things that I can’t give you.”

“I’m not asking—”

“You’re not asking for any of it, I know,” he said, and stroked her cheek with his knuckle. “But I have nothing. I invested all but this house in a ship that has gone missing. You deserve better than the likes of me. The love between us was never meant to be, darling. You must accept it.”

He wasn’t listening to her, and she was sinking into a pit of anguish. “How many times must I say it? I want to be with you always, to lay with you, eat with you, tell you that your dancing is wretched—”

George shook his head.

Honor felt her heart all but explode. She reached for his lapels, grabbing them. “I’ve never felt so sure of anything in my life—”

“Dear God,” he said, wrapping her in his embrace, forcing her to be still. He tenderly kissed the top of her head. “Neither have I. But there is far more at stake than you are willing to admit. Deep down, you know what I am saying is true. Deep down, you know very well that Honor Cabot cannot marry a bastard son who dallies in trade. One day you will thank me for making you see it.”

She shoved against him. “I will thank you?” she said angrily. “I don’t care if I ever step foot in a ballroom again! I know only that I love you, George. Perhaps you don’t love me as you say. Perhaps you have made me believe it so that you could use me—”

“Don’t be foolish,” he snapped.

“Then what has you so afraid?” she exclaimed.

“Afraid!” His smile faded. His gaze roamed her face, searching, seeking...what? What was it this man needed to love her as she loved him? George suddenly grabbed her arms and yanked her to him. He kissed her, a hard, possessive kiss. And then he held her, cupping her head against his shoulder.

Honor closed her eyes and held her breath.

“I don’t deserve you,” he muttered.

“That’s not true—you deserve the best of everything. You are the son of a prince and the nephew of a king, and you deserve all the things that have been denied you.”

“No one believes that,” he scoffed.

“I do.” She looked up at him. “I believe it.”

He gazed tenderly at her. “Do you?”

“With all my heart.”

“God, but I do love you,” he said with a sigh.

Honor could feel a smile forming on her lips, could feel it light the darkness around them.

“Don’t smile at me, Cabot,” he warned her. “It’s hopeless to deny that bloody bright smile of yours.”

Her smile only deepened. He loved her. She leaned into him. “I know,” she said happily.





CHAPTER THIRTY

IT WAS TRUE. George was incapable of telling the woman no. At last, he convinced her to go home before search parties were sent after her, and he ate a meal that a smug Finnegan presented him. His belly full, his heart fuller, he wondered if there wasn’t a way to cast off the shackles of his upbringing, his deepest fears about his place in the world, and perhaps find a way to be with the woman he loved?

He could picture the shock on even the affable face of Sommerfield—now Beckington—if he was to properly offer for Honor.

Perhaps, George thought, if he had something grand to impress with—a large country estate, or expensive jewels, something deemed acceptable to the ton....

There had to be a way, but damned if he could think of what that was.