The Trouble with Honor

by Julia London

  Honor’s breath began to evaporate—she couldn’t breathe, didn’t want to breathe. She sought him with her hands, sliding down his arms and around his waist, up his chest again to his face, her fingers carelessly sliding in between their mouths, down his hard chest and boldly over the ridge of his erection. She caught her breath at the feel of it—so hard. Her body was responding, getting damper, softer somehow.

  George reached for the hem of her gown, gathering it in folds until he could find her leg. His hand slid up past her stocking to the bare skin of her thigh, leaving a burning trail wherever he touched. Honor feared herself in danger of being swept under by the tide of hunger building in her, of rolling and tumbling along helplessly as it rushed through her, and still, she did not care.

  How had he fanned so much desire in her? How had she come to esteem him so completely? He had seduced her thoroughly. “You are a scoundrel,” she said lowly, and splayed her hands against the wall at her back. “I could scream,” she said breathlessly into his ear.

  “Then do it,” he challenged her. “Scream. And still you will not scream as you will when I make love to you.”

  “Libertine,” she breathed, and propped her foot against the stone spindles of the railing so that his hand could reach the damp warmth between her legs. She gasped at the sensation when his fingers closed around the core of her pleasure, then slid deep inside her.

  “Lover,” he whispered into her ear.

  Honor closed her eyes and leaned her head against the wall. “I’m mad,” she whispered. “Mad, mad....”

  “Enjoy it, lass,” he said, and kissed her mouth, the hollow of her throat and, moving down, put his lips on the skin of her bosom as he began to stroke her, his fingers swirling around the slick folds, sliding in and out of her, stroking the hard core.

  With some primal rhythm pulsing through her, Honor began to ride his hand, pressing harder against his fingers, seeking release. She gripped him as he increased the intensity of his strokes, swirling, dipping, rubbing against her slick sex. She could hear voices, the laughter of people below, the whispers of other people on the balcony. It only served to heighten her experience, to realize in that moment how overpowering desire could be. She didn’t care if she was discovered. As her body tensed, coiling, preparing for release, she suddenly pitched forward, put her mouth against his shoulder and cried out against the wool of his coat with delirious pleasure as she shuddered around his hand.

  They were both gasping when he withdrew his hand and dropped her skirts. She managed to lift her head and opened her eyes. She couldn’t look away from George Easton, couldn’t push back and put some distance between them as she did when gentlemen drew too close. She tried to think of something to say, but no words came to her. She felt breathless, weightless, and strangely erotic emotions swirled in her.

  His hand slid down her arm, his fingers tangled with hers. He kissed her temple and said softly, “There you are, Cabot, a taste of your own medicine. And now the evening has come to its regrettable end.”

  “What?” Honor tried to hide her fluster, but it was useless. She had stepped beyond an invisible curtain and could not hear very well.

  He dipped his head to look her in the eye. “In spite of our disagreement about the effectiveness of your absurd ideas, the pleasure has truly been all mine.”

  Honor couldn’t look away from him. She was stunned by what had happened, stunned by what he’d just done to her. “Will you come to Longmeadow?” she asked, far too anxiously.

  “No.”

  She nodded as if she accepted that, but then grabbed his fingers more tightly and said incongruently, “Please.”

  “I’ve done all that I might do for you.” His smile was prurient.

  He couldn’t mean it, surely he didn’t mean it. “We shall expect you in a fortnight,” she said stubbornly, panicking. “The guests begin to arrive on Thursday.”

  He shook his head, then gave her an indulgent look as he touched her temple, brushing a strand of hair away from her eyes. His gaze was so soft that Honor felt a little fluttery. Light. As if she could float away into the chandeliers like a tail of smoke.

  “You must go and dance straightaway,” he murmured. “Let everyone see you smile at someone else. You’d not want their last impression of you to be leaving the dance floor with me.”

  “I don’t care,” she said earnestly, but Easton put his hand on her arm and gently held her back.

  “Yes, you do. Go now, before people talk.”

  Was he right? Honor truly didn’t know anymore. Everything was beginning to feel turned on its head. She didn’t care if people talked. She didn’t care that he was a bastard son. She didn’t want anything but him.

  “Go,” he said, more sternly, giving her a bit of a push.

  Honor moved without thinking. She walked around the balcony to the main staircase, aware that he was watching her. She told herself not to look back, begged herself not to look back—

  Honor looked back.

  George Easton was standing where she’d left him, his gaze fixed on her. And she could feel it in her, burning a path all the way down to her toes.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  WHEN MONICA HAD accepted Augustine’s offer of marriage, her mother had promptly brought in a maid. “A future countess must know how to use the services of a lady’s maid,” she’d explained.

  “But she’s not a lady’s maid,” Monica had pointed out, watching the industrious girl polish the panes of her window.

  “She will do,” her mother had said confidently.

  But Violet didn’t do. The girl was as ignorant of what was required of her as Monica was about what a lady required. Privately, Monica didn’t believe she needed a lady’s maid. She was perfectly capable of donning her own clothes and rising on her own volition every morning.

  Her mother, however, was determined that her daughter would know what was expected of her as a lady of privilege and leisure. Monica’s future as a countess was a topic that greatly interested her mother and her eldest brother, Teddy. They talked about it at every opportunity.

  This morning, Monica could smell the hot chocolate from across the room when Violet entered and placed a cup next to her bedside.

  Monica yawned, stretched her arms overhead and pushed herself up, propping the pillows behind her back. She picked up the cup of chocolate as Violet opened the draperies. Rivulets of rain coursed down the windowpanes.

  Violet began to pick up the articles of clothing Monica had tossed aside as she’d come in this morning. “Did you enjoy the ball, miss?” she asked.

  “Very much,” Monica said through another yawn. “But I thought it overly crowded.”

  “Aye, I’m not one for crowds,” Violet said, moving about the room. She had no reservations about chatting freely with Monica. “I accompanied Mrs. Abbot to the market this morning, and such a crowd you never did see!” she said, and began to talk excitedly about her trip to the market.

  Monica scarcely heard anything she said—something to do with figs, she thought—and was contemplating what she might wear for the day when she heard the name Beckington. Monica paused. She turned to look at Violet. “Pardon?”

  Violet looked up from her work. “Miss?”

  “What was that you said about Beckington?”

  Violet frowned thoughtfully. “Oh!” she said, as recollection dawned. “Naught but that we saw a footman from Beckington House searching about. Mr. Abbot, he was there, and he said he knew the lad, as he’s driven you to Beckington House and said the fellow was always there to greet him.”

  “You went to the market in Mayfair?” Monica asked, confused. It seemed quite out of the way.

  “Oh, aye, to Mayfair. Mrs. Abbot, she prefers the butcher there. But the ham was dear! I said to her, Mrs. Abbot, you might have a ham for a few shillings in Marylebone, but she said the ham was not the quality Mrs. Hargrove preferred—”

  “Violet, what about Beckington?” Monica interrupted before Violet e
xplained different cuts of pork. “You said the footman was searching.”

  “Oh, him! Aye, he was searching for Lady Beckington.” Violet smiled and picked up the wrap Monica had worn to the ball the night before, running her hand over the silk.

  “For heaven’s sake! He was searching for Lady Beckington in what way?” Monica prodded.

  “Aye, she was lost. He said she’d gone for a walkabout and hadn’t come back when they’d expected her. I said to Mrs. Abbot, a walkabout, in this foul weather? And Mrs. Abbot, she says, she no doubt has a boy to hold an umbrella over her head.” Violet giggled.

  Monica blinked. “Do you mean Lady Beckington was lost?”

  “Oh, that I don’t know, ma’am. The footman found her quick as you please, buying hothouse flowers of all things. Mrs. Hargrove, she’d send someone down for flowers, I think. She’d not walk to Mayfair on a day like this.”

  Violet folded the wrap as Monica pondered the news. Things were beginning to make sense, pieces of a puzzle falling into place.

  After her chocolate, Monica dressed and made her way to the drawing room, where she found her mother and father. The room was small and dark, what with the wood paneling and worn draperies. Her mother wanted new drapes, but her father would not allow it.

  This morning, her father was reading, jotting down notes on a sheet of paper at his elbow. Monica’s mother was on the settee, busy with her needlework. Her hair was still strawberry-blond, still caught the candlelight, even on a dreary day such as this. “There you are, darling!” she said, and put down her needlework. Her father paused in his study of the book and glanced at Monica over the top of his spectacles.

  “How did you find the ball?” her mother asked.

  “Lovely,” Monica said.

  “And our Lord Sommerfield? Did he enjoy it, as well?”

  Monica shrugged and sat next to her mother. She’d never known Augustine to be unhappy. “I think so.”

  Her mother patted her knee. “You should make sure of it, my dear. It’s very important to keep a man happy. Is that not so, Benjamin?” she said to her husband.

  Monica’s father had gone back to his study and said absently, “Is it, Lizzy?”

  “Mamma,” Monica said, “how does one know if someone is going mad?”

  That brought her father’s head up. “Feeling a bit mad, are you, darling?”

  “Not me, Papa,” she said with a smile. “But...how does it descend on a person?”

  Her father put down his pen and pivoted around in his seat. “It depends on the sort of madness, I should think. If one suffers from senility, it might come on gradually. A lapse here or there, unusual forgetfulness. I knew of a chap once who lost his young son to fire. Madness came on him overnight. Why do you ask?”

  Monica was almost afraid to say aloud what she was thinking. It seemed at best disrespectful, at worst scandalous. But it was the only thing that made sense, and her parents were looking at her expectantly. “I think that perhaps Lady Beckington is going mad.”

  Both of her parents stared at her, neither of them moving for a moment. Her father asked, “What do you mean, darling?”

  “It’s difficult to explain. But she seems rather too forgetful.” Monica told them about the last time she’d been at Beckington House, and how Lady Beckington couldn’t seem to follow the conversation. She told them what Violet had said. She told them how, at times, Lady Beckington’s eyes looked strangely vacant, as if she weren’t there at all.

  Her father listened intently, and when she’d finished, he nodded and sat back in his chair, templing his fingers. “I don’t see any reason for alarm, love. As people age, they become forgetful.”

  “Benjamin, she is only a year older than myself,” Monica’s mother pointed out.

  “As I said,” he said, and turned back to his book.

  “When we were young, before you were born, Joan and I would go to the Mayfair flower stalls together,” her mother said. “The flowers always seemed so much prettier than the hothouses where we lived.” She looked wistfully away for a moment, seeing something in the distant past. “I’ve always enjoyed Joan’s company.”

  “You will enjoy it again, Lizzy,” Monica’s father said. “She has forgotten a thing or two, nothing more.”

  Monica noticed the slight change in her mother’s expression. She smiled at Monica. “Come, darling, let us go and dress your hair, shall we?” She stood up.

  “Lizzy, do not put ideas into our daughter’s head,” her father said without lifting his gaze from his book. “You and Teddy have already suggested she turn the Cabot girls out to pasture.”

  “I’ve done no such thing, Mr. Hargrove,” her mother protested, and took Monica’s hand, pulling her along.

  But that wasn’t precisely true—her mother and Teddy had suggested more than once that perhaps the Cabot girls and their mother would be better suited to the dowager house at Longmeadow...or something even farther afield.

  As they entered the narrow hall, Monica’s mother put her arm around her shoulders. “I daresay your father is right, you’ve seen nothing more than a bit of forgetfulness in Lady Beckington. It happens to all of us. However...”

  “However?”

  Her mother glanced at her from the corners of her eyes. “However, if you were to notice a change, you might think again about the importance of finding a comfortable place where she and her daughters might reside. Out of the public eye, naturally.”

  Monica looked at her mother curiously.

  “Are you aware that, in some cases, madness may turn to violence?”

  Monica gasped. “You don’t think Lady Beckington—”

  “No, no, no,” her mother quickly assured her. “But if she were mad, I don’t think one could predict if or when she might be prone to violent outbursts. But I think such unpredictability would not be safe for the new earl’s heirs.”

  Monica’s heart began to pound in her neck. She had visions of a madwoman stealing her babies from their cribs. Hadn’t that happened a year or so ago? A madwoman had taken the child of her mistress, and they’d found the child dead some days later?

  “Oh, dear, you are fretting!” her mother said. “Darling, I am not suggesting it would ever come to that, but... Well, you are my daughter. I am thinking of you, Monica.”

  “But...but shouldn’t Augustine and I care for her if she’s mad?”

  “Yes,” her mother said firmly. “However, that doesn’t mean you must reside with her. I should think there would be some place quite safe for her and her daughters that would not require the expense of ball gowns and such.”

  Monica could not imagine Honor without fashionable gowns. But her mother smiled and gave her an affectionate squeeze. “You mustn’t fret. I am certain it’s nothing over which you should concern yourself.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  THE JOURNEY TO Longmeadow took its toll on the earl; he was confined to his bed for two full days before he would feel strong enough to enjoy the warm weather that had followed the family from London.

  That meant that the annual soiree at Longmeadow began without him for the first time. Barring some miracle, it likely would be the last time the earl attended the Longmeadow spring soiree, and the realization cast a pall over the entire family.

  Prudence and Mercy took to disappearing to the stables to escape the somber mood, which, Grace opined, was not because of a sudden interest in all things equine, but a sudden interest in the strapping young men employed to keep the horses and the stables.

  When the guests began to arrive, Grace kept a diligent eye on their mother, taking her for long walks in the gardens. It was clear that their mother was slipping further and further from them, and familiar pieces were disappearing every day.

  Honor would do anything to have her loving, confident, sophisticated mother back. She thought of the carriage accident that had injured her mother. That had been the start of her mother’s troubles, and Honor believed that she would give up all that they had to go
back to that day, forgo the material things, the haut ton, the soirees—anything to keep her mother from that carriage. If her mother had never married Beckington, if they’d remained in the modest house with only Hannah to tend them, would they not have been happy and whole?

  Honor was determined to keep her mother from the Hargroves if at all possible this week, but it was difficult to do, as Monica had made it her task to advise Augustine on the preparations for the next three days.

  Honor stumbled upon the pair of lovebirds and another gentleman in the green salon, which happened to be her favorite room in the sprawling Georgian mansion. The house itself was one of the largest manors in England. It was so big, four stories high, that there had been plenty of places four young girls had found to escape in years past. It was built on a square with a central courtyard and had been lovingly tended; ivy covered the front entrance, roses the back.

  The green salon overlooked the private rose garden from a pair of floor-to-ceiling French doors through which the heavenly scent wafted into the room during the spring and summer, when the doors were left open. The walls of the salon were painted a soft green, the draperies sheer white silks. It was cozy and comforting, bright and airy. Of the twenty-some odd guest rooms, as well as salons and drawing rooms and morning rooms, none appealed to Honor more.

  “Honor!” Augustine said delightedly when he saw her. “Thank goodness you have come,” he said, looking relieved. “You really must have a word with Mercy. She’s got Mrs. Hargrove in quite a dither with her gruesome tales of ghosts.”

  “Longmeadow lends itself to gruesome ghost tales, Augustine.”

  “Perhaps. But dear Mrs. Hargrove assured me she scarcely slept a wink last night.”

  Having been subjected to Mercy’s tales for many years now and being very familiar with Mrs. Hargrove, Honor couldn’t imagine that she was the least offended by Mercy’s tales of headless ghosts with bloodied necks.