The Trouble with Honor

by Julia London

  The guest room George would inhabit was large, with a four-poster canopied bed and a view of the forest. As he stood in the middle of the room, looking up at a ceiling that had been painted with ropes and Grecian urns, he could certainly understand that Honor would not want to lose these surroundings. He really didn’t know how exactly marriages were arranged among the very privileged, but from what he did know, he believed it was doubtful that she would marry into such opulence as this, only because there were so few families that enjoyed such wealth.

  He was beginning to feel a bit foolish; he’d come here after a long internal debate. He’d told himself that he was helping Honor Cabot. His body had said otherwise. His body, his heart had said that he had to see her again. But toward what end? That was the murky mystery brewing in him.

  Finnegan seemed perfectly at ease, putting George’s things away as George stood by, uncomfortable in his uselessness. He’d not wanted Finnegan to come, but Finnegan had explained to Easton that if he arrived without a manservant or valet, he’d appear out of place.

  “I am out of place,” George had pointed out.

  “Only if you believe yourself to be,” Finnegan had said curtly, and had begun to fill a valise, his jaw set with determination. George knew better than to argue with the man when he was like that, and now here he was, brushing down George’s formal dinner coat. “I suggest you have a walkabout,” Finnegan said without looking up from his work. “You might prepare yourself for croquet. Perhaps it will improve your disposition and put you into a proper frame of mind for society here.” He glanced up at George. “If I may, sir, it is vastly different than the society in which you typically associate.”

  George couldn’t help but grin. “Do you know, Finnegan, that there are days I have the strongest urge to put my fist squarely in your comely face?”

  “That would not become a gentleman,” Finnegan said, and went about his business.

  George couldn’t watch Finnegan any longer; he ran his fingers through his hair, straightened his neckcloth and went out. He walked out into the gardens and paused to admire the fine specimens of roses rivaled only by those he’d seen around St. James.

  He heard the sound of feminine laughter and was unthinkingly drawn to it, making his way through the maze of roses to the gate that led to a large expanse of manicured lawn. Beyond the vast lawn, he could see a lake shimmering in the sunlight, bounded by forest on two sides.

  He walked through the gate and carried on down the slope, his gaze on footmen who were busily setting the croquet hoops. He approached a trio of ladies seated near a large fountain where three enormous cherubs streamed great arcs of water from their pursed lips.

  One of the ladies glanced up from her wide-brimmed hat and blinked. “Mr. Easton!” she said, gaining her feet.

  George had been so taken by the giant cherubs that he’d failed to recognize Miss Hargrove at first. He quickly recovered and bowed low. “Miss Hargrove,” he said. “My day has just been immeasurably improved.”

  The two ladies in her company tittered at that.

  “I wasn’t aware you’d come,” Miss Hargrove said.

  “I only just arrived.”

  She nodded; her gaze flicked over him. “Miss Ellis, may I introduce Mr. George Easton,” she said, her hand gracefully indicating the fairer of the two young women seated on the bench. “And Miss Eliza Rivers.”

  “We are acquainted,” George said. “Ladies, how do you do?”

  “Are you lost, Mr. Easton?” Miss Hargrove asked, eyeing him closely. He noticed that she was holding a croquet mallet, which she swung casually at her side.

  “I am hopelessly lost,” he said cheerfully, earning a titter from Miss Ellis. “I was in search of your very affable fiancé. He had mentioned a croquet tournament.”

  “Yes, it will begin shortly. You will need a mallet.”

  “And a partner.” He looked pointedly at her. “Will you do me the honor, Miss Hargrove?”

  Miss Hargrove studied him a moment, clearly debating his invitation.

  “I might partner, if you like,” Miss Rivers said shyly. “I am certain Miss Hargrove will want to partner with Lord Sommerfield—”

  “Thank you, but I had agreed to partner with Mr. Cleburne,” Monica interjected. “I’m certain he won’t mind another partner now that a new guest has arrived so unexpectedly. Shall we fetch you a mallet, Mr. Easton?” She gestured to the path.

  George smiled. He would delight in explaining to Honor Cabot that he was right, he had indeed turned Miss Hargrove’s head, and one need only see how quickly she leaped at the chance to be his partner to know it. He graciously offered his arm to her, wished her companions a good day and began to walk with her. “Such lovely roses at Longmeadow,” he observed. “Beauty is surrounded by beauty.” He smiled.

  Miss Hargrove sighed. “Quite flattering, Mr. Easton. Miss Rivers would have swooned. But I’ve never been swayed by poetic overture.”

  George was only slightly taken aback. “Should I take that to mean you are immune to honest admiration?”

  “I am not immune to honest admiration,” she said. “But how can you claim to have any admiration for me when there are so many lovely debutantes around you? I daresay my fiancé’s four unmarried sisters are ripe for admiration.”

  She watched him closely for his response, but George was practiced in getting his way when it came to matters female. “Surely you must know that when one’s heart has divined toward someone in particular, one cannot simply will it in another direction?”

  Miss Hargrove suddenly laughed at that. “You’re a rake, Mr. Easton! It would seem that all I’ve heard tell about you is true.”

  He didn’t know precisely what she meant, but he was beginning to wonder if he’d ever worked so hard to entice a woman. “I am certain I am guilty as charged, but I am a man, first and foremost, and when I admire a woman, I cannot deny it.”

  They reached the stand where a footman was handing out croquet mallets and balls. She took a mallet and handed it to him. “You’d best admire someone else.”

  What had happened here? The woman had practically been melting at the Prescott Ball. Had she heard the rumors of his missing ship, that his fortune was gone, as he’d heard round his club? Was that the reason for her aloofness?

  He decided to resort to more salacious tactics. “You may be engaged, Miss Hargrove, but to a man who cannot possibly please you as I would.” He paused, let his gaze drift down her body, then looked into her eyes. “In every manner your body might imagine.”

  He fully expected her to succumb to that suggestion, but she didn’t. She took the croquet balls from the footman and handed them to George and pointed to the ground. “We will begin there when play is called.” She glided away toward the start of the course.

  George followed her and carelessly dropped the balls at the starting point, his gaze on her.

  Miss Hargrove glanced at him sidelong. “Perhaps you should have a look about this weekend and set your sights on someone who is more accepting of your attentions.” She glanced around and nodded to something over his shoulder. “Miss Peeples has no understanding with anyone.”

  George didn’t even bother to glance at the Peeples girl. “I think her mother would not approve.” He was certain of that—he’d enjoyed a brief but passionate affair with Mrs. Peeples a year or so ago. The woman had been frightened of pregnancy and had preferred to please him. Which, George thought, had been pleasant enough once or twice. But he’d discovered he’d rather be the one to do the pleasing.

  A sudden and unwanted image of Honor Cabot danced in his mind’s eye, and he was reminded of how lustfully she had received his advances at the Prescott Ball. So much so that he had struggled quite desperately to keep from taking it further.

  “Well, there are plenty of others,” Miss Hargrove said with a shrug. “Ah, there he is, my future husband.” She gave George a pert little smile as Sommerfield began to wave his arms, seeking the attention of the players.<
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  Bloody hell, Monica Hargrove was a tough little nut, George thought as Sommerfield bellowed out the rules of the tournament. He’d said things to her he’d said to far more experienced women, and which had produced far more satisfying results than this one would give him.

  Dear God, was Honor right?

  The more he thought on it, the more vexed George grew. He was a grown man, for heaven’s sake, an experienced man. And when a man like him said that he desired to please a woman, she should slap him or eat out of his bloody palm. But she should not give him a coy smile and chassé away.

  So what was it, George wondered irritably, that would turn Miss Hargrove’s stubborn little head? He was feeling rather determined to find it.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  THE BEAUTIFUL SUNSHINE of the afternoon had given way to rain, and the guests were in the foyer, filling the hallways and grand ballroom. It had been set for a night of gaming with card and casino tables, as well as roulette. The formal dining room was likewise set with tables, but for dining. At half past ten, a buffet would be provided.

  Honor walked through the throng, pausing to accept the greetings of several guests and the compliments of more than one gentleman. She had dressed for the evening in anticipation of seeing Easton again. She wore a crimson satin trimmed with black lace and beaded embroidery that swirled about the hem of the gown and her train, and the front panel of the underskirt. The décolletage was scandalously deep, edged with more black lace. Around her throat she wore a choker of black obsidian stones, a gift from the earl on the occasion of her twentieth birthday. It was amazing to think that had been two entire years ago. Most of her friends that age were married now. Lucinda Stone was expecting her first child.

  Honor felt a curious little draw of something when she thought of Lucinda that felt almost like regret.

  But that was impossible. Honor didn’t regret anything. She’d lived her life as she’d wanted, taking advantage of every opportunity to be as free as she pleased. So why, then, had that freedom begun to feel a little like a noose? No, no, that was not what she believed.

  She believed in her freedom when she wasn’t thinking of George Easton.

  Speaking of Easton, where was he? She tried not to imagine him befriending any other woman here—the thought was a bit nauseating.

  She could not see him in the throng.

  A current seemed to run through the house; laughter crackled, the crowd’s jovial mood helped along by unimaginable quantities of champagne and wine, served by a team of eight footmen.

  Even the earl had come down, Honor was pleased to see. He was dressed in formal tails, his neckcloth snowy white against the sickly pallor of his skin. He looked rather small in the large, upholstered armchair where he sat, a footstool under his feet, a blanket over his lap, Jericho standing behind him.

  Honor’s mother was sitting beside him, beautifully regal in the silver gown. She was laughing at something Mr. Cleburne was saying. Mr. Cleburne was suddenly ever present, wasn’t he? She supposed Monica had seen to that.

  Honor made her way to the earl’s side and crouched beside his chair, covering his hand with hers. “How do you fare this evening, my lord?”

  He smiled at her, touched the back of his hand to her cheek. “I am fatigued, darling, but otherwise, I feel well enough, I suppose. You look beautiful.” He cocked his head to see the obsidian choker and smiled. “Look at your daughter, Joan,” he said, putting his hand on his wife’s hand. “Isn’t she beautiful?”

  Honor’s mother turned a bright smile from the conversation with Mr. Cleburne, Augustine and Monica to Honor.

  Honor smiled and touched the black choker. “Do you remember the necklace his lordship gave me on my birthday, Mamma?”

  Her mother’s gaze dropped to the necklace a moment, then slowly lifted to Honor’s eyes again. “Of course I recall it. You’ve taken it from my jewelry box.”

  Augustine chuckled and said to Mr. Cleburne, “There is never a moment’s peace with so many women, sir. But you will grow accustomed to it.”

  Honor was so anxious to dispel any idea that she might have taken the necklace from her mother that she only vaguely wondered why Mr. Cleburne would need to grow accustomed to sisters. “No, Mamma! The earl made a gift of it to me, remember?”

  “You stole it,” her mother insisted, her gaze suddenly dark and distant. Standing just on the other side of her, Monica’s gaze widened with surprise.

  “She’s not stolen it, Joan,” said the earl. “I gave it to her.”

  Her mother yanked her hand free of the earl’s. “Why would you lie to protect her?”

  Stunned, Mr. Cleburne looked from Honor to Lady Beckington. “May I be of some help?”

  Augustine was gaping in shock at his stepmother, and Monica... Monica’s gaze was fixed on Honor, neither surprised nor smug. She seemed only curious as to what Honor would say next.

  God in heaven, she knew. She knew Honor’s mother was going mad.

  Honor’s heart began to race. She quickly took off the necklace. “Here, Mamma. You are quite right, I have taken it without permission.” She held the necklace out to her mother.

  Lady Beckington turned away from it, as if looking at it hurt her. “I don’t want it now,” she said, as if the necklace had been ruined. “Oh, there she is! There is my daughter Grace!” she said, and rose, almost pushing Mr. Cleburne aside as she reached for Grace.

  Grace looked curiously at them all, but when her gaze met Honor’s, the color seemed to bleed from her face. “Good evening, Mamma,” she said, and kissed her mother’s cheek.

  Her mother grabbed Grace in a tight embrace. “How thankful I am that you have come,” she said. “She stole my necklace!” She glared at Honor.

  The earl very shakily reached his hand up to his wife’s arm. “Sit, Joan, sit, sit. I should like you near.”

  Honor’s mother looked as if she meant to refuse her husband, but Mr. Cleburne put a hand on her elbow, guiding her into the chair. With one last glare for Honor, she smiled up at Mr. Cleburne as if everything were quite normal, as if she hadn’t just accused Honor of stealing from her.

  But Augustine, Monica and Grace were all looking at Honor uncertainly, not knowing what to say. And what was Honor to do?

  It was the earl who saved her. He subtly touched her hand. “Bloody women,” he said, his voice rough. “Always arguing over this jewel or that shoe, are they not, Cleburne?” he said with a dismissive flick of his wrist.

  Mr. Cleburne laughed with anxious relief. “Quite so, my lord.”

  “If you will excuse me, my lord, I should make sure the kitchen is in order,” Honor said, to which Grace’s eyebrows rose nearly to her hairline, seeing as how Honor rarely set foot in the kitchen. Nonetheless, Honor walked on, the necklace still clutched in her hand.

  But as she moved away, she couldn’t seem to settle her heart, racing with fear.

  She wished she knew what to do, she wished, oh, God, how she wished that she had taken her responsibility to marry more seriously. If she had married, she would be in a position to care for her mother without fearing what would become of her.

  Honor needed air, a moment of quiet to think. She stepped out of the ballroom and into the crowded hallway.

  A touch to her arm startled her; she looked up to see George Easton.

  He gave her a subtle wink as he bowed before her. “There you are, Miss Cabot. I thought perhaps you had returned to London, as I’ve seen hide nor hair of you since I left all my cares behind to come to your aid.” He cocked a brow, a playful smile on his lips.

  Her foolish heart skipped several beats at the sight of him. She suddenly didn’t feel quite so alone. “Perhaps you’ve not seen me about because you were well occupied?” She arched a brow right back at him.

  “Indeed I was,” he said agreeably. “I spent the afternoon playing croquet with your future sister-in-law and charming her into submission. You do recall, do you not, the reason for our acquaintance?” he asked, ge
sturing back and forth between them.

  She did not like to think he was here because of Monica. She wanted him to be here for her.

  “It went exceedingly well, if you’re wondering,” he said. “Much like humoring a child—”

  “Humoring a—oh!” Honor exclaimed. “It is comforting to know that your esteem for yourself never wavers!” She stepped around him, intending to stalk away before she said something she’d regret, but Easton was not content to let her go. He stopped her with a hand to her abdomen as she tried to pass.

  “Don’t you dare flounce away from me in a snit, madam.”

  “I am neither flouncing nor in a snit,” she said, pushing his hand away.

  “Yes, you are. You’re angry that your little scheme is not working and are directing your frustration at me.”

  That wasn’t it at all. Her frustration was too ill defined, directed at everything and everyone. “You are quite right, Mr. Easton,” she said imperiously. “I am directing my frustration at you. I truly believed you were the man for this, could turn any woman’s head—”

  “I beg your pardon once more, but you claimed that. I never did.”

  “I don’t want you to do it!” she blurted.

  Easton blinked. “Pardon?”

  What was she doing? Honor put her hand to her forehead and closed her eyes, trying to make sense of her feelings. “You were right. It was a ridiculous notion, and one that has failed miserably.”

  “Have a care, love,” Easton muttered, and smiled reassuringly. “I’ve not given up, and frankly, I never thought you would. I’ve never met a more tenacious and stubborn—”

  Honor lifted her head, her eyes narrowing.

  “Pardon,” he said with an easy smile. “Determined person in my life.”

  “I was. I am,” she quickly amended. “But this...this is folly. Childish folly. I don’t want you to do it. Please.”

  “Well, yes, but... Good God, you are defeated,” he said, pretending shock. “Where is the swashbuckler?”

  The swashbuckler had deserted her. She felt nothing but fear and uncertainty and a strong desire for the man standing before her. She shrugged halfheartedly. She felt torn and pulled in so many conflicting directions, everything twisted all around, and in the midst of it were her growing feelings for Easton.