The Trouble with Honor

by Julia London

  “George?”

  He paused and looked back. Honor was on the path to the house. In the waning light, she looked ethereally beautiful, and a small but powerful tremor of desire raced through him. “Thank you,” she said. “From the bottom of my useless heart, thank you.” She turned around and moved on, the cloak fluttering out behind her.

  He had no idea why she would say such a thing. Honor Cabot had the most useful heart of anyone he’d ever known.

  * * *

  HONOR HANDED HER cloak to a footman as she walked into the foyer, soothed her hastily arranged hair and the gown she’d donned so quickly when she’d heard about her mamma.

  Why Lady Beckington had become convinced that the earl had been poisoned, Honor could not begin to guess. His lordship had been sitting up in his bed, still very much alive, and yet her mother would not believe Honor or the earl.

  “Take her to London at once,” the earl had ordered between painful, racking coughs. “I don’t care what you must say, Honor, but remove her from Longmeadow before the entire party is aware of her madness.”

  It was happening so quickly! Like the cuff of her sleeve, Lady Beckington’s madness had been a tiny thread, perhaps ignored for too long. But once it began to unravel, it unraveled quickly.

  Honor felt as if her entire life was one long unraveling now.

  She moved through the crowd gathering for the final night of the soiree. There would be dancing, and supper would be served in two sets to accommodate the large number, the first seating at nine o’clock. Honor put a smile on her face and paused to speak to anyone she knew. She chatted about the fine weather, the horse races next month at Newmarket. She was the consummate actress, and as Lady Chatham prattled on about the latest attractions among the debutantes and the young gentlemen, she thought about how often she’d done this very thing, had made the rounds through crowds, talking and flirting. She’d felt as if she were rebelling, spreading her smiles to gentlemen far and wide. She’d thought herself bold.

  Tonight, she felt more like a child, and longed to crawl into George’s lap and hide from the world.

  She found Augustine reviewing the menu with Hardy. Naturally, Monica was there as well, and for once, she looked almost genuinely pleased to see Honor.

  “There you are! We’ve been waiting for you to come down. Oh, dear, Honor, I expected to see you dressed in something expensive and glittery,” she said laughingly as she took in Honor’s rather plain gown. “You always shine so.”

  “Yes, well,” Honor said, “we’ve only one lady’s maid between us, and I was rather anxious to come down.”

  “These past few days have been quite grueling, have they not?” Monica asked cheerfully as Augustine opined about his preference for leek soup over onion soup to Hardy. “I never understood just how difficult it is to host such a large gathering over a weekend.”

  “It’s exhausting,” Honor agreed.

  “I really must commend Lady Beckington. She’s always made it appear so effortless,” Monica said. “By the by, where is your lady mother? I’ve not seen her all day. I worry for her, you know.”

  Honor tensed, waiting for Monica to say more. Is your mother mad? Have you noticed that she seems a bit batty? But Monica merely looked at her, politely waiting a response.

  “She is feeling fatigued,” Honor said carefully. “I think she will not come down tonight.”

  “Pardon, what?” Augustine said. “Goodness, it’s you, Honor. I really must insist that you speak to Mercy about her desire to discuss mummified corpses at breakfast. It’s really very off-putting. Lady Marquette was so disturbed she was forced to take to her rooms. What’s this about our Lady Beckington?”

  “She is resting,” Honor said.

  Augustine looked confused. “But she’s just there, and looking rather well rested, indeed.”

  Honor whirled about to see what had his attention and managed to choke down a small cry of shocked relief. There was her mother on George’s arm, laughing as she explained something to Lord Hartington that apparently involved the muddied hem of her gown, seeing as how she held it out for Hartington to have a look. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkling with excitement. She looked quite beautiful in spite of her muddied hem.

  And entirely lucid. Completely, utterly, lucid.

  What had George done? How had he managed it?

  “Honor, you are a dear and a perfect daughter,” Augustine said. “But she seems perfectly well.”

  “She does, doesn’t she?” Monica said, sounding a bit perplexed.

  George and Lady Beckington made their way across the room, pausing once to share something with each other that made them both laugh.

  “Lady Beckington, good evening!” Augustine said.

  Honor’s mother inclined her head and smiled brightly at Augustine and Monica as she reached for Honor’s hand to squeeze it. “Good evening, all! I do beg your pardon for the state of my hem and no doubt, my hair.” She laughed. “It has been a glorious day, has it not? Prudence and I walked down to the old mill, and will you believe it, we were turned this way and that. Had it not been for Mr. Easton, we might never have found our way back,” she said cheerfully.

  “But where is Pru?” Honor asked.

  “Oh, darling, you know your sister. She wouldn’t dream of coming in the main entrance with a muddied hem. She’ll be down shortly.”

  “You are well, madam?” Augustine asked. “Feeling quite yourself and all that?”

  “Yes, of course I am! Who else would I feel?” She laughed roundly at her jest.

  “I thought so,” Augustine said confidently. “I was just saying to Honor that I thought her concern for your fatigue was perhaps overly cautious, as I found you to be perfectly fine this afternoon.”

  “Oh, yes, so much to do!” her mother exclaimed, apropos of nothing.

  “Shall we change gowns, Mamma?” Honor asked, her heart racing madly. She dared not look at George, dared not see the truth in his eyes.

  “Oh, we must, mustn’t we? It won’t do to continue on in such a state.”

  “Then I shall surrender you to your daughter’s care,” George said smoothly. He bowed, lifting his head and catching Honor’s eye so subtly, she wasn’t even certain of it. There it was again, that unholy urge to throw herself into his arms, to bury her face in his collar, feel his breath in her hair and on her skin, the strength of him surrounding her, protecting her from awful truths.

  She linked her arm through her mother’s. “Shall we go up?” she asked, and led her away before her mother said or did anything that might surprise anyone.

  * * *

  FINNEGAN HAD PRESSED George’s formal tails and laid them out, but the man himself was nowhere to be seen. George didn’t want to know whose bed that randy bastard might be visiting.

  He took his time at his toilette. The thought of another ball, another night of crowded rooms and the scent of a woman teasing him and making him want, did not appeal. But his feelings for Honor could not be put down as he wished. He could not leave Longmeadow without seeing her, without looking into her eyes once more, without remembering those moments on the viewing balcony and feeling the swell of desire in him, the craving to slide inside her and possess her completely.

  Where did this unholy yearning end?

  He thought of Lady Beckington and the burden of her madness that was now resting on Honor’s shoulders. He’d discovered Lady Beckington and Prudence on the edge of the lake—Lady Beckington was laughing wildly at a pair of ducks who were seeking food from her hand...food she didn’t have. Her madness made his desires even more impossible—Honor would need to marry someone who could protect her mother. How could he? At present, he couldn’t say if he would have any funds at all by the end of the year.

  George shook his head, angry with himself for having skated onto a very thin patch of ice. Each step brought him closer to falling through, sinking into the murky depths of the dark, cold waters of his desires. Unwanted, unanswered, imposs
ible desires.

  He was late to the ball; the dancing had begun. He stood in the back, watching the dancers, lost in thought.

  “It would seem we find ourselves alone again, Mr. Easton.”

  He was startled by the sound of Miss Hargrove’s voice; he hadn’t noticed her approach and had no idea how long she’d been there. “How fortuitous,” he said, smiling at her.

  She cocked her head to one side, studying him, her brown eyes dancing. “Is everything all right? You seem a bit subdued this evening.”

  “Do I?”

  Her smile deepened. “Perhaps the loss of one’s fortune puts a damper on one’s ardor.”

  George blinked with surprise.

  “I mean only that you are generally rather eager to seduce me. Perhaps tonight, your mind is on other things.”

  His gaze drifted to her mouth, sliding slowly and deliberately down to her décolletage. At any other time in his life, he would have been attracted to a woman as handsome and coy as Monica Hargrove. Even in this moment, he was the tiniest bit captivated by his prey, in teaching her a thing or two about disparaging a man’s fortune as she’d just done. But a damnably fine pair of blue eyes suddenly shimmered in his mind’s eye, and it occurred to him that he could at least do this for Honor. He could at least lure this woman away from Honor’s troubles.

  He touched Miss Hargrove’s hand. “Have you been listening to rumors, love?”

  Without shifting her gaze from his face, she laced her fingers with his. “Perhaps one or two. Have you?”

  He smiled. “One or two.”

  She laughed lightly and dropped her hand. “Have you made the acquaintance of Mr. Cleburne, sir?” she said pleasantly, and looked past George. He glanced over his shoulder, saw a thin man with a pleasant countenance standing awkwardly aside.

  “Mr. Cleburne is the new vicar here at Longmeadow. Mr. Cleburne, may I present Mr. Easton?”

  George nodded. “How do you do?”

  “A pleasure, sir,” Cleburne said.

  “You mustn’t allow his charming smile to fool you, Mr. Cleburne,” Miss Hargrove said jovially. “Mr. Easton is quite a scoundrel.”

  Mr. Cleburne laughed. “Mr. Easton, you seem perfectly respectable to me. Please, excuse me,” he said, and walked on, his gaze scanning the crowd.

  “A scoundrel, am I?” George asked.

  Miss Hargrove laughed again. “Mr. Cleburne is such a dear man,” she said. “And unmarried. I think he might very well be the perfect match for our Honor.”

  Her gaze was locked on him, watching him closely. How George remained placid, he didn’t know, for she might as well have sliced him open. “Perhaps,” he said with a shrug.

  “He would be an excellent influence, I should think. And of course, he is beyond reproach. That can’t be said of every gentleman, can it?” She gave him a coy smile and sashayed away.

  George stared after her. Beautiful, exasperating creatures, women were, the lot of them. Monica Hargrove was trifling with him, trying to arouse a reaction from him.

  George ignored it, because something much darker had suddenly filled his thoughts—Miss Hargrove was right. As much as George loathed to admit it to himself, Cleburne was a good match for Honor. That slender, smiling man with no more knowledge of the physical pleasures of the flesh than a rock was better suited as a match for the most interesting woman in all of London. He would provide for Honor, and moreover, he was a man of the cloth—his charity at taking his wife’s mad mother and caring for her would be exalted. Cleburne’s collar would give him access to some of the best facilities for madness, should it come to that.

  George, bastard that he was, gambler, womanizer, tradesman, could not have been less suitable for a woman like Honor Cabot. She was so far above his reach that she may as well have been a bloody star.

  That truth began to corrode him, eating away at his confidence. No matter how rich, no matter how handsome, or charming, or seductive, there was no happy forevermore for him with a woman like Honor or Monica Hargrove.

  And yet George had combed his hair, adjusted his neckcloth and made sure his waistcoat was properly buttoned down with the express purpose of seeing the woman he desired more than life.

  If only she would come down.

  The wine and whiskey were flowing freely; the musicians began a reel. Lady Vickers appeared, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright with one too many glasses of “punch,” as the ladies liked to call it.

  “Where have you been, naughty boy?” she asked, leaning into him, pressing her breasts against his arm. “Dance with me, Easton? I should very much like to dance.”

  He’d always been powerless to say no to a pretty woman.

  He danced with Lady Vickers and then with Mrs. Reston, who spoke endlessly about her recently widowed sister, who lived in Leeds. George supposed that Leeds was far enough removed from proper society that he might be considered a suitable match for her.

  He had grown weary of the ball, weary of Longmeadow, of the ton. He made his excuses to Mrs. Bristol and had started upstairs to his room when he saw his heart’s true desire. How had he missed her? She was a vision of loveliness in the crème silk gown that made her eyes all but leap from her face. She was engrossed in conversation with Mr. Jett, but when she saw him and smiled, a flash of deep warmth filled his chest. She said something to Mr. Jett and started toward him, leaving Mr. Jett behind to stare sourly at George.

  “Mr. Easton, you are in the ballroom,” she said gaily. “I supposed you would be in the gaming room, winning back your fortune, which everyone seems to be nattering on about tonight.”

  “And I’d assumed you’d turned in for the night. You’ve been absent from the dancing.”

  “I’ve stood up once or twice,” she said with a smile. “You?”

  “Oh, well, I’ve been quite occupied with ladies needing dance partners.”

  “A noble endeavor, sir. None too painful, I hope?”

  He grinned. “Perhaps more for my partners than for me.”

  The music was beginning again, and George recognized the cadence of the waltz Honor had taught him. How was it possible that the first waltz with her could seem so long ago to him now? It seemed another lifetime. “I think I might bear one more,” he said, nodding in the direction of the dancing.

  She glanced at the couples. “It’s a waltz, which I may attest is not among your best dances,” she teased him.

  “Then I am doubly fortunate to have you here to lead me once again.”

  She laughed and placed her hand on his arm, then glanced up at him. When she smiled like that, she looked brilliant, a brilliant star among many dull planets, circling his heart, caught in his orbit.

  George led her out onto the dance floor and put his hands where she’d once instructed him. The dancing began; he stepped woodenly into the rhythm.

  “Oh!” she said, her eyes lighting with delight. “You’re much improved!” He promptly missed a step.

  Honor laughed as she righted the ship for him. But then her smile faded somewhat. “Thank you for finding my mother,” she said as he moved them along in a straight line.

  “It was nothing.”

  “Don’t say that, George,” she admonished him. “It was everything. At least to me.”

  Her gaze was intent and seemed to be searching his. God, how he wanted to touch her, to be touched by her. He abruptly twirled her, if only to move those eyes from his. She was peering too deeply, and he feared what she might see in the depths of his eyes. He feared his foolish heart was floating on the surface.

  “I’ve seen our friend,” he said, and twirled her once more for good measure.

  “Ah. And how did you find her this evening?” Honor said lightly. Too lightly. As if she didn’t particularly care.

  “Animated,” he said. “She seemed in good spirits.” Honor gasped with surprise when he suddenly twirled her and fell quickly back into step.

  “I suppose you charmed her with declarations of your esteem, and she swo
oned.” She smiled lopsidedly; a dimple appeared in one cheek. “Did you look directly in her eyes and say something quite sweet?”

  He snorted. “Such as how no one compares, so on and so forth?”

  “That would be too obvious, wouldn’t it? You probably said something quite poignant, didn’t you? And yet vague. Something like...”

  Was it his imagination, or did the light in her eyes soften?

  “Something like, ‘I have waited a lifetime for someone like you to walk into my life and possess my heart.’ With your own particular style, naturally.”

  The way she was looking at him pulled even harder at George. He understood her, understood what she was saying. He drew a shallow breath, tried to find his footing on that wretched dance floor. “I couldn’t possibly say such a thing to her, Honor. Those are words I could say to only one person. And I could only say them if they were true.”

  Honor’s gaze did not waver from his. Perhaps it was the music, or the crowded dance floor, but he could feel a current between them unlike anything he’d ever felt in his life, mysteriously warm, amazingly omnipotent. He could feel what she wanted, how her heart beat, how her blood flowed. He could feel her waiting for him to say those words to her.

  But he couldn’t say them. How could he say them? How could he say something like that just to soothe her, and at the same time expose them both to untold grief?

  When he did not speak, he could see the disappointment cloud her eyes. She shifted her gaze away. “No, you mustn’t say such things,” she said casually. “You mustn’t say anything at all.”

  God damn him—he’d let this go too far, had allowed his desires to rule him, and he hated himself for it in that moment.

  He suddenly twirled her one way and then the other. Honor’s smile slowly returned to her. Good girl. She understood as well as he that the thing between them could never come to life, must remain buried for all eternity.

  “You are a wretched dancer, Easton. And you are holding me too close. No doubt all of Longmeadow has already noticed, for these might very well be the most attentive people in all of England.”