The Trouble with Honor

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

LADY CHATHAM BRUISED some tender feelings the following afternoon at the horse track with her speculation that Ellen Rivers was besotted with George Easton, and what a pity that was, for now everyone knew of that silly girl’s lack of judgment.

When that was repeated back to Ellen Rivers, she was hasty in her attempts to distance herself from a man who, according to a growing chorus, had no business even being at Longmeadow among such august guests.

George was blissfully unaware of the talk, however, as he had forgone the horse racing and escaped into the village, to an inn tucked just off the main road, to imbibe copious amounts of ale.

He was captivated by the serving girl’s cleavage, staring at him directly as she leaned quite far over the table to slide him a fresh tankard of ale. It was not the milky mounds of flesh spilling out of her bodice that had him, but the fact that he didn’t really care about them at all. His head was filled with the image of a raven-haired temptress, and when he saw this young woman’s chest, he thought of another décolletage entirely.

He eased back from the girl. She was pretty. His body was halfheartedly attempting to respond, but there was something else at work in him, something odd and ill fitting that had lodged like a rock inside him. It felt dangerously like a conscience.

He looked down at his tankard, away from her breasts. The girl stood a moment longer at his table before turning and swishing away.

George pushed his tankard aside. He’d lost his thirst. He couldn’t seem to rid his mind of the events of these past two days, of that astonishingly intimate interlude on the viewing balcony. He’d lost his mind that night, had allowed himself to sink into the depths of his imagination and feelings that had crept up on him, slipping under his skin.

He couldn’t seem to rid himself of the feelings. Big, thick feelings with tentacles had wrapped around his heart and were now holding it prisoner. His instinct was, as always, to ignore those feelings, to tamp them down so far that he might forget where he put them. And here he was, as tangled in thoughts and emotions as he’d ever been in his life, and he didn’t know how to get free of them.

But he had to get free of them, somehow, some way. Honor Cabot was a dalliance he could not sustain, a woman from a world he would never know. And she...

She needed to think of her future.

He put some money on the table and gathered up his cloak for the ride to Longmeadow. Why was he still here? Why had he come? Because he couldn’t stop thinking about her, couldn’t stop dreaming of her. Now he had to return to London, to important things—such as what the devil he’d do if he had indeed lost his fortune to the sea.

The sun was sinking behind the trees when George rode down the long drive to Longmeadow. It was a fine early evening; the front door was standing open, and people were walking back from the track where they had raced horses this afternoon.

He handed the reins of his horse to a young man and instructed him to have his horse ready to depart the following morning. On his way to the entrance, George happened to notice a woman draped in a cloak, the hood pulled over her head. But she was holding her arms tightly across her in a manner that he recognized. He changed course, strolling to Honor’s side. He bent his head to peek underneath her hood.

“There you are, Easton,” she said, her smile strangely vacant. “Has Longmeadow already lost its charm for you? We missed you and your purse at the races this afternoon.”

He wanted to gather her in his arms and kiss her, let her know that he had missed her, too. But he clasped his hands at his back. “Quite the contrary, Cabot. I am completely charmed by Longmeadow. What are you doing out here, alone, cloaked for winter?”

Honor glanced away, toward the lake. “Pru took Mamma for a walkabout, but they’ve not come back.” She squinted in the distance.

George understood the worry in her eyes, and the impact on him was powerful. He did not want Honor Cabot to ever feel the least bit hopeless and thought he’d go to the ends of the earth to keep her from it. “Where did they go?”

“I thought they’d gone down to the gazebo by the lake, but I’ve just come from there, and no one is about.”

“You’re sure they’ve not gone into the house, perhaps from another direction?” he asked, peering into the gloaming.

She shook her head. “I’ve searched everywhere.” She dropped her arms, her hands in tight fists of anxiety. “I’ll have another look,” she said, and started to walk away from him.

“Honor, wait,” George said, taking her elbow. “It’s almost dark. Allow me to help.” They walked down to the lake, where a streak of gold and orange from the last rays of the setting sun split the lake in half. “They cannot have gone far,” George assured her, sensing her growing unease. He wanted to put his arms around her, infuse her with his confidence. “Your sister will not have let her roam.”

“You assume my sister could keep her from it,” Honor said, her voice betraying a bit of panic. “Mamma is worse, George, so much worse. It’s as if coming here to Longmeadow somehow hastened her along. You can’t imagine!”

He couldn’t bear it. To hell with propriety and talk. George put his arm around Honor’s shoulders and pulled her into his chest. “Take heart, love,” he said. “I’ll find her. Go back to the house, go and be as happy and carefree as you can be so that no one will suspect, and I shall bring her back to you.”

“I can’t ask that of you,” Honor said wearily. “I’ve asked far too much as it is.”

“Go now,” he said, ignoring her protests. “Go before your guests think your entire family is missing. Mercy and Grace need you now.”

That seemed to give her pause, long enough that George could turn her around and give her a nudge. He had no idea where he would look for the women, especially now that night was falling. He began to move in the direction of the gazebo.

“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, impossible 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 swooned.” 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.”

George pulled her closer, twirled her around. “I don’t care, Cabot.”

She smiled up at him. “Neither do I.”

They danced in silence a few moments.

“We are to London on the morrow,” she said.

“As am I.”

George could see the indelible sadness in her eyes, and although she tried to smile, it did not come to her easily. He wanted to kiss her, to kiss the sadness from her eyes, the forced smile from her lips. But he couldn’t, and to make the moment even more frustrating for him, the song had come to an end. George did not want to let her go. Ever.

When he did, a strange sensation of emptiness spiraled up in him.

“Well, then,” she said. “I suppose I should say good-night.”

She stood, waiting for him to respond, to tell her that he would see her in London, which of course he hoped for, madly hoped for....

But George couldn’t bring himself to speak. He felt as helpless as a baby, unable to find the words to say. He merely gave her a curt nod and clasped his hands tightly at his back. So tightly. To keep from putting them on Honor and drawing her back. “Good night, Miss Cabot.”

Her gaze flicked over him, and she lowered her head, stealing one last sidelong look at him before walking on.

George kept his hands clasped until he could no longer see her in the crowd.

And when he turned around, he saw Miss Hargrove standing before him, smiling like a fat cat. “You’ve become quite the partner in demand, Mr. Easton. Should I expect to see you at more balls in London?”

George suddenly understood that Miss Hargrove suspected his feelings for Honor. She thought she would have the best of him? Oh, no—George suddenly had a renewed interest in enticing her away from Sommerfield. “I’ve been told that I am much improved. Would you like to see for yourself?” he asked, holding out his arm.

Miss Hargrove laughed and put her hand on his. “I would be delighted,” she said.