The Trouble with Honor Page 15

  “You’ll speak to our Mercy, won’t you? I mentioned the problem to your mother, but she merely laughed and didn’t seem inclined to help.”

  Honor’s breath hitched at the thought of Augustine speaking to her mother for any length of time. “My mother is occupied with the earl. I will be happy to speak to Mercy.”

  “Augustine?” Monica said softly.

  He looked at his fiancée, then said, “Oh, yes! Forgive me. Honor, I should like to introduce you to Mr. Richard Cleburne. He is the new vicar at Longmeadow.”

  The young man straightened, clasped his hands behind him and bowed reverently.

  “How do you do, Mr. Cleburne,” Honor said. “Welcome to Longmeadow.”

  “Thank you.” He smiled.

  Honor shifted her gaze to Monica. “I hope the fine weather at Longmeadow suits you?”

  “I daresay everything at Longmeadow suits me.”

  Honor hadn’t the slightest doubt of that.

  “And Monica suits Longmeadow!” Augustine said proudly. “She’s had some wonderful notions for how to improve this room.”

  Honor had already begun to back out of the room, but that remark gave her pause. “Improvements?” She looked around at the room with its floral chintz furnishings and paintings of serene landscapes. “But it doesn’t need the slightest improvement. It’s perfect as it is.”

  “I thought perhaps it might be better suited as a breakfast room,” Monica said.

  “She’s right,” Augustine agreed enthusiastically. “I can’t believe we’ve not thought of it ourselves.”

  Honor suddenly had visions of guests trampling in and out of her favorite room in search of sausages. “This room, a breakfast room!”

  “Yes, this room,” Monica said airily. “The garden is the perfect vista for breaking one’s fast, and it’s not too terribly far from the kitchen.”

  “But neither is the current breakfast room, which has a lovely view of the park,” Honor pointed out.

  “Yet not enough room to accommodate all,” Monica countered.

  “And it’s drafty,” Augustine said, wrinkling his nose.

  “Nothing that can’t be repaired,” Honor insisted. “Perhaps you and Monica might turn your attention to supper arrangements rather than worrying about this particular room.”

  “We’ve already done so,” Augustine said proudly. “Monica and Mrs. Hargrove determined the seating this morning.” He smiled as if that were perfectly brilliant.

  But Honor was appalled. “Where was my mother?”

  “Indisposed?” Augustine said uncertainly. “My father, you know.”

  “Don’t fret, Honor,” Monica said soothingly. “I personally saw to it that you will be seated next to Mr. Cleburne.” She smiled, and it was a devilish one. Mr. Cleburne’s smile, on the other hand, was uncertain.

  “What a pleasure,” Honor said sweetly, nodding at the vicar. “And where will you sit, Monica? In my mother’s chair?”

  “Honor!” Augustine said, glancing at his fiancée to see if she was offended.

  But Monica merely laughed.

  A footman stepped into the room. “My lord, Mr. Hardy asks that you come to the foyer.”

  “Oh, dear, probably something to do with the horses again, do you suppose?” Augustine said to Monica, wincing. “I beg your pardon, ladies. Cleburne, what do you know of horses?” he asked.

  “I am woefully uneducated, my lord.”

  “Oh, you surely know more than me. Come, will you?” he asked, and walked briskly out of the room, forcing Mr. Cleburne to hurry along behind him, leaving Honor and Monica alone.

  Honor frowned when they’d gone. “My mother is not yet a widow, Monica. Aren’t you a bit too eager to take over as mistress?”

  “What are you implying?” Monica asked indifferently. “Lady Beckington was quite agreeable this morning when we suggested it. She scarcely seemed to care what the seating should be. She seemed more interested in planning an excursion to Scotland.” She paused. “At least I think that’s what she meant.”

  How Honor managed to keep from gasping with alarm was a feat of her iron will. “Augustine should have consulted with her.”

  “He did, Honor. We have all consulted with Lady Beckington, and as I said, she is quite agreeable. Perhaps she understands that I shall be mistress here one day, and that there is no point in resisting it. Perhaps you should do the same.”

  Small truths like that made Honor feel defeated...almost. “I should like to think I’d not brag of it until I had stood at the altar.”

  “Don’t be cross, dearest,” Monica said sweetly. “I am confident you will scarcely give this room, or the supper, or even Longmeadow another thought once you have an offer for your hand and are planning your own wedded bliss.”

  Honor could feel herself bristling, which was precisely what Monica wanted. She forced herself to smile. “I beg your pardon—am I in imminent danger of receiving an offer?”

  “One never knows,” Monica cheerfully avowed. “Sometimes, things have a way of happening that defy all reason, do they not? People appear in our lives so suddenly and change things about completely.”

  “What are you talking about?” Honor asked, a sense of foreboding growing in her.

  “Nothing! I am merely supposing that someone will appear to you, and then happily you might put the business with Rowley behind you.”

  Honor could smell something quite foul in this room and in those words, and folded her arms defensively. “There is no business with his lordship. I’ve not seen him in more than a year. I understand he is ensconced in the country with his lovely wife and their new son.”

  “I know you were stung by it, Honor,” Monica said with great condescension. “But you can’t allow it to color your opinion of all gentlemen.”

  “For heaven’s sake!” Honor complained. “You’ve not the slightest idea what you are talking about!”

  “I am only trying to impart that times are changing. The earl is quite seriously ill. Augustine will marry—even if it were not me, he’d marry someone, wouldn’t he? You can’t avoid the natural progression of things. You really should think of marrying a good man.”

  “A good man such as Mr. Cleburne, I suppose?” Honor said wryly.

  Monica smiled broadly. “He does seem very kind, does he not?”

  How Honor wished Monica was standing next to a window so she might push her out of it. “I am so thankful to have you looking out for my happiness,” she said. “And while you impatiently wait for that happy moment that I am wed, I shall leave you to your renovation of Longmeadow and seek out Mercy. Good day, Monica.”

  “Good day, Honor,” Monica responded, her voice singing with delight.

  Honor walked from the room, leaving not the slightest trace of unhappiness behind her, lest Monica sense it. She would find Mercy and suggest that her tales of ghosts and goblins were not gruesome enough.

  She stalked past the portrait gallery, the “drafty” breakfast room, the library, the formal dining room and the ballroom. She walked past the smaller salons and the yellow drawing room that took the western sun. She imagined what Monica might do with it all, and felt a knot of anger curling in her belly.

  But she had no right.

  As much as it galled her to admit it, Monica was right—Longmeadow was not her house; it was never intended to be her house. Honor would marry one day, and no doubt she’d live in a respectable house with a respectable man. But that house would not be Longmeadow with its hidden staircases and cold river and miles of green fields for girls to run and play. It would not be Beckington House in London with its marble foyer and grand salon where tea could be served to dozens at once. It wouldn’t be this life at all, and the only way that Honor might hold on to it, at least until her sisters were out, was to keep Monica from destroying it, from unraveling it a thread at a time, just like her mother’s sleeve.

  Honor had steadfastly put off the inevitable these past two years, unwilling to feel the sting
of disappointment again. Lord Rowley had broken her young, foolish heart, and Honor had found refuge in the Beckington wealth. The trappings of it had given her the freedom to keep a distance from her heart as she flitted to this event and that. She no longer knew if she was desperate to save the cocoon the earl’s wealth gave her, or her sisters.

  Honor didn’t know her own mind any longer. Everything was so muddied now, and growing murkier every day. She couldn’t keep Easton from her thoughts. Not for a moment.

  Her heart was filling with that man. He was haunting her dreams, lurking in the shadows of her every waking thought since the Prescott Ball. He had resided like a brilliant comet in her memory—he had streaked across her night sky and had disappeared. But he was a bastard son, so wrong in so many ways, and yet so right...

  Dear God, was he coming?

  She clenched her fists at her sides and marched on. She despised the way women pined for men, hoping they would appear at this event or that. Easton had said he wouldn’t come, and yet here she was, hoping. She looked expectantly toward every coach that pulled up before the massive stone columns that marked Longmeadow’s grand entrance, hoping for him. But coach after coach had come and gone, and George Easton had not come.

  He is not coming.

  Surely she might admit that to herself now. Surely she might make an effort to stop reliving the moments she’d spent in his arms, awash in the mysterious connections between man and woman, her heart singing, her body yearning for his touch. Surely she might allow that George Easton was a dangerously sensual man, and while he had opened a carnal world to her, it had not been as meaningful to him as it had been to her. He had indulged her far more than she might have hoped, had made her heart flutter madly, had filled her mind with lustful images and tender thoughts...but it had been all play to him.

  She had known from the beginning that he would not indulge her scheme forever; of course he wouldn’t. What man would? Even she had never believed her plot would accomplish anything but to perhaps postpone the inevitable. Honestly, she couldn’t even think of Monica now. Everything seemed so different.

  If she admitted all of this to herself, she could reason that her disappointment in his not coming was absurd! She should not be disappointed in being relieved of his wretched dancing. Or that he didn’t fawn over her as the young bucks of Mayfair were wont to do. She rather liked fawning and dancing! She should not admire his blue eyes that seemed to always shine with amusement, and neither should she be enamored of a man for the sole reason he would share her general annoyance at the grand form Monica had displayed at supper last night.

  Because the moment she allowed those disappointments to gain ground, the ache in her head would move to her heart, whittling away at it until there was nothing left but dust.

  * * *

  THE NEXT AFTERNOON, after luncheon, while the gentlemen rode about the thousand acres that made up Longmeadow, young Lord Washburn, who had graciously offered to stay behind and entertain the ladies, treated them to a poetry reading in the chapel. The ladies gamely trooped down the tree-lined lane to the small medieval church that had, at some point, been renovated to suit the needs of an earl.

  Honor was well acquainted with Lord Washburn. He’d come into his title of viscount when his father’s heart had suddenly stopped beating one day. He’d always been brash, loud and vexing, and then suddenly, with a title, he’d been one of the most sought-after gentlemen in all of Mayfair. Washburn had taken to his new role with great enthusiasm, and on more than one occasion had insinuated to Honor, and then to Grace, that either of them might be the lucky young woman to win his heart.

  Neither of them had the slightest desire to even try.

  Today, Washburn randomly chose a young woman to affix his brown eyes upon as he read, and Honor was not pleased to see him affix them so often on Prudence. She was not yet seventeen, and frankly, her head was too easily turned.

  Honor gazed at the rafters and idly wondered how long she might be trapped here. She sighed and glanced to her right—and gasped so loudly that Miss Fitzwilliam, sitting directly in front of her, glanced back over her shoulder with a look of alarm.

  Honor quickly put a finger to her mouth and smiled apologetically, then glanced to the window once more.

  He had come.

  It was him, Easton! He and another gentleman trotted on horseback down the lane to the house. His back was to her, but Honor recognized the way he sat his horse, the broad shoulders and the glimpse of his brown hair brushing over his collar beneath the brim of his hat.

  Her heart felt as if it was swelling in her chest with happiness. She could scarcely catch her breath, her heart was pounding so. Had he come for her? Had he missed her, had he thought of her as she had thought of him?

  Honor was suddenly and violently desperate to quit the chapel.

  Washburn had reached the crescendo of his current sonnet, had stepped away from the pulpit so that he might wave his arm around a bit. When he finished his sonnet, he crossed his arm across his heart and bowed deeply, graciously accepting the polite applause from the group of assembled young ladies. As two young women in the front row urged him to continue, Honor made her escape.

  She fairly dashed out the back, bursting into the bright sunlight and pausing a moment so that her eyesight might adjust. She hurried along until she rounded the corner of the stables, taking care to walk and not run, smoothing her hair when she dipped behind the well house. She ran up the steps from the stable to the main drive, and walked quickly around the corner of the house, arriving on the drive just as Easton removed a bag from his horse’s rump and handed it to a footman.

  Honor paused to take a deep breath, then walked serenely and slowly into the men’s midst. She stepped around the head of his horse. “Oh! Mr. Easton! You have come,” she said far too breathlessly to convince anyone she was surprised to stumble upon him there in the drive.

  His smile was so warm that it quietly filled her up like a tub of honey. He tipped his hat. “How do you do, Miss Cabot? Begun any new schemes? Created any bedlam in anyone’s life?”

  She laughed quickly, loudly, then took another steadying breath to reduce her ardor before smiling brilliantly at him. She could scarcely contain her joy at seeing him, or the urge to throw her arms around his neck and kiss him.

  Easton frowned. “I will ask you kindly not to smile at me quite like that, Miss Cabot. I have come against my better judgment, and frankly, I’ve lost all respect for myself.” He bowed.

  “Then why did you come?” she asked cheerfully.

  “Because I feared the chaos that would rain down on this august occasion if you were left to your own devices. It is my duty as a gentleman to spare these good people your unhinged thinking.”

  His declaration made her deliriously happy. She could feel her smile widening.

  “Don’t,” he said brusquely. “I will not be swayed by your charming smile again.”

  “You find my smile charming?” she asked, taking a step closer.

  “I find it dangerous.” He bent over and picked up a valise. “I find everything about you dangerous.”

  A strong shiver of longing skirted up her spine; Honor took another step closer. “You’ll be glad you have come, sir. You will have a very fine time at Longmeadow. I am certain of it.”

  “I won’t,” he said adamantly. But his eyes were twinkling with mirth.

  The man who had ridden in with him stepped up, took the valise from his hand and inclined his head at Honor.

  “Oh, yes. Miss Cabot, may I present Mr. Finnegan. He claims to be a valet.”

  “Madam,” the gentleman said, and walked on.

  “You’ve arrived just in time, too,” Honor said to George. “There is to be a croquet tournament on the west lawn this afternoon.”

  “That settles it, then—I may now expire from joy.”

  Honor laughed. “I won’t have you expiring at Longmeadow. Think of the scandal! Come, I’ll show you to the house. Hardy has a room f
or you.”

  She began to walk and Easton fell in beside her. She could feel him, his body so close to hers, the strength of him beside her. She was so enthralled with it that she was startled when Augustine suddenly bounded out the entrance with Hardy on his heels, looking very nervous as he surveyed the ladies coming up the path. “We really must hurry things along,” he said to no one in particular.

  Honor guessed Monica would be close behind, and as much as she would have liked to engage Easton a bit longer, she thought she might succumb to her desire to touch him if she did not take her leave. Her thoughts began to tumble over each other as she plotted how to speak to him alone, away from prying eyes. But it was impossible to say the things that were bubbling up in her on the drive, so she called out to her stepbrother, “Augustine, look who has come!”

  Augustine whirled about, squinting. And then he smiled. “Easton, yes, yes, of course! Welcome!” he said, and gestured to Hardy to follow him as he closed in on Easton.

  “You’re in excellent hands, sir,” Honor said. “Hardy will see you properly situated.” She turned about before he could respond and said, “Augustine, you must tell him about croquet! Mr. Easton said he is keen to play.”

  “Croquet!” she heard Augustine say. “Then you must play, Mr. Easton! We will have a spectacular course, naturally,” he added, and began to explain in enthusiastic detail the plan for croquet on the west lawn.

  Honor could feel Easton’s gaze on her back as she practically skipped into the house, her step suddenly lighter, her heart still racing.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  LONGMEADOW WAS AS impressive as George had heard, perhaps even more so. The Beckington butler led him and Finnegan down wide, carpeted corridors that turned into more wide, carpeted corridors, each one lined with paintings and portraits that George did not have time to study, artful little consoles that held Ming vases and hothouse flowers, and all of it illuminated by sunlit windows whose velvet drapes had been tied back with thick, gold silk cords.