The Trouble with Honor (14 page)

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

W
HEN
M
ONICA 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 explained 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

T
HE 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.

“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.

* * *

T
HE 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.