The Trouble with Honor (20 page)

She began to move with him, clinging to him, her fingers scraping down his back, digging into the flesh of his hip. He reached between their bodies and began to stroke the nub of her pleasure.

She was gasping for breath, pushing against his hand and his cock, her mouth on his chest. But she paused, and her fingers dug deeper into the flesh of his buttock; she gasped as her legs tightened around him.

George’s desire took on a new urgency; he pumped into her, wanting her to feel the violent shattering that was building in him. She cried out, her head dropping back, a swirl of dark hair covering her face as her body convulsed around his and she pressed against him.

With a low growl, he threw his head back on one last powerful thrust, burying himself deep inside of her, the moan of sheer ecstasy clawing its way from his throat, spilling hot seed inside of her.

The moment left him spent; he collapsed to the side of her, his arm draped over her middle, his face in her hair, fighting his way back from the fog of euphoria. It wasn’t until she traced a light line down his back and up again, that he lifted his head and looked down at her.

Honor’s cheeks were flushed, and she was, in that moment, as beautiful as any work of art George had ever seen. She turned her head slightly and opened her eyes with a gorgeously bright smile. She stroked his chin, brushed back his hair then peeled herself up to kiss him, her tongue teasing his, her lips wet on his.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

Her smile deepened, and she nodded. “I’m complete,” she said simply.

He wrapped his arms around her and marveled at the depth of his feeling. It was love, he feared. Real and true, raw love.

God, anything but that.

Anything
.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

H
ONOR FELT COMPLETE
and invincible, as if she’d vaulted over a chasm. Her body was full of vigor. She was a bit sore, but she scarcely cared—it was an exhilarating soreness, and her heart... Dear Lord, her heart was heavy with adoration.

She lay on her side, her head propped in her palm, her finger tracing a path down George’s chest as he slept.
She loved this man,
loved him thoroughly. She loved the way he looked as he slept, his face free of tension. She loved the way his hand kept reaching for her, finding her, even while he slept. She loved the way he smiled, the way he’d looked at her as he’d entered her body....

A small clock on the mantel chimed, and through the dim light of a single candle, she squinted at it. It was four in the morning. In another hour, Hannah would come to wake Honor to begin preparations to leave Longmeadow. She had to leave this place of wonder, had to leave the bed where she’d found her heart’s true direction.

She leaned down, touched her lips to George’s nipple. As he stirred, Honor stood up and went in search of her clothes.

“Where are you?” he asked hoarsely.

“Here,” she said softly, and let her chemise slide over her head.

He came up on his elbows, blinking sleepily. He silently watched her dress until Honor donned her corset and presented her back to him to be laced.

George sat up and very deftly began to pull the strings of her corset. Honor couldn’t help but wonder how many times he’d done this very thing, had sent a woman along after making love to her. The thought sobered her; she finished dressing and turned to face him as she absently braided her hair.

George sat on the edge of the bed, completely nude, his gaze fixed on her face. “George? I—”

“No,” he said brusquely, lifting a hand. “Don’t speak, Honor. Don’t say aloud words or promises that neither of us can ever reach, or worse, ever forget.”

Honor blinked. “But I—”

He stood up, gathered her in his arms and kissed her. “Don’t speak, my love. There is nothing either of us can say that will change anything, is there? Let this night live in your heart, but God help me, please, don’t
speak.
”

She understood him.... At least she thought she did. To say words of love when one could not live in that love was too painful to endure, wasn’t it? But there was yet so much to say to him, so much she wanted him to know! She wanted to tell him he was the best man she’d ever known. She wanted to tell him she didn’t care about his humble beginnings.

But George turned her around and fastened the last few buttons of her gown before she could say them. He bent his head and kissed her neck. “I will never forget this evening, not as long as I draw breath, and I will cherish it always,” he murmured. “Go now, before you are discovered.”

Honor stumbled forward. She didn’t know how to argue with him, or even if she should. She only knew that her heart was filled with him, utterly and completely.

She had to figure things out. Yes, that was what she would do—she would return to London, settle her mother and consider all her options.
There had to be a way to him.

Honor didn’t look back as she slipped out of his room, afraid to see the expression on his face, afraid of wanting him again, of saying those things he did not want to hear.

As it turned out, it was just as well she went when she did. There was much to be done, and only a few hours later, Honor and Grace found themselves struggling to put their mother into the coach. Lady Beckington was not of a mind to leave Longmeadow, which she had newly dubbed Halston Hall in her wrecked brain—a place where she’d summered as a girl but had not seen in twenty years. She was combative with her eldest daughters while her youngest two stared in horror.

The ordeal left them all exhausted and dreading the long and bumpy drive to London.

In the course of that drive, Honor’s thoughts about George grew confused. Her sunny happiness at being in love and discovering the landscape of pleasures between a man and woman had disappeared under the cloud of her mother. She and Grace were fighting an increasingly hard battle; she could see that.

Her heart’s heaviness was becoming painful.

There was so much she’d wanted to say to George last night, so many words of admiration and esteem. But now, away from him, she was glad she hadn’t said them. She mulled over what he’d said, the way he’d said it.
Don’t speak. Go now.
Is that what he said to the women he’d bedded? Or was there something deeper that he couldn’t face?

And what did it matter? George was right—she couldn’t be with him, no matter how she loved him. Honor had thought herself above caring what society thought, but she was discovering she wasn’t above it at all. The glow of lovemaking had dissipated, and she was growing frightened of what she felt for George, of what it meant. She understood all that she would sacrifice to be with him, and yet what she felt was perhaps the most tangible thing she’d ever felt in her life. It was real, it was powerful. It was entirely irresistible.

Honor adored George Easton. Truly, madly, adored him. But could she give up all for him? Did he even want her in the same way? And didn’t she have far greater problems at present than pining for a gentleman?

* * *

T
HE FIRST TWO
days in London were unexpectedly and blessedly peaceful. Honor’s mother had calmed considerably and seemed mostly lucid once she’d returned to what was, at least for now, a familiar setting. Her only worry was when Augustine would return with the earl to London. There was only one incident, and Honor had not witnessed it. Jericho confided to her that Lady Beckington had mistaken him for a Scotsman and had threatened to see him hanged for stealing the earl’s things.

On the third day after their return, Honor was very relieved when Augustine arrived with the earl. Three footmen carried the ailing earl to his rooms, and his painful coughing once again settled into the fabric of the house. Lady Beckington, who had removed the embroidery from yet another sleeve, disappeared into his chambers to see to him.

One cloudy afternoon, Honor found Grace in a pensive mood, staring out a window, her gaze distant.

“Grace? Is something wrong?” Honor asked.

Grace curled a tress of hair around her finger as she once had done when they were girls. “I am cross with you, if you must know. I asked Jericho to give Mamma the laudanum, but you told him he should not.”

“Of course he should not,” Honor said flatly. “I can’t believe you would think otherwise, not after Longmeadow. We agreed.”

Grace’s jaw clenched. “We didn’t agree, Honor. Only you. I suppose you think we should allow Mamma to continue wandering about, muttering to herself and picking at the embroidery in her sleeves.”

“If we must,” Honor said stiffly.

Grace dropped the strand of hair and whirled about. “You’re impossible! We wouldn’t be in this predicament had you allowed anyone to court you and accepted an offer of marriage along the way! But no, you preferred to pine away for Rowley.”

“I beg your pardon? Our mother’s madness is
my
fault
?
” Honor cried indignantly.

“I didn’t say that!” Grace shot back angrily. “But were you capable of thinking of someone other than yourself, we might not be in the predicament we are today!”

Honor gaped at her sister, feeling each word slice painfully into her heart. It was dreadful enough that Honor had thought the same thing herself, but to hear
Grace
say it... “What of
you?
” she demanded.

“You know very well Mamma would never allow me to marry before you,” Grace said angrily. “And now we have waited too long! We have squandered the time we might have had to make a good match, and we are facing an uncertain future with a mother that neither of us can properly care for and no one—
no
one—will take!”

Honor felt foolish enough for believing that her ridiculous plan would ever work. The only thing that had come from it was that now she longed for a man she could not possibly engage. “And what exactly was I to do, Grace?” she asked, angry with herself, with life. “
You
didn’t help.”

Grace’s shoulders suddenly deflated. “I know,” she said flatly. “I’ve been quite useless. But, Honor,
one
of us must marry, and marry quickly!”

How could she think of marriage when she loved George Easton? Just hearing the word made her stomach clench painfully. “Very well. Who would you suggest I marry?” she asked, resigned.

“Not you.
Me,
” Grace said, and before Honor could roll her eyes, Grace said, “If you have a better idea, say it now, for I am to Bath—”

“Bath!”

“Yes, Bath! Amherst is in Bath.”

“Amherst!”
Honor cried. “There is not a worse rake in all of England. Everyone knows it! Dear God, Grace, don’t be as foolish as me! You won’t succeed!”

“He’s not a bastard, and at least he has a name,” Grace shot back.

Honor stilled. She took great offense to that and pressed a fist hard against her roiling belly. “This is absurd,” she said, turning away, intending to argue, but Mercy suddenly burst into the salon and threw herself facedown onto the settee, sobbing.

“Mercy!” Grace cried, dipping down, her hand on her sister’s back as sobs racked her small frame. “Good Lord, what is it, what has happened?”

“It’s Augustine!” Mercy said, gasping through her sobs. “He raised his voice! He said I was never to mention grave robbers again and sent me from the room!” She pushed herself up and removed her spectacles to swipe at the tears on her face. “It wasn’t a very frightening story. I promise, it wasn’t!”

Honor’s bleak mood was pushed into full-blown anger by Mercy’s tears. “I will speak to him,” she said briskly, and reached down to stroke her sister’s hair before she swept out of the room, her fist still clenched at her side.

Her slippers were almost silent on the stairs as she hurried down them. In the foyer, she heard voices down the hall and walked purposefully in that direction. As she neared the main salon, she heard Augustine’s laugh mix with Monica’s. But there were other voices, too.

At the door, she saw Monica and her mother sitting together on the settee, and Augustine and Mr. Cleburne standing. Mr. Cleburne instantly straightened when he saw her and smiled a little nervously.

“Honor!” Augustine said when he saw her. “I was about to send Hardy for you.”

“I beg your pardon, I shan’t interrupt. Good afternoon,” she said to everyone in the room. “My lord, might I have a word?”

She did not miss the look that passed between Augustine and Monica before he said, “Yes, indeed, darling. I should like a word with you, as well. If you will excuse us?” he asked his guests.

“Of course!” Monica sang out. “Take all the time you need.”

Augustine came forward, clasped Honor’s elbow and wheeled her about, escorting her down the hall and to the butler’s office. He ushered Honor inside, then closed the door behind them and opened the curtains to the courtyard for light.

“Why are we in Mr. Hardy’s office?” Honor asked, the soft drumbeat of wariness beginning in her chest. “You have your guests, and I want only a moment—”

“But that’s just it, dearest,” Augustine said, interrupting her. “The guests—well, at least
one
of them, that is—have come for you.”

The wariness she’d been feeling began to take wings, trying to fly.

“Mrs. Hargrove and Monica were kind enough to deliver Mr. Cleburne to Beckington House all the way from Longmeadow. He’s to be our guest for a fortnight.” Augustine’s smile was apprehensive, and he nervously drummed his fingers on the edge of Mr. Hardy’s desk.

“What has that to do with me?”

Augustine touched his neckcloth and cleared his throat. “Mr. Cleburne is the third son of Lord Sandersgate. You know Sandersgate, don’t you? Tall man, crop of ginger hair?” he asked, gesturing to the crown of his head. “He’s brought six sons into this world. Can you imagine it? Six sons! What a challenge that must be to see them all properly situated!” He said it as if it were an impossible feat.

“That is quite a lot,” Honor agreed. “Still, I—”

“Nevertheless, Mr. Richard Cleburne, his
third
son, is in London to study with the archbishop for a fortnight. Fancy that, Honor, a vicar in our service with personal ties to the
archbishop.
”

She glanced at the door. Her wariness was now a caged bird, flapping its wings and squawking for release. If she could somehow maneuver herself around Augustine, she might escape before he said whatever dreadful thing he was trying to say.

“My point is that Mr. Cleburne is a good man, an educated man, with an untarnished reputation and a perfectly respectable occupation.”

That
sounded so rehearsed that Honor’s heart was suddenly in her throat.

“Will you say nothing?” Augustine asked.

Honor shook her head, not trusting herself to speak.

Augustine frowned thoughtfully and began to walk in a tight little circle, given the lack of space in the office. “I think we must accept certain truths, mustn’t we, dearest? My father is not long for this world. God willing, he will see me happily married, starting a family of my own, but in recent days, I have come to doubt he shall live as long as that.”

“Oh, Augustine, you—”

“That means,” he rushed ahead, “that it will be up to me to determine how best to settle you and your sisters.” He smiled, clearly proud of himself for having delivered his speech properly. “Oh! And naturally, your lady mother,” he amended quickly.

“Augustine, what are you saying?” Honor said, choosing a new tack. “Are you turning us
out?
”

“What?” Augustine looked horrified. “
No!
No, no, no, of course not,” he said anxiously, and reached for her hand, grasping it tightly. “How could I turn you out? You are my sister, Honor, in my heart as well as in name. But don’t you see?” he pleaded. “I shall be making my home with my wife, and it wouldn’t do to have six adults under one roof, what with different opinions and...and schedules,” he said, as if he were uncertain what conflict there was between six adults.