The Trouble with Honor

by Julia London

  Honor gasped for air as she moved against him, thrilling him, inciting him with small whimpers of pleasure as she neared her release. George stroked her and nibbled as if she were a delicacy, bringing her to the brink of fulfillment, then backing away, finding another way to tantalize her. But Honor couldn’t bear it. She grabbed his head between her hands, pulled him up and kissed him wildly before she sought his cock with one hand and pushed against his trousers with the other.

  He helped her, pushing his trousers down. Honor drew a shallow breath as she cupped him in one hand, stroking him with the other. Her fire was consuming him, burning him up. George moved between her legs, pushing them apart and pressing the head of his cock against her slick sex. Honor came up on her elbows, her gaze locked on his as he began to slide into her. He held her gaze as he slowly worked his way inside her tight, wet sheath. He felt her body open to him, wrapping firmly around him, claiming him.

  God, he was mad for her, utterly mad for her. “I don’t know what you’ve done to me,” he said roughly.

  Honor smiled as if that pleased her. She closed her eyes, and let her head drop back as he began to move inside her. And then she began to move with him, meeting his thrusts, learning the rhythm of lovemaking. He felt himself filling up with heat, and he moved faster, harder in her, circling his hips, stroking her differently. He was panting, he realized, trying desperately to hold on to the massive climax that was brewing in him. He felt her body coil around him and draw him in, felt her tightening. When he thought he could not endure another moment of it, her body contracted tightly around him, and she shuddered violently as she cried out with an explosive release that convulsed around his body.

  It pushed George over the edge. He spilled into her in quick, explosive bursts at the end of almost savage thrusts until he was completely numb. He slowly lowered himself to her, pressed his racing heart against her breast.

  He had never in his life been so completely and wholly satisfied.

  He had never loved a woman so.

  She reached for his hand, clung to it tightly as she tried to regain her breath. And when she had caught it enough to talk, she opened her eyes, smiled up at him and said, “You did miss me.”

  More than air.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  HONOR CAST A deliriously happy smile up at a sky shrouded by the smoke of chimneys as she walked home and thought it never seemed so blue.

  She’d refused George’s demand that she take the coach, as well as his demand that he see her safely home. She wanted these moments to herself, to relive every moment of it, to marvel at it all again. She wanted to float home with her heart and mind full of George Easton, of the extraordinary command he’d had of her body, of the way he had looked at her and made her feel so very beautiful and desirable.

  She had finally agreed that a houseboy might follow her to see that no harm came to her. It was the only way George was willing to let her go. It was difficult enough to take her leave, what with all the kissing and his apparent need to keep her in his embrace, and really, the boy was so small he could not be at all useful if she were set upon by thieves. Nevertheless, Honor had agreed and George had let her go.

  She glanced down at her gown. Not only was George capable of lacing a corset, he’d also proved himself capable of pinning hair, at least well enough to tuck it up under her bonnet. Honor had cupped his chin and bestowed a soft kiss on his lips.

  George had seemed rather disconcerted by it. He had taken her hand and held it tightly in his, looking at her with concern and affection. Honor had never seen him so uncertain. “Will you be all right?” she’d asked him.

  “Me?” He’d said it as if she somehow had it wrong, that she should be the one who was disconcerted. “Yes!” he’d said, flustered. “But I...” He’d groaned, closed his eyes a moment then opened them, looking at her intently. “Honor, heed me. This cannot happen again. That is to say, we can’t—”

  She’d smiled, kissed him before he could tell her it was impossible again. “Calm yourself, Easton,” she’d said quietly.

  He’d pressed his lips together and nodded. And then he’d gathered her in his arms one last time, held her tightly as he kissed the top of her head, her neck, her cheek, before letting her go. “You astound me,” he’d said. “In so many ways, you astound me.”

  She didn’t know why.

  “I will fix things, Honor,” he’d said to her, her hands clasped tightly in his. “I won’t allow them to force you into a marriage you don’t want.”

  She appreciated the sentiment, but it wasn’t possible for him to stop a marriage. Unless he—

  She swallowed down that impossible, fantastical thought and carried on.

  At Beckington House, Honor managed to slip upstairs to her rooms, unnoticed except by Hardy, who scarcely noticed her at all, as he seemed a bit distracted. Later, when Grace came knocking on her door, Honor understood why he’d seemed so.

  “Where have you been?” Grace asked, glancing down the hall before shutting Honor’s door.

  “Walking,” Honor said with a shrug she hoped didn’t look too suspicious. She removed her bonnet and set it aside.

  Grace shook her head and studied the palm of her hand for a moment.

  “What is it?” Honor asked.

  “I’ve had a letter from Cousin Beatrice. She is in Bath and writes that she would welcome my visit at any time.”

  Honor patted Grace’s hand. “We hardly have time for a trip to Bath, what with all the weddings on the horizon,” she said, gesturing to herself.

  “I don’t mean you are to go, Honor. I mean to go alone.”

  Grace sounded the same as she always did, but she looked different somehow, Honor thought. Resolved. When she realized it, a shot of panic jolted Honor. “No,” she said instantly. “Grace, you can’t desert me!”

  “I’m not deserting you,” Grace said, and took Honor’s hand between both of hers. “Come now, we are agreed that we must do something. First, I owe you an apology for laying the blame for our predicament at your door. I was so very frustrated that afternoon, but God knows I am aware how hard you’ve tried, Honor. I am going to Bath because Lord Amherst is there. He’s shown a particular fondness for me. You know he has. I mean to secure an offer—”

  “Are you mad?” Honor demanded, yanking her hand free from Grace. “You scarcely know him! You have no affection for him.”

  “Frankly, I am quite sane and apparently the only practical one in this room! It is true, I have no deep affection for him, but I do rather enjoy his company. What else is required? He’s not a vicar, he’s a titled man of means. At the very least, I shan’t be forced to live in some cottage in the country.”

  Honor couldn’t abide it. “It’s not what you want!”

  Grace laughed sourly. “Pray, what do I want, Honor? Please tell me what it is, for God knows I can’t name it. I haven’t given the slightest thought to what I really want.” She shook her head as if she found that mystifying.

  Honor groaned with misery and laid her head on Grace’s shoulder. “When are you leaving?”

  “At week’s end.”

  “So soon!”

  “Lady Chatham is to Bath to take the waters, and I...I invited myself along. I’ve waited long enough,” Grace said firmly. “Now then, what have you done to your hair?”

  Honor sat up with a start. She put her hand to it. “A pin fell from it while I was walking,” she said, and stood up, moving away from Grace to her vanity, before her sister could examine her hair more closely. She quickly pulled it down and picked up her brush.

  Grace stood and moved to the door. “I’ll send Hannah around to help you repair it. You’ve not much time, you know. We’re to meet the charming Mr. Cleburne in an hour.”

  When she was alone, Honor folded her arms on the vanity and lowered her forehead to them. She closed her eyes, thinking back to the moments she’d had this afternoon with Easton. It made her a little queasy to imagine Mr. Cleburne in a similar si
tuation. It made her positively ill to imagine it all without Grace.

  An hour later, Honor arrived in the foyer in the most demure, lifeless gown she could find in her wardrobe. She wore it as a symbol of her silent protest to this match, to the life that had led her to this moment. It was plain and sedate, just like she imagined marriage to Cleburne would be. This was what Augustine had done to her, she absently mused as she and Mr. Cleburne followed at a bit of a distance behind Augustine and her sisters to the church—he’d taken the desire for fine gowns out of her. She scarcely cared if she ever wore one again.

  Honor managed to endure the service and the walk back to Beckington House. She thought she had managed to make it through an interminable evening in the company of the vicar and that she could at last turn her attention to something else, but then Augustine had the audacity to push her once more.

  “Mr. Cleburne, you’ve not forgotten our ride and picnic in the park on the morrow, have you?”

  Mr. Cleburne smiled self-consciously at Honor. “I have not. I have heard that you are an excellent horsewoman, Miss Cabot.”

  Honor said flatly, “I am.” Perhaps she would ride away from him. Point her horse north and ride it until it could not carry her another step.

  “You must see her,” Augustine said cheerfully. “That is, if you dare to be bested by a woman.” He laughed as if that were entirely impossible.

  “I sit a horse respectably well,” Mr. Cleburne said with a modest shrug.

  Honor said nothing. Augustine glared at her, and she said, “You must join us.”

  “Excellent!” Augustine crowed. “We’ll have a picnic, the four of us.”

  “I want to go,” Mercy said, and pushed her spectacles up the ridge of her nose. “I’m a good horsewoman, too.”

  “Oh, but you are needed at Beckington House,” Augustine said.

  “Why am I needed?” Mercy complained.

  “Because someone must keep an eye out for the ghosts,” Mr. Cleburne said congenially.

  That seemed to give Mercy pause, and in that moment, Mr. Cleburne turned his smile to Honor, clearly pleased with himself for showing some attention to her youngest sister.

  Honor was entirely certain that her attempt at a smile failed. “Mercy, tell us a ghost story,” she said, and looked away, lest Mr. Cleburne see her great disappointment in him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  MONICA’S MOTHER BELIEVED Mr. Cleburne was a perfect match for Honor in every way, most particularly because it meant Honor would be living at Longmeadow.

  Not London, where Monica would be stepping into her role one day as the new Lady Beckington. But at Longmeadow, where Monica would only need see her in summer, when London was unbearably hot and fetid.

  Monica didn’t ride as well as Honor—none of them did—and she’d assumed Honor would ride far ahead, pausing to speak to acquaintances, then trotting back to the party, where Monica would labor along with her horse. But nothing was further from the truth. Honor rode at a sedate pace beside the vicar and behind Monica and Augustine. She hardly seemed herself.

  They were so slow, thanks to Augustine’s clumsy handling of his horse, that Monica could overhear Honor and Cleburne’s conversation. The vicar asked what diversions Honor enjoyed. Honor replied she enjoyed gaming. The vicar chuckled indulgently and made a remark about the games of the devil. Honor asked if he ever bet on horses, that everyone at Longmeadow found a coin or two for that purpose.

  Mr. Cleburne said he did not.

  Monica would have given anything to see the expression on Honor’s face at that moment, but alas, her task was to train her eye to her horse, lest she fall.

  Monica knew Honor was perturbed when they stopped for their picnic. Augustine busily instructed a footman where to lay the blanket and the basket of food the cook had prepared. Honor stood to one side, tapping her crop lightly against her skirt, staring out across the lake.

  Monica asked lightly, “Mr. Cleburne, I’ve been meaning to inquire, how do you find Longmeadow now that you’ve been there a time?”

  “Oh, very well, indeed,” he said, as if he could say anything less before Augustine.

  “You’ve met the fine families there?”

  “Naturally. They are my flock.”

  “I am sure you have discovered many young, unmarried woman in your flock,” Honor said.

  Mr. Cleburne blushed. Monica realized then how inexperienced the man was. “Perhaps one or two have allowed an interest,” he said modestly. “But none that I found suitable,” he quickly amended.

  “What do you mean? There were none that caught your interest?” Honor asked.

  Mr. Cleburne smiled nervously. “No, I...I consider myself a man of discernment.”

  The man was a fool, Monica realized. He hadn’t the slightest idea how to entice a woman like Honor Cabot. He was no George Easton, a surprising thought that caused her to chuckle unexpectedly.

  Honor and Mr. Cleburne looked at her. Monica gaily remarked, “What a lovely day!”

  Honor’s gaze darkened.

  “We have our picnic!” Augustine said, making a grand gesture to the setting the footman had made for them.

  The four of them eased themselves down on the blanket and helped themselves to fruit and cheeses while the footman filled their wineglasses. Augustine had stretched out on his side, and his belly, Monica was chagrined to see, was spilling onto the ground beneath his waistcoat. They spoke of nothing of import, and even when Augustine brought up the reception for Lord Stapleton, Monica resisted a yawn. But then Augustine suggested Honor invite Mr. Cleburne to accompany her.

  Honor’s head came up. She looked at Monica, then at Augustine, clearly caught off guard.

  Mr. Cleburne sensed her fluster, for he said, “I couldn’t possibly impose.”

  “No imposition,” Augustine said easily, and stuffed a pair of grapes into his mouth.

  “But I should not impose on you, Mr. Cleburne,” Honor said, recovering slightly. “The reception will be crowded and...and noisy.”

  “Oh, I scarcely mind that,” Cleburne said congenially. “I am sure I have suffered worse at the country dances.” He laughed.

  Honor glanced away, her jaw clenched. “Unfortunately,” she said, shaking her head to the wine the footman silently offered, “the building is not well ventilated.”

  “Then I suppose I shall remove my coat,” Mr. Cleburne responded, and smiled at Monica and Augustine, as if they were playing a game.

  “Then it’s all settled,” Augustine said triumphantly. “Mr. Cleburne shall be your guest.”

  “Yes,” Honor said. “Thank you, Augustine, for the idea.” She stood up. “Please, excuse me.”

  Mr. Cleburne hastened to find his feet.

  “Oh, no, Mr. Cleburne, do keep your seat. I mean only to stretch my legs.” Honor whirled and began to walk. Or march, really, her riding habit billowing out behind her.

  Cleburne looked helplessly at Monica and Augustine. “Have I said something wrong?”

  “Not at all, Mr. Cleburne,” Monica said, and held out her hand so that he might help her to her feet. “Honor can be rather...”

  “Mercurial?” Augustine offered innocently.

  “That was not the word I was searching for,” Monica said kindly. Stubborn was more in line with her thinking. “She is the restless sort. I’ll see to her—enjoy your wine,” she said, and straightened her bonnet before marching after Honor to the edge of the lake.

  When reached by her nemesis, Honor was ripping apart a rush, one bristle at a time. When they were girls, her mother had brought them to this very lake to feed the ducks. Monica remembered Honor, with her dark hair streaming behind her, chasing the ducks at the edge of the lake, trying to catch them as Monica’s mother shouted at her to stop. Monica had been afraid of the ducks, and she was suddenly reminded of how Honor had held her hand while Monica had thrown her breadcrumbs to the honking beasts. When had those young girls parted ways? Honestly, Monica couldn’t recall any l
onger.

  She glanced at Honor from the corner of her eye. “You seem rather cross.”

  Honor bestowed a withering look on Monica. “Cross is the least of what I am. You know that very well.”

  “I suppose I do,” Monica said, and shrugged, looking out over the lake. “I don’t understand you, in all honesty. Mr. Cleburne happens to be an excellent match for you—”

  “An excellent match?” Honor shot back and glanced over her shoulder at the offending gentleman. “Why do you believe that? Because it is your idea to broker a marriage? Ah—don’t even think of denying it,” she said when Monica opened her mouth to do precisely that. “I know very well you suggested it to Augustine. He would not have thought of it on his own.”

  “Even if I did suggest it, or even if you suggested to Mr. Easton that he should court me, it’s all beside the point,” Monica said pertly, taking pleasure in the flicker of culpability that flashed in Honor’s eyes. “Mr. Cleburne is a perfect match for you because he is. He is devoted, he is kind and his reputation is irreproachable. Can you really ask for more?”

  “Yes!” Honor exclaimed. “Yes, Monica, I can ask for more. Perhaps you can’t, or won’t, but I ask for more.”

  “Why isn’t anything ever good enough for you?” Monica demanded crossly. “How can you find a man who most women in your position would consider a very good match beneath you? Why must you always have more?”

  “I don’t think Mr. Cleburne is beneath me, for heaven’s sake. But I think he is as far removed from me in spirit and temperament as a man could possibly be. And furthermore, why don’t you ever want more, Monica? Why won’t you believe in the best possibilities, instead of taking the first offer?”