by Julia London
Monica gasped. “Don’t you dare disparage Augustine to me!”
“I wasn’t—”
“You were!” Monica insisted. Now she glanced over her shoulder at her fiancé. Augustine, sitting cross-legged, enthusiastically regaled Mr. Cleburne with some tale, judging by the wave of his hands. “I happen to be quite fond of Augustine. And I have done what every woman is exhorted to do, Honor. I have made a good match. There is nothing wrong with that. I am happy. Can you not see it? Can you not be happy for me? Happy that I will marry him, happy that the banns have been posted?”
Honor’s eyes widened. “They’ve been posted?”
“Yes!” Monica said crossly. “Must you look so astounded? Augustine told you that we wished to marry before his father... Well, you know very well what I mean. I have accepted my life and his offer, and I am happy.”
“Do you not hear yourself?” Honor demanded, suddenly turning to face her. “Wouldn’t you rather find true, consuming love than merely accept your life and an offer?”
Sometimes Honor was ridiculously childish, and Monica couldn’t help but laugh.
Honor’s brows sank in a confused frown. “Why are you laughing? Do you love Augustine?”
“Will you stop?” Monica exclaimed through her laughter. “I told you, I esteem him!”
“But do you love him?”
“For God’s sake, Honor! I will come to love him. Love develops over time, with familiarity, as two people move through life as one. You act as if there is some other alternative! What alternative is there? To wait indefinitely? For what? For a knight to come along and quite literally sweep me off my feet?”
“Yes!” Honor cried with frustration.
“Dear God, you are maddening,” Monica snapped, and looked away, angry with herself for allowing Honor to vex her. Again.
“We will never have alternatives if we don’t demand them,” Honor said, and folded her arms tightly over her middle.
Monica rolled her eyes. “And what alternative will you demand, pray? That you do not marry? That you may continue to flit from this soiree to that?” she asked, gesturing around them.
“I mean that unless women demand to follow their heart’s true instincts, we will never be allowed to do so. Society will insist we marry well, and that is all they will ask of us.”
“Ah. And your heart’s true instincts are not Mr. Cleburne.”
“Not in the least.”
“Have you ever considered that perhaps your heart doesn’t have a true instinct? For surely, if it did, you would have acted on it by now.”
Honor’s eyes widened. She looked almost insulted for a moment, but that quickly gave way to another expression. She seemed to be considering what Monica had said, mulling it over for a long moment. “Goodness, I think you may be right, Monica.”
“I am?” Monica said, startled.
“Yes.” Honor nodded thoughtfully. “If I don’t act, who will?”
Monica suddenly had a sinking feeling she’d unwittingly unleashed a beast from its cage. “Honor Cabot, what are you thinking?” she demanded. “You’d best not cause trouble—”
“Trouble? No,” Honor said sweetly. “You’ve helped me clarify a thing or two. We’d best go back to the gentlemen, do you suppose?” She smiled warmly at Monica, then started back toward the men, suddenly strolling along as if she hadn’t a care in the world.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
LONDON SCARCELY MANAGED to crawl out beneath the leaden skies on the afternoon of Lord Stapleton’s reception. A stiff wind and the smell of rain in the air only increased George’s uncharacteristically somber mood, and he wouldn’t have minded in the least to have remained in bed all day, a pillow over his head, his eyes closed against the world.
But Finnegan had other ideas, it would seem, as he had polished George’s boots and laid out his gold waistcoat and navy superfine coat to don for the reception. It looked, George thought, almost naval in appearance.
George was generally annoyed when Finnegan laid out his clothes as if he were addled, but this afternoon he was glad for it, because he doubted he would have been able to dress himself with much care. He’d been walking around in a melancholy fog for two days, obsessed with thoughts of Honor, remembering in exquisite and torturous detail the afternoon in his salon.
There was no help for him. He was a fool, a bloody fool for having agreed to help her in the beginning. He was an even bigger fool because he was mad for her. He’d broken his one cardinal rule: never believe he was one of them. After a life spent trying to be someone, to be recognized, he’d learned to keep proper society at arm’s length, to protect himself above all else.
In this case, he’d missed his steps, had fallen out of line, had looked to his left and right and, in doing so, had ruined his life. It had happened so quickly, so easily, too—when a daring, beautiful woman presented a challenge to him, his rule had held up like cotton batting in fire, disappearing completely.
The most enraging part of it was that George did not want Honor to marry a bloody vicar. He did not want her to marry at all. He wanted things to remain as they were, with opportunities to be in her company, to hear her clever mind spinning out wretched ideas to create a bit of mayhem in her society, to keep him properly diverted from the lack of a name, the loss of his fortune. From who he was.
It was an absurdly preposterous wish. And an astoundingly intense one.
To confound his thinking even more, there was part of him that didn’t entirely trust Honor. It was a truth he grudgingly admitted to himself. Yes, he loved her. And there was a part of him that believed she loved him, as well. But she was a woman of the ton, and she had come to him seeking a way to keep her fortune and standing. In spite of what they’d shared, in spite of his strong feelings—or hers, for that matter—he could not bring himself to believe she would ever truly give that up to settle for someone like him. Or that Beckington would ever consent to someone like him as a possible match for her. And though passion had flared hot and wild between him and Honor, he couldn’t help but wonder if this...this thing between them, this intangible, intense thing wasn’t merely pleasure for her.
How could it be anything but?
Oh, yes, George was a miserable man.
But in that misery, he was irrationally determined to lure Monica Hargrove to him. He told himself it was to keep her from making Honor’s burden of her family dilemma any worse by presenting potential offers for her hand. A smaller voice suggested it was even more personal than that—he’d been rather astounded that his attempts to seduce the debutante had failed. A kiss. That’s what was required. One small kiss of her lips, and all the reticence would melt right out of Miss Monica Hargrove. She’d be eating from his bag of oats or he’d find another way to tether her.
Dressed like a sailor for the occasion of honoring a war hero, George stalked downstairs so gruffly that the daily maid Finnegan had hired—to clean or to bed, George didn’t know—scampered out of his way like a frightened little hare.
Finnegan was waiting in the foyer with George’s hat and gloves. “What a splendid surprise,” he said, bowing slightly. “You’ve combed your hair.”
George snatched the hat and gloves from Finnegan. “Today, Mr. Finnegan,” he said, stuffing his hands into the gloves, “may very well be the day I throttle you.”
“Very good, sir,” Finnegan said, and opened the front door.
* * *
ON SUCH A gloomy day, Burlington House was predictably crowded. All of the illustrious guests had crammed inside the gallery, standing shoulder to shoulder, the din of their voices echoing against the cavernous ceiling. George couldn’t imagine how he’d find anyone, but he pushed through the crowd all the same, muttering his apologies for stepping on this toe or elbowing that back, receiving some less-than-welcoming looks for it.
He spotted Sommerfield first, his girth affording him a bit more space than most. Standing beside him was Miss Monica Hargrove, her expression full of tedium. Geor
ge wasn’t entirely certain what he would say, but he started for her.
Miss Hargrove turned her head, and when she saw him, she straightened slightly. She seemed perplexed, and then her brows dipped into something of a frown. In a mood, was she? He’d change that. George stepped around a couple in his progress toward Miss Hargrove and was startled by the sudden appearance of Honor in front of him. “Mr. Easton,” she said, and put her hand on his arm.
George looked down at her hand on his arm, her touch incinerating his sleeve, marking his skin underneath. “May I have a word?”
“Not now, love. There is another woman I should like to address.”
“George...please. Please.” She smiled as she glanced to her right. George followed her gaze and saw Cleburne standing there.
“Mr. Cleburne, will you excuse us a moment?” she asked.
“Yes, of course. Good day, Mr. Easton,” he said, and with a curt bow, he took several steps away. But not far enough that Honor was out of his sight, George noticed.
George didn’t speak; Honor tugged him to one side.
“Go back to your suitor, Cabot. You’ve nothing to fear, I do not intend—”
“I beg of you, don’t speak to her!” Honor interjected frantically. “Don’t even look her way. It’s over, it’s done—I should never have begun this madness!”
“It’s not your scheme any longer, love. It’s mine. I told you I would fix things for you.”
“I don’t need you to fix anything for me. I don’t want you to fix it!”
George paused and looked down at her. “Why? Is Cleburne suddenly to your liking?”
“No!” she exclaimed, and looked nervously in the direction of the young vicar. “That’s certainly not what compels me. It’s that I...” She rose up on her toes to look over his shoulder.
“You what?” he asked.
Honor sank down, bit her lip.
George frowned, imagining all manner of nonsense. “What is this sudden shyness? What is it?”
“I am not shy,” she said, as if the very notion offended her. “But I am afraid.”
“Of what?”
“Of you,” she admitted.
Something toxic began to brew in George. He suspected this was the moment she would say that she had come to realize that theirs was not a relationship she could maintain, not with an urgent need to find an offer for her hand. He stepped back. “Go on, then, say it. Don’t let maidenly angst stand in your way.”
“I love you,” she said.
Stunned, George gaped at her.
“Are you shocked?” she asked, smiling at someone who passed by. “Well, I do, Easton, I love you so, with all my heart,” she said, stacking her hands and pressing them against her breast. “What am I to do? I’m not supposed to love you, but I do. I don’t want you to seduce anyone but me. I want you all for myself. I want you.”
He had never desired to hear those words more, and yet he had never wanted so desperately not to hear them. “What you think you want is impossible,” he said brusquely. “How many times must I tell you so?”
Her eyes widened with surprise. And then narrowed with anger. “Why must every blessed thing with you be so impossible?”
“Because it is,” he snapped, feeling inexplicably, inexcusably angry with her. He was feeling the same thing, had been feeling for days that rusty, unfamiliar crank of love in his chest, and it made him furious. As much as he loved her, he wouldn’t taint her with the rumors that swirled about him. Worse, he had nothing. He had less than nothing now, thanks to his missing ship. He could offer this bright star in his galaxy nothing.
“But I thought... You admitted to affection for me. You missed me.”
He could see unshed tears beginning to glisten in her eyes. It was a rare glimpse of innocence from this young woman, and for some reason it made George even angrier. She was naive in ways he could not begin to fathom, and he’d allowed it, had encouraged it, had taken innocence from her. “It is time you accepted life for what it is, Honor. You can’t recast it to meet your whims.”
She looked truly wounded by that. “A whim? Do you think I want to love you?” she asked, heedless of anyone around now. “Do you think that it eases my life in any way?”
George’s heart constricted, squeezed by so many emotions, so many things he didn’t want to feel. He gazed into the beautiful face, into the eyes of a daughter of the Quality, who had been trained to high-step into salons and advantageous matches just as surely as he was trained to not desire them. She had been trained to seek fortune and, more important, standing.
She could not love a man like him. It was impossible.
Her naive ideas of love and noble sacrifices would fade with time.
But then Honor surprised him yet again. It was almost as if she could feel the doubts raging through him. She put her hand on his arm and said, “I do love you, George. I know you don’t believe me, but I love you in a way I never believed was possible. I beg you, tell me the truth. Tell me you feel the same. Please.”
A flash of panic and an age-old ache swept through him. He peeled her fingers from his hand and stepped back. “I beg your pardon, Miss Cabot, but I cannot possibly tell you what is not true.” George did the only thing he could do—he turned away and walked. Fled, really. He looked wildly at the crowd in that hall and felt the walls closing in, pushing the air from the room. He stalked from the reception, out into the cold gray day.
He did not look back. He didn’t have to. The image of the hurt in her eyes was forever burned into his memory.
And because George left in such a fashion, a prisoner of his birth and his experiences, because he believed that the vicar was a good match for her, and that he was the worst match for her, because he took himself to Southwark and gambled and drank the remainder of the day, trying desperately to block her words from his ears, her image from his eyes, he did not hear the Earl of Beckington had died until well into the following afternoon.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
DEATH HAD CREPT in when the Beckington household had least expected it. The earl had been at breakfast that morning, smiling as the girls talked about their plans for the day, and reminding Augustine, when he grew impatient with Mercy, that she was a girl yet.
A congenial Augustine had agreed and had turned the talk to the reception for Lord Stapleton that afternoon, pondering who might attend. Honor had wondered aloud if Grace was still abed after an evening spent at the Chatham residence. The earl had said she must be exhausted, having endured the unending stream of words from Lady Chatham.
Prudence had recalled a silly story about Mrs. Philpot’s chickens that had gotten loose in Grosvenor Square, and dissolved into giggles as she’d related how the poor woman had run after them, her skirts lifted to her knees. It had made the earl laugh until he couldn’t catch his breath.
After breakfast, Mercy had offered to read to her stepfather—truly the only father she’d ever known—but he’d smiled fondly at her and assured her he’d had quite enough tales of wolves who ate humans.
When Honor thought of that morning, she thought of her mother, not the earl. Her mother had sat beside her husband, quite subdued, staring at her plate. Had she sensed that death was so near them? Or had she slipped into the private world she increasingly inhabited?
There was one more thing Honor remembered about the last time she would see the earl alive. When she’d stood to go, she had leaned down to kiss him goodbye. He’d caught her hand in his and said, “You’re a good girl, my love. Never let anyone convince you otherwise.” And he’d smiled.
Honor had laughed. He’d been telling her she was a good girl since the day she and Monica had slipped out of the back of the church during Sunday services to meet a pair of boys. Not just any boys, mind you, but stable boys who were charged with looking after the parishioners’ horses.
“I think you are the only one who believes it, my lord. But I shall endeavor to remember.”
The earl had patted her hand, th
en had let it slip from his grip.
Honor wished she was the good girl the earl had always believed her to be. She wished she’d been a better daughter to him, had spent more time with him.
His funeral had been a blur of activity. So many people had come, so many embraces and offers of condolences. So many rituals and so much black.
The day after the funeral, Grace had left for Bath. “Stay,” Honor had begged her.
“I can’t,” Grace had said grimly. “We’ve no time to lose.”
Honor had said goodbye to Grace that morning, holding her sister tightly. She’d told herself that Grace’s plan was just as fraught with opportunities for failure as hers had been, and that by all rights, Grace would be home in a matter of weeks. But Grace’s departure had felt like the final blow, the last door to shut on the life as they’d known it.
Honor had stood on the street, watching Grace’s coach disappear around a corner. And even then, she’d remained standing there, looking down the street. Waiting. Watching.
For what, Honor hadn’t known.
She’d felt great despair that morning. She’d lost the most important people in her life in a matter of days. The earl. Her dear sister Grace. Easton.
Her disappointment was devastating.
Now it had been a fortnight since the earl’s death, a fortnight of grief so deep that Honor had lost her appetite and seemed only to eat when Hardy urged her to do so. It was nonsensical—Honor had known that the earl was not long for this world, had believed herself prepared for his departure. Nothing could have prepared her, however.
His absence was felt throughout the house. Augustine seemed anxious in his new role, and the entire staff seemed to be in the doldrums. Prudence and Mercy whispered to each other, their black clothing making them look tired.
But Honor’s grief ran so much deeper than her stepfather’s death.
She mourned George just as deeply.
Lord, how she missed him. And hated him, too. At least, she tried to convince herself she hated him. With his rejection of her, he’d reopened old, deep-seated wounds. She felt as if she were reliving the nightmare of Lord Rowley all over again. Honor had been destroyed by Easton’s rejection of her, and had it not been for Mr. Cleburne’s kindness in seeing her home, she’d feared she might have collapsed at the reception.