The Trouble with Honor

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. George 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.