The Trouble with Honor (28 page)

Honor’s eyes narrowed with her ire. “Is there a
point
to your call, sir? You have rejected my declarations not once, but
twice
. Am I to be rebuffed a third time? If that is your intent, it is not necessary, for I heard you
quite
plainly the first two times!”

“The first two times you assumed the role of the gentleman in this affair between us. I was not in a position to make that offer, Honor, but did that give you the slightest pause? No—you insisted on shaming me in front of all of London.”

Honor gasped with outrage. “
Shame?
You will talk to me of
shame?
” she cried, her hands curling into fists as she rose up on her toes.

“No one invited you to Southwark. In fact, my recollection is that several told you to leave!”

“Sometimes one must take matters into her own hands!”

“Oh,” he said, almost jovially. “And we’ve
all
seen how well taking matters into
your
hands has done for you, have we not?”

She gaped at him. “At least I’m not
afraid.
”

“I never feared you!” he cried to the ceiling. “But I was not prepared for you. I don’t know that I shall ever be prepared for the likes of you, Honor Cabot, but nevertheless, I have done my best by seeking employment—”

“You see? You insist on making things impossible!” Honor cried, poking him hard in the chest.

“Employment!” Augustine said, confused.

“And I have obtained it.”

Honor had no idea what he was talking about. “Obtained
what?
”

“Employment, I think,” Prudence said, sounding as confused as Augustine looked.

“That’s right,” Easton said, nodding. “I have sought employment. I am the new agent at Mr. Sweeney’s offices. I lost my fortune, and I could not provide for you, Honor. Now, at the very least, I can provide you a modest home. I can feed you. I might even feed one or two more of the virtues,” he said, gesturing at Prudence. “I can clothe you...somewhat. But I cannot allow you to buy bonnets for eight bloody pounds.”

“Pardon...what?” Honor said, as her heart began to flutter in her chest.

“And I must warn you, this loss of fortune may happen again and again. I live my life by taking risks. Sometimes my pockets are full. Sometimes they are not.”

Honor’s fluttering heart changed tempo. It began to race, feeling as if it might lift her off the ground.

“Do you understand?” he demanded, taking her by the elbow.

“Yes,”
she said, her voice full of wonder. “I understand that this is a very bad offer for my hand.”

Easton smiled. “Do you still feel the same?” he asked softly. “Can you accept what I am telling you?”

She nodded. Tears began to fill her eyes again, only these were tears of utter happiness. “Yes,” she said. “I can accept it all as long as you are there.”

George stepped back and went down on one knee. “Honor Cabot,” he said, “will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

Honor wasn’t certain what happened after that. She believed she shouted
yes.
She remembered George sweeping her up, and there was much more shouting, which she believed came mostly from Augustine, something about how he could not possibly allow it. She remembered George kissing her so completely that she was light-headed with relief, with love, with lust.

And with much happiness. Euphoric, ethereal happiness. And a wild belief that with George,
anything
was possible.

George kissed her neck. “You’re a bloody fool,” he whispered. “I’m near to penniless.”

“I don’t care,” she said dreamily.

“You might have very well done the most heartwarming thing anyone has ever done for me, do you know that?”

“I did?”

“You cheated to try to win me, Honor. I’ve never been so flattered. But good God, lass, learn how to cheat,” he said, and smothered her with his kisses again.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

A
UGUSTINE WAS COMPLETELY
flummoxed by what had happened in the foyer of Beckington House. “It was a theatrical event!” he exclaimed to his fiancée.

“He may not be the man you had in mind for her,” Monica said soothingly, “but Honor seems very happy.”

Augustine squinted a little as he pondered that. “She does seem happy, doesn’t she?”

“And I rather think, after all that’s gone on, no one else would have her.”

“Oh, no,” Augustine said, nodding in furious agreement. “
No
one would have Honor now.”

“Then I think perhaps you should ask that they marry sooner rather than later, given all the speculation that is flying about Mayfair just now.”

“Yes, of course, you are absolutely right,” Augustine said. “I shall demand they marry straightaway!” He suddenly brightened. “I know just the thing! We’ll all go to Longmeadow. It’s out of London, isn’t it? And Mr. Cleburne might do the honor.”

“Oh, dear, that might be a bit much,” Monica said with a slight wince.

“Well. We’ll devise some sort of ceremony.”

Augustine used his new title of earl to obtain a special license. Honor and George were wed at the end of that week in a private ceremony. There was no time to prepare properly, much to Prudence and Mercy’s horror, as they both would have liked to have commissioned the latest fashions for the ceremony.

Honor, however, scarcely cared what she wore, and arrived in a plain gray gown with no adornment. Clothing had slipped her mind—all she could think was that she was to marry a man she loved above every worldly thing, and that was all that mattered.

Augustine insisted, given the events leading up to their so-called engagement, that they perhaps not go out into society for a time, which Honor and George were happy to oblige. After the ceremony, they retreated to the house on Audley Street; they spent most of the first few days in his bed, occasionally allowing Finnegan to bring them food.

George taught Honor things about her body and his that both astonished and pleased her. She loved the way his mouth moved on her skin, the way his tongue slipped into her body. She loved the way he caressed her when he was making love to her, as if reassuring himself that she was there, all of her, still in his bed, still beneath him or on top of him, still part of him. She adored the things he taught her—how to take him in her mouth and please him, how to ride his cock when she was on top of him while he helped her find fulfillment with his hands.

But mostly what she loved after they’d both found their fulfillment in one another—or, in Honor’s case, more than once—was the tenderness between them. His body spent, he would still cover her with kisses by the light of the fire, slowly making his way down one leg to her toes, and up the other to her breasts, and to her mouth again, whispering his love for her, the realization that his life had been so empty before she’d intercepted him on Rotten Row that fateful afternoon.

Honor felt the same way—her life had consisted of gowns and gatherings, but until George, there had been nothing substantial to anchor her to this earth, to this life. Now she had him, and, God willing, they would have a large family. Nothing could make her happier than living in a cottage or mansion with him, presiding over a table that was filled with laughing children, and seeing this man across from her.

One evening, as they lounged naked in his bed with a tray of roasted chicken, cheese and fruit, they talked about their future. “I should think five children in all,” she said casually.

“Good Lord, darling, that number is a small village.”

“Don’t you want them, too?” she asked, kissing his nose.

“I want six.”

She laughed.

He wrapped her hair around his bandaged hand. “How shall I feed an entire village?” he mused. “Well, I shan’t fret over it. I’ve always managed to land on my feet. Mr. Sweeney is searching for a new ship—”

“Another one?” she asked, surprised.

He shrugged and allowed her to stuff a bite of chicken into his mouth. “Someday. I’m afraid it will take a grand attempt to dig out of our present hole.”

Honor giggled. “I love our hole,” she said, and leaned down to kiss his mouth. “I have enormous faith in you, husband,” she said, because she liked calling him that. “I know you will do it. And when you do, we’ll find a place that will fit all of my family and all of our children.”

“Even Grace?” he asked casually as he traced a grape around her nipple. “You’ve written her, haven’t you?”

Honor winced. “Not yet,” she said.

“Honor—”

“I know.” She sighed. “I’ve been avoiding it. She will be so cross with me, George, and I dread her reply. But it’s only been a fortnight since we were wed.”

“Only?” he said dubiously. “She should know, love,” he insisted, and sat up to kiss her breast.

“You’re right.” Honor sighed and closed her eyes, enjoying the feel of his lips and tongue on the peak of her breast. “You’re always right.”

“Mmm, say it again,” George said. “It arouses me to hear you admit it.”

“You’re right, darling. You’re right, you’re right,” she whispered as he began to suckle her.

George pushed the tray of food aside and rolled them over so that Honor was beneath him. “Once we have the Cabot girls under one roof, we’ll work on our house full of children, the great-grandchildren of a king.” He smiled as he leaned down to kiss the hollow of her belly. “With a name that no one can deny.”

Honor stroked his head and smiled up at the canopy as he began to drag his mouth down the hollow of her belly and to the apex of her legs. “I like the sound of that.”

“There is really no time to waste,” he said, moving lower, pulling her legs apart and dipping his head between them. “No time at all,” he muttered, and ran his tongue up her cleft.

Honor threw her arms above her head and smiled with delight as he began to lave her. They had a lifetime of making children, a journey unfolding that she’d never understood she’d wanted until faced with the prospect of not having it.

Oh, but Honor wanted that. She fiercely, deeply, passionately wanted it.

She would write to Grace and tell her...tomorrow.

At the moment, she was pleasantly and thoroughly occupied.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

G
RACE WORE A
plain blue gown with a collar, as instructed by Cousin Beatrice. She’d been sitting on a wooden bench for more than an hour, waiting. Her limbs ached, her head ached more. It was a small, dark office, and she wished someone would open the blinds. The only light was that of a single candle, making the room as bleak and as dark as her mood, even though it was only midday.

She stared at the crumpled vellum in her hand. She’d received it this morning, Cousin Beatrice pressing it into her hand when the carriage had come for her. Grace had read it three times, maybe four, and each time tears had streamed down her face.

Oh, Honor.

The door opened; a dark-haired man with fierce green eyes strode inside. He stood just at the door, one fist clenched at his side, lightly tapping against the jamb.
One two three four five six seven eight
. He dropped his hand. “It is time, Miss Cabot,” he said simply.

“Shouldn’t you call me Grace?”

He did not respond, but tapped the jamb again.
One two three four five six seven eight.

Grace shoved the letter into her reticule and stood slowly. She looked at the man with the fierce green eyes and swallowed down a small lump of trepidation.

His jaw was clenched, his expression distant, cold and angry. When she did not move, he glanced at a small mantel clock. “Please, do come. It is time,” he said again.

She cast down her gaze as she moved past him, and winced when she heard the door shut resoundingly behind her.

How in heaven had she managed to create such a prodigiously complicated shambles of her life in such a short amount of time? She didn’t really know, but it looked as if she would have quite a lot of time to contemplate it and sort it all out before she wrote to Honor to tell her what had happened.

If she was allowed letters, that was. Grace wasn’t entirely certain what to expect any longer.

Fierce green eyes paused at the next door and knocked. As they waited for it to open, he tapped the jamb with his fist.

One two three four five six seven eight.

Grace glanced heavenward and sent up a silent prayer for courage.

* * * * *

Be sure to watch for Grace’s romance in
THE FALL OF GRACE,
coming only to Harlequin HQN in August.

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ISBN-13: 9781460327098

THE TROUBLE WITH HONOR

Copyright © 2014 by Dinah Dinwiddie

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