Julia London - The Trouble with Honour

Honor was not aware of it when she snuck into the house just as the roosters were crowing. She darted up the steps and into the safety of her bedroom, and once inside, she tossed the bonnet onto the chaise, removed the beautiful gown Mrs. Dracott had made especially for her and quickly fell into a deep and dreamless sleep. She was rudely startled from her slumber sometime later when she opened her eyes to see her thirteen-year-old sister, Mercy, bending over her, peering closely.

It gave Honor a fright, and she cried out as she sat up, clutching the bed linens to her. “Mercy, what in heaven?” she demanded.

“Augustine bids you come,” Mercy said, examining Honor closely from behind her wire-rimmed spectacles. Mercy was dark haired and blue eyed like Honor, whereas her sisters Grace, who was only a year younger than Honor’s twenty-two years, and sixteen-year-old Prudence, were fair haired and hazel eyed.

“Augustine?” Honor repeated through a yawn. She was not in a mood to see her stepbrother this morning. Was it even morning? She glanced at the mantel clock, which read half past eleven. “What does he want?”

“I don’t know,” Mercy said, and bounced to a seat at the foot of Honor’s bed. “Why are there dark smudges beneath your eyes?”

Honor groaned. “Have we any callers today?”

“Only Mr. Jett,” Mercy said. “He left his card for you.”

Dear Mr. Jett—the man simply could not be persuaded that Honor would never consent to be courted by him. It was her lot in London society to attract the gentlemen for whom she could never, in her wildest imagination, find an attraction for in return. Mr. Jett was at least twice as old as she, and worse, he had thick lips. It vexed her that women were supposed to accept any man whose fortune and standing were comparable to hers. What about the compatibility of souls? What about esteem?

The closest Honor had come to such depth of feeling was the year of her debut. She’d fallen completely in love with Lord Rowley, a handsome, charming young gentleman who had aroused her esteem to a crescendo. Honor had been so very smitten, and she had believed—had been led to believe—that an offer was forthcoming.

An offer was forthcoming...but for Delilah Snodgrass.

Honor had heard of the engagement at a tea and had been so stunned by the news that Grace had been forced to make excuses for her as Honor had hurried home. She’d been brokenhearted by the reality of it, had privately suffered her abject disappointment for weeks. She’d been crushed to see Rowley squiring Miss Snodgrass about, had felt herself growing smaller and smaller in her grief.

How could she have been so terribly wrong? Had Rowley not complimented her looks and accomplishments? Had he not whispered in her ear that he would very much like to kiss her more thoroughly than on the cheek? Had they not taken long walks together in the park, speaking of their hopes for the future?

One day after the stunning news, Honor had happened upon Lord Rowley. He’d smiled, and her heart had skipped madly. She’d not been able to keep herself from confronting him and demanding, as politely as she could, what had happened to the offer she’d been expecting.

She would never, as long as she might live, forget the look of surprise on his lordship’s face. “I beg your pardon, Miss Cabot. I had no idea the strength of your feelings,” he’d said apologetically.

She had been completely taken aback by that. “You didn’t know?” she’d repeated. “But you called on me several times! We walked in the park, we talked of the future, we sat together during Sunday services!”

“Well, yes,” he’d said, looking quite uncomfortable. “I have many friends among the fairer sex. I’ve taken countless walks and had many interesting conversations. But I was not aware that your feelings had gone beyond our friendship. You gave no outward sign.”

Honor had been dumbfounded. Of course she hadn’t given any outward, blatant sign! Because she was a good girl—she’d been proper and chaste as she’d been taught to be! She’d demurely waited for the gentleman to make the first overture, as she’d supposed such things were done!

“And I really must stress, Miss Cabot,” he’d continued with that pained expression, “that had I known, it would not have changed...anything,” he’d said, his face turning a bit red as he’d shrugged halfheartedly. “Ours would not have been a fortuitous match.”

That had stunned her even more than his deceit. “Pardon?”

He’d cleared his throat, had looked at his hands. “That is to say, as the first son of an earl, it is expected that I should set my sights a bit higher than Beckington’s stepdaughter...or the daughter of a bishop, as it were.” He’d scarcely looked her in the eye. “You understand.”

Honor had understood, all right. For Rowley, and for every other gentleman in Mayfair, marriage was all about position and status. He clearly did not care about love or affection. He clearly did not care about her.

The wound of that summer had scored Honor, and she had never really recovered from it. She had vowed to herself and to her sisters that she would never, never allow herself to be in that position again.

She yawned at Mercy. “Please tell Augustine I’ll be down directly.”

“All right, but you’d best not be late. He’s very cross with you.”

“Why? What have I done?”

“I don’t know. He’s cross with Mamma, too,” Mercy added. “He apparently told Mamma that the Hargroves were to dine here last night, and she said he did not. She hadn’t planned a supper, and they had quite a row.”

“Oh, no,” Honor said. “What happened?”

“We dined on boiled chicken,” Mercy said. “I must go now,” she added airily, and skipped out of the room.

Honor groaned again and pushed the linens aside. She was really rather fond of Augustine, all things considered. He’d been her stepbrother for ten years now. He was four and twenty, no taller than Honor and a wee bit on the corpulent side. He’d never been one for walking or hunting, preferring to read in the afternoons or debate his friends about British naval maneuvers at his club, the details of which he shared in excruciating detail over supper.

But never mind his dreadfully dull life—Augustine Devereaux, Lord Sommerfield, was a good man, kind and considerate of others. And weak willed and terribly shy when it came to women. For years, Honor and Grace could easily bend him to their will. That had changed, of course, when he’d fallen in love with Monica Hargrove and made her his fiancée. They would have been married now were it not for the earl’s declining health, as it hardly seemed the thing to celebrate a wedding of the heir to the Beckington throne when the old earl was only barely clinging to life. Honor’s stepfather was suffering from consumption. The many physicians who had trooped through this house believed he had months, if not weeks, to live.

Honor dressed in a plain day gown, brushed her hair and left it loose, too tired to put it up. She made her way downstairs and found her sisters and Augustine in the morning room. She was not happy to see all of her siblings in attendance, particularly given the dark look on Grace’s face—that did not bode well. The sight of food on the sideboard, however, suitably revived Honor’s demeanor, as she vaguely tried to remember the last time she’d actually eaten anything. “Good morning, all,” she said cheerfully as she padded across the Aubusson carpet to the sideboard and picked up a plate.

“Honor, dearest, what time did you return home, if I may ask?” Augustine asked crisply.

“Not so very late,” Honor said, slyly avoiding his gaze. “I didn’t intend to stay quite as long as I did, but Lady Humphrey had set up to play faro, and I was caught in an exciting game—”