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—”
“Faro! That is a rude game played by rowdy men in taverns! On my word, do you never consider that your behavior will give rise to talk?”
“I always do,” Honor said honestly.
Augustine blinked. He frowned. “Well, what gentleman will want a debutante who gambles her stepfather’s fortune until the wee hours of the morning?” he demanded, changing tack.
Honor gasped at that and firmly met her stepbrother’s gaze. “I did not gamble the earl’s fortune, Augustine! I gambled what I’ve fairly won!” She would not apologize for it—she was really rather good at winning. Not a month ago, she’d taken one hundred pounds from Mr. George Easton in front of everyone at a gaming hell in Southwark. She could still remember the shine of defeat in his eyes.
But Augustine was not appeased. “How does winning improve your reputation?” he demanded.
“Tell us about the musicale,” Prudence said eagerly, ignoring Augustine’s querulous mood. “Was the music divine? Who was there? What were they wearing?”
“Wearing?” Honor repeated thoughtfully as she took her seat beside Augustine, her plate full of cheeses and biscuits. “I didn’t notice, really. The usual sort of thing, I suppose, muslin and lace.” She shrugged lightly.
“Any bonnets about?” Augustine asked crossly, and swiped a biscuit from Honor’s plate.
Honor knew then that he’d heard about her quarrel with Monica. She hesitated only a moment before she straightened her back, smiled at her stepbrother and said, “Only my bonnet that I recall.”
“There you are, Augustine!” Grace said triumphantly. “Do you see? It’s impossible that she would have taken Monica’s bonnet.”
“Taken it?” Honor repeated incredulously.
“I grant you that Honor can be vexing, but she hasn’t a dishonest bone in her body,” Grace continued as if Honor was not sitting just across from her. “Quite the contrary! If one can make a criticism of her, it is that she is too honest!”
“How can one be too honest?” Prudence asked. “Either one is honest or one is not.”
“I mean that she often lacks discretion,” Grace clarified.
“Thank you,” Honor said wryly. “You are too kind.”
Grace blinked innocently, as if it were beyond her capacity to deny.
“Neither is Miss Hargrove lacking in veracity,” Augustine said sternly. “She would not bring such a complaint to my attention were it not true.” He punctuated that statement by stuffing the rest of his biscuit into his mouth and chewing with enthusiasm as he glared at Honor.
Honor refrained from saying there were many things Monica Hargrove lacked, and Honor should know—she’d been acquainted with the woman since their sixth year on this earth, when their mothers had thought it expedient to employ one dance instructor for the both of them. That instructor—a simpering fool with a sharp nose and long, gangly arms, as Honor recalled him—had taken quite a liking to Monica and had given her the best roles in all their recitals. Moreover, Monica’s costumes always had wings and Honor’s had not, a fact that Honor might have been able to bear had Monica not been so bloody smug about it. “Perhaps your dancing will improve, and next year, you might have this costume,” she’d said as she’d twisted one way, then the other, so that Honor might see the thing in all its glory.
The competition between them had only intensified over the next sixteen years.
“Monica would bring even the slightest misunderstanding
