He was precisely the sort of man who made her heart race with excitement.

But did she want to be his wife? Was that the fullness she was feeling in her chest? Was that the desire that lurked in her, the need to be with him always, to hold him, to see his smile? Realization of what she truly wanted dawned slowly, spreading softly like morning’s first light. How interesting that Honor had believed herself to be the same at heart as George—no desire for entanglements, but only excitement and enchantment. How ironic that it would be someone just like her who would show her that what she really wanted was love. She wanted love. She wanted to feel love again, to feel the comforting security of sitting across from someone every day, of sharing a life, a family, the heartaches and triumphs of life.

She wanted George. God, how she wanted him. He was exciting, so different from the gentlemen of the ton. He was not afraid to risk all, he was not afraid of anything. He was the perfect man for her.

Except for the fact that he was a bastard, involved in trade and reviled by half the ton.

Honor tried to sleep, clutching the coverlet as if it were a rope tethering her to earth. She gripped it to keep herself on firm ground, to remember who she was, what her destiny was to be—safely married to someone of standing in the ton. An obedient wife, a perfect hostess, protector of her family. Safe in the bosom of the society she had been reared to accept.

But what did that all mean without someone she loved to share it with her? An empty life.

Honor must have slept—she was startled awake when someone grabbed her foot. Honor came up with a gasp and blinked sleepily at Prudence standing at the end of her bed.

“What in heaven?” she asked grumpily, and fell back onto the pillow.

“Why aren’t you awake?” Prudence demanded. “You’ve missed breakfast.”

“Because I had my supper at two in the morning.” She yawned and stretched her arms high above her head. “Why? Is something wrong?”

“No. But the cricket tournament is today. Augustine is in a dither about it.” She sat on the end of Honor’s bed. “Lord Washburn intends to play.”

“How perfectly lovely for Lord Washburn,” Honor said. She pushed herself up, propped herself against the pillows. Oh, to be sixteen years all over again, Honor thought wistfully.

“He’s rather athletic,” Prudence added, and restlessly stood up. “Grace is looking for you. She said if I found you, I was to send you to her.”

“But I want to sleep,” she complained. Really, to think of George. “Tell Grace I will come to her just as soon as I’m able, will you?” Honor asked.

An hour later, Honor found her sister outside beneath a parasol. Like Honor, Grace had dressed in white muslin, the traditional color of the cricket tournament. She looked as fatigued as Honor felt.

“Were you late to bed?” Honor asked. “You look as if you’ve not slept.”

“I haven’t,” Grace admitted. “I shall be very merry when everyone leaves Longmeadow.”

That wasn’t like her sister—Grace, of all of them, seemed to love these annual gatherings at Longmeadow. “Is it Mr. Pritchard, again?” she asked, referring to one of Grace’s more ardent admirers.

“What? No, no, not him,” Grace said with a distracted shake of her head. “It’s Mamma. This morning, over tea, she very carefully explained to me that we must be vigilant, for some men have come to take the earl away against his wishes, and we aren’t to allow it. When I asked her what men, she said they were Scots.”

“Scots?”

“She’s getting worse, Honor, so much worse. It’s a wonder people haven’t noticed it. Or perhaps they have and they are too polite to mention it.”

Honor snorted at that. “I can assure you, if they’ve noticed, they are mentioning it to each other with great enthusiasm.”

Grace looked out across the field where footmen were setting up stumps and wickets for the match this afternoon. “I’ve done something quite horrible.”

That surprised Honor; she looked curiously at her sister.

Grace’s eyes were filled with tears. “Something that will surely condemn me to hell.”

A million thoughts went through Honor’s head, all of which she quickly discarded. She put her arm around Grace’s waist. “That’s impossible.”

“I gave Mamma some laudanum,” Grace said flatly.

Honor gasped. “Oh, dear God, you didn’t!”

“You see? It’s horrible!” Grace whimpered as a tear slid from her eye. “On my word, Honor, I had to do it. There she was, talking about the men from Scotland who would take the earl away, and I thought, how disastrous it would be if she were to say that to anyone, most particularly the Hargroves—”

“Where is she?” Honor demanded.

“Sleeping,” Grace said. “Hannah is with her. Poor Hannah! She didn’t approve of what I’d done, I could plainly see it, but I didn’t know what else to do.” She gave Honor a beseeching look. “What else could I do?”

Honor thought it was the worst thing she might have done, but Grace looked so hopeless, she couldn’t say it. She hugged Grace to her. “We should not do that again, I think.”

“No,” Grace said weakly.

“Don’t despair, Grace. When everyone is away, we will think with clearer heads.”

“Perhaps,” Grace said, and dabbed at her nose with a handkerchief. “How was your evening?”

Glorious and wretched. Honor averted her gaze—Grace could read her too well. “Quite all right, I suppose, in spite of being accused of thievery. Dearest Monica has determined Mr. Cleburne is a perfect match for me, I think.”

“Who?” Grace asked, then gasped. “The new vicar?” She laughed. “She has smelled the countess’s coronet and it has made her ravenous. Look, the gentlemen are beginning to come down for the match. Shall we go and watch?”

“I have it on great authority that Lord Washburn is to play and likely to win.”

Grace laughed at that.

They walked down to the awnings that had been set up for the ladies observing the game, and took seats at a linen-covered table as the gentlemen divided into teams.

“There are the lovely Cabot girls!” a voice familiar to them both trilled.

“Good morning, Mrs. Hargrove,” Honor said, and came to her feet, offering her chair. A footman quickly placed another chair at the table.

“Thank you, dear,” Mrs. Hargrove said as she settled into the seat. “Where is your mother?”

“Resting,” Honor said.

“Oh, good. She looked quite exhausted last night. No doubt the soiree and the earl’s health have taken their toll.”

“No doubt,” Honor said, and looked pointedly at Grace, silently warning her not to burst into tears as she seemed on the verge of doing.

Augustine and Monica arrived, dressed in cricket whites. Augustine’s white waistcoat, which Honor believed he wore once a year at this very tournament, was a bit more snug than last year. “I’ve much to do,” he said anxiously, depositing Monica at their table and hurrying off to review the rules with the players.

Monica said, “Lovely day for cricket.”

“Isn’t it!” Mrs. Hargrove said. “The grounds are so lovely. If I could make one small addition to them, I should like to see a fountain and some seating there, near the gazebo.”

“That’s a wonderful idea,” Monica agreed.

Honor and Grace exchanged a sly look.

“Oh, look, it’s Mr. Cleburne to bat,” Monica said, suddenly sitting up in her chair and adjusting her bonnet.

The four women turned their attention to the match. Mr. Cleburne struck the first ball with ease and ran quickly to the stumps, then back again. A cheer went up from his team, and all the ladies applauded politely.

“Mr. Cleburne!” Monica called, waving her hand as the gentleman sauntered to another awning and gestured to a servant to pour him ale. He looked up when Monica called, smiled happily and began to walk across the lawn to them.

“Mr. Cleburne, may I present you to my mother, Elizabeth Hargrove,” Monica said when Mr. Cleburne reached them.

He took Mrs. Hargrove’s hand. “My pleasure.” He turned to Honor and Grace and greeted them, as well.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Cleburne. You play very well.”

“We might add it to the list of things Mr. Cleburne does well,” Monica said eagerly. “I understand you are an excellent pianist, Mr. Cleburne.”

“Oh, I am no talent, Miss Hargrove.”

“Cleburne!” one of the men shouted at him.

“I beg your pardon, I am wanted,” he said cheerfully, and jogged onto the field.

“He seems quite kind, doesn’t he?” Monica said admiringly. “I should think he’d make an excellent husband.”

“Yes, indeed,” Mrs. Hargrove readily agreed.

Monica glanced at Honor. “He is the third son of a viscount, I understand. Well connected in that regard. And he will live in that pleasant cottage on the grounds. You know the one, don’t you, Honor?”

Of course she knew it. “Augustine’s grandmother lived there. Very cozy, isn’t it?”

“Do you think it cozy? I thought it quite large for a couple.”

“There is Lady Chatham,” Mrs. Hargrove said, and excused herself to go and greet the greatest busybody in all of London.

“He’s not married, you know,” Monica continued.

“That’s a pity, Monica, as you are already spoken for,” Grace said breezily.

Monica tittered at that, feigning amusement. “But you’re not spoken for, Grace, and neither is your sister.” She smiled at Honor.

“And I don’t intend to be, so you may as well put away this notion of making a match,” Honor said.

“Why not?” Monica asked pleasantly. “I should think it a perfect match for the daughter of a bishop.”

Oh, but Honor wanted to shriek. “I appreciate your concern for me, Monica,” Honor said lightly. “But I think perhaps Mr. Cleburne is better suited for our Mercy.”