Grace stood and moved to the door. “I’ll send Hannah around to help you repair it. You’ve not much time, you know. We’re to meet the charming Mr. Cleburne in an hour.”

When she was alone, Honor folded her arms on the vanity and lowered her forehead to them. She closed her eyes, thinking back to the moments she’d had this afternoon with Easton. It made her a little queasy to imagine Mr. Cleburne in a similar situation. It made her positively ill to imagine it all without Grace.

An hour later, Honor arrived in the foyer in the most demure, lifeless gown she could find in her wardrobe. She wore it as a symbol of her silent protest to this match, to the life that had led her to this moment. It was plain and sedate, just like she imagined marriage to Cleburne would be. This was what Augustine had done to her, she absently mused as she and Mr. Cleburne followed at a bit of a distance behind Augustine and her sisters to the church—he’d taken the desire for fine gowns out of her. She scarcely cared if she ever wore one again.

Honor managed to endure the service and the walk back to Beckington House. She thought she had managed to make it through an interminable evening in the company of the vicar and that she could at last turn her attention to something else, but then Augustine had the audacity to push her once more.

“Mr. Cleburne, you’ve not forgotten our ride and picnic in the park on the morrow, have you?”

Mr. Cleburne smiled self-consciously at Honor. “I have not. I have heard that you are an excellent horsewoman, Miss Cabot.”

Honor said flatly, “I am.” Perhaps she would ride away from him. Point her horse north and ride it until it could not carry her another step.

“You must see her,” Augustine said cheerfully. “That is, if you dare to be bested by a woman.” He laughed as if that were entirely impossible.

“I sit a horse respectably well,” Mr. Cleburne said with a modest shrug.

Honor said nothing. Augustine glared at her, and she said, “You must join us.”

“Excellent!” Augustine crowed. “We’ll have a picnic, the four of us.”

“I want to go,” Mercy said, and pushed her spectacles up the ridge of her nose. “I’m a good horsewoman, too.”

“Oh, but you are needed at Beckington House,” Augustine said.

“Why am I needed?” Mercy complained.

“Because someone must keep an eye out for the ghosts,” Mr. Cleburne said congenially.

That seemed to give Mercy pause, and in that moment, Mr. Cleburne turned his smile to Honor, clearly pleased with himself for showing some attention to her youngest sister.

Honor was entirely certain that her attempt at a smile failed. “Mercy, tell us a ghost story,” she said, and looked away, lest Mr. Cleburne see her great disappointment in him.



CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

MONICA’S MOTHER BELIEVED Mr. Cleburne was a perfect match for Honor in every way, most particularly because it meant Honor would be living at Longmeadow.

Not London, where Monica would be stepping into her role one day as the new Lady Beckington. But at Longmeadow, where Monica would only need see her in summer, when London was unbearably hot and fetid.

Monica didn’t ride as well as Honor—none of them did—and she’d assumed Honor would ride far ahead, pausing to speak to acquaintances, then trotting back to the party, where Monica would labor along with her horse. But nothing was further from the truth. Honor rode at a sedate pace beside the vicar and behind Monica and Augustine. She hardly seemed herself.

They were so slow, thanks to Augustine’s clumsy handling of his horse, that Monica could overhear Honor and Cleburne’s conversation. The vicar asked what diversions Honor enjoyed. Honor replied she enjoyed gaming. The vicar chuckled indulgently and made a remark about the games of the devil. Honor asked if he ever bet on horses, that everyone at Longmeadow found a coin or two for that purpose.

Mr. Cleburne said he did not.

Monica would have given anything to see the expression on Honor’s face at that moment, but alas, her task was to train her eye to her horse, lest she fall.

Monica knew Honor was perturbed when they stopped for their picnic. Augustine busily instructed a footman where to lay the blanket and the basket of food the cook had prepared. Honor stood to one side, tapping her crop lightly against her skirt, staring out across the lake.

Monica asked lightly, “Mr. Cleburne, I’ve been meaning to inquire, how do you find Longmeadow now that you’ve been there a time?”

“Oh, very well, indeed,” he said, as if he could say anything less before Augustine.

“You’ve met the fine families there?”

“Naturally. They are my flock.”

“I am sure you have discovered many young, unmarried woman in your flock,” Honor said.

Mr. Cleburne blushed. Monica realized then how inexperienced the man was. “Perhaps one or two have allowed an interest,” he said modestly. “But none that I found suitable,” he quickly amended.

“What do you mean? There were none that caught your interest?” Honor asked.

Mr. Cleburne smiled nervously. “No, I...I consider myself a man of discernment.”

The man was a fool, Monica realized. He hadn’t the slightest idea how to entice a woman like Honor Cabot. He was no George Easton, a surprising thought that caused her to chuckle unexpectedly.

Honor and Mr. Cleburne looked at her. Monica gaily remarked, “What a lovely day!”

Honor’s gaze darkened.

“We have our picnic!” Augustine said, making a grand gesture to the setting the footman had made for them.

The four of them eased themselves down on the blanket and helped themselves to fruit and cheeses while the footman filled their wineglasses. Augustine had stretched out on his side, and his belly, Monica was chagrined to see, was spilling onto the ground beneath his waistcoat. They spoke of nothing of import, and even when Augustine brought up the reception for Lord Stapleton, Monica resisted a yawn. But then Augustine suggested Honor invite Mr. Cleburne to accompany her.

Honor’s head came up. She looked at Monica, then at Augustine, clearly caught off guard.

Mr. Cleburne sensed her fluster, for he said, “I couldn’t possibly impose.”

“No imposition,” Augustine said easily, and stuffed a pair of grapes into his mouth.

“But I should not impose on you, Mr. Cleburne,” Honor said, recovering slightly. “The reception will be crowded and...and noisy.”

“Oh, I scarcely mind that,” Cleburne said congenially. “I am sure I have suffered worse at the country dances.” He laughed.

Honor glanced away, her jaw clenched. “Unfortunately,” she said, shaking her head to the wine the footman silently offered, “the building is not well ventilated.”

“Then I suppose I shall remove my coat,” Mr. Cleburne responded, and smiled at Monica and Augustine, as if they were playing a game.

“Then it’s all settled,” Augustine said triumphantly. “Mr. Cleburne shall be your guest.”

“Yes,” Honor said. “Thank you, Augustine, for the idea.” She stood up. “Please, excuse me.”

Mr. Cleburne hastened to find his feet.

“Oh, no, Mr. Cleburne, do keep your seat. I mean only to stretch my legs.” Honor whirled and began to walk. Or march, really, her riding habit billowing out behind her.

Cleburne looked helplessly at Monica and Augustine. “Have I said something wrong?”

“Not at all, Mr. Cleburne,” Monica said, and held out her hand so that he might help her to her feet. “Honor can be rather...”

“Mercurial?” Augustine offered innocently.

“That was not the word I was searching for,” Monica said kindly. Stubborn was more in line with her thinking. “She is the restless sort. I’ll see to her—enjoy your wine,” she said, and straightened her bonnet before marching after Honor to the edge of the lake.

When reached by her nemesis, Honor was ripping apart a rush, one bristle at a time. When they were girls, her mother had brought them to this very lake to feed the ducks. Monica remembered Honor, with her dark hair streaming behind her, chasing the ducks at the edge of the lake, trying to catch them as Monica’s mother shouted at her to stop. Monica had been afraid of the ducks, and she was suddenly reminded of how Honor had held her hand while Monica had thrown her breadcrumbs to the honking beasts. When had those young girls parted ways? Honestly, Monica couldn’t recall any longer.

She glanced at Honor from the corner of her eye. “You seem rather cross.”

Honor bestowed a withering look on Monica. “Cross is the least of what I am. You know that very well.”

“I suppose I do,” Monica said, and shrugged, looking out over the lake. “I don’t understand you, in all honesty. Mr. Cleburne happens to be an excellent match for you—”

“An excellent match?” Honor shot back and glanced over her shoulder at the offending gentleman. “Why do you believe that? Because it is your idea to broker a marriage? Ah—don’t even think of denying it,” she said when Monica opened her mouth to do precisely that. “I know very well you suggested it to Augustine. He would not have thought of it on his own.”

“Even if I did suggest it, or even if you suggested to Mr. Easton that he should court me, it’s all beside the point,” Monica said pertly, taking pleasure in the flicker of culpability that flashed in Honor’s eyes. “Mr. Cleburne is a perfect match for you because he is. He is devoted, he is kind and his reputation is irreproachable. Can you really ask for more?”

“Yes!” Honor exclaimed. “Yes, Monica, I can ask for more. Perhaps you can’t, or won’t, but I ask for more.”

“Why isn’t anything ever good enough for you?” Monica demanded crossly. “How can you find a man who most women in your position would consider a very good match beneath you? Why must you always have more?”