The Trouble with Honor (8 page)

Miss Cabot put her hands on her waist and glared at him as he rubbed his shin. “I grant that you are acquainted with women, Mr. Easton. Everyone in Mayfair is aware of just how
well
you are acquainted. But
I
am acquainted with Monica Hargrove. I know what will entice her and what will turn her away, and I must insist that you allow me to at least prepare you!”

He was acquainted with women, all right, but he’d yet to meet one like Honor Cabot. And it didn’t help matters when she sensed a crack in his facade, for a smile slowly began to light her face. Bloody hell, but those smiles were his undoing! They fairly sang through him, made his blood rush, his body tense. How was it possible this wisp of a young woman could affect him so? He straightened up with a sigh of resignation.

“I happen to know she will be attending the Garfield Assembly this Friday,” Miss Cabot said.

Lustful thoughts gave way to terror. George knew of the Garfield Assembly; everyone in London knew of it. The
haut ton
in its entirety would attend. All his life, the world of the
ton
had been held out to him as the ideal, as the world in which he would never be welcomed. He was well aware that were it not for his wealth, he would not be tolerated at all. He feared that if he lost his wealth—which, arguably, he was on the verge of losing—he’d be shunned as a pariah. Nothing was more loathsome than someone who had tried to become one of them and had failed.

George had been treated all his life as if he were deficient, that he was less than mere mortals because his father had not claimed him. His father’s refusal had become George’s burden of shame to shoulder. He had trained himself to keep his heart at arm’s length from anyone, to maintain an emotional distance. He fancied himself like the magnificent show horses of the royal cavalry he’d brushed when he was a child. Like them, he was proud and high-stepping, his movements precise, his looks enviable. But he never looked right or left, never wanted anything that wasn’t in his prescribed path. He kept trotting forward, his steps high, his head held higher.

George had known his share of bruising disappointments, and yet he did not think himself a bitter man—quite the contrary, he thought himself generally a happy one. But then again, he took great pains to avoid venues like the Garfield Assembly.

“No,”
he said instantly.

“Mr. Easton! What better opportunity?” Miss Cabot asked, her eyes shining with the victory of his giving in to her.
Again
.

“I think I was quite clear at our first meeting. I will not frequent assembly rooms.”

“But I can facilitate your entry—”

“Pardon, you can
what?
I do not need you to
facilitate
anything on my behalf, Miss Cabot. It may astonish you to know that there are some such as myself who simply don’t care to spend an evening surrounded by vapid, simpering debutantes!”

Miss Cabot’s smile only deepened with happy skepticism, and the drum began to beat again. “You surely do not think me so naive as
that,
sir,” she said pertly. “You do not want to attend the assembly because you can’t gain entry without proper invitation. But I can get you that invitation. And you must agree it is the perfect opportunity. Augustine will not be in attendance, and you need only speak with Miss Hargrove to put the suggestion in her head that you find her appealing.”

“I don’t need to attend an assembly for that,” he said crisply.

“What, then, do you think to do it on the street?” Miss Cabot asked gaily. She suddenly took him by the hand. “Come,” she said, and pulled him to the center of the room. “Stand just there, if you please.” She pulled a chair from the hearth and positioned it before him, sat down, and arranged her skirts before gracefully folding her hands in her lap. “All right, then, we are in an assembly room.”

George stared down at her.

“Go on,” she said with a charming smile. “Pretend I am Miss Hargrove and you wish to talk to me.” She settled herself once more, then looked away.

George could not believe he was standing in the Beckington House receiving room, engaged in some foolish courtship game. “This is daft,” he groused.

“Please,” she said angelically.

God in heaven.
He muttered a curse to himself, pushed a hand through his hair, then bowed. “Good evening, Miss Hargrove.”

Miss Cabot glanced at him sidelong. “Oh. Mr. Easton,” she said, and nodded politely before looking away again.

George stood there. This was not the way he would go about turning Monica Hargrove’s head, not at all. In fact, he had never approached a woman in this manner and wondered at those who did. It felt a bit desperate. Is this how the young bucks behaved in the storied drawing rooms of Mayfair?

Honor looked at him sidelong again. “Sit next to me,” she whispered.

“Why?” George demanded.

“You should be at eye level. You look so...” Her gaze swept over him, and if George wasn’t mistaken, she blushed slightly.
“Big,”
she said. “You look very big, towering over me as you are.”

George did not see the significance. “I
am
big.”

“But that is rather intimidating to an impressionable woman,” she said. “Please, do sit.”

“Intimidating!” He laughed. “I think there is nothing that will intimidate you, Miss Cabot.”

“Certainly not! But we are not speaking of
me.
We are speaking of Miss Hargrove.”

George couldn’t help his chuckle. “Bloody hell,” he said, and reached for a chair at his elbow and set it next to Miss Cabot. He sat. She looked away. She did not speak. What was he supposed to do, then? He racked his brain for what to say. “The weather is fine,” he said.

“It is indeed.” Her gaze was not on him. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Easton, but I am wanted across the room.” She abruptly stood and glided away. When he did not follow—was he to chase after her like a puppy, too?—she twirled around and frowned at him.

“What in the devil is the point of that?” George demanded.

“The
point,
Mr. Easton, is that you did not engage me. All I saw was a big man with nothing to say.”

Her remark struck a nerve in George—it was precisely the thing he feared, that he somehow would never reach the measure the
ton
put on him. “That’s quite enough,” he said crossly. “I refuse to be part of some elaborate, choreographed courting dance.” He suddenly stood up and strode directly toward her.

“What are you doing?” she exclaimed.

George didn’t answer. He stepped around a chair, continued moving toward her. Miss Cabot quickly scrambled out of his path, but found herself caught between a table and the door. She whirled around, pressed herself flat against the door, her eyes widening as he walked up to her and brazenly braced himself with one hand beside her head.

Miss Cabot blinked big blue eyes up at him. Silly young woman. She had no idea that she roused the beast in a man. “I’ll show you how to attract an impressionable young woman’s attention, Miss Cabot.”

“Is this how you will do it? Because you are too forward
again.
This sort of thing requires a bit of finesse.”

He suddenly smiled and took in her delectable figure once more. “I’ve not even begun to
finesse
it,” he muttered, and leaned in, his head close to hers, his breath in her hair. “I know precisely what needs to be done,” he added softly, and turned his head so that his lips brushed her temple. “You need not fret.”

“Then, for God’s sake, do not mention the weather,” she said low.

He was of a mind to take her in hand now, to show her how a man enticed a woman. But he kept his desire in check; he was a man who enjoyed the pleasures of a woman’s flesh, of giving her pleasure, yes—but he was not a man to dally with a young woman with no more experience than a goat. “To hell with the weather. I shall mention the ivory of her skin,” he said, brushing his lips against her cheek. “The scent of her hair,” he added, touching his nose to her hair. “And then I will quietly mention the desire that wells in a man when he is graced with her smile.”

Miss Cabot did not move. The color bloomed in her cheeks, and she drew another, deeper breath before slowly releasing it and saying, “That would do for a start, I should think.”

He heard the slight tremor in her voice and smiled to himself as he shifted closer, his hand finding her waist. “You want me to turn Miss Hargrove’s head, love? Not only will I turn it,” he said smoothly as he caressed her side, his hand sliding down her hip, squeezing the flesh of it as he pressed against her body, “I will make her want to open her legs like a flower.”

Miss Cabot sucked in a sharp breath, her chest rising with it.
“No
,
”
she whispered.

“No? I won’t put my cock in her, if that’s what you fear. In spite of what you think you know, I am a discerning man.” He pressed his erection against her hip. “I only put my cock where it is most appreciated.” He kissed her temple, feeling the frantic flutter of her pulse beneath his lips. “I plow only fields of pure spun gold,” he muttered, and put his mouth against her neck, sucking lightly, his tongue on her skin as he ran his hand up her side to her breast, filling his palm with it, kneading it.

“No self-respecting gentleman would put his hand on a woman,” Miss Cabot said breathlessly, her eyes fluttering shut as she bent her neck to give him better access.

He almost laughed as he moved to her ear, nibbling at her lobe. “No. But you did not come to me because I am a self-respecting gentleman, Miss Cabot. Now hush,” he said, and slid his hand around to her hands, which she held clasped tightly at her back, and pulled one free of its grip of the other. He lifted that hand to his mouth. Miss Cabot’s lips parted slightly; her eyes fixed on his face. George turned her hand over and licked the inside of her wrist before kissing it. Her skin was warm and fragrant, and smooth as butter against his tongue. It was dangerously provocative, and he could feel his own heart beginning to race with want. He slipped one hand beneath her chin, tilting her head back. Her eyes were as wide as saucers, her lips slightly parted. He was out of his mind to go any further, but George couldn’t help himself; he lowered his head, touched his mouth softly to hers, lingering there, his tongue teasing her lips, one hand boldly caressing her breast, squeezing it, then sliding down to her hip, squeezing it, too. When he felt her begin to soften, felt the familiar curve of a woman’s body into his, felt himself grow harder, he lifted his head and said, “Perhaps you will do me the honor of saving me a dance, Miss Hargrove?”

Miss Cabot nodded.
“Yes.”
Her voice was a bit shaky, and she quickly cleared her throat. She said again, more firmly, “Yes. Thank you.”

Satisfied with the knowledge that he’d succeeded in showing her a small step in the dance of seduction, he stepped back, putting a respectable distance between them.

Miss Cabot did not move. She stared at him, her gaze sliding down to the protrusion of his desire in his trousers.

Unabashed, George cocked a brow. His response was as natural as breathing, and if she had not seen a man’s desire, more was the pity. “Well, then?” he asked her.

“I think,” she said, nervously touching the strand of pearls at her throat, “I think that will do.” She continued to stare at him, her eyes locked on his mouth, and it stirred dangerously deep and devilish in him. He needed to leave. Now. Before he did something that he regretted. “Then we are agreed, Miss Cabot. Now then. When is this assembly?”

“Friday,” she said. “Half past eight.”

He nodded, picked up his hat and fit it on his head. “Then I shall make a point of attending.”

“Thank you again, Mr. Easton. You can’t know how much I appreciate your help.” Her smile was tremulous, but there was no mistaking the glow in her cheeks.

That was it, then. George had made his deal with the devil, all for the sake of a bloody smile. He’d come very near to undoing her gown, too, and lest there be any more thoughts along those lines, he would remove himself from Beckington House. God help him, but this irresponsible and devious woman captivated him in a way he did not care to be captivated. “Good day, Miss Cabot.”

“Good day, Mr. Easton,” she said, still absently fingering the strand of pearls as she eyed him curiously as he strode through the door.

CHAPTER SEVEN

H
ONOR AND GRACE
Cabot entered the Garfield Assembly like a pair of princesses, but tonight, Honor outshone her younger sister in a gown of pale blue silk with pearl trim. She was so stunning, Monica turned away, holding out her cup to the footman to refill with punch.

The many gowns and shoes and accoutrements Honor and Grace possessed amazed Monica. She had once teasingly inquired of Augustine if the family coffers had been robbed to support his stepsisters’ wardrobes, but Augustine had earnestly assured her that the funds had come from their late father.

Of course Augustine had believed it, the poor man—he hadn’t the slightest notion how much a wardrobe such as the one Honor possessed might cost. Monica was not even slightly convinced that the late Richard Cabot, who had risen as high as bishop in the Church of England, had left enough of his family’s money to outfit his daughters in such an extravagant manner. Monica imagined that Honor had somehow managed to take terrible advantage of her ailing stepfather. She had no evidence to support that, naturally, but it seemed quite impossible that one woman, as yet unmarried, could be so
fashionable.

Honor annoyed Monica. Honor had once been Monica’s closest friend, but Monica disliked that Honor had everything.
Everything!
She had fine looks with her dark hair and astoundingly blue eyes and smooth skin. Monica had auburn hair and brown eyes, and when she stood next to Honor, she could almost feel herself seeping into the wallpaper.

Honor also had the unflappable, unfailingly cheerful disposition, whereas Monica was, at times, prone to dark moods that she could not, no matter how hard she might try, seem to keep from her expression.

Honor also had the privilege of making her life at the palatial Beckington House in London, or at the earl’s majestic country seat of Longmeadow. It was as if when her father died, Honor had fallen into the lap of luxury. And now that she was grown and out in society, men
adored
Honor—one need only look about this room and see how many of them glanced at her admiringly to see it was so. Honor squandered that attention. So many young women would appreciate the options of suitors, but Honor never seemed to move beyond only a cursory courtship.

And what did Monica have? Two older brothers, that was what, with not a single thought of society or fashion between them. Her family lived in a respectable house just outside Mayfair, and her father was an esteemed scholar of law. Not an earl. Not even a baron. A scholar.

Monica considered herself fortunate to have been accepted into such august society as the one that surrounded her this evening. She herself had never wanted for admirers, but she wasn’t the type to flirt and invite the attentions of several gentlemen at once. In truth, Monica felt intimidated by many men and considered herself fortunate to have caught the eye of Augustine, Viscount Sommerfield.

Augustine didn’t intimidate her; he was genuinely adoring of her. Her parents were over the moon at her engagement, and the sooner Monica married Augustine, the happier they would be. Who would have thought that their daughter would marry a titled man and become a countess?

Monica knew that Honor believed her understanding with Augustine was all by design, but in truth, it had happened quite honestly. At first, Monica had been amused by Augustine’s attentions. He was a bit too round for her tastes, and he could be a bit of a bumbler at times. But as days turned into weeks, she’d grown rather fond of him. He was very attentive and sincere in his devotion to her. It certainly didn’t hurt that he would one day be an earl, or that Monica would preside over the Beckington estates as Lady Beckington. Monica had grown accustomed to the idea, and she truly believed that she and Augustine would have a family, and she would live quite contentedly.

She hadn’t really given any thought to his stepsisters until her mother suggested that six in a marriage of two might be a bit crowded. “I hope you won’t need to vie for Sommerfield’s attentions with all those girls,” she’d said laughingly. Or, “Ah, isn’t Honor’s gown lovely? I hope there will be enough money for
you
to be clothed in that manner when you are countess.”

Now Monica did not see a gaggle of stepsisters in her rosy view of the future.

Speaking of which... Monica glanced over her shoulder now. A pair of gentlemen had intercepted Honor, and they were laughing as if she’d said something terribly witty. Even from here, Monica could see the twinkle in Honor’s eye.

Monica turned away from that scene and was startled by Lady Chatham, who had appeared from seemingly nowhere to stand directly beside her.

“Lady Chatham,” Monica said, dipping a curtsy.

“Good evening, Miss Hargrove,” she said cheerfully. “Have you come alone? Where is your handsome fiancé?”

“He won’t be attending this evening. He had a prior commitment.”

“I see,” Lady Chatham said.

Monica could almost hear the little mice wheels turning in the woman’s head, stuffing away gossip to be doled out in enticing little bits to her friends on the morrow. “I have come in the company of my cousin, Mr. Hatcher,” Monica added.

“Mr. Hatcher is a
dear,
” Lady Chatham said, as if she knew him. “I see the Cabots have arrived. At least Miss Cabot is wearing pearls in her hair and no one’s bonnet this evening.”

Really, that entire incident had spiraled out of control. Monica
had
commissioned the hat, but when she’d gone round, the price was much greater than the proprietress had led her to believe it would be. She hadn’t intended to purchase it—but why did Honor have to be the one to take it?

“That was just a trifle, really. I didn’t care for the bonnet at all.” She smiled, hoping that bit of untruth was not noticed.

“Well, neither did I,” Lady Chatham agreed. “It seemed to me designed to draw attention, and that, Miss Hargrove, is
not
the way young ladies should behave.”

Monica didn’t think that the bonnet was as showy as that, and neither did she think for a moment that Honor was concerned about appearances to old women like Lady Chatham. Quite the contrary—Honor was perfectly happy to take risks, to flaunt society rules. That was the difference between them—Honor always pushed, and Monica followed the rules.

“Miss Hargrove.”

Monica turned slightly to see Thomas Rivers standing beside her.

“Lady Chatham,” he said, inclining his head to the older woman, before smiling at Monica again. “Miss Hargrove, will you do the honor of standing up with me?”

Lady Chatham waved her fingers and trilled, “Of course, of course! You must dance and be merry, Miss Hargrove, for soon you will be a married woman.”

“Pardon?” Monica said, confused as to what, exactly, Lady Chatham had meant, but she’d already swanned away.

Mr. Rivers led her onto the ballroom floor. The dance began with a pair of turns, one way, then the other. On the second turn, Monica happened to catch sight of George Easton, who, surprisingly, was watching her. Monica twirled the other way.

George Easton,
here?
She knew Easton instantly, of course—everyone knew him. One did not claim to be the nephew of the king and escape attention. Recently, she’d heard he had jeopardized his fortune.

How had he gained entrance? Lady Feathers, the lead patroness of the assembly, was quite strict in her rules of entry, and Monica could not imagine that she would ever allow the bastard son of the Duke of Gloucester to enter, particularly as the current duke was disdainful of the man he called a pretender.

The dance came to an end, and Mr. Rivers escorted Monica from the dance floor. She declined his offer for a drink and watched him move away, searching for his next dance partner.

Monica scanned the crowd—there was Honor again, dancing now, her step light and free as she skipped around Charles Braxton in her figures, while Braxton admired her like an adoring child. Grace was on the dance floor as well, her smile brilliant beneath the candelabras, her dancing more elegant than her sister’s.

Monica turned away, unwilling to watch. She was seeking a familiar face to talk to when she felt a tingling in her spine—she could
feel
someone looking at her, and when she turned about, she was surprised once again to see George Easton staring directly at her.

Not only was his gaze locked on her, he was walking purposefully in her direction. Monica thought perhaps she was mistaken, but Easton headed right to her. He smiled charmingly and bowed low. “Miss Hargrove, may I be so bold as to present myself to you? I hope you will forgive me, but I saw you with Rivers and I’ve not been able to turn away. I am George Easton, at your service.”

Was he not aware that a gentleman did not approach a lady without invitation? Monica glanced slyly around the room to see if anyone had noticed this breach of etiquette. “How do you do, Mr. Easton,” she said, smiling a little. She found his approach completely suspect, and yet she couldn’t help but be a bit flattered by it.

He gave her a dazzling smile. “I confess I am quite captivated.”

Gentlemen had, at times, been captivated with her, but they hadn’t admitted it quite like that. “Are you, indeed?” she asked, smiling coyly. “How unusual it is to have a gentleman approach without invitation, and make such a proclamation.”

“I am an unusual man,” he said cheerfully. “But I see I’ve been too forthright. I’ve been accused of being so in the past, but when it comes to beautiful women, it is a habit I cannot seem to break. May I offer you a glass of punch, Miss Hargrove?”

What was happening here? Why was he talking to her like this? She didn’t believe for a moment that a man of his charm and fine looks and reputation would be the least bit captivated by her. She was suddenly wildly curious as to what he was about. “You may.”

He led her across the room to the sideboard, nodded at the footman attending and accepted a glass of punch to hand to Monica.

“Thank you.”

Easton smiled again, his eyes softening around the corners. He really was
quite
handsome, what with his square jaw, blue eyes and brown hair streaked with gold. Monica wished Augustine had more hair, really; his was beginning to thin on top.

Easton touched her elbow lightly and led her away from the sideboard. “You will undoubtedly think me bold again if I were to proclaim there is not a lovelier woman in attendance tonight, but I must say it is so.”

He was perhaps a bit blind. “But there are so many women here tonight,” Monica said.

“None that can compare to you.” With his finger, he casually caressed her wrist. His eyes seemed almost to dance, and Monica was beginning to appreciate how the man might have earned his notorious reputation of bedding women with ease.

“I was watching you dance with Rivers,” he said, his gaze sliding to her décolletage. “Admiring your figure.”

“I saw you,” Monica said.

He leaned closer, his head next to hers, and whispered, “I found myself rather envious of Sommerfield.”

“Perhaps you should tell that to Lord Sommerfield.”

“And have him call me out?”

Monica couldn’t help but smile at that preposterous notion. A man like Easton had nothing to fear from Augustine when it came to duels or fights, or however men settled challenges between them. Monica was intrigued by Easton’s sudden interest in her...but not fooled by it. She wondered what gain he sought from it. An introduction to someone, perhaps? To Augustine? She looked him squarely in the eye and said, “I cannot help but wonder at your interest in me.”

He looked surprised by her forthrightness. “I should think a woman as comely as you must have gentlemen admiring you at every turn, Miss Hargrove.”

He didn’t
truly
think she would believe him? It was so wildly preposterous given the differences in their stations and circumstances.

“I had rather hoped you would do me the honor of standing up with me so that I might admire you a bit longer than decorum will allow,” he said, and put out his hand for hers.

Monica laughed. She had no intention of standing up with him, of starting any sort of rumor. She pressed her cup into his hand. “Thank you, but I should not like to be the subject of any undue speculation. Good evening, Mr. Easton,” she said airily, and walked away.

She glanced back over her shoulder as she moved away.

He was watching her, his head down, his smile a bit smug.

Really, what the devil was he after?