The Trouble with Honour
The Trouble with Honour
Julia London
“London knows how to keep pages turning.” —Publishers WeeklyPassion and scandal collide in New York Times bestselling author Julia London’s brand new series about four sisters determined to rescue themselves from ruin ….Desperate times call for daring measures as Honor Cabot, the eldest stepdaughter of the wealthy Earl of Beckington, awaits her family’s ruin. Upon the earl's death she and her sisters stand to lose the luxury of their grand home—and their place on the pedestal of society—to their stepbrother and his social-climbing fiancée. Forced to act quickly, Honor makes a devil's bargain with the only rogue in London who can seduce her stepbrother’s fiancée out of the Cabots’ lives for good.An illegitimate son of a duke, George Easton was born of scandal and grows his fortune through dangerous risks. But now he and Honor are dabbling in a perilous dance of seduction that puts her reputation and his jaded heart on the line. And as unexpected desire threatens to change the rules of their secret game, the stakes may become too high even for a notorious gambler and a determined, free-spirited debutante to handle.
Praise for New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author (#ulink_6d341bcf-cf98-5686-8c99-1eafc4c14797)
‘Julia London writes vibrant, emotional stories and sexy, richly drawn characters.’
—New York Times bestselling author Madeline Hunter
‘The Last Debutante is another successful merger of witty writing and passionate romance that gracefully delivers everything romance readers could want.’ —Booklist
‘… London’s story is satisfying as it builds on the excellent chemistry of the leads, gracefully unfolding with the perfect amount of tension.’
—Publishers Weekly review of The Revenge of Lord Eberlin
‘Exceptionally entertaining … sinfully sexy’
—Booklist on The Dangers of Deceiving a Viscount
‘As London explores the intricate, authentic-feeling relationships blossoming among the players, her masterful ability to bring characters to life makes this romance entirely absorbing.’
—Publishers Weekly on The Dangers of Deceiving a Viscount
‘London’s love story is tense and tender, held aloft by endearing, dynamic characters.’
—Publishers Weekly review of The Perils of Pursuing a Prince
JULIA LONDON is the New York Times, USA TODAY and Publishers Weekly bestselling author of historical romance, contemporary romance and women’s fiction with strong romantic elements. She is a six-time finalist for the RITA
Award of Excellence in romantic fiction and the recipient of RT Bookclub’s Best Historical Novel. She lives in Austin, Texas.
The Trouble
with Honor
Julia London
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Dear Reader (#ulink_e8fa65c4-d825-5fec-be48-68a2b495ef91),
I am so excited to present The Trouble with Honour to you! This is my first book for Mills & Boon, but I have written many historical romances, almost all of them set in the Regency period. I love the pageantry of the era and how society and the concern for appearances ruled the gentry. But I imagine that, human nature being what it is, there were those who did not like to live by the rules, who chafed at being ruled at all and who dared to break the rules.
In this series about the Cabot sisters, I introduce four young, privileged women who are expected to aspire to a very good marriage and not much else. But when their fortunes begin to change, these four are determined to break the rules that bind them and define happiness on their own terms. However, when one is raised in the lap of luxury, and learns nothing more taxing than some intricate stitching, one may not be equipped to circumvent the rules. One’s attempts to do so may go very, very badly. I hope you enjoy the Cabot sisters and their shenanigans as much as I enjoyed writing them.
Happy reading,
Julia London
For my mother,
who instilled a love of books and reading
in me from the beginning
Contents
Cover (#u271d57f6-7ff9-54e1-9a3b-f0abab225de6)
Praise (#u7f781ac0-9708-533e-b1b5-b95b3cb98920)
About the Author (#u4f969d2a-ec3a-5eb3-b2cb-510280722db6)
Title Page (#u8db2dd28-2a90-5817-b849-653c3834cae1)
Dear Reader (#ud5c0e8fa-b8ce-5ac0-8831-54e0d9dffed5)
Dedication (#u66278a30-ad80-54df-8aa3-5d11801ddc25)
CHAPTER ONE (#u2a426ce2-b443-5e72-9901-54a766ef1194)
CHAPTER TWO (#u66e747c0-c0fa-53c1-bae1-e2138a7d8327)
CHAPTER THREE (#u703d93a5-99fb-5c3d-b6c2-c6ed2bee2a5d)
CHAPTER FOUR (#u3884ad4f-394c-50ba-8bf2-066587bda7e6)
CHAPTER FIVE (#ucf0edda5-0f7f-5cf6-b55f-6d6a92c3cae3)
CHAPTER SIX (#uabf73a2b-2b87-5f07-9030-5a54fdd45d86)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
Endpage (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_de8b99b3-f3b4-5560-b242-07ffba1592c8)
THE TROUBLE BEGAN in the spring of 1812, in a gaming hell south of the Thames, a seedy bit of Southwark known to be thick with thieves.
It was beyond comprehension how the old structure, originally built in the time of the Vikings, had become one of the most fashionable places for gentlemen of the Quality to be, but indeed it had. The interior was sumptuous, with thick red velvet draperies, rich wood and low ceilings. Night after night, they came from their stately Mayfair homes in heavily armed coaches to spend an evening losing outrageous sums of money to one another. And when a gentleman had lost his allotted amount for the evening, he might enjoy the company of a lightskirt, as there were ample private rooms and French women to choose from.
On a bitterly cold night, a month before the start of the social Season—when, inevitably, the gentlemen would eschew this gaming hell for the Mayfair assembly rooms and balls that had become a spring rite for the wealthy and privileged—a group of young Corinthians were persuaded by the smiles and pretty pleas of five debutantes to have a look at this gaming hell.
It was dangerous and foolish for the young men to risk forever marring the reputations of such precious flowers. But young, brash and full of piss, they’d been eager to please. They did not allow the hell’s rule of no women to deter them, or that any number of mishaps or crimes could befall the young women in the course of their lark. It was a bit of adventure in the middle of a gloomy winter.
It was in that Southwark gaming hell where George Easton first made the acquaintance of one of those debutantes: Miss Honor Cabot.
He hadn’t noticed the commotion at the door when the young bucks had arrived with their prizes, flush with the excitement of their daring and overly proud for having convinced the man at the door to give them entry. George had been too intent on divesting thirty pounds from Mr. Charles Rutherford, a notorious gambler, in the course of a game of Commerce. He didn’t realize anything was amiss until Rutherford said, “What the devil?”
It was then that he noticed the young women standing like so many birds, fluttering and preening in the middle of the room, their hooded cloaks framing their lovely faces, their giggles infecting one another while their gazes darted between the many men who eyed them like a paddock full of fine horses.
“Bloody hell,” George muttered. He threw down his cards as Rutherford stood, the poor lass in his lap stumbling as she tried to stop herself from being dumped onto the floor.
“What in blazes are they doing here?” Rutherford demanded. He squinted at the group of them. “Bloody unconscionable, it is. See here!” he rumbled loudly. “This is not to be borne! Those girls should be removed at once!”
The three young gentlemen who had undertaken this adventure looked at one another. The smallest one lifted his chin. “They’ve as much right to be present as you, sir.”
George could see from Mr. Rutherford’s complexion that he was in danger of apoplexy, and he said, quite casually, “Then, for God’s sake, have them sit and play. Otherwise, they’re a distraction to the gentlemen here.”
“Play?” Rutherford said, his eyes all but bulging from their sockets. “They are not fit to play!”
“I am,” said one lone feminine voice.
Ho there, which of them dared to speak? George leaned around Rutherford to have a look, but the birds were fluttering and moving, and he couldn’t see which of them had said it.
“Who said that?” Rutherford demanded loudly enough that the gentlemen seated at the tables around them paused in their games to see what was the commotion.
None of the young ladies moved; they stared wide-eyed at the banker. Just as it seemed Rutherford would begin a rant, one of them shyly stepped forward. A ripple went through the crowd as the lass looked at Rutherford and then at George. He was startled by the deep blue of her eyes and her dark lashes, the inky black of her hair framing a face as pale as milk. One did not expect to see such youthful beauty here.
“Miss Cabot?” Rutherford said incredulously. “What in blazes are you doing here?”
She curtsied as if she were standing in the middle of a ballroom and clasped her gloved hands before her. “My friends and I have come to see for ourselves where it is that all the gentlemen keep disappearing to.”
Chuckles ran through the crowd. Rutherford looked alarmed, as if he were somehow responsible for this breach of etiquette. “Miss Cabot...this is no place for a virtuous young lady.”
One of the birds behind her fluttered and whispered at her, but Miss Cabot seemed not to notice. “Pardon, sir, but I don’t understand how a place can be quite all right for a virtuous man, yet not for a virtuous woman.”
George couldn’t help but laugh. “Perhaps because there is no such thing as a virtuous man.”
Those startlingly blue eyes settled on George once more, and he felt a strange little flicker in his chest. Her gaze dipped to the cards. “Commerce?” she asked.
“Yes,” George said, impressed that she recognized it. “If you desire to play, miss, then bloody well do it.”
Now all the blood had drained from Rutherford’s face, and George was somewhat amused that he looked close to fainting. “No,” Rutherford said, shaking his head and holding up a hand to her. “I beg your pardon, Miss Cabot, but I cannot abet you in this folly. You must go home at once.”
Miss Cabot looked disappointed.
“Then I’ll do it,” George said and, with his boot, kicked out a chair at his table. Another murmur shot through the crowd, and the tight group of little birds began to flutter again, the bottoms of their cloaks swirling about the floor as they twisted and turned to whisper at each other. “Whom do I have the pleasure of abetting?” he asked.
“Miss Cabot,” she said. “Of Beckington House.”
The Earl of Beckington’s daughter, was she? Did she say that to impress him? Because it didn’t. George shrugged. “George Easton. From Easton House.”
The girls behind her giggled, but Miss Cabot did not. She smiled prettily at him. “A pleasure, Mr. Easton.”
George supposed she’d learned to smile like that very early on in life in order to have what she liked. She was, he thought, a remarkably attractive woman. “These are not parlor games, miss. Have you any coin?”
“I do,” she said, and held out her reticule to show him.
Lord, she was naive. “You’d best put that away,” he said. “Behind the silk neckcloths and polished leather boots, you’ll find a den of thieves between these walls.”
“At least we’ve a purse, Easton, and haven’t sunk it all in a boat,” someone said.
Several gentlemen laughed at that, but George ignored them. He’d come to his fortune with cunning and hard work, and some men were jealous of it.
He gestured for the lovely Miss Cabot to sit. “You scarcely seem old enough to understand the nuances of a game such as Commerce.”
“No?” she asked, one brow arching above the other as she gracefully took a seat in the chair that a man held out for her. “At what age is one considered old enough to engage in a game of chance?”
Behind her, the birds whispered fiercely, but Miss Cabot calmly regarded George, waiting for his answer. She was not, he realized, even remotely intimidated by him, by the establishment or by anything else.
“I would not presume to put an age on it,” he said cavalierly. “A child, for all I care.”
“Easton,” Rutherford said, his voice full of warning, but George Easton did not play by the same rules as the titled men here, and Rutherford knew it. This would be diverting; George had no objection to passing an hour or so with a woman—anyone in London would attest to that—particularly one as comely as this one. “Are you prepared to lose all the coins you’ve brought?”
She laughed, the sound of it sparkling. “I don’t intend to lose them at all.”
The gentlemen in the room laughed again, and one or two of them stood, moving closer to watch.
“One must always be prepared to lose, Miss Cabot,” George warned her.
She carefully opened her reticule, produced a few coins and smiled proudly at him. George made a mental note not to be swept up by that smile...at least not while at the gaming table.
Rutherford, meanwhile, stared with shock at both Miss Cabot and George, then slowly, reluctantly, took his seat.
“Shall I deal?” George asked, holding up the deck of cards.
“Please,” Miss Cabot said, and put her gloves aside, neatly stacked, just beside her few coins. She glanced around the room as George shuffled the deck of cards. “Do you know that I have never been south of the Thames? Can you imagine, my whole life spent in and around London, and I’ve never come south of the Thames?”
“Imagine,” he drawled, and dealt the cards. “Your bet to begin, Miss Cabot.”
She glanced at her cards that were lying faceup, and put a shilling in the middle of the table.
“A bob will not take you far in this game,” George said.
“Is it allowed?”
He shrugged. “It is.”
She merely smiled.
Rutherford followed suit, and the woman who had occupied his lap for most of the evening resumed her seat, sliding onto his knee, her gaze challenging Miss Cabot.
“Oh,” Miss Cabot murmured, apparently as she realized what sort of woman would sit on Rutherford’s lap, and glanced away.
“Are you shocked?” George whispered, amused.
“A bit,” Miss Cabot responded, stealing a look at the young whore again. “I rather thought she’d be...homelier. But she’s quite pretty, isn’t she?”
George glanced at the woman on Rutherford’s lap. He would call her alluring. But not pretty. Miss Cabot was pretty.
He glanced at his hand—he held a pair of kings. This would be an easy victory, he thought, and made his bet.
A servant walked by with a platter of food for a table that had resumed its play. Miss Cabot’s gaze followed it.
“Miss Cabot,” George said.
She looked at him.
“Your play.”
“Oh!” She studied the cards and picked up another shilling and placed it in the middle.
“Gentlemen, we’ve had two bobs bet this evening. At this rate, we might hope to conclude the game at dawn.”
Miss Cabot smiled at him, her blue eyes twinkling with amusement.
George reminded himself that he was not to be drawn in by pretty eyes, either.
They went round again, during which Rutherford apparently forgot his reluctance to play with the debutante. On the next round, Miss Cabot put in two shillings.
“Miss Cabot, have a care. You don’t want to lose all you have in the first game,” one of the young bucks said with a nervous laugh.
“I hardly think it will hurt any less to lose all that I have in one game or six, Mr. Eckersly,” she said jovially.
George won the hand as he knew he would, but Miss Cabot didn’t seem the least bit put off by it. “I think there should be more games of chance at the assembly halls, don’t you?” she asked of the growing crowd around them. “It makes for a better diversion than whist.”
“Only if one is winning,” a man in the back of the crowd said.
“And with her father’s money,” Miss Cabot quipped, delighting the small but growing crowd around them, as well as the birds who had accompanied her, as they now had the attention of several gentlemen around them.
They continued on that way, with Miss Cabot betting a shilling here or there, bantering with the crowd. It was not the sort of high-stakes game George enjoyed, but he did enjoy Miss Cabot, very much. She was not like what he would have supposed for a debutante. She was witty and playful, delighting in her small victories, debating the play of her cards with whomever happened to be standing behind her.
After an hour had passed, Miss Cabot’s purse was reduced to twenty pounds. She began to deal the cards. “Shall we raise the stakes?” she asked cheerfully.
“If you think you can afford my stakes, you have my undivided attention,” George said.
She gave him a pert look. “Twenty pounds to play,” she said, and began to deal.
George couldn’t help but laugh at her naïveté. “But that’s all you have,” he pointed out.
“Then perhaps you will take my marker?” she asked, and lifted her gaze to his. Her eyes, he couldn’t help noticing, were still sparkling. But in a slightly different way. She was challenging him. Heaven help him, the girl was up to something, and George could not have been more delighted. He grinned.
“Miss Cabot, I must advise you against it,” one of the bucks said, the same one who had grown more nervous as the game had progressed. “It’s time we returned to Mayfair.”
“Your caution and timekeeping are duly noted and appreciated, sir,” she said sweetly, her gaze still on George. “You’ll humor me, won’t you, Mr. Easton?” she asked. “You’ll take my marker?”
George had never been one to refuse a lady, particularly one he found so intriguing. “Consider yourself humored,” he said with a gracious bow of his head. “I shall take your marker.”
Word that he had taken a marker from Miss Cabot spread quickly through the gaming hell, and in a matter of minutes, more had gathered around to watch the debutante lose presumably something of value to George Easton, the notorious and self-proclaimed bastard son of the late Duke of Gloucester.
The betting went higher among the three of them until Rutherford, who was undone by the prospect of having a debutante owe him money, withdrew from the game. That left George and Miss Cabot. She remained remarkably unruffled. It was just like the Mayfair set, George thought. She had no regard for the amount of her father’s money she was losing—it was all magic for her, markers and coins appearing from thin air.
The bet had reached one hundred pounds, and George paused. While he appreciated her spirit, he was not in the habit of taking such a sum from debutantes. “The bet is now one hundred pounds, Miss Cabot. Will your papa put that amount in your reticule?” he asked, and the men around him laughed appreciatively.
“My goodness, Mr. Easton, that’s a personal question, isn’t it? Perhaps I should inquire if you will have one hundred pounds in your pocket if I should win?”
Cheeky thing. There was quite a lot of murmuring around them, and George could only imagine the delight her remark had brought the gentlemen in this room. He tossed in a handful of banknotes and winked at her. “Indeed I will.”
She matched his bet with a piece of paper someone had handed her, signing her name to the one hundred pounds owed.
George laid out his cards. He had a sequence of three, the ten being the highest. The only hand that could beat his was a tricon, or three of a kind, and indeed, Miss Cabot gasped with surprise. “My, that’s impressive!” she said.
“I’ve been playing these games quite a long time.”
“Yes, of course you have.” She lifted her gaze and smiled at him, and the moment she did, George knew he’d been beaten. Her smile was too saucy, too triumphant.
As she laid out her hand, gasps went up all around them, followed by applause. Miss Cabot had beaten him with a tricon, three tens. George stared at her cards, then slowly lifted his gaze to hers.
“May I?” she asked, and proceeded to use both hands to drag coins and notes from the center of the table. She took it all, every last coin, stuffing it into her dainty little reticule. She thanked George and Rutherford for allowing her to experience the gaming hell, politely excused herself, slipped back into her cloak and gloves and returned to her little flock of birds.
George watched her go, his fingers drumming on the table. He was an experienced gambler, and he’d just been taken by a debutante.
That was when the trouble with Honor Cabot began.
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_4b6b0874-e86e-5fd5-b8b5-c944b2833482)
LADY HUMPHREY’S ANNUAL spring musicale was widely regarded as The Event at which the ladies of the ton would reveal their fashionable aspirations for the new social Season, and every year, one lady inevitably stood out. In 1798, Lady Eastbourne wore a gown with cap sleeves, which many considered so risqué and yet so clever that tongues wagged across Mayfair for weeks. In 1804, Miss Catherine Wortham shocked everyone by declining to wear any sort of lining beneath her muslin, leaving the shadowy shape of her legs on view to all.
In the bright early spring of 1812, it was Miss Honor Cabot who left quite an impression in her tightly fitted gown with the daringly low décolletage. She was dressed in an exquisite silk from Paris, which one might reasonably suppose had come at an exorbitant cost, given the amount of embroidery and beading that danced across the hem, and the fact that Britain was at war with France. The silk was the color of a peacock’s breast, which complemented her deep-set blue eyes quite well. Her hair, as black as winter’s night, was dressed with tiny crystals that caught the hue of the gown.
No one would argue that Honor Cabot wasn’t a vision of beauty. Her clothing was always superbly tailored, her creamy skin nicely complemented by dark lashes, full, ruby lips and a healthy blush in her cheeks. Her demeanor was generally sunny, and her eyes sparkled with gaiety when she laughed with her many, many friends and gentlemen admirers.
She had a reputation for pushing the boundaries of the polite and chaste behavior expected of debutantes. Everyone had heard about her recent foray into Southwark. Scandalous! The gentlemen of the ton had playfully labeled her a swashbuckler.
That evening, after the singing had been done and the guests had been invited to promenade across Hanover Square to the Humphrey townhome for supper, it was not the swashbuckler’s exquisite and daring gown that caused tongues to wag. It was her bonnet.
What an artful construction that bonnet was! According to Lady Chatham, who was a self-proclaimed authority in all things millinery, the prestigious Lock and Company of St. James Street, a top-of-the-trees hat shop, had designed the bonnet. It was made of black crepe and rich blue satin, and the fabric was gathered in a tiny little fan on one side, held in place by a sparkling aquamarine. And from that fan were two very long peacock feathers, which, according to Lady Chatham, had come all the way from India, as if everyone knew that Indian peacock feathers were vastly superior to English peacock feathers.
When Miss Monica Hargrove saw the bonnet jauntily affixed atop Honor’s dark head, she very nearly had a fit of apoplexy.
Word spread so quickly through Mayfair that a contretemps had occurred between Miss Cabot and Miss Hargrove in the ladies’ retiring room, that it did, in fact, reach the Earl of Beckington’s townhome on Grosvenor Square before Miss Cabot did.
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—”
“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 to your attention if it would mean you view her favorably and me less so,” Honor said.
“Do you deny that Miss Hargrove commissioned a bonnet from Lock and Company,” Augustine continued, having swallowed his biscuit, “and was dismayed to see it affixed to your head at the musicale? It must have been quite shocking for her, the poor dear.”
Mercy, who was turning the pages of a book without glancing at the words, laughed at that, but was quickly silenced by a dark look from Grace, who said soothingly to Augustine, “It’s surely a slight misunderstanding.”
“No,” Augustine said, shaking his head. “Miss Hargrove told me herself that she confronted Honor at dinner, and naturally, Honor denied it, and when Miss Hargrove mentioned she’d commissioned it for a dear sum, Honor said, ‘It wasn’t that dear.’ There, you see? She all but confessed to Miss Hargrove that she took the bonnet!”
“I meant only that when I purchased the bonnet, I did not find the cost of it so dear,” Honor said sweetly.
Augustine’s cheeks began to mottle as they were wont to do when he was flustered and confused. “Honor, it...” He paused, his chest puffing a little as he attempted to display authority. “It will not do.”
“What won’t do?” Honor asked, holding out her plate to offer him another biscuit. “She admired my bonnet, then claimed it was hers. How could it be hers, I ask you, when the milliner sold it to me and it was on my head? You may inquire of Lock and Company if you please.”
Augustine’s look of confusion went deeper as he clearly tried to sort out the mystery of the bonnet in his mind. “I would not like to disparage your fiancée, Augustine,” Honor continued. “I want us to be friends, I do! But I will privately confess to you that there are times I very much fear her true intentions.”
“Her intentions are pure!” Augustine said. “There is not a kinder, sweeter woman in all of London.” He suddenly reached for Honor’s hand and, finding a plate there, instead took her wrist beseechingly. “I really must insist that you do not take her bonnets, Honor. Or...or buy those that she fancies,” he said uncertainly.
Behind Augustine, Grace rolled her eyes.
“You have my word,” Honor said solemnly. “I will not take Monica’s bonnets.” The snigger she heard was from Prudence, doing her best to keep from laughing outright.
“I cannot have disharmony between you,” Augustine continued. “You are my stepsister and she will be my wife. I don’t care for the talk that goes around town about the two of you, and it’s not good for Papa.”
“No, you’re right, of course you are right,” Honor said, feeling only slightly chastened. “How is the earl this morning?”
“Exhausted,” he said. “I looked in on him after breakfast, and he bid me pull the shades, as he wanted to sleep, having suffered another long night.”
Augustine stood from the table, his belly brushing against it. He tugged down his waistcoat, which had a habit of riding up when he’d been seated, and removed his linen napkin from his collar. “If you will all excuse me?”
“Good morning, Augustine!” Grace said pleasantly.
“Good morning!” Honor called out.
She received a frown from Grace for it, who said, “All right then, Pru, Mercy, go and have your hair dressed, will you? We’ll take Mamma riding in the park after luncheon.”
Mercy hopped up from the table. “May I ride the sorrel?”
“Ask Mr. Buckley,” Grace said to them, wiggling her fingers in the direction of the door, indicating they were to go. As Mercy and Prudence went out, Grace smiled sweetly at the footman attending them this morning. “Thank you, Fitzhugh. My sister and I can manage from here.”
Fitzhugh followed the younger girls out, closing the door behind him.
When they were alone, Grace slowly turned her head and fixed a dark hazel look on Honor, who was eating hungrily from her plate and pretended not to notice.
“What did you do?” Grace asked low.
“Nothing.” But Honor couldn’t help it; a smile began to curve her lips. “All right. I bought a bonnet.” She took a bite of cheese.
“Then why is Monica so vexed?”
“I suppose...because she’d commissioned it for herself.” Honor’s smile widened.
Grace gaped at her for a moment, and then burst out laughing. “Dear God, you’re incorrigible! You will ruin us!”
“That is not true. I am very corrigible.”
“Honor!” Grace said, still laughing. “We agreed that you’d not vex her again.”
“Oh, what is one bonnet?” Honor said, putting aside her plate. “There it was, in the window of Lock and Company, and I admired it. The shop attendant was perfectly happy to tell me that even though Miss Monica Hargrove had commissioned it one month ago, she’d not come round to pay her bill. It was languishing in the window, Grace, a beautiful bonnet, and if I may be frank, the wrong palette for Monica’s pallid complexion. And the expense the poor shop had incurred in making it had gone unpaid! The attendant was quite happy to sell it to me, of course. And really, I don’t care that Monica commissioned it in the least. She is so very disagreeable! Do you know what she said to me last night?” she said, leaning slightly forward. “She said, ‘I know what you are about, Honor Cabot,’” Honor said, her voice mockingly low and menacing, “‘but it won’t do you a bit of good. Augustine and I are going to wed, and there is nothing you can do to stop it. And when we are wed, mark my words, you may find yourself in a cottage in the Cotswolds without need for fine bonnets!’” Honor sat back to let that sink in.
Grace gasped. “The Cotswolds! Why not banish us to the African desert, for it couldn’t possibly be worse! Oh, Honor, that is precisely what we fear, and now look what you’ve done!”
Honor snorted and picked up another piece of cheese. “Do you really think Monica holds so much sway with Augustine? Do you think he hasn’t a care for his sisters?”
“Yes!” Grace said emphatically. “Yes, I think she holds quite a lot of sway with him! And Augustine may care for us all very much, but when the earl dies, do you really, truly believe Monica will share Beckington House, or Longmeadow in the country, or anywhere, for that matter, with all of us?”
Honor sighed. It was a true fact in their society that a new earl and his even newer wife would not welcome his dead father’s third wife and his four stepdaughters into his household. Grace was right, but Monica was so...imperious! And so perfect, so modest, so demure, so pretty!
“Really, you can be so careless,” Grace said. “What of Prudence and Mercy, then? What of Mamma?”
It would be difficult for their mother to find a new husband who would be excited about the prospect of providing for four unmarried daughters, particularly given their rather lofty expectations for a certain way of life, as well as the demands of dowries. The Cabots had come into this marriage with only a little money, certainly not enough to dower four girls. They were entirely dependent on the earl.
Worse, it was almost a certainty that the Cabots would find themselves on the fringe of society altogether if anyone suspected what Grace and Honor knew about their mother: that she was slowly, but demonstrably, losing her mind. It had begun two years ago, after a trip to Longmeadow. Their mother had been involved in an accident when a curricle had overturned, tossing her onto the road. Physically, the countess had recovered, but since then, Honor and Grace had noticed her mind was slipping. Mostly, it was unusual memory lapses. But there were other, less subtle signs. Once, she had blithely talked of seeing her sister at Vauxhall, as if her sister were still alive. Another time, she hadn’t been able to recall the earl’s title.
Recently, however, it seemed as if their mother was getting worse. Most days, she was clearheaded and a constant presence at her husband’s side. Other days, she might ask the same question more than once or remark on the weather three or four times in the space of a few minutes. Once, when Honor had tried to speak to her mother about her increasing forgetfulness, her mother had been surprised by the suggestion and seemingly irked by it. She’d even suggested to Honor that perhaps she was the forgetful one.
“And I don’t think I need to tell you that the earl has not been out of his bed in two days,” Grace added.
“I know, I know,” Honor said sadly. She curled her feet under her on the chair. “Grace...I’ve been thinking,” she said carefully. “What if Monica did not marry Augustine—”
“Of course she will,” Grace said, cutting Honor off. “Augustine is completely besotted with her. He runs after her like a puppy.”
“But what if...what if Monica was lured away by a bigger fortune?”
“What?” Grace eyed Honor warily. “How? Why?”
“Just suppose she was lured away. It would give us a bit of time to settle things. Look here, Grace, if the earl dies, Augustine will take her to the altar as soon as he is able, and then what? But if they don’t marry as soon—”
“Are you forgetting that Augustine loves her?” Grace asked, clearly struggling to remain calm.
“I’ve not forgotten. But he is a man, isn’t he? He will soon forget her and find another.”
“Our Augustine!” Grace cried with disbelief. “Monica Hargrove is the first woman he’s ever so much as looked at, and even so, it took him several years to do it!”
“I know,” Honor said, wincing a little. “I’m only trying to think of a way to put off their marriage for a time.”
“Until what?”
“I haven’t worked that out completely,” Honor admitted.
Grace studied her sister for a moment, then shook her head. “It’s ridiculous. Folly! Monica won’t turn loose a bird in the hand—Augustine could turn mute and blind and she’d not care. And besides, I have a better plan.”
“What?” Honor asked skeptically.
Grace sat up now. “We marry first. Quickly. If we marry, our husbands will have no choice but to take in our sisters and our mother when the earl dies.”
“Now who is being ridiculous?” Honor said. “What do you think, that we may summon up a husband with the snap of our fingers? Who would we marry?”
“Mr. Jett—”
“No!” Honor all but shouted. “That’s a wretched plan, Grace. First, neither of us has an offer. Second, I don’t want to marry now. I don’t want to tend to a man and do his bidding, and be shunted off to the country where there is no society, all because he desires it.”
“What are you talking about? Who do you know that has been shunted to the country?” Grace asked with some surprise. “Really, Honor, don’t you want to marry? To have love and companionship and children?”
“Of course,” Honor said uncertainly. She rather enjoyed her freedom. She didn’t pine for marriage and children the way other women her age seemed to do. “But at present, I don’t love anyone and I don’t want to marry merely because it is expected. It vexes me terribly that we are expected to do as we are told and marry this man, or seek that offer,” she said, gesturing irritably. “Why? We’re free women. We ought to choose and do as we please, just like every man is allowed.”
“But we have others who must rely on us,” Grace said, referring to Prudence and Mercy.
The reminder put a temporary damper on Honor’s enthusiasm for women’s equality.
“And besides, your perception is clouded by Rowley’s rejection—”
“It was not precisely a rejection,” Honor began to argue, but Grace threw up a hand to stop her.
“I didn’t say it to be unkind. But your judgment has been impaired, Honor. You won’t allow anyone to come close.”
Before Honor could argue against such a ridiculous notion, Grace said, “So we are agreed, we must do something.”
“Yes, of course, we are agreed. Which is why I want to seduce Monica away from Augustine. And I know just the man to do it.”
“Who?” Grace asked skeptically.
Honor smiled at her own brilliance. “George Easton!”
Grace’s eyes widened. Her mouth gaped. It took her a few swift moments to find her tongue. “Have you gone completely round the bend?”
“I have not,” Honor said firmly. “He is the perfect man for it.”
“Are we speaking of the same George Easton from whom you managed to divest one hundred pounds in that scandalous little game in Southwark?”
“Yes,” Honor said, shifting a little self-consciously in her seat.
Grace made a sound of despair or shock, Honor wasn’t certain, but her sister suddenly stood and walked in a complete circle behind her chair, one hand on her back, the train of her muslin gown trailing behind her. When she faced Honor again, she folded her arms across her chest and stared down at her. “To be perfectly clear, are you speaking of the self-proclaimed by-blow of the late Duke of Gloucester? The man who loses a fortune as easily as he makes one?”
“Yes,” Honor said, confident in her idea. “He is handsome, he is the nephew of the king and currently, he is quite flush in the pockets, as we know.”
“But he is a man with no real name. Or connections! We may all very well believe he is the true son of the late duke, but the duke never acknowledged it. And I’ve not even mentioned that the current duke—Easton’s half brother, if he is to be believed—utterly detests him and forbids anyone from even mentioning his name! For heaven’s sake, Honor, he does not enjoy the privileges of his supposed paternity! Monica Hargrove will not give up the Beckington title for him, not if all of Hades freezes over.”
“She might,” Honor stubbornly insisted. “If she were properly seduced.”
Grace blinked. She sank down onto her chair, her hands on her knees, gaping at her sister. “What a dangerous, ridiculous idea. You must promise me you won’t do anything so entirely wretched.”
“Wretched!” Honor was miffed that Grace didn’t see the brilliance in her plan. “I mean him only to lure her, not compromise her! He need only make her believe there are other interests in her, and then perhaps she will want to explore an option or two before marrying Augustine. It seems quite simple and brilliant to me. Your idea is superior to that?”
“Much,” Grace said emphatically. “If you won’t marry, then I will.”
“Oh, and have you any offers you’ve not told me about?”
“No,” Grace said with a sniff. “But I have some thoughts on how I might gain one.”
“Such as?”
“Never you mind,” Grace said. “Just promise me you won’t do anything so foolish.”
“Very well, very well,” Honor said with an impatient flick of her hand. “I promise,” she said dramatically, and picked up her plate again. “I’m famished.”
In fairness, Honor had every intention of keeping her promise. In fairness, she always meant to keep her promises.
But then she unexpectedly encountered George Easton that very afternoon.
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_9ca7ec46-bb55-5a91-acae-e5182fe9cae2)
FINNEGAN, GEORGE EASTON’S butler-cum-footman-cum-valet, had pressed George’s dark brown superfine coat, his gold-and-brown waistcoat and his dark brown neckcloth. He had hung them where George would see them: directly before the basin, blocking his sight of the mirror, of the razors and brushes and cuff links he kept there.
Until Finnegan, George had been perfectly happy to live his life with a pair of footmen, a cook and a housekeeper, but his lover, Lady Dearing, had implored George to take Finnegan after her husband had cast the valet out. Lady Dearing had said his dismissal was an issue of austerity. George was quite familiar with austerity, as he’d been forced to befriend it on more than one occasion in his thirty-one years on this earth.
It hadn’t been until several weeks after he’d taken him on that George learned the real reason for Finnegan’s abrupt departure: he, too, had been invited to share Lady Dearing’s bed. George had known the fair-haired vixen was a wanton, obviously, but the valet? That went beyond the pale. However, by then, George had grown accustomed to Finnegan’s ways. So George had promptly discarded his lover and kept his butler.
He’d finished dressing when Finnegan appeared in the door of his master suite of rooms, a hat in his hand.
“What’s that?”
“Your hat.”
“I can see it is my hat. Why are you bringing it to me?”
“You’ve an appointment with Mr. Sweeney. From there, you will collect Miss Rivers and Miss Rivers at the Cochran stables. You have invited the young ladies to ride.”
George’s eyes narrowed. “I have? And when did I extend this invitation?”
“Last night, apparently. The Riverses’ footman brought round a note with the ladies’ delighted acceptance of the invitation.” He smiled. Or smirked. George was never quite sure.
He didn’t remember any invitation, but then again, he had been having a bit more fun than he should have had at the Coventry House Club last night. That was a club for men like him, frequented by tradesmen and gentlemen of the ton, who, like George, had deep pockets for the gaming tables, a thirst for whiskey and an appreciation of cheroots made with American tobacco. It was the opposite of priggish, which is what he imagined White’s on St. James to be.
Tom Rivers, the ladies’ brother, had been at Coventry House last night, too, and George had only a vague recollection of too much drinking and laughter. “God have mercy,” he muttered, and stood up, extending his hand for the hat.
He strode down the thickly carpeted stairs of the stately Mayfair home he’d purchased quietly from the Duke of Wellington. The duke had not wanted to sell to a man like George—that was, a bastard son of a duke and the half brother of a duke who despised the very idea of him—but the duke had wanted the cash George had offered.
The house was quite spectacular even for fashionable Audley Street in Mayfair. A crystal chandelier the size of a horse hung daintily from the high foyer ceiling, and the stairs curved down around it. The silk-covered walls of the foyer were adorned with paintings and portraits, all purchased by the duke.
George scarcely noticed them today, but many times, he’d searched them all, looking for any resemblance to him. In the end, he supposed any of them could have been his ancestors, and it hardly mattered if any one of them were. When one is the son of a duke and a lowly chambermaid—a chambermaid the duke had sent away upon discovering her pregnancy—one can be assured of many closed doors and painful silences when inquiring after one’s heritage.
The footman, Barns, was standing at the door, and opened it before George reached it. That was Finnegan’s doing. Finnegan was the only person in George’s life, now or ever, who treated him like the great-grandson of a king, the nephew of another. George wasn’t certain he liked it, however. He rather preferred opening his own doors. He preferred to saddle his own horses, too—he was fast, having learned the skill as a lad, working in the Royal Mews while his mother cleaned chamber pots.
“Thank you, Barns,” George said. He stood a full head taller than his footman. George had the height of the royal family but the robustness of his mother’s family, who had all worked with their hands and their backs for their livings. There was a portrait of his father that hung in Montagu House, which George had studied on occasion. He believed he had his father’s thin and aristocratic nose and his strong chin, the streaks of his mother’s dark chestnut hair in his brown mop and her pale blue eyes. The other children who had worked in the Royal Mews used to say he was a mongrel. Not the nephew of a king.
George’s horse was waiting on the cobblestones before the house. He tossed a farthing to the boy holding the reins, who caught it adroitly over the horse’s neck and pocketed it as he handed the reins to George. “G’day, sir,” he said, and was off, running back to the mews.
George fixed his hat on his head, swung up and spurred his horse into a trot down Audley Street.
He arrived at the offices of Sweeney and Sons a quarter of an hour later. Sam Sweeney, his solicitor and agent, was smiling broadly. “What’s that look?” George asked as he handed his hat to an elderly woman in a lace cap in the foyer.
“One of joy, of happiness,” Mr. Sweeney said, taking George’s hand and shaking it with great enthusiasm. “Do come in, Mr. Easton. I have some wonderful news.”
“Has the ship been found? Has it come to port?”
“Not exactly that,” Mr. Sweeney said, showing George into his office. Once inside, he made a show of dusting off a leather chair with his handkerchief, and gestured with a flourish to the seat.
When George was seated, Mr. Sweeney said, “The St. Lucia Rosa is in port. I have personally spoken with the captain. He said that Godsey and his crew did indeed reach India and were to depart a week later for England. That means she should be in port within the week.”
Relief. It flooded through George like a swollen river. He’d put a substantial portion of his fortune into this ship and couldn’t bear the thought of having lost it all, of having to start again.
“And we must bear in mind that Captain Godsey is a captain of great experience,” Sweeney reminded him.
Sweeney had found Godsey. George trusted his judgment—he and Sweeney had worked together for years now, first to invest the money the Duke of Gloucester had left George upon his death a few years ago. It was the only acknowledgment George had ever received from his father. The money wasn’t much, really, merely enough to appease a man’s guilty conscience when he was about to meet his maker. Everything else had gone to the duke’s eldest son, William, George’s half brother, a man George had met only once and who had promptly decreed that he would never allow George Easton to step foot in any London establishment of which he was part.
George had become adept at brushing off the bruising disappointment of being judged by the circumstances of his birth, of being called a liar, a blackguard and a pretender after the Gloucester fortune. He’d focused instead on making a name for himself. He’d invested a lot of money in his latest venture: the import of cotton from India.
It was a great risk, but George had built his fortune by taking risks, then carefully tending them. As his fortune had grown, so had his confidence. Women liked him, but he never allowed himself to develop feelings for them. He played a man’s game, taking satisfaction where he could and keeping them all at arm’s length. Because if there was one truth in his life, it was that he would never be more than a by-blow to this set.
George was very clear about his place in the world. And he hoped that his place would soon extend to cotton.
The war with France had made it possible for men like George to discover untapped commerce potential. Two years ago, he’d struck a deal with an Indian man for the import of cotton to the British Isles. It had been a risky venture, one fraught with many opportunities for disaster. But that was how George chose to live his life—he took chances. Astoundingly big chances. He thrived on risk; it kept him on the edge, made him feel as if he were balancing on the knife’s sharp edge.
In his initial cotton venture, he’d felt euphoric. The cotton had arrived as promised, and George had made an astounding profit. He had capitalized on that initial entry into the trade now by purchasing a ship and a crew to bring even more cotton to England.
It was by far the riskiest thing he’d ever done. The crew could make off with the cargo and sell it themselves. The ship could sink along the way. It could be overrun by pirates. Any number of things could happen, more than George could possibly imagine, because he’d never sailed anywhere in his life. But if he was right, the reward would make him an unfathomably wealthy man. If not, well... George would find something.
He would start again.
He and Sweeney talked about how quickly they would sell the cotton once it arrived, and George left his offices with a considerably lighter step than when he’d gone in.
The twins, Miss Eliza Rivers and Miss Ellen Rivers, were waiting for George at the Cochran stables. They were accompanied by a sour-faced woman whom George could only assume was their nurse, given that these young ladies were of a tender age, which he found almost laughable for a man who’d just marked his thirty-first year. But the young ladies were giddy and bright eyed on that cool spring afternoon, their cheeks like pairs of apples. “By my oath,” George said, “I cannot determine which of you is the lovelier.”
The girls giggled, and George liked the sound of it; it sounded like spring. He was glad to set out with the little birds onto Rotten Row, their smaller horses trotting alongside his Arabian, who ambled along at a leisurely pace.
George quickly discovered that the young debutantes liked to finish each other’s sentences, which made it difficult for him to follow their conversation. He was calculating how many steps it would take to return the young ladies to the stable—he liked to distract himself with mathematical practices from time to time—when he was startled by a cloud of blue headed directly at him at a reckless speed.
He leaned forward in his saddle, peering at the blue cloud, and realized it was actually a woman riding so fast and hard that he thought perhaps the horse had gone wild with her on his back. He was fully prepared to chase the animal down and save the woman when she pulled up directly before them and smiled broadly. “Good afternoon, Miss Rivers. Miss Rivers,” she said with jaunty breathlessness, and touched her gloved hand to her hat.
George’s companions were so astonished by her approach that they could only gape at her, but George recognized her instantly: Honor Cabot.
She smiled brightly. “Mr. Easton!” she said, as if she’d just noticed him. “A pleasure to see you again, sir!”
“Miss Cabot,” he said, dipping his head. “You gave us a fright.”
“Did I?” She laughed gaily. “I beg your pardon, that was not my intent. I meant only to stretch the old girl’s legs,” she said, and leaned over her horse’s neck, patting her with enthusiasm. “Miss Rivers, how are your parents?” she asked.
“Very well, thank you,” said one of them.
“I’m very glad to hear it. I did not mean to interrupt your ride, and I shall leave you to carry on,” she said. “I do beg your pardon for the fright.”
“Quite all right,” said another of the twins.
“Good day!” Miss Cabot’s smile turned the tiniest bit sultry when she glanced at George. “Mr. Easton,” she said, and let her gaze slide over him as she turned her horse about and moved away. Curiously, George felt that gaze run down his body.
Miss Cabot suddenly reined up and glanced over her shoulder. “Pardon me, but it just occurred to me! Mr. Easton, I understand you will be among those dining at Gunter’s Tea Shop at five o’clock this afternoon with my brother, Lord Sommerfield.”
Sommerfield? Hardly. George did not have much use for soft men who preferred books to sport. He looked at her curiously, wondering how she might have confused it.
“I was wondering if you would be so kind as to pass a message to him? I shan’t see him today due to prior commitments.”
“I had not—”
“If it’s not a bother,” she quickly interjected, “would you please relay to him that I shall come round in the earl’s coach at half past five to fetch him? I would not want to intrude on your meeting.”
He opened his mouth once more to explain that she had confused him with someone who actually took tea in tea shops, but she quickly interjected before he could speak. “Thank you. You won’t forget, will you? Half past five outside Gunter’s Tea Shop. I’ll be in the earl’s coach.”
George had the strange, preposterous idea that Miss Cabot was trying to arrange a meeting with him.
No. Impossible. That was not something that a proper young miss would do. But she’d just done it. What could she possibly want? It was baffling. And damn well intriguing. “I should be delighted to deliver the message,” he said. “Half past five. I’ll not forget.”
She smiled. “Thank you.” She turned about and spurred her horse, riding hard, catching up with other riders down the way.
George happened to glance at Miss Eliza Rivers.
She was staring at him. “Are you acquainted with Miss Cabot?”
“I’ve been introduced,” he said, and left it at that. “Shall we carry on?” He spurred his horse and made a remark about the fine weather.
He hadn’t been introduced, precisely, but he had indeed met her in Southwark, when he’d been charmed to the tips of his toes and played like a harp.
If there was one thing George Easton hated, it was losing.
If there was one thing he hated worse than losing, it was losing to a handsome woman.
If there was one thing he hated even worse than losing to a handsome woman, it was losing to a handsome woman before a bloody audience, and all because he’d preferred to admire her delectable décolletage than his own damn hand.
He couldn’t begin to imagine what Miss Cabot was about today, but he had every intention of being at the tea shop this afternoon. It was a daring move for her to conspire to meet him, alone. Away from prying eyes.
That was not an invitation a man of any stripe would turn down, and George Easton least of all.
CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_6364138e-8c29-51b8-9736-75ad69219cf7)
HONOR DRESSED CAREFULLY for her meeting with Mr. Easton. It would not do to give him the wrong impression, as she was walking on treacherous ground as it was. She remembered how he’d looked at her in Southwark, his gaze penetrating and boldly moving over her.
She needed something demure. Reserved. She chose white muslin with a high neckline, trimmed in green, and topped it with a dark green spencer. She donned a bonnet with matching trim, and dark green gloves.
Honor studied herself critically in the mirror above her vanity. It would do—no one would suspect she had gone to Gunter’s for anything more than a cup of tea or an ice. Certainly not to meet a gentleman alone, unchaperoned. “Certainly not,” she muttered and smiled at her reflection.
But her smile looked forced. As if her lips knew how dreadful she was behaving.
She dropped a few coins in the beaded reticule Prudence had made her, then made her way downstairs, taking care to avoid any place that Grace might be. She asked the Beckington butler, Mr. Hardy, to bring round the coach. As she stood waiting in the foyer, Augustine walked through the door.
“Honor!” he said, surprised to see her there. “Are you going out?”
“To tea,” she said breezily, hoping she didn’t appear as nervous as she felt. “Shall I see you at supper?”
“Supper? No, no, afraid not.” He handed his hat to Hardy and added proudly, “I’m to dine with Miss Hargrove and her parents this evening.” He glanced back at Hardy and whispered loudly, “Shall I tell you a secret?”
“Why, yes! I adore secrets.”
Augustine yanked at his waistcoat where it had inched up over his belly. His brown eyes were shining, his smile irrepressible. “I’ve not told anyone, but Papa agrees with me that Miss Hargrove and I should marry this spring.”
Honor’s heart hitched. She’d believed there would be no possibility for Augustine’s marriage to occur before the earl’s death. “This spring?”
“Yes, isn’t it marvelous? When I explained to Papa that Miss Hargrove is anxious to be wed—and so am I, naturally—Papa reasoned that he could very well linger for months, and that there was no point in putting it off indefinitely. I rather think he’d like to see me wed before...the, ah...inevitable.”
Honor tried to hide her shock behind a bright, happy smile.
“I should very much like to announce a date at our annual affair at Longmeadow,” he added happily.
The Beckingtons hosted a country-house gathering at the earl’s seat of Longmeadow before the opening of Parliament each year. The stately Georgian home had thirty guest rooms, and at least one hundred guests attended every spring.
“What better time and place?” Augustine happily continued.
“What better?” Honor echoed, her mind suddenly whirling. The Longmeadow soiree was a mere three weeks away.
“Monica is a bit anxious. I have counseled her she should not fret so, that my sisters have always been quite welcoming.” He looked pointedly at Honor.
“Particularly to dear friends, I should like to think,” Honor said. And she would like to think that precluded Monica, but there was no need to confuse the issue at the moment.
Augustine glanced slyly at Hardy, then leaned closer to Honor and whispered, “I think she feels as if the four of you might all see her as an intrusion into our happy family. I assured her nothing could be further from the truth. She was eased when I said so and reminded me that in any event, you will all have husbands of your own soon enough.” Augustine smiled indulgently at Honor. “I should not like to speak out of turn, but I believe she would take great pleasure in helping those happy events along in some way.”
“I have no doubt of it,” Honor said sincerely.
“You should think of it, Honor. One cannot live under one’s father’s wing forever, as I am discovering myself.”
“No, of course not.” Monica was already beginning to sow her seeds, was she? Honor was now determined more than ever to intervene before it was too late. “What a happy occasion,” she said to Augustine. “You must impress on our friend that she will not be intruding in the least,” she said, tapping Augustine’s chest with each word for emphasis.
The door opened; a footman stepped in. “Ah, there is your coach,” Augustine said happily. “I shall give Miss Hargrove your felicitations, shall I?”
“You must,” Honor insisted, and pictured herself with her hands around Monica’s neck.
“Good day, sister,” he said jovially.
“Good day, Augustine.” Honor watched him toddle off, whistling as he went. She turned to the door. Hardy was waiting, holding it open for her. “Lord help us all, Hardy,” she said as she swept past him.
“Indeed, miss.”
* * *
HONOR SAW MR. EASTON the moment the coach turned onto Berkeley Square. How could she miss him? His was an imposing figure. He was leaning up against a railing, one leg crossed over the other, his arms folded loosely across him, watching people stroll across the square. That night in Southwark she’d been properly titillated by his comely face and virile presence. She now understood why he was rumored to be London’s greatest rake, his affairs numerous. His looks stirred something deep inside her.
Honor pulled open the vent to the driver. “Jonas, please stop at Gunter’s and open the door to the gentleman in the black coat and gold waistcoat,” she called up.
The coach turned the corner and began to slow. Honor nervously adjusted her bonnet. She had only to think of Monica and an imminent wedding to find her resolve.
A moment later, she heard Jonas’s deep voice. The coach door swung open, and Mr. Easton, still perched against the railing, leaned to his right and looked inside. Honor smiled. “Good afternoon!”
He pushed away from the railing and came to his full height. He was quite tall, wasn’t he? With his muscular legs and broad shoulders he looked too big to fit into the coach. He strolled toward it now, his expression inscrutable. Just like that evening in Southwark, he had an uncanny way of looking at her that made Honor feel as if he was seeing right through her, seeing her cards, even the thoughts in her head. She’d felt fluttery that night, as if a thousand butterflies had nested within her chest.
She was feeling fluttery again.
He paused just outside the open coach door, arched a brow and said, “Your stepbrother must be dining elsewhere.”
Honor swallowed down her nerves. “Won’t you come inside, Mr. Easton?”
He cocked his head to one side, assessing her, his gaze nonchalantly taking her in, from her bonnet to the hem of her gown. The slightest shadow of a smile turned up one corner of his mouth. He reached for the coach handle and easily came inside, swaying the coach as he settled heavily across from her and the door swung shut behind him.
Honor had guessed right—he was too big for the coach. His knees framed both of hers, and his body very nearly filled the bench. He sat casually, one arm stretched across the back of the squabs. He reminded her of a wolf, calmly watching a hare hop across the path.
He inclined his head. “Miss Cabot.”
“Mr. Easton, how do you do?” She rapped on the ceiling and called up, “A drive around the park, please, Mr. Jonas.” She closed the vent and smiled at her guest. “Thank you for coming.”
“How could I possibly resist such an unusual invitation?” His voice was smooth and low, and it sent another little shiver winging through her, fluttering in her chest, in her groin.
The coach took an unexpected turn; Mr. Easton’s knee bumped her leg. He said nothing, but he smiled as if that amused him, too. “Well, Miss Cabot?” he asked. “What has brought on this unprecedented ride about the park in a Beckington coach? Do you desire to seduce me? If so, I am favorably inclined. His gaze slid down to her well-covered bosom. “I find seduction one of the greatest pleasures in life.”
Honor had the strongest urge to look down and assure herself that her spencer was properly buttoned.
Easton lifted his gaze. “Well? I am filled with curiosity.”
Her palms were suddenly damp, her heart fluttering still, making it feel impossible to speak. But speak she must, for here it was, the moment of her greatest folly. “I am in need of a favor, Mr. Easton.”
One brow arched above the other.
“Of you.... That is, if you would be so kind.” She smiled.
Mr. Easton’s gaze flicked over her again, lingering a little longer on her chest. “Do you believe we are so well acquainted that you might ask a favor?” He touched her foot with his boot.
“I...” She hesitated.
Now he smiled, as if he had the upper hand, as if there was no possible answer to that but no.
He was certainly right about that—there was no possible answer to that beyond no. But it was his faintly smug expression that gave Honor the swell of pluck that she needed. “One might agree that one hundred of your pounds suggests I do, sir.”
Mr. Easton very nearly choked on his smile. His eyes, Honor noticed, were an amazing shade of blue, the color of pale china silk. She had a fleeting thought of what it must be like to lie beneath this man and gaze up into those eyes.
“Touché, Miss Cabot,” he said. “I have never been asked a favor in quite this manner, but you are so comely, I can’t possibly refuse. Lift your skirts, then, allow me to gaze upon the valley I shall be pleasuring—”
“What?” she gasped as a hot bolt of awareness shot through her. “No, no, Mr. Easton, you misunderstand!”
“Do I?” he asked with an easy smile.
“Yes. I am in need of a different sort of favor. Not...not that,” she said breathlessly.
He laughed. “I do not frequent the same assembly rooms as debutantes.”
He didn’t what? Honor blinked with surprise. The tingling in her was momentarily forgotten in favor of her indignation. “For heaven’s sake, I am not asking you to dance with me. My dance card fills the moment I step into an assembly room.”
“Fills right up, does it?” he asked wryly.
“I mean that I do not arrange to meet gentlemen so that I might ask them to stand up with me. Or anything else,” she hastily added.
“I didn’t think that you invited me to ask me to stand up with you, Miss Cabot. I thought you had invited me for more obvious and—” He paused, ran his tongue over his lip as he took her in again, and added, “Diverting reasons. But now I am fairly certain that you have invited me here to engage in some duplicitous debutante scheme. That,” he said, “is not appealing.”
Her heart was beating wildly now, her mind sorting through all the diverting reasons. “How odd,” she said, trying desperately to ignore her thoughts. “You make it sound as if debutantes are frequently scheming.” Which, Honor was all too aware, she was doing in that very moment.
“That, or sleeping. Come now, don’t be shy,” he said, gesturing for her to carry on. “I suppose I am not generally opposed to granting favors...particularly if there is some hope I might personally enjoy the favor after all.” His gaze fell to her bodice again. “Open your spencer.”
“No!” Honor said, appalled and titillated at once.
“Then I suppose we are finished,” he said, and moved as if he meant to knock on the ceiling.
Honor quickly unbuttoned her spencer. He arched a brow; she frowned slightly and pushed it back from her bosom.
He eased back, studying her casually. Honor was accustomed to the way men looked at her. But she had never felt it quite like this, so intently. Honor’s blood began to race. She wasn’t certain if she was appalled by him or entirely aroused.
“Hmm,” he said thoughtfully as he gazed at her collared gown. “That is not an improvement.”
Honor yanked her spencer closed. “As I said, Mr. Easton, I did not come here for a dalliance.”
“Apparently not,” he said. “Or you are woefully unimaginative in your seductions.” His slow, deliberate smile made the fluttering in Honor’s breast skirt merrily down her spine and land squarely in her belly. “Nevertheless, I should think it would be pleasurable for us both.”
Honor couldn’t think. Her imagination was galloping away from her.
“Go on, then, Miss Cabot. You have me on tenterhooks. If I will not be allowed to show you the pleasure your young heart has imagined, then please, do say what it is you want.”
Steady on. Honor ignored her breathlessness, the heat in her veins, the desire to remove her spencer entirely, and said, “I will not lie, Mr. Easton. This favor involves a bit of...persuasion.”
“Even more interesting.” His gaze drifted to her lips. “I knew that you were a bold one, Miss Cabot. A young lady of your stature does not appear in a Southwark gaming hell without a river of audacity running through her veins.” He smiled as if that pleased him. “What sort of persuasion did you have in mind?” he asked, and reached out, taking the end of her bonnet’s ribbon between two fingers, rubbing the velvet.
She pulled the ribbon from his grasp. “I need you to seduce someone.”
He reached for her ribbon again and smiled so charmingly that Honor felt a bit of herself melt. “I am trying, Miss Cabot.”
She pulled the ribbon free once more. “Not me.”
He chuckled, the sound of it reverberating in her chest. “A pity. But I suppose you are too tender after all. Is it anyone I know, or anyone I choose?”
“Someone I know.” She prepared to explain herself, but George Easton abruptly reached for her wrist and wrapped his fingers tightly around it, the thumb pressing against her vein. Could he feel how her heart raced? Her heart skipped—she knew a slender moment of terror as she looked at his hand on her wrist; it looked enormous compared to her arm. She was so foolish—she had no idea if he would harm her, if he would force her—
“What the devil are you talking about?” he asked silkily, rubbing his thumb across her inner wrist.
God help her, she couldn’t falter now—she’d already walked out on the plank away from propriety and decency. “As I said, I very much need you to seduce someone.”
He lifted her arm, touched his lips to her inner wrist through the keyhole of her glove then lifted his head with a knowing smile. “It would seem I am more successful at seduction in this coach than I thought.” He pulled her forward. His eyes were blazing. “If not you, little bird, then who?”
“Miss...Miss Monica Hargrove.”
Mr. Easton blinked. He suddenly let go of her wrist and fell back against the squabs. “Miss Hargrove,” he repeated disbelievingly.
Honor nodded, thankful for the opportunity to catch her breath. She pressed her palm to her chest, took a breath.
“Isn’t Sommerfield affianced to Miss Hargrove?”
Honor nodded again.
“Your stepbrother,” he announced, as if she had not realized that Viscount Sommerfield was one and the same as Augustine.
When Honor said nothing, Easton surprised her with a laugh to the ceiling. “Of all the reprehensible—”
“Reprehensible!” Honor protested. “Goodness, Mr. Easton, I am not asking that you ruin her. I merely ask that you direct her attention elsewhere,” she said, and fluttered her fingers in a vaguely “elsewhere” direction.
“For what purpose should I direct her attention elsewhere?” he asked, mimicking her finger fluttering.
“Surely it is clear as to purpose.”
“The only purpose I can see is to make your stepbrother cry off his engagement, and I cannot imagine what reason you would have that is in any way founded—”
“I have my reasons,” she said crisply.
“Do you,” he drawled, folding his arms across his chest. “What are they?”
“You need not know—”
“Bloody hell I need not know. You ask me to turn the head of your brother’s fiancée and tell me I need not know why?”
“I certainly hadn’t counted on you arguing with me,” she said petulantly, and toyed with the fringe of the window’s sash, thinking quickly. “I cannot divulge what I know about Miss Hargrove,” she said hesitantly, “but I can assure you I have very good reason to wish that she not marry Augustine.” She glanced at Easton again, who was now looking at her with complete disdain. His eyes were still blazing, but in a strangely different way. Honor swallowed. “No good can come of their union. You must trust me,” she insisted. “And I thought...I thought that perhaps you might agree to help me.”
“Of course,” he said with mock sincerity. “Because of who I am.”
“Yes! Because you are a man who takes risks and you are rather...” She couldn’t help but take him in, his broad shoulders, his muscular legs, his fine mouth.
“Rather what?” he prodded her, nudging her leg with his knee again. “Rather a bastard? A man whose mere association with a debutante casts a shadow on her?”
“No!” Honor said, feeling herself color. “I meant you are handsome, Mr. Easton. And...and wealthy. At least there is some speculation that you are. Naturally, I would not know firsthand.”
“Naturally,” he said a bit derisively.
Lord, when she said these things out loud, she sounded absurd. She glanced to the window again, trying to find her way back to her plan, which she was having trouble remembering around the man’s sensual gaze and masculine presence. This plan had seemed almost flawless when she’d first conceived it, but Grace was right. This was a ridiculous thing to have done.
She was startled by a nudge of her knee again. She glanced at Easton.
“And if Sommerfield cries off? With that tiny bit of conscience you might have salvaged after requesting a favor such as this, you believe you will have saved him from some great embarrassment and spared his suffering?”
He had not completely dismissed her? “Well,” Honor said, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. “I wouldn’t put it precisely that way, but—”
“But,” he interrupted, and leaned forward again, so that his face was only inches from hers. His hand found her knee and squeezed, causing Honor to lose track of what she was saying altogether.
“With Beckington on his deathbed, you fear that a new countess will not look kindly to keeping four stepsisters as they should like to be kept.”
Honor gasped—how had he divined that?
“And therefore, you wish to keep Sommerfield from marrying Miss Hargrove so that you might continue to live as you please. And that, Miss Cabot, weighs more than a bit on the side of reprehensible.” He squeezed her knee once more as if to punctuate it, then leaned back, both arms now spread along the back of the squabs, looking as if he thought himself vastly superior to her. He cocked a brow, silently daring her to disagree with him.
Honor could hardly disagree with him, but she would not be chastised by him, either. Who the devil did this man think he was? She suddenly leaned forward and put her hand on his knee—but her fingers scarcely reached the breadth of it. She tried to squeeze, but his knee was as hard as stone. “And what if that is my intent? What possible difference should that make to you?”
He laughed with delight. “By God, you are bold! You admit it is true!”
“I understand how these things work, Mr. Easton. I am not some debutante freshly picked from the garden.”
“No, you certainly are not that,” he said jovially.
“Before you think to scold me, I shall remind you that you are also guilty of pursuing your singular happiness without regard for the consequences to others.” She squeezed as hard as she might, but it seemed to have no effect on him.
“Pardon?” he said, laughing outright now. “What do you mean?”
She sat back, folded her arms tightly across her. “Please,” she said with roll of her eyes. “Everyone in town knows about your affair with Lady Dearing. And that is on top of the rumors surrounding you and Lady Uxbridge and Mrs. Glover as well, who you apparently seduced at the same time you were courting her daughter—”
“All right, all right,” he said cheerfully, holding up his hand to stop her. “You have made your point.”
“I should think I have,” she said primly, and brushed the lap of her gown. Another thought flitted through her head—was this how he had seduced Miss Glover? “As to Miss Hargrove, the truth is that I am in a bit of a bind.”
“Are you?” he said skeptically, and waved his hand grandly at her, indicating she should continue.
“It is a simple fact in our society that women who don’t enjoy the protection of a brother, a father or even an uncle are rather helpless. It’s not as if we can make our own living, is it? The only way we might get by is to marry well.”
“As Miss Hargrove clearly intends to do,” he pointed out. “As you should do, if you want my opinion.”
“Thank you, but I do not want your opinion.”
He grinned, and that fluttering started in her all over again.
“Miss Hargrove would have any number of offers if she liked,” Honor said, and it was true. As much as it pained her to admit it, Monica was a beautiful woman, her looks admired by men and women alike. “It needn’t be Augustine. But as it is Augustine, the stakes are quite high for me.”
“I would think you’d have any number of offers, as well,” he said. “Is that not a better solution?”
“Yes, of course, a woman’s only hope—marry well. Thank you for your confidence, but we aren’t discussing me.”
“Perhaps you should have asked for an offer as your favor, Miss Cabot. I find the request for conjugal bliss far more enticing.”
“I beg your pardon,” Honor said, taking great exception. “I would never ask a gentleman to offer for my hand!”
“I see. You will not ask a man to marry you, but you will ask him to seduce the woman who would be your sister-in-law.” His brows rose dubiously.
“Two entirely different points, Mr. Easton!” she argued. “My sister Grace and I, we shall make our way in society with or without Augustine’s support, but my younger sisters are not yet out, and they cannot hope to fare as well without proper introduction. And my mother—” She caught herself, took a deep breath.
“Your mother?” he prodded.
Now she’d gone and done it. She anxiously smoothed the lap of her gown again. “My mother is unwell,” she said, and looked up. “No one knows.”
He eyed her shrewdly a moment. “I am sorry to hear it,” he said softly.
His tenderness surprised her. And strangely enough, it made the fluttering in her spread across her skin. “I rather doubt my mother will find another situation that will provide the same sort of opportunities for my younger sisters that Grace and I have enjoyed. I fear they will be pushed from society altogether.”
“Why not take your fears to Sommerfield?” he asked. “He seems a rather fair fellow to me. Surely he would provide a stipend—”
“He is too easily persuaded by Miss Hargrove’s opinion. And Miss Hargrove is... That is to say, she will...” Honor sighed again with frustration, finding her reasoning so bloody difficult to explain. “Well, I shan’t lie about it,” she said wearily. What was the point in that? “Miss Hargrove doesn’t care for me in the least.”
“Aha. And you are certain of this?”
“Oh, quite,” Honor said with a flick of her hand. “She finds me unlikable.”
“Oh?” He smiled again. “Passing strange, as I find you quite likable.”
That remark sent a little thrill down her spine. Honor didn’t want to smile, but she could feel one playing at the corners of her lips. “Even so?”
“Even so.” He smiled warmly at her.
There was nothing wolfish about it, and yet...and yet Honor was breathless once more.
“So then, tell me, Miss Cabot, if I were to agree to your outlandishly reprehensible and ill-advised request to save your poor sisters and ailing mother—”
She gasped with surprised delight. “You will?”
“I said if,” he cautioned her. “But if I were to agree, what will I have in return?”
“What do you mean?”
“Come now, lass, I’ve seen you with cards in your hand. You are far too astute to believe I’d not want something in return for this favor.”
Apparently she was not as astute as he thought, for that had not crossed her mind.
He abruptly shifted forward again and deliberately allowed his gaze to wander the full length of her body, then up again. He touched her jaw with his knuckle, tracing a slow, deliberate line, sending Honor’s heart into another wave of wild beating. “What are you willing to trade?” he asked, his voice low and silky.
She leaned away from him. “How dare you—”
Easton took her by the arm and pulled her back. “How dare I?” he asked, admiring her mouth. He reminded her of a cat with a mouse, determining just how much to play before making the kill. “How dare I ask for recompense for a wretched deed?” He abruptly cupped her breast as if it were the most natural thing to do. Honor caught her breath; he smiled a little and began to massage it. “How dare I ask for a favor in return?” he asked silkily as tiny fires of desire erupted and sluiced down Honor’s spine.
“You ask too much,” she said, and pressed away from him. “How can you call yourself a gentleman?”
“I’ve not called myself anything, love.” He brushed his knuckles across her breast, sending another shaft of fire down her spine, then cupped her face, his thumb stroking her cheek.
Honor’s heart was beating so quickly she wondered how it did not leap from her chest. She understood how he would seduce and claim a woman. She understood why so many women had taken him as a lover. She was drawn to him, to his intense gaze, admiring and ravenous at once. To his touch, unyielding and yet soft. “Allow me to suggest a suitable trade,” she said quickly, before this cat devoured its prey. “I will pay you,” she said, alarmed that her voice shook ever so slightly. “There is the one hundred pounds I won from your purse. I could return that in exchange for your help.”
“You would return one hundred pounds, fairly won, for this?” he asked silkily, and flicked his finger across the tip of her breast.
“Actually,” she said, her gaze on his mouth, “I would return ninety-two pounds.” She did not think it necessary to tell him that she’d bought a bonnet, some shoes and some underthings with the money.
“Enticing. But money is not what I have in mind.” He slipped his hand to her nape and pulled her closer. “I have in mind something just for you.” He put his mouth to her ear and said low, “Something that will make your timid heart shatter and bring a glow to your fair cheeks.” His hand was in her lap, his palm pressing against her abdomen. “Do you know what will bring a glow to a woman’s cheek, Miss Cabot?”
She tried to turn her head, but she couldn’t seem to force herself to do it. “I am not a girl, Mr. Easton.”
“Aren’t you?” he whispered, and drew her earlobe in between a pair of soft, moist lips, nibbling it.
Dear Lord, she would expire. She closed her eyes, taking in his scent—spicy and warm—the feel of his hands on her. She could imagine his hands on all of her, and feared that her heart would give in, and she would die here on this bench. And yet, somehow, she managed to keep calm. “I can offer you ninety-two pounds, nothing else. There is nothing else I will trade, sir.”
He shifted closer, his lips against her cheek now, and Honor thought he intended to kiss her. Her mind screamed for her to bang on the ceiling to cry out to Jonas to save her. But another, wanton part of her was whispering kiss me. Kiss me, kiss me....
He slid his hand up her rib cage, to the side of her breast. “I will think on your ninety-two pounds,” he murmured, his breath warm and moist on her skin, tantalizing her almost to the point of madness.
“You mean to do it,” she said softly, surprised, and opened her eyes. “You will grant me this favor.”
“Now you are reprehensible and presumptuous. I haven’t said I would.”
“But I can see that you will,” she said, and twisted about to face him, beaming. “Thank you, Mr. Easton!”
He wrapped his fingers around hers.
“Call on me tomorrow, at Beckington House, please. I can explain more openly there.”
“I cannot, for the life of me, imagine how much more open you could possibly be, Miss Cabot.”
“I knew you would agree,” she said, suddenly full of delight.
“I have not agreed to anything.”
“I shall be waiting for you at half past two. The girls will be at their studies and Augustine at his club. Thank you, sir,” she said again, her voice full of the gratitude she felt. “I am in your debt.” She moved to knock on the ceiling to signal Jonas that this ride was over.
Only then did she realize that Mr. Easton was still holding her hand.
CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_e514c4e9-3539-5d30-9a68-77d4732986bb)
HONOR RETURNED TO Beckington House breathless from her dangerous rendezvous, her heart still beating wildly, and floated into the foyer where she found Prudence and Mercy quarreling loudly.
“Honor!” Prudence cried the moment she saw her older sister. “Please do tell Mercy she is to return my slippers at once!”
“Mercy, please return Pru’s slippers at once,” Honor said without looking at Mercy’s feet.
“But why must she have them always?” Mercy countered. “I can’t see what harm there is in borrowing them on occasion.”
“You don’t see the harm?” Prudence demanded. “Honor, you really must do something. She’s completely without scruples! If you don’t insist she hand them over, I shall remove them from her feet myself!”
“Mercy, really,” Honor said absently as she untied her bonnet, her fingers running over the same velvet fabric Easton’s fingers had stroked. The fingers that had stroked the skin of her arm, her face; she shivered lightly at the recollection. “They belong to Pru, and you have a wardrobe full of slippers.”
“What’s this about slippers?” The girls’ mother, Joan Devereaux, Lady Beckington, appeared from the corridor. “There will be no forceful removing of slippers, my dears.” Her blue eyes were bright; there was no sign of the distant fog Honor noticed in her mother’s eyes when she wasn’t entirely present. Joan Devereaux was a regal woman, the epitome of elegance and grace, and had once been considered one of the more handsome women of the ton. She smiled warmly at her daughters, looking between them. “What are you girls about?”
“Only the usual sort of thing, Mamma,” Prudence said imperiously, and began striding for the grand staircase. “Mercy has a wretched habit of borrowing things without permission, and with no consequence!”
“That’s a bit dramatic, my darling Pru,” Lady Beckington said as she watched her daughter flounce up the stairs.
“Of course you would say that—you’re not the injured party!” Prudence tossed over her shoulder, and disappeared into the corridor at the top of the stairs.
Lady Beckington sighed and looked askance at her youngest daughter. “Mercy, darling, you really must learn to ask to borrow things instead of taking them. I suggest you go and apologize to your sister and return the slippers. Now go and dress for supper.”
“But we’ve only just had tea,” Mercy complained.
“Go on, darling,” her mother said, giving her a gentle push in the direction of the stairs. To Honor, she offered her arm, which Honor was happy to take. She let the ribbons of her bonnet flutter behind them as they walked. She noticed that the embroidery on her mother’s sleeve was damaged—the threading was coming loose. “What’s happened here?” she asked, bending over it to have a look.
“What?” Her mother scarcely glanced down at her sleeve. “Never mind it. Where have you been this afternoon?” she asked as they began to make their ascent.
“Nowhere, really.” She gave her mother a sheepish smile.
“I know you better than that, Honor. I would guess that your absence from tea involved a gentleman.”
Honor could feel herself flush. “Mamma—”
“You don’t have to tell me,” she said, squeezing her hand fondly. “But your poor mother hopes that you are at least considering the idea that the time has come for you to settle on a single suitor and think of marrying as you ought.”
“Why ought I marry now?” Honor asked. The thought of marrying now was unnerving. She felt too...unfinished.
“Because you should,” her mother said. “There is a whole new world awaiting your entry. You needn’t be timid about it.”
“Timid! They call me a swashbuckler, Mamma.”
“Yes, well, perhaps you are a swashbuckler in the ballroom. But I know my girl, and I think your heart is yet bruised.”
In moments like this, it was difficult to believe that her mother was slipping. In moments like this, Honor believed she wasn’t, that she and Grace had imagined it all. Her mother seemed at ease, very present in the moment and quite motherly. “What shall I wear to supper?” Honor asked, blatantly changing the subject before her mother could question her further.
Her mother laughed. “Very well, have it your way. The blue silk,” she said. “It complements your coloring so very well.”
“The blue, then,” Honor said.
She accompanied her mother to her suite of rooms and rang for Hannah to attend her. She moved on to her suite of rooms. She was not surprised to find Grace within, standing on the new Aubusson rug, her arms folded tightly across her body. Light streamed in from windows opened to late afternoon sun, casting shadows across the silk-covered walls of Honor’s rooms and Grace’s face.
But the shadows did not hide Grace’s ire. “Where have you been?” she demanded.
“Out.”
“Yes, yes, quite obviously you have been out. Hardy said you took the coach to Gunter’s.”
“What of it?” Honor asked with a shrug.
“I can’t imagine why you would venture out alone to Gunter’s, alone. One does not enjoy an ice alone. I can’t help but wonder if there was someone there waiting for you. Was there? Perhaps a certain unclaimed son of a duke who might have been taking his tea?”
Honor blinked. “How could you possibly know that?” she exclaimed.
“Mercy saw you speaking to a gentleman in the park, silly bird. She described him perfectly.”
“It would seem those spectacles are improving her sight better than we’d hoped,” Honor drawled, and carelessly tossed her bonnet onto her bed.
“Then you don’t deny it?”
“No,” Honor said.
“Lord in heaven!” Grace exclaimed to the papier-mȃché ropes and cherubs that adorned the ceiling. “You promised me!”
“I know.”
“Think of the scandal you invite!”
“Grace! There is no scandal. I am sorry if—”
“Spare me your apologies, please,” Grace said, and dropped dramatically onto the chaise longue before the hearth. “You never mean to do it, you are always sorry. When you suggested this ridiculous plan, I laughed. I was naive to think that even you wouldn’t go through with it, that even you wouldn’t risk so much for a lark.”
Honor frowned, miffed that Grace knew her so well. “It’s not a lark, at least not to me. And really, Grace, you bear some responsibility, do you not?”
“Me!”
“Wasn’t it you who insisted that I accompany you and Mamma and the girls riding in Hyde Park? If I hadn’t seen Easton there, I should have carried on without giving the matter another thought.”
Grace gaped at her. And then she burst out with wild laughter and fell back against the cushions of the chaise. “That is the most absurd reasoning I have ever heard!”
Honor couldn’t disagree with that, either. “All right,” Honor acquiesced, sinking onto the end of the chaise next to Grace. “I will allow that I was a bit impetuous. But, Grace, the idea was so fresh on my mind, and there he was, escorting the Rivers twins, of all people. It occurred to me that if he would squire those two magpies, he would most certainly think Monica an improvement.”
“Of course he would think Monica an improvement over those two, but that is hardly the point, is it? The point is that you went to meet the man quite alone, a man you scarcely know, and you proposed something absurd and reckless and full of ruin.”
“That’s one view,” she said wearily. “If a woman is to make her way in this man’s world without a husband, she must risk quite a lot to succeed. It’s not as if I have a solicitor to call upon his solicitor. It’s not as if I can offer Monica money to find another suitor. I am a female, and as such, I have nothing available to me to change anything about my life but my hand in marriage. I find it altogether infuriating if I allow myself to dwell—”
“Honor—”
“Yes, well, to put your mind somewhat at ease, I met him in front of Gunter’s Tea Shop. No one saw me but Jonas. Easton stepped into the coach, and we talked.”
Grace seemed genuinely distressed by that revelation, judging by how she buried her face in her hands. Honor tried to soothe her by stroking her hair. “I don’t see another option for us, dearest.”
“You must have a care for your reputation, which, I might point out, has already been suspect on several occasions.” Grace lifted her head to arch a golden brow high above the other, daring Honor to challenge that.
“I’ve not been that bad,” Honor muttered.
“Can you imagine the talk that would gust like winter winds around this square if anyone were to see you?”
“I am acutely aware.” Honor knew she was too impetuous for her own good. She had no desire to see her reputation ruined, and she understood Grace’s concern.
“Never mind all that, then, you’ve gone and done it.” Grace suddenly twisted around to face her “Well? What did he say?”
Honor smiled slyly at her sister. “He said that I was reprehensible.”
Grace gasped.
“But that he would consider it.”
Her sister didn’t breathe for a moment. “What? He will?”
“I will know on the morrow.” Honor stood up and began to unbutton her spencer. “If he agrees, he shall call here.”
“Here! That’s all well and good for outsiders, but what will Augustine think?”
“Grace, calm yourself. Augustine can think of nothing but his nuptials. I asked Mr. Easton to call at half past two, when the girls are in their studies and Augustine is out at his club for the day.”
Grace looked set to argue, but the sound of a painful racking cough drifted down the hallway to them; they both paused. A moment later, they heard their mother’s steps hurrying in that direction.
Grace sank back onto the chaise. “It’s getting worse, isn’t it?” she asked morosely, referring to the deteriorating health of the earl.
“I think so,” Honor agreed.
“Your plan is utter madness, you know.”
“That is the kindest thing you might say for it,” Honor said, and squeezed in next to her sister, nudging her with her shoulder. “But at least it’s diverting madness.”
Grace smiled ruefully. “I fear you are far beyond hope.”
“Not at all, dearest—I am absolutely bursting with hope,” Honor said. A movement caught Honor’s eye; she sat up and turned toward the door. Her mother was standing in the opening, staring into the room.
“Mamma?” Honor said, coming to her feet. “Is something wrong?”
Lady Beckington frowned slightly.
“Mamma,” Honor said again, moving to her mother’s side. “Did you mean to see to the earl?”
“Oh, Honor,” her mother said, her relief clearly evident. “You’re home! Yes, the earl is unwell. I should see to him,” she said, and squeezed Honor’s hand affectionately as she turned and hurried down the hall to the earl’s rooms.
Honor looked back at Grace. “I don’t understand it. Not a quarter of an hour ago she was perfectly all right.”
“We should have Dr. Cardigan come,” Grace suggested.
“And risk the ton knowing before the earl is even gone? Dr. Cardigan sees every old biddy in Mayfair! We can’t, Grace. Not until we absolutely must.”
It was heartbreaking to watch a beloved mother slide ever so softly into senility. Joan Devereaux, so charmingly clever—Honor could not think of a single person who had a poor opinion of her. She’d been amazingly resourceful, too—she’d known how to navigate a ballroom better than anyone, and had managed to keep her daughters well after her husband had died. Honor had been only eleven years old, but she could recall her mother taking two old gowns to a friend, and together, they’d created a stunning ball gown. Her mother had donned it and gone off to a grand ball and the next morning had gathered her four daughters in her bed and told them about the Earl of Beckington.
It was necessity that had driven her mother to seek the earl’s attentions, but Honor truly believed that her mother had come to care very much for the older earl. Certainly no one in Mayfair would blame Lady Beckington if she left the earl’s care to a nurse, but she’d refused to do so. She saw to him every day.
The sound of the earl’s racking coughs reached them again. “I’ll go and help her,” Grace said, and stood from the chaise to go. At the door, however, she glanced back at her sister. “Do have a care, Honor. You are playing a very dangerous game.”
“I will,” Honor promised.
Later, Honor would recall that moment with Grace and her easy promise. She hadn’t believed George Easton would really come to Beckington House.
But he did.
CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_464b16b0-4b10-5e1f-92ad-7259c2b14470)
IT TOOK QUITE a lot to astonish George, but Honor Cabot had done just that. From her bold invitation to meet, to her ridiculous, preposterous, cake-headed suggestion, George could not have been more astonished than if the king were to recognize him as his legitimate nephew.
Yesterday, he’d left Berkeley Square stewing in his own juices, aroused as he always was by prettiness, and as disgusted with Miss Cabot as he was with himself for somehow softening to her charm again. He couldn’t fathom what it was about this debutante that could so keenly capture him with a smile, but he’d been determined to never see her again. She was trouble. In fact, he’d even been of half a mind to ride directly to Beckington House and explain to the dimwitted Sommerfield exactly what his stepsister was about. She deserved no less.
But George hadn’t gone to Beckington House. He’d gone home, riding hard from a pair of dark-lashed blue eyes shimmering in his mind’s eye.
Bloody, bloody hell.
Still, he thought that after a good night’s sleep, that would be the end of it, that he’d not give as much as a passing thought to the young woman again. He’d gone out last night as was his custom, had dined with several gentlemen at the Coventry House Club. But he’d had no interest in cards or prattling, and had returned home before midnight.
Finnegan had not said a word when George had stalked into his house far earlier than was his custom. He’d merely arched one dark brow high above the other as he’d taken George’s hat. “Don’t look so smug,” George had snapped as he’d strode past.
George had gone to bed quite early, but then had tossed and turned. He’d finally settled on his back, one arm draped above his head, the other on his bare abdomen, and had glared at the canopy above him, his jaw clenched, mulling over that absurd meeting.
Honor Cabot’s suggestion was the most fatuous thing he’d ever heard in his life. Furthermore, it was the very thing that made him cringe when he saw squads of young debutantes milling about Mayfair—silly girls in pretty colors playing silly courtship games.
But worse, the game Honor Cabot played was harmful.
The problem, George had mused, was that he was the sort of man who was intrigued by dangerous women. He had no illusions—Honor Cabot was a dangerous woman by nature, and she was made all the more dangerous because of her beauty and her incandescent smile. Regrettably, cunning and beauty were his primary weaknesses when it came to women.
Why was it, he’d wondered in the dark, that he could not be the sort of man who was pleased with a woman of virtue? The sort of chaste woman who would make him a fine wife and bear him beautiful children, someone who would make him attend church services on Sunday and give alms to the poor and dutifully open her legs to him? He supposed that one day, he would settle on a woman for that reason, for her goodness and purity, and he would have his slippers and his spectacles, and he would while away his evenings with a book while his wife attended her needlework.
Someday.
But he had no patience for it now, not with a ship late to port and buyers awaiting his cotton.
So how was it, then, that George found himself the next afternoon at half past two at Grosvenor Square, staring up at the impressive Beckington House with its row of windows that looked black in the afternoon sun? Utter, indefensible folly.
No one answered straightaway when George rapped three times, and he had all but turned about, prepared to make his escape when the door suddenly swung open and a man with thinning hair stood imperiously before him.
George fished a calling card from his interior coat pocket. “Mr. Easton for Miss Honor Cabot, if you please.”
The man nodded and disappeared for a moment, reappearing again with a silver tray, which he held out to George. When George had deposited the card onto the tray, the door opened wider. The man stepped aside and inclined his head, indicating George should step inside, which he did. Just over the threshold. He tentatively removed his hat.
“If you will kindly wait here, Mr. Easton, I shall inform Miss Cabot that you have called,” the butler said, and marched briskly away, the silver tray held high.
George looked up at the soaring entry and the elaborate chandelier hanging high above him. There were paintings on the walls, portraits of people, of landscapes. The marble floor was polished to a sheen, and gold candelabras with new beeswax candles stood in neat rows on a table nearby.
He heard the butler again before he saw him, his brisk walk echoing down the corridor he’d disappeared into. The man bowed. “If you will allow me to show you to a receiving room, sir,” he said, and carefully put aside the silver tray—empty now—and moved in the opposite direction from where he’d come, walking into the west corridor.
George followed. They moved down a carpeted hallway past polished wood doors and wall sconces and more beeswax candles. George was reminded of how pleased his mother had been when she could afford to buy one or two beeswax candles and rid their rooms of the smell of tallow for a time.
The butler entered the last room on the right. He opened the pair of doors wide, pushed them back and nudged a doorstop into place with his foot. He strode across the small room to the windows, opened the drapes, tied them back then faced George. “Is the comfort in the room to your liking, sir, or shall I send a footman to light a fire?”
“That won’t be necessary,” George said stiffly. “I do not intend to be long.”
“Very well, sir. If you require any assistance at all, the bellpull is just there,” the butler said, nodding toward a thick velvet braid of rope near the door. “Miss Cabot will join you shortly.” He quit the room.
George put his hat aside and examined a painting on the wall as he waited, staring up at the puffy face of a Beckington forefather. He always looked at the portraits in homes like these, looking for any similarity to himself, any hint that he might somehow be related. This man looked nothing like the late Gloucester, except perhaps for the slightly aquiline shape of his nose. George was so intent on that feature that he did not hear the advance of Miss Cabot until she swept into the room on a cloud of pale yellow, her train swirling out behind her as she twirled around to peek out the corridor and then draw the doors quietly closed.
She twirled back around, her smile luminescent, her hands clasped just below her breast, reminiscent of a choirboy preparing to sing. But all similarity to anything remotely angelic ended abruptly when he noticed that the gown she was wearing did not conceal her up to her chin like the one she’d worn yesterday. This gown was cut fashionably low, and creamy mounds of her breast appeared to almost burst from her bodice...a mishap George would delight in seeing.
She was oblivious to his fascination with her décolletage. “You came,” she said breathlessly.
Bloody fool that he was, yes. George inclined his head in acknowledgment of that.
“I scarcely believe it! I was so certain you’d not come, and I had no good idea of what I might do if you didn’t. But here you are!” she exclaimed, casting her arms wide. “You will help me!”
“Before you take flight with joy, Miss Cabot, understand that I came here not to help you in your lunacy, but to dissuade you from it.”
She blinked her lovely blue eyes. “Dissuade me,” she repeated, as if that were a foreign concept to her, which George suspected was highly probable. “But that’s not possible, Mr. Easton. My mind is quite made up. When I am fixed on something, I am very dedicated to it. Now then—will you help me?”
George couldn’t help but chuckle at her dogged determination. “No.”
“No?”
“It is madness, complete and utter madness,” he said. “It is a loathsome thing to do to a brother and a friend, and I feel it is my duty as a gentleman to direct you away from it—not abet it.”
Now her bright smile faded. She folded her arms. “Very well, Mr. Easton. You have done your gentlemanly duty,” she said, sounding irreverent. “Now will you help me?”
George stared at her. And then he couldn’t seem to help himself—he laughed. “You may very well be the most obstinate woman I have ever met.”
“Then perhaps you have not met as many women as I’ve heard tell,” she said pertly. “Do you think I make this request to you lightly? That this is a girlish whim? Not at all, sir. Monica Hargrove intends to turn my family out when she marries my brother. She has said as much to me. Further, I don’t believe for a moment that you came all the way here to tell me you won’t help me. You might have sent a note or ignored me altogether, is that not so?”
That was so, and it made George a bit uncomfortable for her to point it out so bluntly. He shrugged.
“That you did not suggests to me that you must have at least considered my request. Have you?”
He felt as if he were a naughty boy, caught in the act of mischief. She had him, this shrewd and wily young miss, just as she had that night in Southwark. And she knew it, too, for a smile appeared on her lush lips, ending in little dimples in either cheek. That smile was a small gust of air to smoldering ashes, and George felt a tiny flame ignite.
“It would seem we are agreed,” she said silkily.
“Not so fast.” He let his gaze slide slowly down her curves and up again. He would like to sink his fingers and his tongue into that flesh, to smell her hair. “If I cannot dissuade you—”
“You cannot—”
“Then it is now my duty as a gentleman to ensure you do no harm to Miss Hargrove.”
Miss Cabot beamed, knowing she had won. “How kind of you.”
“I am not the least bit kind, Miss Cabot. But I do have some principles. I’m not sure the same can be said for you.”
“I am touched by your concern for Monica,” she said sweetly. “My desire is only that she is made aware that there are other, perhaps more attractive possibilities for her so that she will not rush to the altar as she seems to want to do. No harm.”
“Debatable,” he said, his body caught in the snare of feminine mystique as he moved closer to her. “There is still the matter of what I will have in return for this...abominable favor.”
“Of course,” she said demurely, and folded her arms across her body tightly.
“Let’s begin with the agreement that you will return to me the one hundred pounds won in Southwark.”
“Ninety-two pounds,” she corrected him.
“Ninety-two pounds, then,” he said, his gaze falling to her mouth, “will earn you one round of rakish behavior designed to turn Miss Hargrove’s head. That ought to suffice.”
“Ah...” One of Miss Cabot’s finely tweezed brows rose high above the other.
“What?” he demanded.
“Nothing, really,” she said lightly, and shrugged. “Only that you seem rather confident of that.”
George stared at her. He wished to high heaven that such bloody impertinence from a pampered, privileged woman didn’t fascinate him quite as much as it did. “Of course I am confident, Miss Cabot.”
“Oh, dear, I didn’t mean to insult you,” she said, and her tender smile shot through him. “I have no doubt that you would turn the head of most debutantes—”
“You are not improving the situation.”
She bit her lip.
He very much wanted to bite that lip, too. George frowned—he didn’t like that, not at all. When he began to want things like that, he did very foolish things. One could inquire of several women in this town and find it was so. “Well, then? I will agree to speak to Miss Hargrove and pay her a...foppish compliment or two,” he said, with a flick of his wrist, “in exchange for ninety-two pounds.” He extended his hand, offering to shake on it.
But Miss Cabot gazed reluctantly at his hand.
George sighed. “For heaven’s sake, what now?”
“I will agree on one condition,” she said, holding up a finger.
“You are in no position to impose conditions—”
“Agreed,” she said quickly. “Nevertheless...you must allow me to instruct you.”
It took a moment for those words to sink into George’s brain. “I beg your pardon, but I am most certainly not in need of your instruction,” he said irritably. “You have come to me for my experience, is that not so? I think I am a fair judge of what effort is involved in chatting up a young debutante,” he added with an indignant snort.
“Yes...but I know her better than anyone,” she said, tilting her head back to look him directly in the eye.
“Good God, you speak as if I come to this in short pants—”
“That is not what I—”
George suddenly grabbed her by the waist, yanking her into his body.
“Mr. Easton!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing?”
He didn’t know what he was doing, honestly. Reacting to some primal drumbeat in his veins. “I don’t need your instruction,” he said in a low voice, and brushed his knuckles against her temple.
“You are too familiar,” she objected crossly, but her hands curled around his upper arms, and she made no move to escape him.
“I am aware.” His gaze moved over her face. “And yet you enjoy it. That is my point.”
“Are you always so assured, sir?”
“Are you?” he retorted.
“You mistake my offense for misunderstanding,” she said to his mouth, and the drum beat louder in George. “But make no mistake—I am offended.”
“If you were offended,” he said, mimicking her, “you would kick and claw like any prim little lass to be set free.” He cocked a brow, daring her to disagree.
She frowned darkly at him.
“Aha,” he said, brushing his fingers against her collarbone. It felt small and fragile to him. “It would appear that I know women far better than you.”
Honor Cabot responded to that with a firm kick to his shin.
George instantly let go and reached for his leg. “Ouch,” he said with a wince.
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.
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Julia London
“London knows how to keep pages turning.” —Publishers WeeklyPassion and scandal collide in New York Times bestselling author Julia London’s brand new series about four sisters determined to rescue themselves from ruin ….Desperate times call for daring measures as Honor Cabot, the eldest stepdaughter of the wealthy Earl of Beckington, awaits her family’s ruin. Upon the earl's death she and her sisters stand to lose the luxury of their grand home—and their place on the pedestal of society—to their stepbrother and his social-climbing fiancée. Forced to act quickly, Honor makes a devil's bargain with the only rogue in London who can seduce her stepbrother’s fiancée out of the Cabots’ lives for good.An illegitimate son of a duke, George Easton was born of scandal and grows his fortune through dangerous risks. But now he and Honor are dabbling in a perilous dance of seduction that puts her reputation and his jaded heart on the line. And as unexpected desire threatens to change the rules of their secret game, the stakes may become too high even for a notorious gambler and a determined, free-spirited debutante to handle.
Praise for New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author (#ulink_6d341bcf-cf98-5686-8c99-1eafc4c14797)
‘Julia London writes vibrant, emotional stories and sexy, richly drawn characters.’
—New York Times bestselling author Madeline Hunter
‘The Last Debutante is another successful merger of witty writing and passionate romance that gracefully delivers everything romance readers could want.’ —Booklist
‘… London’s story is satisfying as it builds on the excellent chemistry of the leads, gracefully unfolding with the perfect amount of tension.’
—Publishers Weekly review of The Revenge of Lord Eberlin
‘Exceptionally entertaining … sinfully sexy’
—Booklist on The Dangers of Deceiving a Viscount
‘As London explores the intricate, authentic-feeling relationships blossoming among the players, her masterful ability to bring characters to life makes this romance entirely absorbing.’
—Publishers Weekly on The Dangers of Deceiving a Viscount
‘London’s love story is tense and tender, held aloft by endearing, dynamic characters.’
—Publishers Weekly review of The Perils of Pursuing a Prince
JULIA LONDON is the New York Times, USA TODAY and Publishers Weekly bestselling author of historical romance, contemporary romance and women’s fiction with strong romantic elements. She is a six-time finalist for the RITA
Award of Excellence in romantic fiction and the recipient of RT Bookclub’s Best Historical Novel. She lives in Austin, Texas.
The Trouble
with Honor
Julia London
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Dear Reader (#ulink_e8fa65c4-d825-5fec-be48-68a2b495ef91),
I am so excited to present The Trouble with Honour to you! This is my first book for Mills & Boon, but I have written many historical romances, almost all of them set in the Regency period. I love the pageantry of the era and how society and the concern for appearances ruled the gentry. But I imagine that, human nature being what it is, there were those who did not like to live by the rules, who chafed at being ruled at all and who dared to break the rules.
In this series about the Cabot sisters, I introduce four young, privileged women who are expected to aspire to a very good marriage and not much else. But when their fortunes begin to change, these four are determined to break the rules that bind them and define happiness on their own terms. However, when one is raised in the lap of luxury, and learns nothing more taxing than some intricate stitching, one may not be equipped to circumvent the rules. One’s attempts to do so may go very, very badly. I hope you enjoy the Cabot sisters and their shenanigans as much as I enjoyed writing them.
Happy reading,
Julia London
For my mother,
who instilled a love of books and reading
in me from the beginning
Contents
Cover (#u271d57f6-7ff9-54e1-9a3b-f0abab225de6)
Praise (#u7f781ac0-9708-533e-b1b5-b95b3cb98920)
About the Author (#u4f969d2a-ec3a-5eb3-b2cb-510280722db6)
Title Page (#u8db2dd28-2a90-5817-b849-653c3834cae1)
Dear Reader (#ud5c0e8fa-b8ce-5ac0-8831-54e0d9dffed5)
Dedication (#u66278a30-ad80-54df-8aa3-5d11801ddc25)
CHAPTER ONE (#u2a426ce2-b443-5e72-9901-54a766ef1194)
CHAPTER TWO (#u66e747c0-c0fa-53c1-bae1-e2138a7d8327)
CHAPTER THREE (#u703d93a5-99fb-5c3d-b6c2-c6ed2bee2a5d)
CHAPTER FOUR (#u3884ad4f-394c-50ba-8bf2-066587bda7e6)
CHAPTER FIVE (#ucf0edda5-0f7f-5cf6-b55f-6d6a92c3cae3)
CHAPTER SIX (#uabf73a2b-2b87-5f07-9030-5a54fdd45d86)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
Endpage (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_de8b99b3-f3b4-5560-b242-07ffba1592c8)
THE TROUBLE BEGAN in the spring of 1812, in a gaming hell south of the Thames, a seedy bit of Southwark known to be thick with thieves.
It was beyond comprehension how the old structure, originally built in the time of the Vikings, had become one of the most fashionable places for gentlemen of the Quality to be, but indeed it had. The interior was sumptuous, with thick red velvet draperies, rich wood and low ceilings. Night after night, they came from their stately Mayfair homes in heavily armed coaches to spend an evening losing outrageous sums of money to one another. And when a gentleman had lost his allotted amount for the evening, he might enjoy the company of a lightskirt, as there were ample private rooms and French women to choose from.
On a bitterly cold night, a month before the start of the social Season—when, inevitably, the gentlemen would eschew this gaming hell for the Mayfair assembly rooms and balls that had become a spring rite for the wealthy and privileged—a group of young Corinthians were persuaded by the smiles and pretty pleas of five debutantes to have a look at this gaming hell.
It was dangerous and foolish for the young men to risk forever marring the reputations of such precious flowers. But young, brash and full of piss, they’d been eager to please. They did not allow the hell’s rule of no women to deter them, or that any number of mishaps or crimes could befall the young women in the course of their lark. It was a bit of adventure in the middle of a gloomy winter.
It was in that Southwark gaming hell where George Easton first made the acquaintance of one of those debutantes: Miss Honor Cabot.
He hadn’t noticed the commotion at the door when the young bucks had arrived with their prizes, flush with the excitement of their daring and overly proud for having convinced the man at the door to give them entry. George had been too intent on divesting thirty pounds from Mr. Charles Rutherford, a notorious gambler, in the course of a game of Commerce. He didn’t realize anything was amiss until Rutherford said, “What the devil?”
It was then that he noticed the young women standing like so many birds, fluttering and preening in the middle of the room, their hooded cloaks framing their lovely faces, their giggles infecting one another while their gazes darted between the many men who eyed them like a paddock full of fine horses.
“Bloody hell,” George muttered. He threw down his cards as Rutherford stood, the poor lass in his lap stumbling as she tried to stop herself from being dumped onto the floor.
“What in blazes are they doing here?” Rutherford demanded. He squinted at the group of them. “Bloody unconscionable, it is. See here!” he rumbled loudly. “This is not to be borne! Those girls should be removed at once!”
The three young gentlemen who had undertaken this adventure looked at one another. The smallest one lifted his chin. “They’ve as much right to be present as you, sir.”
George could see from Mr. Rutherford’s complexion that he was in danger of apoplexy, and he said, quite casually, “Then, for God’s sake, have them sit and play. Otherwise, they’re a distraction to the gentlemen here.”
“Play?” Rutherford said, his eyes all but bulging from their sockets. “They are not fit to play!”
“I am,” said one lone feminine voice.
Ho there, which of them dared to speak? George leaned around Rutherford to have a look, but the birds were fluttering and moving, and he couldn’t see which of them had said it.
“Who said that?” Rutherford demanded loudly enough that the gentlemen seated at the tables around them paused in their games to see what was the commotion.
None of the young ladies moved; they stared wide-eyed at the banker. Just as it seemed Rutherford would begin a rant, one of them shyly stepped forward. A ripple went through the crowd as the lass looked at Rutherford and then at George. He was startled by the deep blue of her eyes and her dark lashes, the inky black of her hair framing a face as pale as milk. One did not expect to see such youthful beauty here.
“Miss Cabot?” Rutherford said incredulously. “What in blazes are you doing here?”
She curtsied as if she were standing in the middle of a ballroom and clasped her gloved hands before her. “My friends and I have come to see for ourselves where it is that all the gentlemen keep disappearing to.”
Chuckles ran through the crowd. Rutherford looked alarmed, as if he were somehow responsible for this breach of etiquette. “Miss Cabot...this is no place for a virtuous young lady.”
One of the birds behind her fluttered and whispered at her, but Miss Cabot seemed not to notice. “Pardon, sir, but I don’t understand how a place can be quite all right for a virtuous man, yet not for a virtuous woman.”
George couldn’t help but laugh. “Perhaps because there is no such thing as a virtuous man.”
Those startlingly blue eyes settled on George once more, and he felt a strange little flicker in his chest. Her gaze dipped to the cards. “Commerce?” she asked.
“Yes,” George said, impressed that she recognized it. “If you desire to play, miss, then bloody well do it.”
Now all the blood had drained from Rutherford’s face, and George was somewhat amused that he looked close to fainting. “No,” Rutherford said, shaking his head and holding up a hand to her. “I beg your pardon, Miss Cabot, but I cannot abet you in this folly. You must go home at once.”
Miss Cabot looked disappointed.
“Then I’ll do it,” George said and, with his boot, kicked out a chair at his table. Another murmur shot through the crowd, and the tight group of little birds began to flutter again, the bottoms of their cloaks swirling about the floor as they twisted and turned to whisper at each other. “Whom do I have the pleasure of abetting?” he asked.
“Miss Cabot,” she said. “Of Beckington House.”
The Earl of Beckington’s daughter, was she? Did she say that to impress him? Because it didn’t. George shrugged. “George Easton. From Easton House.”
The girls behind her giggled, but Miss Cabot did not. She smiled prettily at him. “A pleasure, Mr. Easton.”
George supposed she’d learned to smile like that very early on in life in order to have what she liked. She was, he thought, a remarkably attractive woman. “These are not parlor games, miss. Have you any coin?”
“I do,” she said, and held out her reticule to show him.
Lord, she was naive. “You’d best put that away,” he said. “Behind the silk neckcloths and polished leather boots, you’ll find a den of thieves between these walls.”
“At least we’ve a purse, Easton, and haven’t sunk it all in a boat,” someone said.
Several gentlemen laughed at that, but George ignored them. He’d come to his fortune with cunning and hard work, and some men were jealous of it.
He gestured for the lovely Miss Cabot to sit. “You scarcely seem old enough to understand the nuances of a game such as Commerce.”
“No?” she asked, one brow arching above the other as she gracefully took a seat in the chair that a man held out for her. “At what age is one considered old enough to engage in a game of chance?”
Behind her, the birds whispered fiercely, but Miss Cabot calmly regarded George, waiting for his answer. She was not, he realized, even remotely intimidated by him, by the establishment or by anything else.
“I would not presume to put an age on it,” he said cavalierly. “A child, for all I care.”
“Easton,” Rutherford said, his voice full of warning, but George Easton did not play by the same rules as the titled men here, and Rutherford knew it. This would be diverting; George had no objection to passing an hour or so with a woman—anyone in London would attest to that—particularly one as comely as this one. “Are you prepared to lose all the coins you’ve brought?”
She laughed, the sound of it sparkling. “I don’t intend to lose them at all.”
The gentlemen in the room laughed again, and one or two of them stood, moving closer to watch.
“One must always be prepared to lose, Miss Cabot,” George warned her.
She carefully opened her reticule, produced a few coins and smiled proudly at him. George made a mental note not to be swept up by that smile...at least not while at the gaming table.
Rutherford, meanwhile, stared with shock at both Miss Cabot and George, then slowly, reluctantly, took his seat.
“Shall I deal?” George asked, holding up the deck of cards.
“Please,” Miss Cabot said, and put her gloves aside, neatly stacked, just beside her few coins. She glanced around the room as George shuffled the deck of cards. “Do you know that I have never been south of the Thames? Can you imagine, my whole life spent in and around London, and I’ve never come south of the Thames?”
“Imagine,” he drawled, and dealt the cards. “Your bet to begin, Miss Cabot.”
She glanced at her cards that were lying faceup, and put a shilling in the middle of the table.
“A bob will not take you far in this game,” George said.
“Is it allowed?”
He shrugged. “It is.”
She merely smiled.
Rutherford followed suit, and the woman who had occupied his lap for most of the evening resumed her seat, sliding onto his knee, her gaze challenging Miss Cabot.
“Oh,” Miss Cabot murmured, apparently as she realized what sort of woman would sit on Rutherford’s lap, and glanced away.
“Are you shocked?” George whispered, amused.
“A bit,” Miss Cabot responded, stealing a look at the young whore again. “I rather thought she’d be...homelier. But she’s quite pretty, isn’t she?”
George glanced at the woman on Rutherford’s lap. He would call her alluring. But not pretty. Miss Cabot was pretty.
He glanced at his hand—he held a pair of kings. This would be an easy victory, he thought, and made his bet.
A servant walked by with a platter of food for a table that had resumed its play. Miss Cabot’s gaze followed it.
“Miss Cabot,” George said.
She looked at him.
“Your play.”
“Oh!” She studied the cards and picked up another shilling and placed it in the middle.
“Gentlemen, we’ve had two bobs bet this evening. At this rate, we might hope to conclude the game at dawn.”
Miss Cabot smiled at him, her blue eyes twinkling with amusement.
George reminded himself that he was not to be drawn in by pretty eyes, either.
They went round again, during which Rutherford apparently forgot his reluctance to play with the debutante. On the next round, Miss Cabot put in two shillings.
“Miss Cabot, have a care. You don’t want to lose all you have in the first game,” one of the young bucks said with a nervous laugh.
“I hardly think it will hurt any less to lose all that I have in one game or six, Mr. Eckersly,” she said jovially.
George won the hand as he knew he would, but Miss Cabot didn’t seem the least bit put off by it. “I think there should be more games of chance at the assembly halls, don’t you?” she asked of the growing crowd around them. “It makes for a better diversion than whist.”
“Only if one is winning,” a man in the back of the crowd said.
“And with her father’s money,” Miss Cabot quipped, delighting the small but growing crowd around them, as well as the birds who had accompanied her, as they now had the attention of several gentlemen around them.
They continued on that way, with Miss Cabot betting a shilling here or there, bantering with the crowd. It was not the sort of high-stakes game George enjoyed, but he did enjoy Miss Cabot, very much. She was not like what he would have supposed for a debutante. She was witty and playful, delighting in her small victories, debating the play of her cards with whomever happened to be standing behind her.
After an hour had passed, Miss Cabot’s purse was reduced to twenty pounds. She began to deal the cards. “Shall we raise the stakes?” she asked cheerfully.
“If you think you can afford my stakes, you have my undivided attention,” George said.
She gave him a pert look. “Twenty pounds to play,” she said, and began to deal.
George couldn’t help but laugh at her naïveté. “But that’s all you have,” he pointed out.
“Then perhaps you will take my marker?” she asked, and lifted her gaze to his. Her eyes, he couldn’t help noticing, were still sparkling. But in a slightly different way. She was challenging him. Heaven help him, the girl was up to something, and George could not have been more delighted. He grinned.
“Miss Cabot, I must advise you against it,” one of the bucks said, the same one who had grown more nervous as the game had progressed. “It’s time we returned to Mayfair.”
“Your caution and timekeeping are duly noted and appreciated, sir,” she said sweetly, her gaze still on George. “You’ll humor me, won’t you, Mr. Easton?” she asked. “You’ll take my marker?”
George had never been one to refuse a lady, particularly one he found so intriguing. “Consider yourself humored,” he said with a gracious bow of his head. “I shall take your marker.”
Word that he had taken a marker from Miss Cabot spread quickly through the gaming hell, and in a matter of minutes, more had gathered around to watch the debutante lose presumably something of value to George Easton, the notorious and self-proclaimed bastard son of the late Duke of Gloucester.
The betting went higher among the three of them until Rutherford, who was undone by the prospect of having a debutante owe him money, withdrew from the game. That left George and Miss Cabot. She remained remarkably unruffled. It was just like the Mayfair set, George thought. She had no regard for the amount of her father’s money she was losing—it was all magic for her, markers and coins appearing from thin air.
The bet had reached one hundred pounds, and George paused. While he appreciated her spirit, he was not in the habit of taking such a sum from debutantes. “The bet is now one hundred pounds, Miss Cabot. Will your papa put that amount in your reticule?” he asked, and the men around him laughed appreciatively.
“My goodness, Mr. Easton, that’s a personal question, isn’t it? Perhaps I should inquire if you will have one hundred pounds in your pocket if I should win?”
Cheeky thing. There was quite a lot of murmuring around them, and George could only imagine the delight her remark had brought the gentlemen in this room. He tossed in a handful of banknotes and winked at her. “Indeed I will.”
She matched his bet with a piece of paper someone had handed her, signing her name to the one hundred pounds owed.
George laid out his cards. He had a sequence of three, the ten being the highest. The only hand that could beat his was a tricon, or three of a kind, and indeed, Miss Cabot gasped with surprise. “My, that’s impressive!” she said.
“I’ve been playing these games quite a long time.”
“Yes, of course you have.” She lifted her gaze and smiled at him, and the moment she did, George knew he’d been beaten. Her smile was too saucy, too triumphant.
As she laid out her hand, gasps went up all around them, followed by applause. Miss Cabot had beaten him with a tricon, three tens. George stared at her cards, then slowly lifted his gaze to hers.
“May I?” she asked, and proceeded to use both hands to drag coins and notes from the center of the table. She took it all, every last coin, stuffing it into her dainty little reticule. She thanked George and Rutherford for allowing her to experience the gaming hell, politely excused herself, slipped back into her cloak and gloves and returned to her little flock of birds.
George watched her go, his fingers drumming on the table. He was an experienced gambler, and he’d just been taken by a debutante.
That was when the trouble with Honor Cabot began.
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_4b6b0874-e86e-5fd5-b8b5-c944b2833482)
LADY HUMPHREY’S ANNUAL spring musicale was widely regarded as The Event at which the ladies of the ton would reveal their fashionable aspirations for the new social Season, and every year, one lady inevitably stood out. In 1798, Lady Eastbourne wore a gown with cap sleeves, which many considered so risqué and yet so clever that tongues wagged across Mayfair for weeks. In 1804, Miss Catherine Wortham shocked everyone by declining to wear any sort of lining beneath her muslin, leaving the shadowy shape of her legs on view to all.
In the bright early spring of 1812, it was Miss Honor Cabot who left quite an impression in her tightly fitted gown with the daringly low décolletage. She was dressed in an exquisite silk from Paris, which one might reasonably suppose had come at an exorbitant cost, given the amount of embroidery and beading that danced across the hem, and the fact that Britain was at war with France. The silk was the color of a peacock’s breast, which complemented her deep-set blue eyes quite well. Her hair, as black as winter’s night, was dressed with tiny crystals that caught the hue of the gown.
No one would argue that Honor Cabot wasn’t a vision of beauty. Her clothing was always superbly tailored, her creamy skin nicely complemented by dark lashes, full, ruby lips and a healthy blush in her cheeks. Her demeanor was generally sunny, and her eyes sparkled with gaiety when she laughed with her many, many friends and gentlemen admirers.
She had a reputation for pushing the boundaries of the polite and chaste behavior expected of debutantes. Everyone had heard about her recent foray into Southwark. Scandalous! The gentlemen of the ton had playfully labeled her a swashbuckler.
That evening, after the singing had been done and the guests had been invited to promenade across Hanover Square to the Humphrey townhome for supper, it was not the swashbuckler’s exquisite and daring gown that caused tongues to wag. It was her bonnet.
What an artful construction that bonnet was! According to Lady Chatham, who was a self-proclaimed authority in all things millinery, the prestigious Lock and Company of St. James Street, a top-of-the-trees hat shop, had designed the bonnet. It was made of black crepe and rich blue satin, and the fabric was gathered in a tiny little fan on one side, held in place by a sparkling aquamarine. And from that fan were two very long peacock feathers, which, according to Lady Chatham, had come all the way from India, as if everyone knew that Indian peacock feathers were vastly superior to English peacock feathers.
When Miss Monica Hargrove saw the bonnet jauntily affixed atop Honor’s dark head, she very nearly had a fit of apoplexy.
Word spread so quickly through Mayfair that a contretemps had occurred between Miss Cabot and Miss Hargrove in the ladies’ retiring room, that it did, in fact, reach the Earl of Beckington’s townhome on Grosvenor Square before Miss Cabot did.
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—”
“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 to your attention if it would mean you view her favorably and me less so,” Honor said.
“Do you deny that Miss Hargrove commissioned a bonnet from Lock and Company,” Augustine continued, having swallowed his biscuit, “and was dismayed to see it affixed to your head at the musicale? It must have been quite shocking for her, the poor dear.”
Mercy, who was turning the pages of a book without glancing at the words, laughed at that, but was quickly silenced by a dark look from Grace, who said soothingly to Augustine, “It’s surely a slight misunderstanding.”
“No,” Augustine said, shaking his head. “Miss Hargrove told me herself that she confronted Honor at dinner, and naturally, Honor denied it, and when Miss Hargrove mentioned she’d commissioned it for a dear sum, Honor said, ‘It wasn’t that dear.’ There, you see? She all but confessed to Miss Hargrove that she took the bonnet!”
“I meant only that when I purchased the bonnet, I did not find the cost of it so dear,” Honor said sweetly.
Augustine’s cheeks began to mottle as they were wont to do when he was flustered and confused. “Honor, it...” He paused, his chest puffing a little as he attempted to display authority. “It will not do.”
“What won’t do?” Honor asked, holding out her plate to offer him another biscuit. “She admired my bonnet, then claimed it was hers. How could it be hers, I ask you, when the milliner sold it to me and it was on my head? You may inquire of Lock and Company if you please.”
Augustine’s look of confusion went deeper as he clearly tried to sort out the mystery of the bonnet in his mind. “I would not like to disparage your fiancée, Augustine,” Honor continued. “I want us to be friends, I do! But I will privately confess to you that there are times I very much fear her true intentions.”
“Her intentions are pure!” Augustine said. “There is not a kinder, sweeter woman in all of London.” He suddenly reached for Honor’s hand and, finding a plate there, instead took her wrist beseechingly. “I really must insist that you do not take her bonnets, Honor. Or...or buy those that she fancies,” he said uncertainly.
Behind Augustine, Grace rolled her eyes.
“You have my word,” Honor said solemnly. “I will not take Monica’s bonnets.” The snigger she heard was from Prudence, doing her best to keep from laughing outright.
“I cannot have disharmony between you,” Augustine continued. “You are my stepsister and she will be my wife. I don’t care for the talk that goes around town about the two of you, and it’s not good for Papa.”
“No, you’re right, of course you are right,” Honor said, feeling only slightly chastened. “How is the earl this morning?”
“Exhausted,” he said. “I looked in on him after breakfast, and he bid me pull the shades, as he wanted to sleep, having suffered another long night.”
Augustine stood from the table, his belly brushing against it. He tugged down his waistcoat, which had a habit of riding up when he’d been seated, and removed his linen napkin from his collar. “If you will all excuse me?”
“Good morning, Augustine!” Grace said pleasantly.
“Good morning!” Honor called out.
She received a frown from Grace for it, who said, “All right then, Pru, Mercy, go and have your hair dressed, will you? We’ll take Mamma riding in the park after luncheon.”
Mercy hopped up from the table. “May I ride the sorrel?”
“Ask Mr. Buckley,” Grace said to them, wiggling her fingers in the direction of the door, indicating they were to go. As Mercy and Prudence went out, Grace smiled sweetly at the footman attending them this morning. “Thank you, Fitzhugh. My sister and I can manage from here.”
Fitzhugh followed the younger girls out, closing the door behind him.
When they were alone, Grace slowly turned her head and fixed a dark hazel look on Honor, who was eating hungrily from her plate and pretended not to notice.
“What did you do?” Grace asked low.
“Nothing.” But Honor couldn’t help it; a smile began to curve her lips. “All right. I bought a bonnet.” She took a bite of cheese.
“Then why is Monica so vexed?”
“I suppose...because she’d commissioned it for herself.” Honor’s smile widened.
Grace gaped at her for a moment, and then burst out laughing. “Dear God, you’re incorrigible! You will ruin us!”
“That is not true. I am very corrigible.”
“Honor!” Grace said, still laughing. “We agreed that you’d not vex her again.”
“Oh, what is one bonnet?” Honor said, putting aside her plate. “There it was, in the window of Lock and Company, and I admired it. The shop attendant was perfectly happy to tell me that even though Miss Monica Hargrove had commissioned it one month ago, she’d not come round to pay her bill. It was languishing in the window, Grace, a beautiful bonnet, and if I may be frank, the wrong palette for Monica’s pallid complexion. And the expense the poor shop had incurred in making it had gone unpaid! The attendant was quite happy to sell it to me, of course. And really, I don’t care that Monica commissioned it in the least. She is so very disagreeable! Do you know what she said to me last night?” she said, leaning slightly forward. “She said, ‘I know what you are about, Honor Cabot,’” Honor said, her voice mockingly low and menacing, “‘but it won’t do you a bit of good. Augustine and I are going to wed, and there is nothing you can do to stop it. And when we are wed, mark my words, you may find yourself in a cottage in the Cotswolds without need for fine bonnets!’” Honor sat back to let that sink in.
Grace gasped. “The Cotswolds! Why not banish us to the African desert, for it couldn’t possibly be worse! Oh, Honor, that is precisely what we fear, and now look what you’ve done!”
Honor snorted and picked up another piece of cheese. “Do you really think Monica holds so much sway with Augustine? Do you think he hasn’t a care for his sisters?”
“Yes!” Grace said emphatically. “Yes, I think she holds quite a lot of sway with him! And Augustine may care for us all very much, but when the earl dies, do you really, truly believe Monica will share Beckington House, or Longmeadow in the country, or anywhere, for that matter, with all of us?”
Honor sighed. It was a true fact in their society that a new earl and his even newer wife would not welcome his dead father’s third wife and his four stepdaughters into his household. Grace was right, but Monica was so...imperious! And so perfect, so modest, so demure, so pretty!
“Really, you can be so careless,” Grace said. “What of Prudence and Mercy, then? What of Mamma?”
It would be difficult for their mother to find a new husband who would be excited about the prospect of providing for four unmarried daughters, particularly given their rather lofty expectations for a certain way of life, as well as the demands of dowries. The Cabots had come into this marriage with only a little money, certainly not enough to dower four girls. They were entirely dependent on the earl.
Worse, it was almost a certainty that the Cabots would find themselves on the fringe of society altogether if anyone suspected what Grace and Honor knew about their mother: that she was slowly, but demonstrably, losing her mind. It had begun two years ago, after a trip to Longmeadow. Their mother had been involved in an accident when a curricle had overturned, tossing her onto the road. Physically, the countess had recovered, but since then, Honor and Grace had noticed her mind was slipping. Mostly, it was unusual memory lapses. But there were other, less subtle signs. Once, she had blithely talked of seeing her sister at Vauxhall, as if her sister were still alive. Another time, she hadn’t been able to recall the earl’s title.
Recently, however, it seemed as if their mother was getting worse. Most days, she was clearheaded and a constant presence at her husband’s side. Other days, she might ask the same question more than once or remark on the weather three or four times in the space of a few minutes. Once, when Honor had tried to speak to her mother about her increasing forgetfulness, her mother had been surprised by the suggestion and seemingly irked by it. She’d even suggested to Honor that perhaps she was the forgetful one.
“And I don’t think I need to tell you that the earl has not been out of his bed in two days,” Grace added.
“I know, I know,” Honor said sadly. She curled her feet under her on the chair. “Grace...I’ve been thinking,” she said carefully. “What if Monica did not marry Augustine—”
“Of course she will,” Grace said, cutting Honor off. “Augustine is completely besotted with her. He runs after her like a puppy.”
“But what if...what if Monica was lured away by a bigger fortune?”
“What?” Grace eyed Honor warily. “How? Why?”
“Just suppose she was lured away. It would give us a bit of time to settle things. Look here, Grace, if the earl dies, Augustine will take her to the altar as soon as he is able, and then what? But if they don’t marry as soon—”
“Are you forgetting that Augustine loves her?” Grace asked, clearly struggling to remain calm.
“I’ve not forgotten. But he is a man, isn’t he? He will soon forget her and find another.”
“Our Augustine!” Grace cried with disbelief. “Monica Hargrove is the first woman he’s ever so much as looked at, and even so, it took him several years to do it!”
“I know,” Honor said, wincing a little. “I’m only trying to think of a way to put off their marriage for a time.”
“Until what?”
“I haven’t worked that out completely,” Honor admitted.
Grace studied her sister for a moment, then shook her head. “It’s ridiculous. Folly! Monica won’t turn loose a bird in the hand—Augustine could turn mute and blind and she’d not care. And besides, I have a better plan.”
“What?” Honor asked skeptically.
Grace sat up now. “We marry first. Quickly. If we marry, our husbands will have no choice but to take in our sisters and our mother when the earl dies.”
“Now who is being ridiculous?” Honor said. “What do you think, that we may summon up a husband with the snap of our fingers? Who would we marry?”
“Mr. Jett—”
“No!” Honor all but shouted. “That’s a wretched plan, Grace. First, neither of us has an offer. Second, I don’t want to marry now. I don’t want to tend to a man and do his bidding, and be shunted off to the country where there is no society, all because he desires it.”
“What are you talking about? Who do you know that has been shunted to the country?” Grace asked with some surprise. “Really, Honor, don’t you want to marry? To have love and companionship and children?”
“Of course,” Honor said uncertainly. She rather enjoyed her freedom. She didn’t pine for marriage and children the way other women her age seemed to do. “But at present, I don’t love anyone and I don’t want to marry merely because it is expected. It vexes me terribly that we are expected to do as we are told and marry this man, or seek that offer,” she said, gesturing irritably. “Why? We’re free women. We ought to choose and do as we please, just like every man is allowed.”
“But we have others who must rely on us,” Grace said, referring to Prudence and Mercy.
The reminder put a temporary damper on Honor’s enthusiasm for women’s equality.
“And besides, your perception is clouded by Rowley’s rejection—”
“It was not precisely a rejection,” Honor began to argue, but Grace threw up a hand to stop her.
“I didn’t say it to be unkind. But your judgment has been impaired, Honor. You won’t allow anyone to come close.”
Before Honor could argue against such a ridiculous notion, Grace said, “So we are agreed, we must do something.”
“Yes, of course, we are agreed. Which is why I want to seduce Monica away from Augustine. And I know just the man to do it.”
“Who?” Grace asked skeptically.
Honor smiled at her own brilliance. “George Easton!”
Grace’s eyes widened. Her mouth gaped. It took her a few swift moments to find her tongue. “Have you gone completely round the bend?”
“I have not,” Honor said firmly. “He is the perfect man for it.”
“Are we speaking of the same George Easton from whom you managed to divest one hundred pounds in that scandalous little game in Southwark?”
“Yes,” Honor said, shifting a little self-consciously in her seat.
Grace made a sound of despair or shock, Honor wasn’t certain, but her sister suddenly stood and walked in a complete circle behind her chair, one hand on her back, the train of her muslin gown trailing behind her. When she faced Honor again, she folded her arms across her chest and stared down at her. “To be perfectly clear, are you speaking of the self-proclaimed by-blow of the late Duke of Gloucester? The man who loses a fortune as easily as he makes one?”
“Yes,” Honor said, confident in her idea. “He is handsome, he is the nephew of the king and currently, he is quite flush in the pockets, as we know.”
“But he is a man with no real name. Or connections! We may all very well believe he is the true son of the late duke, but the duke never acknowledged it. And I’ve not even mentioned that the current duke—Easton’s half brother, if he is to be believed—utterly detests him and forbids anyone from even mentioning his name! For heaven’s sake, Honor, he does not enjoy the privileges of his supposed paternity! Monica Hargrove will not give up the Beckington title for him, not if all of Hades freezes over.”
“She might,” Honor stubbornly insisted. “If she were properly seduced.”
Grace blinked. She sank down onto her chair, her hands on her knees, gaping at her sister. “What a dangerous, ridiculous idea. You must promise me you won’t do anything so entirely wretched.”
“Wretched!” Honor was miffed that Grace didn’t see the brilliance in her plan. “I mean him only to lure her, not compromise her! He need only make her believe there are other interests in her, and then perhaps she will want to explore an option or two before marrying Augustine. It seems quite simple and brilliant to me. Your idea is superior to that?”
“Much,” Grace said emphatically. “If you won’t marry, then I will.”
“Oh, and have you any offers you’ve not told me about?”
“No,” Grace said with a sniff. “But I have some thoughts on how I might gain one.”
“Such as?”
“Never you mind,” Grace said. “Just promise me you won’t do anything so foolish.”
“Very well, very well,” Honor said with an impatient flick of her hand. “I promise,” she said dramatically, and picked up her plate again. “I’m famished.”
In fairness, Honor had every intention of keeping her promise. In fairness, she always meant to keep her promises.
But then she unexpectedly encountered George Easton that very afternoon.
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_9ca7ec46-bb55-5a91-acae-e5182fe9cae2)
FINNEGAN, GEORGE EASTON’S butler-cum-footman-cum-valet, had pressed George’s dark brown superfine coat, his gold-and-brown waistcoat and his dark brown neckcloth. He had hung them where George would see them: directly before the basin, blocking his sight of the mirror, of the razors and brushes and cuff links he kept there.
Until Finnegan, George had been perfectly happy to live his life with a pair of footmen, a cook and a housekeeper, but his lover, Lady Dearing, had implored George to take Finnegan after her husband had cast the valet out. Lady Dearing had said his dismissal was an issue of austerity. George was quite familiar with austerity, as he’d been forced to befriend it on more than one occasion in his thirty-one years on this earth.
It hadn’t been until several weeks after he’d taken him on that George learned the real reason for Finnegan’s abrupt departure: he, too, had been invited to share Lady Dearing’s bed. George had known the fair-haired vixen was a wanton, obviously, but the valet? That went beyond the pale. However, by then, George had grown accustomed to Finnegan’s ways. So George had promptly discarded his lover and kept his butler.
He’d finished dressing when Finnegan appeared in the door of his master suite of rooms, a hat in his hand.
“What’s that?”
“Your hat.”
“I can see it is my hat. Why are you bringing it to me?”
“You’ve an appointment with Mr. Sweeney. From there, you will collect Miss Rivers and Miss Rivers at the Cochran stables. You have invited the young ladies to ride.”
George’s eyes narrowed. “I have? And when did I extend this invitation?”
“Last night, apparently. The Riverses’ footman brought round a note with the ladies’ delighted acceptance of the invitation.” He smiled. Or smirked. George was never quite sure.
He didn’t remember any invitation, but then again, he had been having a bit more fun than he should have had at the Coventry House Club last night. That was a club for men like him, frequented by tradesmen and gentlemen of the ton, who, like George, had deep pockets for the gaming tables, a thirst for whiskey and an appreciation of cheroots made with American tobacco. It was the opposite of priggish, which is what he imagined White’s on St. James to be.
Tom Rivers, the ladies’ brother, had been at Coventry House last night, too, and George had only a vague recollection of too much drinking and laughter. “God have mercy,” he muttered, and stood up, extending his hand for the hat.
He strode down the thickly carpeted stairs of the stately Mayfair home he’d purchased quietly from the Duke of Wellington. The duke had not wanted to sell to a man like George—that was, a bastard son of a duke and the half brother of a duke who despised the very idea of him—but the duke had wanted the cash George had offered.
The house was quite spectacular even for fashionable Audley Street in Mayfair. A crystal chandelier the size of a horse hung daintily from the high foyer ceiling, and the stairs curved down around it. The silk-covered walls of the foyer were adorned with paintings and portraits, all purchased by the duke.
George scarcely noticed them today, but many times, he’d searched them all, looking for any resemblance to him. In the end, he supposed any of them could have been his ancestors, and it hardly mattered if any one of them were. When one is the son of a duke and a lowly chambermaid—a chambermaid the duke had sent away upon discovering her pregnancy—one can be assured of many closed doors and painful silences when inquiring after one’s heritage.
The footman, Barns, was standing at the door, and opened it before George reached it. That was Finnegan’s doing. Finnegan was the only person in George’s life, now or ever, who treated him like the great-grandson of a king, the nephew of another. George wasn’t certain he liked it, however. He rather preferred opening his own doors. He preferred to saddle his own horses, too—he was fast, having learned the skill as a lad, working in the Royal Mews while his mother cleaned chamber pots.
“Thank you, Barns,” George said. He stood a full head taller than his footman. George had the height of the royal family but the robustness of his mother’s family, who had all worked with their hands and their backs for their livings. There was a portrait of his father that hung in Montagu House, which George had studied on occasion. He believed he had his father’s thin and aristocratic nose and his strong chin, the streaks of his mother’s dark chestnut hair in his brown mop and her pale blue eyes. The other children who had worked in the Royal Mews used to say he was a mongrel. Not the nephew of a king.
George’s horse was waiting on the cobblestones before the house. He tossed a farthing to the boy holding the reins, who caught it adroitly over the horse’s neck and pocketed it as he handed the reins to George. “G’day, sir,” he said, and was off, running back to the mews.
George fixed his hat on his head, swung up and spurred his horse into a trot down Audley Street.
He arrived at the offices of Sweeney and Sons a quarter of an hour later. Sam Sweeney, his solicitor and agent, was smiling broadly. “What’s that look?” George asked as he handed his hat to an elderly woman in a lace cap in the foyer.
“One of joy, of happiness,” Mr. Sweeney said, taking George’s hand and shaking it with great enthusiasm. “Do come in, Mr. Easton. I have some wonderful news.”
“Has the ship been found? Has it come to port?”
“Not exactly that,” Mr. Sweeney said, showing George into his office. Once inside, he made a show of dusting off a leather chair with his handkerchief, and gestured with a flourish to the seat.
When George was seated, Mr. Sweeney said, “The St. Lucia Rosa is in port. I have personally spoken with the captain. He said that Godsey and his crew did indeed reach India and were to depart a week later for England. That means she should be in port within the week.”
Relief. It flooded through George like a swollen river. He’d put a substantial portion of his fortune into this ship and couldn’t bear the thought of having lost it all, of having to start again.
“And we must bear in mind that Captain Godsey is a captain of great experience,” Sweeney reminded him.
Sweeney had found Godsey. George trusted his judgment—he and Sweeney had worked together for years now, first to invest the money the Duke of Gloucester had left George upon his death a few years ago. It was the only acknowledgment George had ever received from his father. The money wasn’t much, really, merely enough to appease a man’s guilty conscience when he was about to meet his maker. Everything else had gone to the duke’s eldest son, William, George’s half brother, a man George had met only once and who had promptly decreed that he would never allow George Easton to step foot in any London establishment of which he was part.
George had become adept at brushing off the bruising disappointment of being judged by the circumstances of his birth, of being called a liar, a blackguard and a pretender after the Gloucester fortune. He’d focused instead on making a name for himself. He’d invested a lot of money in his latest venture: the import of cotton from India.
It was a great risk, but George had built his fortune by taking risks, then carefully tending them. As his fortune had grown, so had his confidence. Women liked him, but he never allowed himself to develop feelings for them. He played a man’s game, taking satisfaction where he could and keeping them all at arm’s length. Because if there was one truth in his life, it was that he would never be more than a by-blow to this set.
George was very clear about his place in the world. And he hoped that his place would soon extend to cotton.
The war with France had made it possible for men like George to discover untapped commerce potential. Two years ago, he’d struck a deal with an Indian man for the import of cotton to the British Isles. It had been a risky venture, one fraught with many opportunities for disaster. But that was how George chose to live his life—he took chances. Astoundingly big chances. He thrived on risk; it kept him on the edge, made him feel as if he were balancing on the knife’s sharp edge.
In his initial cotton venture, he’d felt euphoric. The cotton had arrived as promised, and George had made an astounding profit. He had capitalized on that initial entry into the trade now by purchasing a ship and a crew to bring even more cotton to England.
It was by far the riskiest thing he’d ever done. The crew could make off with the cargo and sell it themselves. The ship could sink along the way. It could be overrun by pirates. Any number of things could happen, more than George could possibly imagine, because he’d never sailed anywhere in his life. But if he was right, the reward would make him an unfathomably wealthy man. If not, well... George would find something.
He would start again.
He and Sweeney talked about how quickly they would sell the cotton once it arrived, and George left his offices with a considerably lighter step than when he’d gone in.
The twins, Miss Eliza Rivers and Miss Ellen Rivers, were waiting for George at the Cochran stables. They were accompanied by a sour-faced woman whom George could only assume was their nurse, given that these young ladies were of a tender age, which he found almost laughable for a man who’d just marked his thirty-first year. But the young ladies were giddy and bright eyed on that cool spring afternoon, their cheeks like pairs of apples. “By my oath,” George said, “I cannot determine which of you is the lovelier.”
The girls giggled, and George liked the sound of it; it sounded like spring. He was glad to set out with the little birds onto Rotten Row, their smaller horses trotting alongside his Arabian, who ambled along at a leisurely pace.
George quickly discovered that the young debutantes liked to finish each other’s sentences, which made it difficult for him to follow their conversation. He was calculating how many steps it would take to return the young ladies to the stable—he liked to distract himself with mathematical practices from time to time—when he was startled by a cloud of blue headed directly at him at a reckless speed.
He leaned forward in his saddle, peering at the blue cloud, and realized it was actually a woman riding so fast and hard that he thought perhaps the horse had gone wild with her on his back. He was fully prepared to chase the animal down and save the woman when she pulled up directly before them and smiled broadly. “Good afternoon, Miss Rivers. Miss Rivers,” she said with jaunty breathlessness, and touched her gloved hand to her hat.
George’s companions were so astonished by her approach that they could only gape at her, but George recognized her instantly: Honor Cabot.
She smiled brightly. “Mr. Easton!” she said, as if she’d just noticed him. “A pleasure to see you again, sir!”
“Miss Cabot,” he said, dipping his head. “You gave us a fright.”
“Did I?” She laughed gaily. “I beg your pardon, that was not my intent. I meant only to stretch the old girl’s legs,” she said, and leaned over her horse’s neck, patting her with enthusiasm. “Miss Rivers, how are your parents?” she asked.
“Very well, thank you,” said one of them.
“I’m very glad to hear it. I did not mean to interrupt your ride, and I shall leave you to carry on,” she said. “I do beg your pardon for the fright.”
“Quite all right,” said another of the twins.
“Good day!” Miss Cabot’s smile turned the tiniest bit sultry when she glanced at George. “Mr. Easton,” she said, and let her gaze slide over him as she turned her horse about and moved away. Curiously, George felt that gaze run down his body.
Miss Cabot suddenly reined up and glanced over her shoulder. “Pardon me, but it just occurred to me! Mr. Easton, I understand you will be among those dining at Gunter’s Tea Shop at five o’clock this afternoon with my brother, Lord Sommerfield.”
Sommerfield? Hardly. George did not have much use for soft men who preferred books to sport. He looked at her curiously, wondering how she might have confused it.
“I was wondering if you would be so kind as to pass a message to him? I shan’t see him today due to prior commitments.”
“I had not—”
“If it’s not a bother,” she quickly interjected, “would you please relay to him that I shall come round in the earl’s coach at half past five to fetch him? I would not want to intrude on your meeting.”
He opened his mouth once more to explain that she had confused him with someone who actually took tea in tea shops, but she quickly interjected before he could speak. “Thank you. You won’t forget, will you? Half past five outside Gunter’s Tea Shop. I’ll be in the earl’s coach.”
George had the strange, preposterous idea that Miss Cabot was trying to arrange a meeting with him.
No. Impossible. That was not something that a proper young miss would do. But she’d just done it. What could she possibly want? It was baffling. And damn well intriguing. “I should be delighted to deliver the message,” he said. “Half past five. I’ll not forget.”
She smiled. “Thank you.” She turned about and spurred her horse, riding hard, catching up with other riders down the way.
George happened to glance at Miss Eliza Rivers.
She was staring at him. “Are you acquainted with Miss Cabot?”
“I’ve been introduced,” he said, and left it at that. “Shall we carry on?” He spurred his horse and made a remark about the fine weather.
He hadn’t been introduced, precisely, but he had indeed met her in Southwark, when he’d been charmed to the tips of his toes and played like a harp.
If there was one thing George Easton hated, it was losing.
If there was one thing he hated worse than losing, it was losing to a handsome woman.
If there was one thing he hated even worse than losing to a handsome woman, it was losing to a handsome woman before a bloody audience, and all because he’d preferred to admire her delectable décolletage than his own damn hand.
He couldn’t begin to imagine what Miss Cabot was about today, but he had every intention of being at the tea shop this afternoon. It was a daring move for her to conspire to meet him, alone. Away from prying eyes.
That was not an invitation a man of any stripe would turn down, and George Easton least of all.
CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_6364138e-8c29-51b8-9736-75ad69219cf7)
HONOR DRESSED CAREFULLY for her meeting with Mr. Easton. It would not do to give him the wrong impression, as she was walking on treacherous ground as it was. She remembered how he’d looked at her in Southwark, his gaze penetrating and boldly moving over her.
She needed something demure. Reserved. She chose white muslin with a high neckline, trimmed in green, and topped it with a dark green spencer. She donned a bonnet with matching trim, and dark green gloves.
Honor studied herself critically in the mirror above her vanity. It would do—no one would suspect she had gone to Gunter’s for anything more than a cup of tea or an ice. Certainly not to meet a gentleman alone, unchaperoned. “Certainly not,” she muttered and smiled at her reflection.
But her smile looked forced. As if her lips knew how dreadful she was behaving.
She dropped a few coins in the beaded reticule Prudence had made her, then made her way downstairs, taking care to avoid any place that Grace might be. She asked the Beckington butler, Mr. Hardy, to bring round the coach. As she stood waiting in the foyer, Augustine walked through the door.
“Honor!” he said, surprised to see her there. “Are you going out?”
“To tea,” she said breezily, hoping she didn’t appear as nervous as she felt. “Shall I see you at supper?”
“Supper? No, no, afraid not.” He handed his hat to Hardy and added proudly, “I’m to dine with Miss Hargrove and her parents this evening.” He glanced back at Hardy and whispered loudly, “Shall I tell you a secret?”
“Why, yes! I adore secrets.”
Augustine yanked at his waistcoat where it had inched up over his belly. His brown eyes were shining, his smile irrepressible. “I’ve not told anyone, but Papa agrees with me that Miss Hargrove and I should marry this spring.”
Honor’s heart hitched. She’d believed there would be no possibility for Augustine’s marriage to occur before the earl’s death. “This spring?”
“Yes, isn’t it marvelous? When I explained to Papa that Miss Hargrove is anxious to be wed—and so am I, naturally—Papa reasoned that he could very well linger for months, and that there was no point in putting it off indefinitely. I rather think he’d like to see me wed before...the, ah...inevitable.”
Honor tried to hide her shock behind a bright, happy smile.
“I should very much like to announce a date at our annual affair at Longmeadow,” he added happily.
The Beckingtons hosted a country-house gathering at the earl’s seat of Longmeadow before the opening of Parliament each year. The stately Georgian home had thirty guest rooms, and at least one hundred guests attended every spring.
“What better time and place?” Augustine happily continued.
“What better?” Honor echoed, her mind suddenly whirling. The Longmeadow soiree was a mere three weeks away.
“Monica is a bit anxious. I have counseled her she should not fret so, that my sisters have always been quite welcoming.” He looked pointedly at Honor.
“Particularly to dear friends, I should like to think,” Honor said. And she would like to think that precluded Monica, but there was no need to confuse the issue at the moment.
Augustine glanced slyly at Hardy, then leaned closer to Honor and whispered, “I think she feels as if the four of you might all see her as an intrusion into our happy family. I assured her nothing could be further from the truth. She was eased when I said so and reminded me that in any event, you will all have husbands of your own soon enough.” Augustine smiled indulgently at Honor. “I should not like to speak out of turn, but I believe she would take great pleasure in helping those happy events along in some way.”
“I have no doubt of it,” Honor said sincerely.
“You should think of it, Honor. One cannot live under one’s father’s wing forever, as I am discovering myself.”
“No, of course not.” Monica was already beginning to sow her seeds, was she? Honor was now determined more than ever to intervene before it was too late. “What a happy occasion,” she said to Augustine. “You must impress on our friend that she will not be intruding in the least,” she said, tapping Augustine’s chest with each word for emphasis.
The door opened; a footman stepped in. “Ah, there is your coach,” Augustine said happily. “I shall give Miss Hargrove your felicitations, shall I?”
“You must,” Honor insisted, and pictured herself with her hands around Monica’s neck.
“Good day, sister,” he said jovially.
“Good day, Augustine.” Honor watched him toddle off, whistling as he went. She turned to the door. Hardy was waiting, holding it open for her. “Lord help us all, Hardy,” she said as she swept past him.
“Indeed, miss.”
* * *
HONOR SAW MR. EASTON the moment the coach turned onto Berkeley Square. How could she miss him? His was an imposing figure. He was leaning up against a railing, one leg crossed over the other, his arms folded loosely across him, watching people stroll across the square. That night in Southwark she’d been properly titillated by his comely face and virile presence. She now understood why he was rumored to be London’s greatest rake, his affairs numerous. His looks stirred something deep inside her.
Honor pulled open the vent to the driver. “Jonas, please stop at Gunter’s and open the door to the gentleman in the black coat and gold waistcoat,” she called up.
The coach turned the corner and began to slow. Honor nervously adjusted her bonnet. She had only to think of Monica and an imminent wedding to find her resolve.
A moment later, she heard Jonas’s deep voice. The coach door swung open, and Mr. Easton, still perched against the railing, leaned to his right and looked inside. Honor smiled. “Good afternoon!”
He pushed away from the railing and came to his full height. He was quite tall, wasn’t he? With his muscular legs and broad shoulders he looked too big to fit into the coach. He strolled toward it now, his expression inscrutable. Just like that evening in Southwark, he had an uncanny way of looking at her that made Honor feel as if he was seeing right through her, seeing her cards, even the thoughts in her head. She’d felt fluttery that night, as if a thousand butterflies had nested within her chest.
She was feeling fluttery again.
He paused just outside the open coach door, arched a brow and said, “Your stepbrother must be dining elsewhere.”
Honor swallowed down her nerves. “Won’t you come inside, Mr. Easton?”
He cocked his head to one side, assessing her, his gaze nonchalantly taking her in, from her bonnet to the hem of her gown. The slightest shadow of a smile turned up one corner of his mouth. He reached for the coach handle and easily came inside, swaying the coach as he settled heavily across from her and the door swung shut behind him.
Honor had guessed right—he was too big for the coach. His knees framed both of hers, and his body very nearly filled the bench. He sat casually, one arm stretched across the back of the squabs. He reminded her of a wolf, calmly watching a hare hop across the path.
He inclined his head. “Miss Cabot.”
“Mr. Easton, how do you do?” She rapped on the ceiling and called up, “A drive around the park, please, Mr. Jonas.” She closed the vent and smiled at her guest. “Thank you for coming.”
“How could I possibly resist such an unusual invitation?” His voice was smooth and low, and it sent another little shiver winging through her, fluttering in her chest, in her groin.
The coach took an unexpected turn; Mr. Easton’s knee bumped her leg. He said nothing, but he smiled as if that amused him, too. “Well, Miss Cabot?” he asked. “What has brought on this unprecedented ride about the park in a Beckington coach? Do you desire to seduce me? If so, I am favorably inclined. His gaze slid down to her well-covered bosom. “I find seduction one of the greatest pleasures in life.”
Honor had the strongest urge to look down and assure herself that her spencer was properly buttoned.
Easton lifted his gaze. “Well? I am filled with curiosity.”
Her palms were suddenly damp, her heart fluttering still, making it feel impossible to speak. But speak she must, for here it was, the moment of her greatest folly. “I am in need of a favor, Mr. Easton.”
One brow arched above the other.
“Of you.... That is, if you would be so kind.” She smiled.
Mr. Easton’s gaze flicked over her again, lingering a little longer on her chest. “Do you believe we are so well acquainted that you might ask a favor?” He touched her foot with his boot.
“I...” She hesitated.
Now he smiled, as if he had the upper hand, as if there was no possible answer to that but no.
He was certainly right about that—there was no possible answer to that beyond no. But it was his faintly smug expression that gave Honor the swell of pluck that she needed. “One might agree that one hundred of your pounds suggests I do, sir.”
Mr. Easton very nearly choked on his smile. His eyes, Honor noticed, were an amazing shade of blue, the color of pale china silk. She had a fleeting thought of what it must be like to lie beneath this man and gaze up into those eyes.
“Touché, Miss Cabot,” he said. “I have never been asked a favor in quite this manner, but you are so comely, I can’t possibly refuse. Lift your skirts, then, allow me to gaze upon the valley I shall be pleasuring—”
“What?” she gasped as a hot bolt of awareness shot through her. “No, no, Mr. Easton, you misunderstand!”
“Do I?” he asked with an easy smile.
“Yes. I am in need of a different sort of favor. Not...not that,” she said breathlessly.
He laughed. “I do not frequent the same assembly rooms as debutantes.”
He didn’t what? Honor blinked with surprise. The tingling in her was momentarily forgotten in favor of her indignation. “For heaven’s sake, I am not asking you to dance with me. My dance card fills the moment I step into an assembly room.”
“Fills right up, does it?” he asked wryly.
“I mean that I do not arrange to meet gentlemen so that I might ask them to stand up with me. Or anything else,” she hastily added.
“I didn’t think that you invited me to ask me to stand up with you, Miss Cabot. I thought you had invited me for more obvious and—” He paused, ran his tongue over his lip as he took her in again, and added, “Diverting reasons. But now I am fairly certain that you have invited me here to engage in some duplicitous debutante scheme. That,” he said, “is not appealing.”
Her heart was beating wildly now, her mind sorting through all the diverting reasons. “How odd,” she said, trying desperately to ignore her thoughts. “You make it sound as if debutantes are frequently scheming.” Which, Honor was all too aware, she was doing in that very moment.
“That, or sleeping. Come now, don’t be shy,” he said, gesturing for her to carry on. “I suppose I am not generally opposed to granting favors...particularly if there is some hope I might personally enjoy the favor after all.” His gaze fell to her bodice again. “Open your spencer.”
“No!” Honor said, appalled and titillated at once.
“Then I suppose we are finished,” he said, and moved as if he meant to knock on the ceiling.
Honor quickly unbuttoned her spencer. He arched a brow; she frowned slightly and pushed it back from her bosom.
He eased back, studying her casually. Honor was accustomed to the way men looked at her. But she had never felt it quite like this, so intently. Honor’s blood began to race. She wasn’t certain if she was appalled by him or entirely aroused.
“Hmm,” he said thoughtfully as he gazed at her collared gown. “That is not an improvement.”
Honor yanked her spencer closed. “As I said, Mr. Easton, I did not come here for a dalliance.”
“Apparently not,” he said. “Or you are woefully unimaginative in your seductions.” His slow, deliberate smile made the fluttering in Honor’s breast skirt merrily down her spine and land squarely in her belly. “Nevertheless, I should think it would be pleasurable for us both.”
Honor couldn’t think. Her imagination was galloping away from her.
“Go on, then, Miss Cabot. You have me on tenterhooks. If I will not be allowed to show you the pleasure your young heart has imagined, then please, do say what it is you want.”
Steady on. Honor ignored her breathlessness, the heat in her veins, the desire to remove her spencer entirely, and said, “I will not lie, Mr. Easton. This favor involves a bit of...persuasion.”
“Even more interesting.” His gaze drifted to her lips. “I knew that you were a bold one, Miss Cabot. A young lady of your stature does not appear in a Southwark gaming hell without a river of audacity running through her veins.” He smiled as if that pleased him. “What sort of persuasion did you have in mind?” he asked, and reached out, taking the end of her bonnet’s ribbon between two fingers, rubbing the velvet.
She pulled the ribbon from his grasp. “I need you to seduce someone.”
He reached for her ribbon again and smiled so charmingly that Honor felt a bit of herself melt. “I am trying, Miss Cabot.”
She pulled the ribbon free once more. “Not me.”
He chuckled, the sound of it reverberating in her chest. “A pity. But I suppose you are too tender after all. Is it anyone I know, or anyone I choose?”
“Someone I know.” She prepared to explain herself, but George Easton abruptly reached for her wrist and wrapped his fingers tightly around it, the thumb pressing against her vein. Could he feel how her heart raced? Her heart skipped—she knew a slender moment of terror as she looked at his hand on her wrist; it looked enormous compared to her arm. She was so foolish—she had no idea if he would harm her, if he would force her—
“What the devil are you talking about?” he asked silkily, rubbing his thumb across her inner wrist.
God help her, she couldn’t falter now—she’d already walked out on the plank away from propriety and decency. “As I said, I very much need you to seduce someone.”
He lifted her arm, touched his lips to her inner wrist through the keyhole of her glove then lifted his head with a knowing smile. “It would seem I am more successful at seduction in this coach than I thought.” He pulled her forward. His eyes were blazing. “If not you, little bird, then who?”
“Miss...Miss Monica Hargrove.”
Mr. Easton blinked. He suddenly let go of her wrist and fell back against the squabs. “Miss Hargrove,” he repeated disbelievingly.
Honor nodded, thankful for the opportunity to catch her breath. She pressed her palm to her chest, took a breath.
“Isn’t Sommerfield affianced to Miss Hargrove?”
Honor nodded again.
“Your stepbrother,” he announced, as if she had not realized that Viscount Sommerfield was one and the same as Augustine.
When Honor said nothing, Easton surprised her with a laugh to the ceiling. “Of all the reprehensible—”
“Reprehensible!” Honor protested. “Goodness, Mr. Easton, I am not asking that you ruin her. I merely ask that you direct her attention elsewhere,” she said, and fluttered her fingers in a vaguely “elsewhere” direction.
“For what purpose should I direct her attention elsewhere?” he asked, mimicking her finger fluttering.
“Surely it is clear as to purpose.”
“The only purpose I can see is to make your stepbrother cry off his engagement, and I cannot imagine what reason you would have that is in any way founded—”
“I have my reasons,” she said crisply.
“Do you,” he drawled, folding his arms across his chest. “What are they?”
“You need not know—”
“Bloody hell I need not know. You ask me to turn the head of your brother’s fiancée and tell me I need not know why?”
“I certainly hadn’t counted on you arguing with me,” she said petulantly, and toyed with the fringe of the window’s sash, thinking quickly. “I cannot divulge what I know about Miss Hargrove,” she said hesitantly, “but I can assure you I have very good reason to wish that she not marry Augustine.” She glanced at Easton again, who was now looking at her with complete disdain. His eyes were still blazing, but in a strangely different way. Honor swallowed. “No good can come of their union. You must trust me,” she insisted. “And I thought...I thought that perhaps you might agree to help me.”
“Of course,” he said with mock sincerity. “Because of who I am.”
“Yes! Because you are a man who takes risks and you are rather...” She couldn’t help but take him in, his broad shoulders, his muscular legs, his fine mouth.
“Rather what?” he prodded her, nudging her leg with his knee again. “Rather a bastard? A man whose mere association with a debutante casts a shadow on her?”
“No!” Honor said, feeling herself color. “I meant you are handsome, Mr. Easton. And...and wealthy. At least there is some speculation that you are. Naturally, I would not know firsthand.”
“Naturally,” he said a bit derisively.
Lord, when she said these things out loud, she sounded absurd. She glanced to the window again, trying to find her way back to her plan, which she was having trouble remembering around the man’s sensual gaze and masculine presence. This plan had seemed almost flawless when she’d first conceived it, but Grace was right. This was a ridiculous thing to have done.
She was startled by a nudge of her knee again. She glanced at Easton.
“And if Sommerfield cries off? With that tiny bit of conscience you might have salvaged after requesting a favor such as this, you believe you will have saved him from some great embarrassment and spared his suffering?”
He had not completely dismissed her? “Well,” Honor said, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. “I wouldn’t put it precisely that way, but—”
“But,” he interrupted, and leaned forward again, so that his face was only inches from hers. His hand found her knee and squeezed, causing Honor to lose track of what she was saying altogether.
“With Beckington on his deathbed, you fear that a new countess will not look kindly to keeping four stepsisters as they should like to be kept.”
Honor gasped—how had he divined that?
“And therefore, you wish to keep Sommerfield from marrying Miss Hargrove so that you might continue to live as you please. And that, Miss Cabot, weighs more than a bit on the side of reprehensible.” He squeezed her knee once more as if to punctuate it, then leaned back, both arms now spread along the back of the squabs, looking as if he thought himself vastly superior to her. He cocked a brow, silently daring her to disagree with him.
Honor could hardly disagree with him, but she would not be chastised by him, either. Who the devil did this man think he was? She suddenly leaned forward and put her hand on his knee—but her fingers scarcely reached the breadth of it. She tried to squeeze, but his knee was as hard as stone. “And what if that is my intent? What possible difference should that make to you?”
He laughed with delight. “By God, you are bold! You admit it is true!”
“I understand how these things work, Mr. Easton. I am not some debutante freshly picked from the garden.”
“No, you certainly are not that,” he said jovially.
“Before you think to scold me, I shall remind you that you are also guilty of pursuing your singular happiness without regard for the consequences to others.” She squeezed as hard as she might, but it seemed to have no effect on him.
“Pardon?” he said, laughing outright now. “What do you mean?”
She sat back, folded her arms tightly across her. “Please,” she said with roll of her eyes. “Everyone in town knows about your affair with Lady Dearing. And that is on top of the rumors surrounding you and Lady Uxbridge and Mrs. Glover as well, who you apparently seduced at the same time you were courting her daughter—”
“All right, all right,” he said cheerfully, holding up his hand to stop her. “You have made your point.”
“I should think I have,” she said primly, and brushed the lap of her gown. Another thought flitted through her head—was this how he had seduced Miss Glover? “As to Miss Hargrove, the truth is that I am in a bit of a bind.”
“Are you?” he said skeptically, and waved his hand grandly at her, indicating she should continue.
“It is a simple fact in our society that women who don’t enjoy the protection of a brother, a father or even an uncle are rather helpless. It’s not as if we can make our own living, is it? The only way we might get by is to marry well.”
“As Miss Hargrove clearly intends to do,” he pointed out. “As you should do, if you want my opinion.”
“Thank you, but I do not want your opinion.”
He grinned, and that fluttering started in her all over again.
“Miss Hargrove would have any number of offers if she liked,” Honor said, and it was true. As much as it pained her to admit it, Monica was a beautiful woman, her looks admired by men and women alike. “It needn’t be Augustine. But as it is Augustine, the stakes are quite high for me.”
“I would think you’d have any number of offers, as well,” he said. “Is that not a better solution?”
“Yes, of course, a woman’s only hope—marry well. Thank you for your confidence, but we aren’t discussing me.”
“Perhaps you should have asked for an offer as your favor, Miss Cabot. I find the request for conjugal bliss far more enticing.”
“I beg your pardon,” Honor said, taking great exception. “I would never ask a gentleman to offer for my hand!”
“I see. You will not ask a man to marry you, but you will ask him to seduce the woman who would be your sister-in-law.” His brows rose dubiously.
“Two entirely different points, Mr. Easton!” she argued. “My sister Grace and I, we shall make our way in society with or without Augustine’s support, but my younger sisters are not yet out, and they cannot hope to fare as well without proper introduction. And my mother—” She caught herself, took a deep breath.
“Your mother?” he prodded.
Now she’d gone and done it. She anxiously smoothed the lap of her gown again. “My mother is unwell,” she said, and looked up. “No one knows.”
He eyed her shrewdly a moment. “I am sorry to hear it,” he said softly.
His tenderness surprised her. And strangely enough, it made the fluttering in her spread across her skin. “I rather doubt my mother will find another situation that will provide the same sort of opportunities for my younger sisters that Grace and I have enjoyed. I fear they will be pushed from society altogether.”
“Why not take your fears to Sommerfield?” he asked. “He seems a rather fair fellow to me. Surely he would provide a stipend—”
“He is too easily persuaded by Miss Hargrove’s opinion. And Miss Hargrove is... That is to say, she will...” Honor sighed again with frustration, finding her reasoning so bloody difficult to explain. “Well, I shan’t lie about it,” she said wearily. What was the point in that? “Miss Hargrove doesn’t care for me in the least.”
“Aha. And you are certain of this?”
“Oh, quite,” Honor said with a flick of her hand. “She finds me unlikable.”
“Oh?” He smiled again. “Passing strange, as I find you quite likable.”
That remark sent a little thrill down her spine. Honor didn’t want to smile, but she could feel one playing at the corners of her lips. “Even so?”
“Even so.” He smiled warmly at her.
There was nothing wolfish about it, and yet...and yet Honor was breathless once more.
“So then, tell me, Miss Cabot, if I were to agree to your outlandishly reprehensible and ill-advised request to save your poor sisters and ailing mother—”
She gasped with surprised delight. “You will?”
“I said if,” he cautioned her. “But if I were to agree, what will I have in return?”
“What do you mean?”
“Come now, lass, I’ve seen you with cards in your hand. You are far too astute to believe I’d not want something in return for this favor.”
Apparently she was not as astute as he thought, for that had not crossed her mind.
He abruptly shifted forward again and deliberately allowed his gaze to wander the full length of her body, then up again. He touched her jaw with his knuckle, tracing a slow, deliberate line, sending Honor’s heart into another wave of wild beating. “What are you willing to trade?” he asked, his voice low and silky.
She leaned away from him. “How dare you—”
Easton took her by the arm and pulled her back. “How dare I?” he asked, admiring her mouth. He reminded her of a cat with a mouse, determining just how much to play before making the kill. “How dare I ask for recompense for a wretched deed?” He abruptly cupped her breast as if it were the most natural thing to do. Honor caught her breath; he smiled a little and began to massage it. “How dare I ask for a favor in return?” he asked silkily as tiny fires of desire erupted and sluiced down Honor’s spine.
“You ask too much,” she said, and pressed away from him. “How can you call yourself a gentleman?”
“I’ve not called myself anything, love.” He brushed his knuckles across her breast, sending another shaft of fire down her spine, then cupped her face, his thumb stroking her cheek.
Honor’s heart was beating so quickly she wondered how it did not leap from her chest. She understood how he would seduce and claim a woman. She understood why so many women had taken him as a lover. She was drawn to him, to his intense gaze, admiring and ravenous at once. To his touch, unyielding and yet soft. “Allow me to suggest a suitable trade,” she said quickly, before this cat devoured its prey. “I will pay you,” she said, alarmed that her voice shook ever so slightly. “There is the one hundred pounds I won from your purse. I could return that in exchange for your help.”
“You would return one hundred pounds, fairly won, for this?” he asked silkily, and flicked his finger across the tip of her breast.
“Actually,” she said, her gaze on his mouth, “I would return ninety-two pounds.” She did not think it necessary to tell him that she’d bought a bonnet, some shoes and some underthings with the money.
“Enticing. But money is not what I have in mind.” He slipped his hand to her nape and pulled her closer. “I have in mind something just for you.” He put his mouth to her ear and said low, “Something that will make your timid heart shatter and bring a glow to your fair cheeks.” His hand was in her lap, his palm pressing against her abdomen. “Do you know what will bring a glow to a woman’s cheek, Miss Cabot?”
She tried to turn her head, but she couldn’t seem to force herself to do it. “I am not a girl, Mr. Easton.”
“Aren’t you?” he whispered, and drew her earlobe in between a pair of soft, moist lips, nibbling it.
Dear Lord, she would expire. She closed her eyes, taking in his scent—spicy and warm—the feel of his hands on her. She could imagine his hands on all of her, and feared that her heart would give in, and she would die here on this bench. And yet, somehow, she managed to keep calm. “I can offer you ninety-two pounds, nothing else. There is nothing else I will trade, sir.”
He shifted closer, his lips against her cheek now, and Honor thought he intended to kiss her. Her mind screamed for her to bang on the ceiling to cry out to Jonas to save her. But another, wanton part of her was whispering kiss me. Kiss me, kiss me....
He slid his hand up her rib cage, to the side of her breast. “I will think on your ninety-two pounds,” he murmured, his breath warm and moist on her skin, tantalizing her almost to the point of madness.
“You mean to do it,” she said softly, surprised, and opened her eyes. “You will grant me this favor.”
“Now you are reprehensible and presumptuous. I haven’t said I would.”
“But I can see that you will,” she said, and twisted about to face him, beaming. “Thank you, Mr. Easton!”
He wrapped his fingers around hers.
“Call on me tomorrow, at Beckington House, please. I can explain more openly there.”
“I cannot, for the life of me, imagine how much more open you could possibly be, Miss Cabot.”
“I knew you would agree,” she said, suddenly full of delight.
“I have not agreed to anything.”
“I shall be waiting for you at half past two. The girls will be at their studies and Augustine at his club. Thank you, sir,” she said again, her voice full of the gratitude she felt. “I am in your debt.” She moved to knock on the ceiling to signal Jonas that this ride was over.
Only then did she realize that Mr. Easton was still holding her hand.
CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_e514c4e9-3539-5d30-9a68-77d4732986bb)
HONOR RETURNED TO Beckington House breathless from her dangerous rendezvous, her heart still beating wildly, and floated into the foyer where she found Prudence and Mercy quarreling loudly.
“Honor!” Prudence cried the moment she saw her older sister. “Please do tell Mercy she is to return my slippers at once!”
“Mercy, please return Pru’s slippers at once,” Honor said without looking at Mercy’s feet.
“But why must she have them always?” Mercy countered. “I can’t see what harm there is in borrowing them on occasion.”
“You don’t see the harm?” Prudence demanded. “Honor, you really must do something. She’s completely without scruples! If you don’t insist she hand them over, I shall remove them from her feet myself!”
“Mercy, really,” Honor said absently as she untied her bonnet, her fingers running over the same velvet fabric Easton’s fingers had stroked. The fingers that had stroked the skin of her arm, her face; she shivered lightly at the recollection. “They belong to Pru, and you have a wardrobe full of slippers.”
“What’s this about slippers?” The girls’ mother, Joan Devereaux, Lady Beckington, appeared from the corridor. “There will be no forceful removing of slippers, my dears.” Her blue eyes were bright; there was no sign of the distant fog Honor noticed in her mother’s eyes when she wasn’t entirely present. Joan Devereaux was a regal woman, the epitome of elegance and grace, and had once been considered one of the more handsome women of the ton. She smiled warmly at her daughters, looking between them. “What are you girls about?”
“Only the usual sort of thing, Mamma,” Prudence said imperiously, and began striding for the grand staircase. “Mercy has a wretched habit of borrowing things without permission, and with no consequence!”
“That’s a bit dramatic, my darling Pru,” Lady Beckington said as she watched her daughter flounce up the stairs.
“Of course you would say that—you’re not the injured party!” Prudence tossed over her shoulder, and disappeared into the corridor at the top of the stairs.
Lady Beckington sighed and looked askance at her youngest daughter. “Mercy, darling, you really must learn to ask to borrow things instead of taking them. I suggest you go and apologize to your sister and return the slippers. Now go and dress for supper.”
“But we’ve only just had tea,” Mercy complained.
“Go on, darling,” her mother said, giving her a gentle push in the direction of the stairs. To Honor, she offered her arm, which Honor was happy to take. She let the ribbons of her bonnet flutter behind them as they walked. She noticed that the embroidery on her mother’s sleeve was damaged—the threading was coming loose. “What’s happened here?” she asked, bending over it to have a look.
“What?” Her mother scarcely glanced down at her sleeve. “Never mind it. Where have you been this afternoon?” she asked as they began to make their ascent.
“Nowhere, really.” She gave her mother a sheepish smile.
“I know you better than that, Honor. I would guess that your absence from tea involved a gentleman.”
Honor could feel herself flush. “Mamma—”
“You don’t have to tell me,” she said, squeezing her hand fondly. “But your poor mother hopes that you are at least considering the idea that the time has come for you to settle on a single suitor and think of marrying as you ought.”
“Why ought I marry now?” Honor asked. The thought of marrying now was unnerving. She felt too...unfinished.
“Because you should,” her mother said. “There is a whole new world awaiting your entry. You needn’t be timid about it.”
“Timid! They call me a swashbuckler, Mamma.”
“Yes, well, perhaps you are a swashbuckler in the ballroom. But I know my girl, and I think your heart is yet bruised.”
In moments like this, it was difficult to believe that her mother was slipping. In moments like this, Honor believed she wasn’t, that she and Grace had imagined it all. Her mother seemed at ease, very present in the moment and quite motherly. “What shall I wear to supper?” Honor asked, blatantly changing the subject before her mother could question her further.
Her mother laughed. “Very well, have it your way. The blue silk,” she said. “It complements your coloring so very well.”
“The blue, then,” Honor said.
She accompanied her mother to her suite of rooms and rang for Hannah to attend her. She moved on to her suite of rooms. She was not surprised to find Grace within, standing on the new Aubusson rug, her arms folded tightly across her body. Light streamed in from windows opened to late afternoon sun, casting shadows across the silk-covered walls of Honor’s rooms and Grace’s face.
But the shadows did not hide Grace’s ire. “Where have you been?” she demanded.
“Out.”
“Yes, yes, quite obviously you have been out. Hardy said you took the coach to Gunter’s.”
“What of it?” Honor asked with a shrug.
“I can’t imagine why you would venture out alone to Gunter’s, alone. One does not enjoy an ice alone. I can’t help but wonder if there was someone there waiting for you. Was there? Perhaps a certain unclaimed son of a duke who might have been taking his tea?”
Honor blinked. “How could you possibly know that?” she exclaimed.
“Mercy saw you speaking to a gentleman in the park, silly bird. She described him perfectly.”
“It would seem those spectacles are improving her sight better than we’d hoped,” Honor drawled, and carelessly tossed her bonnet onto her bed.
“Then you don’t deny it?”
“No,” Honor said.
“Lord in heaven!” Grace exclaimed to the papier-mȃché ropes and cherubs that adorned the ceiling. “You promised me!”
“I know.”
“Think of the scandal you invite!”
“Grace! There is no scandal. I am sorry if—”
“Spare me your apologies, please,” Grace said, and dropped dramatically onto the chaise longue before the hearth. “You never mean to do it, you are always sorry. When you suggested this ridiculous plan, I laughed. I was naive to think that even you wouldn’t go through with it, that even you wouldn’t risk so much for a lark.”
Honor frowned, miffed that Grace knew her so well. “It’s not a lark, at least not to me. And really, Grace, you bear some responsibility, do you not?”
“Me!”
“Wasn’t it you who insisted that I accompany you and Mamma and the girls riding in Hyde Park? If I hadn’t seen Easton there, I should have carried on without giving the matter another thought.”
Grace gaped at her. And then she burst out with wild laughter and fell back against the cushions of the chaise. “That is the most absurd reasoning I have ever heard!”
Honor couldn’t disagree with that, either. “All right,” Honor acquiesced, sinking onto the end of the chaise next to Grace. “I will allow that I was a bit impetuous. But, Grace, the idea was so fresh on my mind, and there he was, escorting the Rivers twins, of all people. It occurred to me that if he would squire those two magpies, he would most certainly think Monica an improvement.”
“Of course he would think Monica an improvement over those two, but that is hardly the point, is it? The point is that you went to meet the man quite alone, a man you scarcely know, and you proposed something absurd and reckless and full of ruin.”
“That’s one view,” she said wearily. “If a woman is to make her way in this man’s world without a husband, she must risk quite a lot to succeed. It’s not as if I have a solicitor to call upon his solicitor. It’s not as if I can offer Monica money to find another suitor. I am a female, and as such, I have nothing available to me to change anything about my life but my hand in marriage. I find it altogether infuriating if I allow myself to dwell—”
“Honor—”
“Yes, well, to put your mind somewhat at ease, I met him in front of Gunter’s Tea Shop. No one saw me but Jonas. Easton stepped into the coach, and we talked.”
Grace seemed genuinely distressed by that revelation, judging by how she buried her face in her hands. Honor tried to soothe her by stroking her hair. “I don’t see another option for us, dearest.”
“You must have a care for your reputation, which, I might point out, has already been suspect on several occasions.” Grace lifted her head to arch a golden brow high above the other, daring Honor to challenge that.
“I’ve not been that bad,” Honor muttered.
“Can you imagine the talk that would gust like winter winds around this square if anyone were to see you?”
“I am acutely aware.” Honor knew she was too impetuous for her own good. She had no desire to see her reputation ruined, and she understood Grace’s concern.
“Never mind all that, then, you’ve gone and done it.” Grace suddenly twisted around to face her “Well? What did he say?”
Honor smiled slyly at her sister. “He said that I was reprehensible.”
Grace gasped.
“But that he would consider it.”
Her sister didn’t breathe for a moment. “What? He will?”
“I will know on the morrow.” Honor stood up and began to unbutton her spencer. “If he agrees, he shall call here.”
“Here! That’s all well and good for outsiders, but what will Augustine think?”
“Grace, calm yourself. Augustine can think of nothing but his nuptials. I asked Mr. Easton to call at half past two, when the girls are in their studies and Augustine is out at his club for the day.”
Grace looked set to argue, but the sound of a painful racking cough drifted down the hallway to them; they both paused. A moment later, they heard their mother’s steps hurrying in that direction.
Grace sank back onto the chaise. “It’s getting worse, isn’t it?” she asked morosely, referring to the deteriorating health of the earl.
“I think so,” Honor agreed.
“Your plan is utter madness, you know.”
“That is the kindest thing you might say for it,” Honor said, and squeezed in next to her sister, nudging her with her shoulder. “But at least it’s diverting madness.”
Grace smiled ruefully. “I fear you are far beyond hope.”
“Not at all, dearest—I am absolutely bursting with hope,” Honor said. A movement caught Honor’s eye; she sat up and turned toward the door. Her mother was standing in the opening, staring into the room.
“Mamma?” Honor said, coming to her feet. “Is something wrong?”
Lady Beckington frowned slightly.
“Mamma,” Honor said again, moving to her mother’s side. “Did you mean to see to the earl?”
“Oh, Honor,” her mother said, her relief clearly evident. “You’re home! Yes, the earl is unwell. I should see to him,” she said, and squeezed Honor’s hand affectionately as she turned and hurried down the hall to the earl’s rooms.
Honor looked back at Grace. “I don’t understand it. Not a quarter of an hour ago she was perfectly all right.”
“We should have Dr. Cardigan come,” Grace suggested.
“And risk the ton knowing before the earl is even gone? Dr. Cardigan sees every old biddy in Mayfair! We can’t, Grace. Not until we absolutely must.”
It was heartbreaking to watch a beloved mother slide ever so softly into senility. Joan Devereaux, so charmingly clever—Honor could not think of a single person who had a poor opinion of her. She’d been amazingly resourceful, too—she’d known how to navigate a ballroom better than anyone, and had managed to keep her daughters well after her husband had died. Honor had been only eleven years old, but she could recall her mother taking two old gowns to a friend, and together, they’d created a stunning ball gown. Her mother had donned it and gone off to a grand ball and the next morning had gathered her four daughters in her bed and told them about the Earl of Beckington.
It was necessity that had driven her mother to seek the earl’s attentions, but Honor truly believed that her mother had come to care very much for the older earl. Certainly no one in Mayfair would blame Lady Beckington if she left the earl’s care to a nurse, but she’d refused to do so. She saw to him every day.
The sound of the earl’s racking coughs reached them again. “I’ll go and help her,” Grace said, and stood from the chaise to go. At the door, however, she glanced back at her sister. “Do have a care, Honor. You are playing a very dangerous game.”
“I will,” Honor promised.
Later, Honor would recall that moment with Grace and her easy promise. She hadn’t believed George Easton would really come to Beckington House.
But he did.
CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_464b16b0-4b10-5e1f-92ad-7259c2b14470)
IT TOOK QUITE a lot to astonish George, but Honor Cabot had done just that. From her bold invitation to meet, to her ridiculous, preposterous, cake-headed suggestion, George could not have been more astonished than if the king were to recognize him as his legitimate nephew.
Yesterday, he’d left Berkeley Square stewing in his own juices, aroused as he always was by prettiness, and as disgusted with Miss Cabot as he was with himself for somehow softening to her charm again. He couldn’t fathom what it was about this debutante that could so keenly capture him with a smile, but he’d been determined to never see her again. She was trouble. In fact, he’d even been of half a mind to ride directly to Beckington House and explain to the dimwitted Sommerfield exactly what his stepsister was about. She deserved no less.
But George hadn’t gone to Beckington House. He’d gone home, riding hard from a pair of dark-lashed blue eyes shimmering in his mind’s eye.
Bloody, bloody hell.
Still, he thought that after a good night’s sleep, that would be the end of it, that he’d not give as much as a passing thought to the young woman again. He’d gone out last night as was his custom, had dined with several gentlemen at the Coventry House Club. But he’d had no interest in cards or prattling, and had returned home before midnight.
Finnegan had not said a word when George had stalked into his house far earlier than was his custom. He’d merely arched one dark brow high above the other as he’d taken George’s hat. “Don’t look so smug,” George had snapped as he’d strode past.
George had gone to bed quite early, but then had tossed and turned. He’d finally settled on his back, one arm draped above his head, the other on his bare abdomen, and had glared at the canopy above him, his jaw clenched, mulling over that absurd meeting.
Honor Cabot’s suggestion was the most fatuous thing he’d ever heard in his life. Furthermore, it was the very thing that made him cringe when he saw squads of young debutantes milling about Mayfair—silly girls in pretty colors playing silly courtship games.
But worse, the game Honor Cabot played was harmful.
The problem, George had mused, was that he was the sort of man who was intrigued by dangerous women. He had no illusions—Honor Cabot was a dangerous woman by nature, and she was made all the more dangerous because of her beauty and her incandescent smile. Regrettably, cunning and beauty were his primary weaknesses when it came to women.
Why was it, he’d wondered in the dark, that he could not be the sort of man who was pleased with a woman of virtue? The sort of chaste woman who would make him a fine wife and bear him beautiful children, someone who would make him attend church services on Sunday and give alms to the poor and dutifully open her legs to him? He supposed that one day, he would settle on a woman for that reason, for her goodness and purity, and he would have his slippers and his spectacles, and he would while away his evenings with a book while his wife attended her needlework.
Someday.
But he had no patience for it now, not with a ship late to port and buyers awaiting his cotton.
So how was it, then, that George found himself the next afternoon at half past two at Grosvenor Square, staring up at the impressive Beckington House with its row of windows that looked black in the afternoon sun? Utter, indefensible folly.
No one answered straightaway when George rapped three times, and he had all but turned about, prepared to make his escape when the door suddenly swung open and a man with thinning hair stood imperiously before him.
George fished a calling card from his interior coat pocket. “Mr. Easton for Miss Honor Cabot, if you please.”
The man nodded and disappeared for a moment, reappearing again with a silver tray, which he held out to George. When George had deposited the card onto the tray, the door opened wider. The man stepped aside and inclined his head, indicating George should step inside, which he did. Just over the threshold. He tentatively removed his hat.
“If you will kindly wait here, Mr. Easton, I shall inform Miss Cabot that you have called,” the butler said, and marched briskly away, the silver tray held high.
George looked up at the soaring entry and the elaborate chandelier hanging high above him. There were paintings on the walls, portraits of people, of landscapes. The marble floor was polished to a sheen, and gold candelabras with new beeswax candles stood in neat rows on a table nearby.
He heard the butler again before he saw him, his brisk walk echoing down the corridor he’d disappeared into. The man bowed. “If you will allow me to show you to a receiving room, sir,” he said, and carefully put aside the silver tray—empty now—and moved in the opposite direction from where he’d come, walking into the west corridor.
George followed. They moved down a carpeted hallway past polished wood doors and wall sconces and more beeswax candles. George was reminded of how pleased his mother had been when she could afford to buy one or two beeswax candles and rid their rooms of the smell of tallow for a time.
The butler entered the last room on the right. He opened the pair of doors wide, pushed them back and nudged a doorstop into place with his foot. He strode across the small room to the windows, opened the drapes, tied them back then faced George. “Is the comfort in the room to your liking, sir, or shall I send a footman to light a fire?”
“That won’t be necessary,” George said stiffly. “I do not intend to be long.”
“Very well, sir. If you require any assistance at all, the bellpull is just there,” the butler said, nodding toward a thick velvet braid of rope near the door. “Miss Cabot will join you shortly.” He quit the room.
George put his hat aside and examined a painting on the wall as he waited, staring up at the puffy face of a Beckington forefather. He always looked at the portraits in homes like these, looking for any similarity to himself, any hint that he might somehow be related. This man looked nothing like the late Gloucester, except perhaps for the slightly aquiline shape of his nose. George was so intent on that feature that he did not hear the advance of Miss Cabot until she swept into the room on a cloud of pale yellow, her train swirling out behind her as she twirled around to peek out the corridor and then draw the doors quietly closed.
She twirled back around, her smile luminescent, her hands clasped just below her breast, reminiscent of a choirboy preparing to sing. But all similarity to anything remotely angelic ended abruptly when he noticed that the gown she was wearing did not conceal her up to her chin like the one she’d worn yesterday. This gown was cut fashionably low, and creamy mounds of her breast appeared to almost burst from her bodice...a mishap George would delight in seeing.
She was oblivious to his fascination with her décolletage. “You came,” she said breathlessly.
Bloody fool that he was, yes. George inclined his head in acknowledgment of that.
“I scarcely believe it! I was so certain you’d not come, and I had no good idea of what I might do if you didn’t. But here you are!” she exclaimed, casting her arms wide. “You will help me!”
“Before you take flight with joy, Miss Cabot, understand that I came here not to help you in your lunacy, but to dissuade you from it.”
She blinked her lovely blue eyes. “Dissuade me,” she repeated, as if that were a foreign concept to her, which George suspected was highly probable. “But that’s not possible, Mr. Easton. My mind is quite made up. When I am fixed on something, I am very dedicated to it. Now then—will you help me?”
George couldn’t help but chuckle at her dogged determination. “No.”
“No?”
“It is madness, complete and utter madness,” he said. “It is a loathsome thing to do to a brother and a friend, and I feel it is my duty as a gentleman to direct you away from it—not abet it.”
Now her bright smile faded. She folded her arms. “Very well, Mr. Easton. You have done your gentlemanly duty,” she said, sounding irreverent. “Now will you help me?”
George stared at her. And then he couldn’t seem to help himself—he laughed. “You may very well be the most obstinate woman I have ever met.”
“Then perhaps you have not met as many women as I’ve heard tell,” she said pertly. “Do you think I make this request to you lightly? That this is a girlish whim? Not at all, sir. Monica Hargrove intends to turn my family out when she marries my brother. She has said as much to me. Further, I don’t believe for a moment that you came all the way here to tell me you won’t help me. You might have sent a note or ignored me altogether, is that not so?”
That was so, and it made George a bit uncomfortable for her to point it out so bluntly. He shrugged.
“That you did not suggests to me that you must have at least considered my request. Have you?”
He felt as if he were a naughty boy, caught in the act of mischief. She had him, this shrewd and wily young miss, just as she had that night in Southwark. And she knew it, too, for a smile appeared on her lush lips, ending in little dimples in either cheek. That smile was a small gust of air to smoldering ashes, and George felt a tiny flame ignite.
“It would seem we are agreed,” she said silkily.
“Not so fast.” He let his gaze slide slowly down her curves and up again. He would like to sink his fingers and his tongue into that flesh, to smell her hair. “If I cannot dissuade you—”
“You cannot—”
“Then it is now my duty as a gentleman to ensure you do no harm to Miss Hargrove.”
Miss Cabot beamed, knowing she had won. “How kind of you.”
“I am not the least bit kind, Miss Cabot. But I do have some principles. I’m not sure the same can be said for you.”
“I am touched by your concern for Monica,” she said sweetly. “My desire is only that she is made aware that there are other, perhaps more attractive possibilities for her so that she will not rush to the altar as she seems to want to do. No harm.”
“Debatable,” he said, his body caught in the snare of feminine mystique as he moved closer to her. “There is still the matter of what I will have in return for this...abominable favor.”
“Of course,” she said demurely, and folded her arms across her body tightly.
“Let’s begin with the agreement that you will return to me the one hundred pounds won in Southwark.”
“Ninety-two pounds,” she corrected him.
“Ninety-two pounds, then,” he said, his gaze falling to her mouth, “will earn you one round of rakish behavior designed to turn Miss Hargrove’s head. That ought to suffice.”
“Ah...” One of Miss Cabot’s finely tweezed brows rose high above the other.
“What?” he demanded.
“Nothing, really,” she said lightly, and shrugged. “Only that you seem rather confident of that.”
George stared at her. He wished to high heaven that such bloody impertinence from a pampered, privileged woman didn’t fascinate him quite as much as it did. “Of course I am confident, Miss Cabot.”
“Oh, dear, I didn’t mean to insult you,” she said, and her tender smile shot through him. “I have no doubt that you would turn the head of most debutantes—”
“You are not improving the situation.”
She bit her lip.
He very much wanted to bite that lip, too. George frowned—he didn’t like that, not at all. When he began to want things like that, he did very foolish things. One could inquire of several women in this town and find it was so. “Well, then? I will agree to speak to Miss Hargrove and pay her a...foppish compliment or two,” he said, with a flick of his wrist, “in exchange for ninety-two pounds.” He extended his hand, offering to shake on it.
But Miss Cabot gazed reluctantly at his hand.
George sighed. “For heaven’s sake, what now?”
“I will agree on one condition,” she said, holding up a finger.
“You are in no position to impose conditions—”
“Agreed,” she said quickly. “Nevertheless...you must allow me to instruct you.”
It took a moment for those words to sink into George’s brain. “I beg your pardon, but I am most certainly not in need of your instruction,” he said irritably. “You have come to me for my experience, is that not so? I think I am a fair judge of what effort is involved in chatting up a young debutante,” he added with an indignant snort.
“Yes...but I know her better than anyone,” she said, tilting her head back to look him directly in the eye.
“Good God, you speak as if I come to this in short pants—”
“That is not what I—”
George suddenly grabbed her by the waist, yanking her into his body.
“Mr. Easton!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing?”
He didn’t know what he was doing, honestly. Reacting to some primal drumbeat in his veins. “I don’t need your instruction,” he said in a low voice, and brushed his knuckles against her temple.
“You are too familiar,” she objected crossly, but her hands curled around his upper arms, and she made no move to escape him.
“I am aware.” His gaze moved over her face. “And yet you enjoy it. That is my point.”
“Are you always so assured, sir?”
“Are you?” he retorted.
“You mistake my offense for misunderstanding,” she said to his mouth, and the drum beat louder in George. “But make no mistake—I am offended.”
“If you were offended,” he said, mimicking her, “you would kick and claw like any prim little lass to be set free.” He cocked a brow, daring her to disagree.
She frowned darkly at him.
“Aha,” he said, brushing his fingers against her collarbone. It felt small and fragile to him. “It would appear that I know women far better than you.”
Honor Cabot responded to that with a firm kick to his shin.
George instantly let go and reached for his leg. “Ouch,” he said with a wince.
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.
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Julia London
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: “London knows how to keep pages turning.” —Publishers WeeklyPassion and scandal collide in New York Times bestselling author Julia London’s brand new series about four sisters determined to rescue themselves from ruin ….Desperate times call for daring measures as Honor Cabot, the eldest stepdaughter of the wealthy Earl of Beckington, awaits her family’s ruin. Upon the earl′s death she and her sisters stand to lose the luxury of their grand home—and their place on the pedestal of society—to their stepbrother and his social-climbing fiancée. Forced to act quickly, Honor makes a devil′s bargain with the only rogue in London who can seduce her stepbrother’s fiancée out of the Cabots’ lives for good.An illegitimate son of a duke, George Easton was born of scandal and grows his fortune through dangerous risks. But now he and Honor are dabbling in a perilous dance of seduction that puts her reputation and his jaded heart on the line. And as unexpected desire threatens to change the rules of their secret game, the stakes may become too high even for a notorious gambler and a determined, free-spirited debutante to handle.