The Trouble with Honor (11 page)

In all his years, he had never met a woman who could not be intimidated, if only a little. But Miss Cabot looked him in the eye and said, with a coy little smile, “You profess to know women, Easton. What do you think?”

He chuckled low. “I think you’ve not the least idea what you want, lass,” he said, and lowered his head to hers again to trace a line across the seam of her lips with his tongue.

Honor gasped at the sensation, but George had only just begun. He lifted his hand to her jaw and angled her head, nipped at her bottom lip. “Is
this
what you want?” he asked, crushing her pelvis to his as he slipped his tongue into her mouth.

She made a little sound in the back of her throat. Her hands found his shoulders, and for a moment, he thought that she might push him away, but she merely opened her mouth beneath his as she slid her hands down his arms, then up again, so that she might tangle her fingers in his hair. He brushed his hand against her breast, cupping it, squeezing it, his fingers finding the turgid tip through the fabric of her gown. He was hurtling headlong down that slope of physical desire, of emotional entanglement, and with a growl deep in his throat, he picked her up with one arm about her waist and twisted about, putting her down on her back on the settee.

Honor gasped again; her breath lifting her chest. George traced a wet path to her bosom, his tongue finding the valley between her breasts, his hand pressing against her flesh, kneading her, tantalizing her. He lifted one breast free of the confines of her gown, and Honor made a sound—of protest? Of delight? Whatever it might have been, George caught it with his mouth as he kissed her again, before moving to her breast and taking it into his mouth.

She suddenly fell back on a very long sigh and sank her fingers into his hair. George suckled her, his eyes closed to the storm brewing inside him, to the sparks that were igniting and filling him with rivulets of fire. He tasted her fragrant flesh, felt the hardened nipple in the crease of his tongue. He was hard, the pulse of desire thrumming in him, the image of his body sinking deep into hers as he lifted the other breast from her bodice.

But there was something else in him, too. The faint clatter of hooves, the high-stepping horse marching steadily forward, looking neither right nor left. As much he wanted to undress her, to spread her legs and deflower her, to feel the wet warmth of her desire, he could not. He could not ruin one debutante or entice another. This was not the sort of man he was, no matter what people said, and it took all the strength he had to push himself up and away from her, to move his lips from her breast. He braced himself with both hands on either side of her, gazing down at this young woman with the shining blue eyes.

“Never,” he said angrily, “
never
trust a man in that circumstance.” He pushed himself up off the settee, then caught her hand, pulling her up.

Honor Cabot looked slightly chastised. She took a moment to arrange herself into her gown and looked contritely at him, on the verge of saying something when the door suddenly opened.

She whirled about, shaking out her skirts and pulling her long hair around to cover the flush of her bosom.

A woman stepped into the room. George recognized her instantly—she was an older, graying version of Honor.

“Mamma!” Miss Cabot exclaimed, and quickly put some distance between herself and George. “Ah...may I introduce you to meet Mr. George Easton?”

God help him but he was still hard, still wanting Lady Beckington’s daughter. Fortunately, the countess seemed unaware and looked blankly at George. “My lady,” he said, bowing low.

She looked at him curiously, as if she were trying to place him. “Ah, yes,” she said, nodding. “Of course. You’ve come about the horses, haven’t you?”

Horses? George looked at Miss Cabot for help. “I beg your pardon, I think there is some confusion—”

“The earl has all but sold them, hasn’t he, Honor? I think the sorrel is left.”

“Mamma,” Miss Cabot said gently, “the horses... We sold them ages ago.”

“What?” Lady Beckington gave her a nervous laugh. “We haven’t! We have the sorrel. Please, do wait here, sir. My husband will be along shortly to settle the terms with you.”

George didn’t understand what was happening, but he could see a slight tremor in Miss Cabot. “I shall wait with Mr. Easton until the earl arrives, then,” she said. “Shall I ring for Hannah?” she asked, moving to her mother’s side.

“Who? Oh, no, that’s not necessary,” Lady Beckington said, and turned around to the door. “Good day, sir.” She walked out of the room without looking back.

Miss Cabot did not speak; she lowered her head a long moment, closed her eyes then slowly opened them and lifted her gaze to George.

“I don’t understand,” he said simply. How could a mother see her daughter in such an obviously compromising position and merely walk out the door?

“Perhaps if I tell you that two summers ago, my stepfather sold some horses at Longmeadow. But not the sorrel,” Miss Cabot said. “And even if he were so inclined to sell more today, he could not walk down here to settle terms with you without assistance.”

Understanding dawned. When Miss Cabot had said her mother was not well that afternoon outside of Gunter’s Tea Shop, George had vaguely thought of pleurisy. “How long has she been like this?”

“This?” Honor said, looking at the door. “Moments? Weeks? Months? Sometimes she is perfectly fine. And sometimes not at all....” Her voice trailed away and she looked at the carpet.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” George asked. “When you first came to me, why didn’t you tell me?”

“And have half of London know it?”

She was speaking to a man who had protected his mother all his life. “Miss Cabot, on my honor, I’d not tell a soul. You have my word.”

She flushed, her fists curled at her sides. “You can see, then, my dilemma, Mr. Easton. I do not think Miss Hargrove will be keen to have four sisters and a madwoman under her roof.
No one
will want a madwoman under their roof, will they? I need...I need
time
until Grace and I can marry or...something,” she said, her eyes blindly searching the ceiling. “If I could take up a sword and fight for it, I would. If I had a vast fortune at my disposal, I would use it. But I am a woman, and the only options I have are to connive as I promise myself to the highest bidder before all is discovered.” She lowered her gaze to him again. “That may seem as if I am lacking in honor to you, but on my word, it is all I have. I don’t want to hurt Augustine or Monica. I truly want only to divert her until I can think of
something.
What else can I do?”

George’s heart went out to her. He’d loved his mother dearly, a lowly chambermaid with the duke’s bastard son to raise by herself. She’d never been accepted anywhere. The other servants judged her to be without morals. The duke had used her and left her to her own devices.

But Lucy Easton had been determined, and when she’d learned the duke was ill, she’d somehow managed to convince him to give George a stipend. He didn’t know how she’d done it—he didn’t
want
to know. He knew only that his mother had sacrificed everything for him, and that the stipend had enabled George to attend school, to meet young men who would become his peers, even if they did view his claims of having been fathered by a royal prince with great skepticism. Had it not been for George’s mother, he would be mucking stalls in the Royal Mews yet.

“Please, help me,” Miss Cabot said, her voice meek. “Please, come to the ball.”

God in heaven, how could he look upon the worry and sadness in those eyes and refuse her? “Even if I come, even if I might divert her as you wish, there are any number of things that might happen afterward. What will keep her from telling everyone what you’ve done when she discovers it? What will keep her from taking her suspicions to Sommerfield? Don’t you see? It could be even worse for you then.”

“I know. But I have to try. So I will take that risk.”

George gazed at her beguiling face. He supposed he’d done some things that would be considered mad by most when he’d seen no other option.

“Will you?” she asked softly.

“I will do it once more, Honor,” he conceded. “
Only
once.”

She smiled in a way that began to burn in the soft part of his gut. “Thank you, George.”

Another deeper trickle of warmth rushed down his spine at the use of his Christian name. He was standing on dangerous ground here, soft pliable ground into which he could sink quickly and become mired. That it had happened so quickly shook him enough that George abruptly moved to the door. “
Once
more, Miss Cabot. No more than that. But don’t mistake me for someone who cares for you or the consequences of what you’re doing.”

“Oh, I won’t,” she quickly assured him.
“Never.”
And she smiled.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“W
HY ARE YOU
smiling in that way?” Grace demanded when Honor finally emerged from the receiving room. Prudence and Mercy flanked her, and all three of them eyed Honor suspiciously. Such distrusting young things! Clearly, Honor had taught them well.

“Am I smiling?” she asked quite honestly. She thought she’d waited long enough to remove any stain of delight from her cheeks at that unexpected, remarkable experience on the settee. “I’m happy that the rain has eased, aren’t you? It’s dreadful being cooped inside.”

“But it’s raining even harder than before,” Prudence pointed out.

“For heaven’s sake, are you going to stand there gawking at me, your mouths open wide enough to attract nesting birds?” Honor demanded, and pushed through the wall of sisters on her way to the stairs.

The wall was instantly on her heels.

She was not going to tell them anything. It was none of their concern. None of them could be
completely
trusted to keep a confidence. And there was simply no way to describe such a tantalizing, exceptional moment with George Easton. It was the sort of erotic experience that curled one’s toes, and upon which one might reliably dream for years or decades to come. She was certain of it, for she would never forget it.

“Why are you scurrying away like a guilty cat?” Grace called out from behind her.

“Because I wish to be left alone!” Honor tossed back. Not that her declaration had even the slightest effect on her sisters; they remained on her heels.

“Must you all follow me like a flock of sheep?” she demanded crossly. She wanted only to float into her rooms and recline on her chaise longue and recall the way Easton’s eyes sparkled so enticingly when he was cross with her. To privately study exactly
how
those moments on the settee had occurred and to devise a way to make sure it never happened again, no matter how much she might yearn for it! As much as she had enjoyed it—breathed it, felt it in every bit of muscle—that sort of thing could ruin everything, her whole wobbly little plan! She could
not
entertain his advances again, not more than once, and most assuredly no more than
twice
more.

She walked into her room, her sisters right behind her. Mercy immediately fell onto Honor’s bed as she had dozens of times before, sprawled across the silk coverlet with her fists propped under her chin, waiting for the chattering to begin. Prudence, likewise at home in Honor’s room, went to the vanity and began to sort through her jewel box without the least bit of consciousness.

But Grace remained standing, waiting impatiently for Honor to speak. “Will you say nothing of your private meeting?”

“Grace, darling, you know how these things are,” Honor said airily. “A gentleman calls. He inquires after your health, and that of your family—”

“You’re to have a chaperone when a gentleman calls,” Mercy said. “Miss Dilly said.”

“I am aware of the rules,” Honor said. “Did your governess also tell you that sometimes rules are meant to be broken?”

Mercy gasped.
“No,”
she said, her eyes widening with delight. “Are they?”

“No,”
Prudence said firmly. “You mustn’t listen to Honor or Grace, Mercy. They don’t do as they should.” She frowned at Honor. “I beg you, don’t give Mercy the slightest encouragement.”

“We are moral women,” Grace said, gesturing to her and Honor. “It was perfectly all right for Honor to receive Mr. Easton. She does not require someone in the room to protect her virtue, because she guards it quite closely.”

Honor pretended to be busying herself at the wardrobe so that Grace would not see her blush.

“Pardon, Miss Cabot.”

Kathleen, the housemaid who often helped them with their hair and with dressing, stood at the threshold, her cap a bit askew. “His lordship Sommerfield asks that you come to tea, as we have guests.”

“Guests?” Honor repeated. Her heart skipped a beat or two—Mr. Easton had only just left Beckington House. “Who?”

“Miss Hargrove and Mr. Hargrove. He asks that you join them and Lady Beckington in the green salon.”

Honor’s heart plummeted; she could imagine the Hargroves arriving just as Easton had left the house. She exchanged a fearful look with Grace, who, judging by her expression, was undoubtedly thinking the same thing. “We’ll be down straightaway,” Honor said. “Thank you, Kathleen.” She turned to her younger sisters. “Go, go, and keep Mamma company while I don something more presentable. Pru, offer to play your new song for Miss Hargrove until Grace and I arrive.”

Fortunately, Prudence and Mercy were so delighted to be included, they didn’t argue and went off to do what Honor had asked.

“Help me change,” Honor said to Grace, grabbing a sunny yellow gown. “I can scarcely abide when she appears unannounced. And already sitting with Mamma! How long has it been since Mamma has received guests?”

“A month or more,” Grace said, quickly undoing the buttons of Honor’s gown.

Their mother had begun to withdraw from society when the earl’s health had worsened, but Honor wasn’t certain that was the only reason. Her mother had, at times, seemed particularly baffled when in the presence of guests. Monica, on the other hand, could be terribly shrewd in her study of everything and everyone around her. “Hurry,” Honor urged her sister.

“Will you tell me what happened with Easton?”

“Nothing really.” Honor hoped she sounded more convincing to Grace than she did to her own ears. “He promised to try again at the Prescott Ball.”

“The Prescott Ball!” Grace echoed incredulously. “Has he received an invitation?”

“I’ll arrange it,” Honor said. She donned the yellow dress and presented her back to Grace to be buttoned.

“How?”
Grace exclaimed as she quickly buttoned the gown. “Lady Prescott would
never
invite him. She counts Gloucester among her closest friends.”

“Yes, I know,” Honor said. “But I think Lord Prescott might be persuaded.”

“And who will persuade him, pray tell?”

Honor arched a brow at her sister.

Grace groaned as understanding dawned. “For heaven’s sake, Honor, you scarcely know the man.”

“I know him well enough.”

“You wouldn’t!” Grace said, with not a little bit of awe in her voice. She dropped her hands from Honor’s gown, having finished the buttoning of it.

Honor picked up a comb. “I don’t know,” she admitted, and undid the knot in her hair. “I should like to think I wouldn’t, for it seems dangerous even to me.”

“Thank goodness for that, at least,” Grace said, and took the comb from Honor’s hand to help her. “At times I believe you’ve lost all your good sense.”

Honor didn’t admit it, but she thought she’d lost all of her good sense the moment she had approached Easton on Rotten Row.

* * *

T
HE GREEN SALON
was the smallest common room in the house, but the coziest of them, with thick rugs and wall tapestries to keep its inhabitants comfortably warm. The furnishings were more worn here than anywhere else in the house, having suffered through several winters of lounging girls and one rather clumsy boy.

Honor swept into the salon just behind Grace. Her mother was seated at the small table where tea was often served, next to the earl, who sat hunched over the table, a woolen blanket draped around his shoulders. Monica, Augustine and Mercy were on the settee, and Prudence at the harp. Monica’s brother had taken his place at the hearth.

“Good afternoon,” Grace said to those assembled. “Mr. Hargrove. Miss Hargrove,” she added, nodding politely as she walked across the room to stand by the earl.

Honor smiled at Monica’s eldest brother, whom she’d always known as Teddy. He was a thin man with a large angular nose, and had already followed his father into academia. She extended her hand to him and said, “Teddy, dearest, how do you do?”

“Quite well, thank you,” he said, and limply took her hand as he bowed over it.

“And your parents? They are well?”

“Very well, thank you. But the weather is too foul for my mother to be away from her hearth this afternoon.”

That was a pity. At least when Mrs. Hargrove was present, Monica was less inclined to speak. As to that, Honor whirled around to the settee. “Monica,
dearest,
” she said, holding out her hands to her nemesis. “How lovely you look!”

Monica stood, took Honor’s hands and squeezed them a little too hard. “A pleasure to see
you,
Honor.”

There were many things Honor could fault in Monica, but her looks were not one of them. She eyed Monica’s pale green gown. “You should wear it to the Prescott Ball,” Honor suggested. “You’ll be in attendance, won’t you?”

“I wouldn’t
dream
of missing it,” Monica said, letting go of her hands.

The Prescott Ball was the Season’s opening salvo, the event that would launch a dozen or two freshly minted debutantes, having been just presented in court, into high society.
Everyone
would attend.

Honor moved to the earl. “How do you fare this evening, my lord?”

“Passable,” he said, and took her hand. “A spot of tea will warm me.”

“I’ll get it for you, darling,” Honor’s mother said, and stood from the table, moving toward the bellpull.

“But we’ve just rung Hardy,” Augustine said. “He’s not had time.”

“Have we?” Honor’s mother said lightly, and resumed her seat.

“Speaking of the Prescott Ball, Honor, I assume you and Grace will attend?” Monica asked amicably. “These events are so important when one is searching for a match.” She smiled sweetly.

So did Honor smile, although it hurt her to do so.

“Oh, my dear, Honor doesn’t concern herself with such things,” Augustine said jovially.

“Well, I’m all aquiver with anticipation,” Grace said as Hardy entered that moment with the tea service.

“Shall we see you at the ball, Honor?” Teddy said as Hardy filled china cups and plates.

Teddy had arranged himself artfully at the mantel, an elbow on the polished mahogany, one leg crossed so casually over the other it must have taken him several minutes to perfect.

“Me? I’d not miss one of the most important balls of the Season,” Honor said laughingly.

Augustine chortled. “Yes, for what is a London ball without the Cabot girls to grace it?”

“How glad I am to hear it!” Monica said. “I sincerely hope that a bachelor gentleman might catch Honor’s eye. On my word, Lady Beckington, sometimes it seems as if your eldest daughter does not want an offer for her hand!”

“That’s quite true,” Honor said pleasantly. “I don’t attend balls to seek an offer. I attend for the pure diversion of it.”

Monica laughed as if Honor had intended that as a joke.

“You’ve no interest in marriage?” Teddy asked.

“Not at present,” Honor said. “Contrary to what you might believe, Teddy, not every unmarried female is in singular pursuit of marriage.”

“Well, of course not,” Monica agreed. “However, some
should
be. After all, your sisters’ collective happiness rather depends on you, doesn’t it?”

Augustine looked confused. “How do you mean, dearest?”

“Just that I should think the younger girls would not be free to accept an offer if the eldest is not yet married.” She smiled and shrugged lightly and turned her attention to her plate. “But I suppose that can’t be helped if you are against it.”

“Honor has been against it since the business with Rowley,” Augustine said casually. “I think she still carries a bit of a flame for him, do you not, darling?”

“Pardon?” Honor could feel her face warming. “No! Of course not. Not at all.” She looked frantically to Grace.

But it was her mother who saved her. “My daughters have always been in high demand in our society, and I think it must be rather flattering and pleasurable. Why ever not should she enjoy it?”

“They take after their mother,” the earl said, and Honor’s mother beamed at her husband.

Hardy served tea, and when he was satisfied that everyone had been suitably attended, he quit the room.

Prudence asked, “What will you wear, Grace?”

“Wear?” Lady Beckington repeated.

“To the ball, Mamma,” Grace said.

Her mother’s face suddenly lit with excitement. “A ball!” she said. “Who is kind enough to host one?”

It seemed to Honor as if the entire room ceased to breathe. Every head turned toward her mother, and she looked around at them, expecting an answer.

“The Prescott Ball, Mamma!” Mercy said, as if the lapse in her mother’s memory was not the least bit curious. “Don’t you recall? We were only just speaking of it.”

The countess looked blankly at Mercy.

“Goodness, Mercy, she could scarcely hear a thing, what with all the prattling between us,” Grace said quickly.

Monica, Honor noticed, was staring intently at her mother. Panic began to pound in her veins, and she quickly interjected, “Mercy, darling, we’ve not had the pleasure of hearing you play the harp.”

Mercy looked startled.

“Go on, then, Mercy. Don’t be shy,” Honor said, and waved at her youngest sister to play.

Mercy took a seat behind the harp. She looked uncertainly at the room. She adjusted her spectacles, put her hands on the strings, and with a great frown of concentration, she plucked a loud, disharmonious chord.

“E-sharp,”
Prudence whispered loudly.

Mercy nodded and tried again. At least the chord seemed to be in tune, but Mercy’s handling of the harp was far from delicate. She played a truly torturous rendition of the song. Honor noticed how often Monica stole a glimpse of her mother, who sat staring at the table, nervously picking at the cuff of her sleeve.

As Mercy laid heavy hands on such delicate strings, Honor moved to take a seat between Monica and her mother and smiled broadly at Monica. “Does she not show promise?” she whispered.

It had the desired effect—Monica shifted her gaze to Mercy.

When Mercy had finished the song—at least, Honor thought she had finished, although it was impossible to know—the earl asked her mother to return him to his rooms. He walked stiffly and slowly across the room, pausing to speak to Monica and her brother, his breath shallow and wet as he moved.