The Trouble with Honor (19 page)

“It would seem we find ourselves alone
again,
Mr. Easton.”

He was startled by the sound of Miss Hargrove’s voice; he hadn’t noticed her approach and had no idea how long she’d been there. “How fortuitous,” he said, smiling at her.

She cocked her head to one side, studying him, her brown eyes dancing. “Is everything all right? You seem a bit subdued this evening.”

“Do I?”

Her smile deepened. “Perhaps the loss of one’s fortune puts a damper on one’s ardor.”

George blinked with surprise.

“I mean only that you are generally rather eager to seduce me. Perhaps tonight, your mind is on other things.”

His gaze drifted to her mouth, sliding slowly and deliberately down to her décolletage. At any other time in his life, he would have been attracted to a woman as handsome and coy as Monica Hargrove. Even in this moment, he was the tiniest bit captivated by his prey, in teaching her a thing or two about disparaging a man’s fortune as she’d just done. But a damnably fine pair of blue eyes suddenly shimmered in his mind’s eye, and it occurred to him that he could at least do this for Honor. He could at least lure this woman away from Honor’s troubles.

He touched Miss Hargrove’s hand. “Have you been listening to rumors, love?”

Without shifting her gaze from his face, she laced her fingers with his. “Perhaps one or two. Have you?”

He smiled. “One or two.”

She laughed lightly and dropped her hand. “Have you made the acquaintance of Mr. Cleburne, sir?” she said pleasantly, and looked past George. He glanced over his shoulder, saw a thin man with a pleasant countenance standing awkwardly aside.

“Mr. Cleburne is the new vicar here at Longmeadow. Mr. Cleburne, may I present Mr. Easton?”

George nodded. “How do you do?”

“A pleasure, sir,” Cleburne said.

“You mustn’t allow his charming smile to fool you, Mr. Cleburne,” Miss Hargrove said jovially. “Mr. Easton is quite a scoundrel.”

Mr. Cleburne laughed. “Mr. Easton, you seem perfectly respectable to me. Please, excuse me,” he said, and walked on, his gaze scanning the crowd.

“A scoundrel, am I?” George asked.

Miss Hargrove laughed again. “Mr. Cleburne is such a dear man,” she said. “And unmarried. I think he might very well be the
perfect
match for our Honor.”

Her gaze was locked on him, watching him closely. How George remained placid, he didn’t know, for she might as well have sliced him open. “Perhaps,” he said with a shrug.

“He would be an excellent influence, I should think. And of course, he is beyond reproach. That can’t be said of every gentleman, can it?” She gave him a coy smile and sashayed away.

George stared after her. Beautiful, exasperating creatures, women were, the lot of them. Monica Hargrove was trifling with him, trying to arouse a reaction from him.

George ignored it, because something much darker had suddenly filled his thoughts—Miss Hargrove was right. As much as George loathed to admit it to himself, Cleburne was a good match for Honor. That slender, smiling man with no more knowledge of the physical pleasures of the flesh than a rock was better suited as a match for the most interesting woman in all of London. He would provide for Honor, and moreover, he was a man of the cloth—his charity at taking his wife’s mad mother and caring for her would be exalted. Cleburne’s collar would give him access to some of the best facilities for madness, should it come to that.

George, bastard that he was, gambler, womanizer, tradesman, could not have been less suitable for a woman like Honor Cabot. She was so far above his reach that she may as well have been a bloody star.

That truth began to corrode him, eating away at his confidence. No matter how rich, no matter how handsome, or charming, or seductive, there was no happy forevermore for him with a woman like Honor or Monica Hargrove.

And yet George had combed his hair, adjusted his neckcloth and made sure his waistcoat was properly buttoned down with the express purpose of seeing the woman he desired more than life.

If only she would come down.

The wine and whiskey were flowing freely; the musicians began a reel. Lady Vickers appeared, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright with one too many glasses of “punch,” as the ladies liked to call it.

“Where have you been, naughty boy?” she asked, leaning into him, pressing her breasts against his arm. “Dance with me, Easton? I should very much like to dance.”

He’d always been powerless to say no to a pretty woman.

He danced with Lady Vickers and then with Mrs. Reston, who spoke endlessly about her recently widowed sister, who lived in Leeds. George supposed that Leeds was far enough removed from proper society that he might be considered a suitable match for her.

He had grown weary of the ball, weary of Longmeadow, of the
ton.
He made his excuses to Mrs. Bristol and had started upstairs to his room when he saw his heart’s true desire. How had he missed her? She was a vision of loveliness in the crème silk gown that made her eyes all but leap from her face. She was engrossed in conversation with Mr. Jett, but when she saw him and smiled, a flash of deep warmth filled his chest. She said something to Mr. Jett and started toward him, leaving Mr. Jett behind to stare sourly at George.

“Mr. Easton, you are in the
ballroom,
” she said gaily. “I supposed you would be in the gaming room, winning back your fortune, which everyone seems to be nattering on about tonight.”

“And I’d assumed you’d turned in for the night. You’ve been absent from the dancing.”

“I’ve stood up once or twice,” she said with a smile. “You?”

“Oh, well, I’ve been
quite
occupied with ladies needing dance partners.”

“A noble endeavor, sir. None too painful, I hope?”

He grinned. “Perhaps more for my partners than for me.”

The music was beginning again, and George recognized the cadence of the waltz Honor had taught him. How was it possible that the first waltz with her could seem so long ago to him now? It seemed another lifetime. “I think I might bear one more,” he said, nodding in the direction of the dancing.

She glanced at the couples. “It’s a waltz, which I may attest is not among your best dances,” she teased him.

“Then I am doubly fortunate to have you here to lead me once again.”

She laughed and placed her hand on his arm, then glanced up at him. When she smiled like that, she looked brilliant, a brilliant star among many dull planets, circling his heart, caught in his orbit.

George led her out onto the dance floor and put his hands where she’d once instructed him. The dancing began; he stepped woodenly into the rhythm.

“Oh!”
she said, her eyes lighting with delight. “You’re much improved!” He promptly missed a step.

Honor laughed as she righted the ship for him. But then her smile faded somewhat. “Thank you for finding my mother,” she said as he moved them along in a straight line.

“It was nothing.”

“Don’t say that, George,” she admonished him. “It was everything. At least to me.”

Her gaze was intent and seemed to be searching his. God, how he wanted to touch her, to
be
touched by her. He abruptly twirled her, if only to move those eyes from his. She was peering too deeply, and he feared what she might see in the depths of his eyes. He feared his foolish heart was floating on the surface.

“I’ve seen our friend,” he said, and twirled her once more for good measure.

“Ah. And how did you find her this evening?” Honor said lightly.
Too
lightly. As if she didn’t particularly care.

“Animated,” he said. “She seemed in good spirits.” Honor gasped with surprise when he suddenly twirled her and fell quickly back into step.

“I suppose you charmed her with declarations of your esteem, and she swooned.” She smiled lopsidedly; a dimple appeared in one cheek. “Did you look directly in her eyes and say something quite sweet?”

He snorted. “Such as how no one compares, so on and so forth?”

“That would be
too
obvious, wouldn’t it? You probably said something quite poignant, didn’t you? And yet vague. Something like...”

Was it his imagination, or did the light in her eyes soften?

“Something like, ‘I have waited a lifetime for someone like you to walk into my life and possess my heart.’ With your own particular style, naturally.”

The way she was looking at him pulled even harder at George. He understood her, understood what she was saying. He drew a shallow breath, tried to find his footing on that wretched dance floor. “I couldn’t possibly say such a thing to her, Honor. Those are words I could say to only one person. And I could only say them if they were true.”

Honor’s gaze did not waver from his. Perhaps it was the music, or the crowded dance floor, but he could feel a current between them unlike anything he’d ever felt in his life, mysteriously warm, amazingly omnipotent. He could feel what she wanted, how her heart beat, how her blood flowed. He could feel her waiting for him to say those words to her.

But he couldn’t say them. How could he say them? How could he say something like that just to soothe her, and at the same time expose them both to untold grief?

When he did not speak, he could see the disappointment cloud her eyes. She shifted her gaze away. “No, you mustn’t say such things,” she said casually. “You mustn’t say anything at all.”

God damn him—he’d let this go too far, had allowed his desires to rule him, and he hated himself for it in that moment.

He suddenly twirled her one way and then the other. Honor’s smile slowly returned to her.
Good girl.
She understood as well as he that the thing between them could never come to life, must remain buried for all eternity.

“You are a wretched dancer, Easton. And you are holding me too close. No doubt all of Longmeadow has already noticed, for these might very well be the most attentive people in all of England.”

George pulled her closer, twirled her around. “I don’t care, Cabot.”

She smiled up at him. “Neither do I.”

They danced in silence a few moments.

“We are to London on the morrow,” she said.

“As am I.”

George could see the indelible sadness in her eyes, and although she tried to smile, it did not come to her easily. He wanted to kiss her, to kiss the sadness from her eyes, the forced smile from her lips. But he couldn’t, and to make the moment even more frustrating for him, the song had come to an end. George did not want to let her go. Ever.

When he did, a strange sensation of emptiness spiraled up in him.

“Well, then,” she said. “I suppose I should say good-night.”

She stood, waiting for him to respond, to tell her that he would see her in London, which of course he hoped for, madly hoped for....

But George couldn’t bring himself to speak. He felt as helpless as a baby, unable to find the words to say. He merely gave her a curt nod and clasped his hands tightly at his back.
So
tightly. To keep from putting them on Honor and drawing her back. “Good night, Miss Cabot.”

Her gaze flicked over him, and she lowered her head, stealing one last sidelong look at him before walking on.

George kept his hands clasped until he could no longer see her in the crowd.

And when he turned around, he saw Miss Hargrove standing before him, smiling like a fat cat. “You’ve become quite the partner in demand, Mr. Easton. Should I expect to see you at more balls in London?”

George suddenly understood that Miss Hargrove suspected his feelings for Honor. She thought she would have the best of him? Oh, no—George suddenly had a renewed interest in enticing her away from Sommerfield. “I’ve been told that I am much improved. Would you like to see for yourself?” he asked, holding out his arm.

Miss Hargrove laughed and put her hand on his. “I would be
delighted,
” she said.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

I
T WAS HALF
past midnight when the ball’s orchestra began to ring bells, signaling something was about to happen. It seemed a good time for George to make his escape.

George was grateful that Finnegan was not about, and shut his door, locking it. He shrugged out of his coat, then yanked at his neckcloth. He had removed his waistcoat and had pulled his shirt from his trousers when he heard a knock at the door. George groaned heavenward. “Not now, Finnegan!” he barked at the door.

A moment passed; the knock came again. “Bloody hell,” he muttered, and stalked to the door, unlocking it and throwing it open, prepared to give Finnegan a tongue-lashing.

But it was not Finnegan who darted past him, it was Honor. Stunned, George quickly shut the door and turned to gape at her. “What the devil are you doing here?” he demanded. “You shouldn’t be here, Honor—”

“It’s all right,” she said quickly. “Everyone is in the ballroom. Augustine and Monica are announcing their engagement.”

He blinked. No wonder Miss Hargrove had been so confident this evening. “Shouldn’t you be there, as well?”

“Of course,” she said, and smiled sheepishly. “But I had something more important to attend.”

He didn’t understand her. “What?” he asked, thinking of her mother, of her sisters.

She started toward him. “I couldn’t leave it like this.”

“Leave it,” he echoed uncertainly.

“Oh, George,” she said, smiling at him. “There is so much that I...that I want. That I
need
. I don’t know precisely how to put into words what it is that I need.” She moved closer, her steps hesitant, as if she were uncertain where she meant to go in this room.

But there was something about her expression, the hope in her eyes, that caused a bit of panic in George’s chest. What was she saying?

“I need you, George. I need you to...to
help
me,” she said earnestly.

“You need to think of marrying,” he said gruffly, taking a step back. “I can’t help you in that.”

She paused, blinking up at him. “Perhaps,” she said. God, how he wished she wouldn’t look at him like that! “Perhaps,” she said again, and took another step, reaching up to cup his face. “But I won’t think of it now. I can only think of you, George, and the thing that is unfinished between us. Don’t you think of it, too?”

“Miss Hargrove?” he asked, confused.

“No!” she cried. “No, no—I hope that you will never speak to her again. I mean that I need
you.
”

It took him a moment to understand her, and the panic surged through him like a storm. He knew himself—he was not strong enough for this, he was as weak as a puppy in this. He frantically pulled her hands from his face. “Don’t ask me that,” he said. “Anything but that, Honor.
Anything.
”

Her lips parted with surprise. She suddenly surged forward, rising up on her toes to kiss him. Still, George didn’t touch her. He tried to pull back, but it was impossible.

Then, just as suddenly, Honor stopped and peered deeply into his eyes. She sensed his reluctance; she dropped her hands from his face and moved back, away from him.

“You don’t understand,” he said simply.

“Neither do you,” she said in a low voice, and reached behind her back with both hands.

George watched her a moment before he realized what she was doing. She was unbuttoning her gown.
“No,”
he said, reaching for her hand. “Don’t—”

She jerked away from his hand, her gaze locked on his. She wiggled one arm from its sleeve.

George’s heart began to race, his body growing taut. “Goddammit, Honor, don’t do this! I mean what I say—you don’t understand what I will
do.
”

She pushed the other sleeve down her arm, the gown over her hips, and let it fall. She stood before him in her chemise.

George’s heart was racing so hard now that he feared it would explode in his chest. His gaze swept the length of her, her breasts, spilling out of a chemise and corset, her waist, curving into hips. It was as if he’d been starved of all sustenance all his life, and here was a feast before him.

And still, he made no move. If he touched her, put as much as a finger on her skin, he would lose all control.

When he made no move toward her, Honor stubbornly lifted her chin. With one hand, she pulled a pin from her hair, and half of it tumbled down her back. “Do you know how to lace a corset?” she asked as she pulled another pin from her hair. And another.

George didn’t speak—he
couldn’t
speak. Her dark hair spilled all around her shoulders now, and she very deliberately began to unlace her corset, pulling the strings free, loosening them, until she could shimmy out of it. She let that drop, too. Now all that stood between her and George’s raging, frantic desire was a chemise so thin that he could see her body through it. His eyes greedily devoured every curve, every swell, his chest rising with tortured breath and falling with the strength it took to keep from reaching for her.

Honor slipped one finger under the strap of her chemise.

Immobilized by his outrageous desire, George helplessly watched her.

She pushed it down her arm. Then the other, and slowly, almost as if in a dream, the thin cotton chemise floated to the floor. Honor stepped out of it and stood before him with her arms wrapped about her belly, the rest of her completely bare. Her perfect breasts, floating above her arms, the thatch of curls at the apex of her legs.

Such a bold girl. Unapologetic.
Brave
. A woman who sought her pleasure as she sought her place in the world. She was a high-stepping horse, just like him, who looked neither right nor left, who did not care what society thought of her. It was almost as if the heavens had molded her just for him.

She was quivering, he noticed, and moved her arms up, intending to cover her breasts.

That was the moment George fell from his precarious perch.
“No,”
he muttered. He slowly pulled one arm from her body, then the other. “Let me look at you.” He gazed down at her body, then moved around her, viewing her back, her heart-shaped hips. He curled his fingers in the heavy tresses of her hair, wrapping one thick strand like a rope around his wrist. “What are you doing to me?” he asked helplessly.

She turned her head slightly to glance at him over her shoulder. “I don’t want to leave with all this
want
in me,” she said, her hands sliding across her abdomen. “I
want,
George, things I never knew to want. And I don’t want my heart to turn to dust.”

He didn’t know precisely how her heart would turn to dust, but it didn’t matter; the dam of emotions that George had held at bay for years broke in him. The flood was so powerful that he felt a little light-headed. At her back, he slid his arm around her belly and drew her into his body, then closed his eyes as he pressed his lips against her hair. “You don’t want to throw your virtue away,” he whispered hoarsely, even as his body begged him to be silent.

“Throw it away? But I’m giving it to you, George. After that, I don’t care what will happen.”

His blood was already rushing. He drew a steadying breath and kissed her neck. “Be certain of it,” he said. “Be quite certain of it, and God in heaven, tell me you are certain of it
now,
before it is too late for us both.”

She twisted in his arms. “I’m certain,” she said, and kissed him.

The thousand cautions in George’s chest were instantly slain. He flamed where she touched him, burned with the warm, fragrant scent of her skin. He slid his hand up her rib cage to her breast, filling his palm with the weight of it, rolling the hardened point between his fingers. He nibbled her earlobe, pressed his mouth against her temple as her hands fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, then pressing her mouth to his throat, sending a painful shiver through him.

George swept Honor up in his arms and whirled around to the bed, knocking over a small table in the process. She made a sound of alarm, but he silenced it with his mouth and his tongue. With his free hand, he clawed at his shirt until his upper body was bared.

Honor gasped with surprise or alarm. He didn’t know, didn’t care—his body was aching for her as he stared down at her, expecting her to ask him to stop. But Honor’s gaze slowly moved over his chest, her fingers following the path of her eyes, tracing rivers of unbearable sensation across his skin, to the top of his trousers. She looked up as she unbuttoned them.

He caught her hand, pressed it against his wildly beating heart. He wanted her to feel the emotions churning the blood in his veins. This moment felt entirely different to him than any other moment of his life. This was not an afternoon romp that he would remember with hazy fondness in the evening. This had him at sixes and sevens, his heart racing like a filly.

She looked at her hand on his chest, then lifted herself up to him, kissed him tenderly, her fingers fluttering through his hair.

He picked her up again, lowered her onto his bed. Sweet, torturous pleasure built, swirling in his groin, pulsing in his cock as he moved against her. She slid her hand into his opened trousers, her fingers closing around him, squeezing lightly, testing the feel of a man’s full passion in her hand. It was excruciatingly pleasurable, and George tensed, fighting his body’s desire to take her, to plunge into her wet heat.

When he couldn’t bear her tender touch a moment longer, he pushed his fingers into her hot, wet depths, shuddering as he tried to control the need that was beginning to overpower him. He thrust his tongue into her mouth as his fingers danced in the recesses of her body, sliding into her and out again while her hand moved on his cock. “My God, you are beautiful,” he murmured against her skin.

She didn’t seem to hear him; her eyes were closed, her hands and mouth learning his body.

George suddenly rose up, flipped her over onto her belly and left a line of kisses down her back, to her hips, nibbling at her flesh, his hand sliding between her legs. But Honor was not content to be on her stomach and pushed back, then turned about so that she was sitting up on her knees, facing him. Tiny tufts of dark curls framed her face. Long, silken tresses dropped down her back and over her shoulder.

She was panting, her lips swollen from kissing. “Take them off,” she said, and reached for his trousers, pushing them down over his hips.

He did as she asked, rising up to discard them.

Her eyes were fixed on his body—of course they were, she’d never seen a nude man, much less one aroused to the point of bursting, he supposed. George balanced himself with a knee on the bed and took himself in hand, wondering if the sight intimidated her.

But Honor Cabot was not so easily intimidated; she was a bold, risk-taking woman, and she leaned forward, touching her mouth to the tip of him. George sucked in a gasp of air through his teeth; he tried to back away, but Honor caught his leg and held him there as she explored the head of his shaft with her lips and the tip of her tongue, swirling around it, tasting the bit of seed that had pearled at the tip.

He grit his teeth against the exquisite sensation, focused on resisting the urge to push down her throat. When she moved to take more of him in her mouth, George grabbed her, put her on her back and moved in between her thighs.

His lips found hers again as he moved the tip of his cock against the slick folds of her body, the pressure building in him intolerable. He could feel the seed throbbing in him. The only thing standing between him and losing himself in her completely was the sheer strength of his tattered, shredded will. Each touch, each kiss was more tormenting than the last, and each moment weakened him a little more.

He dipped his head to her breasts, sucking one into his mouth, teasing her with his teeth and tongue as he pressed against her, the tip of him sliding slowly in. He moved, forcing her body to open to his, pressing her legs a little farther apart.

She dragged her fingers through his hair and looked him in the eyes. George paused, his heart swimming in those eyes now. She gazed at him so beguilingly, so bewitchingly, he thought he might very well do anything for this woman.
Anything
. Climb mountains, slay dragons,
dance....
Whatever her heart desired. He’d never felt the desire to please a woman so intently, and he’d never yearned for one quite as deeply as he was yearning for her now. He ached for her and wanted nothing more than to pleasure her so thoroughly and fulfill her so completely that no other man would ever compare to him.

Honor’s gaze drifted to his mouth, and she tucked a finger in between his lips.

George could endure it no more. He kissed her fingers, her palm, as he began to ease into her, squeezing into the wet recess, his cock expanding to fill it. He moved carefully and steadily, relishing the feel of her body tightening provocatively around his, coaxing him into her depths. Torrents of raw affection flowed through George, and as he slipped his arm beneath her, pulling her into his chest, he pushed against the barrier inside her.

She seemed to sense his hesitation, his fear at taking that from her.
“George,”
she whispered, and reached between them, cupping him.

A purely primal sound escaped him as he pushed past the barrier.

She made a small cry, pressed her forehead to his shoulder.

The sound of her muffled cry alarmed him.
God, what had he done?
He was a libertine, a man who could not control the urges of his flesh. He had just ruined a woman whom he greatly esteemed and even—

Honor shifted against him, her foot running up his back and down again, her body pressing back against his. She wrapped her leg around his waist, turned her mouth to his shoulder and bit it lightly.

Even loved. Loved! God, he loved her, helplessly, completely
.
She shifted again, pressing harder against him, urging him to continue this extraordinary journey, to press inside her again. George cupped her face, wanting to look into her eyes as he pressed deeper. He could feel her body opening to him, could feel the seductive rhythm of an ancient, primal call. His breath ragged and torn, he began to move in her, sliding out to the tip, then sliding in again, and again, only more urgently.