The Trouble with Honor (15 page)

Honor was well acquainted with Lord Washburn. He’d come into his title of viscount when his father’s heart had suddenly stopped beating one day. He’d always been brash, loud and vexing, and then suddenly, with a title, he’d been one of the most sought-after gentlemen in all of Mayfair. Washburn had taken to his new role with great enthusiasm, and on more than one occasion had insinuated to Honor, and then to Grace, that either of them might be the lucky young woman to win his heart.

Neither of them had the slightest desire to even try.

Today, Washburn randomly chose a young woman to affix his brown eyes upon as he read, and Honor was not pleased to see him affix them so often on Prudence. She was not yet seventeen, and frankly, her head was too easily turned.

Honor gazed at the rafters and idly wondered how long she might be trapped here. She sighed and glanced to her right—and gasped so loudly that Miss Fitzwilliam, sitting directly in front of her, glanced back over her shoulder with a look of alarm.

Honor quickly put a finger to her mouth and smiled apologetically, then glanced to the window once more.

He had come.

It was him, Easton! He and another gentleman trotted on horseback down the lane to the house. His back was to her, but Honor recognized the way he sat his horse, the broad shoulders and the glimpse of his brown hair brushing over his collar beneath the brim of his hat.

Her heart felt as if it was swelling in her chest with happiness. She could scarcely catch her breath, her heart was pounding so. Had he come for her? Had he missed her, had he thought of her as she had thought of him?

Honor was suddenly and violently desperate to quit the chapel.

Washburn had reached the crescendo of his current sonnet, had stepped away from the pulpit so that he might wave his arm around a bit. When he finished his sonnet, he crossed his arm across his heart and bowed deeply, graciously accepting the polite applause from the group of assembled young ladies. As two young women in the front row urged him to continue, Honor made her escape.

She fairly dashed out the back, bursting into the bright sunlight and pausing a moment so that her eyesight might adjust. She hurried along until she rounded the corner of the stables, taking care to walk and not run, smoothing her hair when she dipped behind the well house. She ran up the steps from the stable to the main drive, and walked quickly around the corner of the house, arriving on the drive just as Easton removed a bag from his horse’s rump and handed it to a footman.

Honor paused to take a deep breath, then walked serenely and slowly into the men’s midst. She stepped around the head of his horse. “Oh! Mr. Easton! You have come,” she said far too breathlessly to convince anyone she was surprised to stumble upon him there in the drive.

His smile was so warm that it quietly filled her up like a tub of honey. He tipped his hat. “How do you do, Miss Cabot? Begun any new schemes? Created any bedlam in anyone’s life?”

She laughed quickly, loudly, then took another steadying breath to reduce her ardor before smiling brilliantly at him. She could scarcely contain her joy at seeing him, or the urge to throw her arms around his neck and kiss him.

Easton frowned. “I will ask you kindly not to smile at me quite like that, Miss Cabot. I have come against my better judgment, and frankly, I’ve lost all respect for myself.” He bowed.

“Then why did you come?” she asked cheerfully.

“Because I feared the chaos that would rain down on this august occasion if you were left to your own devices. It is my duty as a gentleman to spare these good people your unhinged thinking.”

His declaration made her deliriously happy. She could feel her smile widening.

“Don’t,” he said brusquely. “I will not be swayed by your charming smile again.”

“You find my smile charming?” she asked, taking a step closer.

“I find it dangerous.” He bent over and picked up a valise. “I find everything about you dangerous.”

A strong shiver of longing skirted up her spine; Honor took another step closer. “You’ll be glad you have come, sir. You will have a very fine time at Longmeadow. I am certain of it.”

“I won’t,” he said adamantly. But his eyes were twinkling with mirth.

The man who had ridden in with him stepped up, took the valise from his hand and inclined his head at Honor.

“Oh, yes. Miss Cabot, may I present Mr. Finnegan. He claims to be a valet.”

“Madam,” the gentleman said, and walked on.

“You’ve arrived just in time, too,” Honor said to George. “There is to be a croquet tournament on the west lawn this afternoon.”

“That settles it, then—I may now expire from joy.”

Honor laughed. “I won’t have you expiring at Longmeadow. Think of the scandal! Come, I’ll show you to the house. Hardy has a room for you.”

She began to walk and Easton fell in beside her. She could feel him, his body so close to hers, the strength of him beside her. She was so enthralled with it that she was startled when Augustine suddenly bounded out the entrance with Hardy on his heels, looking very nervous as he surveyed the ladies coming up the path. “We really must hurry things along,” he said to no one in particular.

Honor guessed Monica would be close behind, and as much as she would have liked to engage Easton a bit longer, she thought she might succumb to her desire to touch him if she did not take her leave. Her thoughts began to tumble over each other as she plotted how to speak to him alone, away from prying eyes. But it was impossible to say the things that were bubbling up in her on the drive, so she called out to her stepbrother, “Augustine, look who has come!”

Augustine whirled about, squinting. And then he smiled. “Easton, yes, yes, of course! Welcome!” he said, and gestured to Hardy to follow him as he closed in on Easton.

“You’re in excellent hands, sir,” Honor said. “Hardy will see you properly situated.” She turned about before he could respond and said, “Augustine, you must tell him about croquet! Mr. Easton said he is keen to play.”

“Croquet!” she heard Augustine say. “Then you must play, Mr. Easton! We will have a spectacular course, naturally,” he added, and began to explain in enthusiastic detail the plan for croquet on the west lawn.

Honor could feel Easton’s gaze on her back as she practically skipped into the house, her step suddenly lighter, her heart still racing.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

L
ONGMEADOW WAS AS
impressive as George had heard, perhaps even more so. The Beckington butler led him and Finnegan down wide, carpeted corridors that turned into more wide, carpeted corridors, each one lined with paintings and portraits that George did not have time to study, artful little consoles that held Ming vases and hothouse flowers, and all of it illuminated by sunlit windows whose velvet drapes had been tied back with thick, gold silk cords.

The guest room George would inhabit was large, with a four-poster canopied bed and a view of the forest. As he stood in the middle of the room, looking up at a ceiling that had been painted with ropes and Grecian urns, he could certainly understand that Honor would not want to lose these surroundings. He really didn’t know how exactly marriages were arranged among the very privileged, but from what he did know, he believed it was doubtful that she would marry into such opulence as this, only because there were so few families that enjoyed such wealth.

He was beginning to feel a bit foolish; he’d come here after a long internal debate. He’d told himself that he was helping Honor Cabot. His body had said otherwise. His body, his heart had said that he had to see her again. But toward what end? That was the murky mystery brewing in him.

Finnegan seemed perfectly at ease, putting George’s things away as George stood by, uncomfortable in his uselessness. He’d not wanted Finnegan to come, but Finnegan had explained to Easton that if he arrived without a manservant or valet, he’d appear out of place.

“I
am
out of place,” George had pointed out.

“Only if you believe yourself to be,” Finnegan had said curtly, and had begun to fill a valise, his jaw set with determination. George knew better than to argue with the man when he was like that, and now here he was, brushing down George’s formal dinner coat. “I suggest you have a walkabout,” Finnegan said without looking up from his work. “You might prepare yourself for croquet. Perhaps it will improve your disposition and put you into a proper frame of mind for society here.” He glanced up at George. “If I may, sir, it is vastly different than the society in which you typically associate.”

George couldn’t help but grin. “Do you know, Finnegan, that there are days I have the strongest urge to put my fist squarely in your comely face?”

“That would not become a gentleman,” Finnegan said, and went about his business.

George couldn’t watch Finnegan any longer; he ran his fingers through his hair, straightened his neckcloth and went out. He walked out into the gardens and paused to admire the fine specimens of roses rivaled only by those he’d seen around St. James.

He heard the sound of feminine laughter and was unthinkingly drawn to it, making his way through the maze of roses to the gate that led to a large expanse of manicured lawn. Beyond the vast lawn, he could see a lake shimmering in the sunlight, bounded by forest on two sides.

He walked through the gate and carried on down the slope, his gaze on footmen who were busily setting the croquet hoops. He approached a trio of ladies seated near a large fountain where three enormous cherubs streamed great arcs of water from their pursed lips.

One of the ladies glanced up from her wide-brimmed hat and blinked. “Mr. Easton!” she said, gaining her feet.

George had been so taken by the giant cherubs that he’d failed to recognize Miss Hargrove at first. He quickly recovered and bowed low. “Miss Hargrove,” he said. “My day has just been immeasurably improved.”

The two ladies in her company tittered at that.

“I wasn’t aware you’d come,” Miss Hargrove said.

“I only just arrived.”

She nodded; her gaze flicked over him. “Miss Ellis, may I introduce Mr. George Easton,” she said, her hand gracefully indicating the fairer of the two young women seated on the bench. “And Miss Eliza Rivers.”

“We are acquainted,” George said. “Ladies, how do you do?”

“Are you lost, Mr. Easton?” Miss Hargrove asked, eyeing him closely. He noticed that she was holding a croquet mallet, which she swung casually at her side.

“I am hopelessly lost,” he said cheerfully, earning a titter from Miss Ellis. “I was in search of your very affable fiancé. He had mentioned a croquet tournament.”

“Yes, it will begin shortly. You will need a mallet.”

“And a partner.” He looked pointedly at her. “Will you do me the honor, Miss Hargrove?”

Miss Hargrove studied him a moment, clearly debating his invitation.

“I might partner, if you like,” Miss Rivers said shyly. “I am certain Miss Hargrove will want to partner with Lord Sommerfield—”

“Thank you, but I had agreed to partner with Mr. Cleburne,” Monica interjected. “I’m certain he won’t mind another partner now that a new guest has arrived so unexpectedly. Shall we fetch you a mallet, Mr. Easton?” She gestured to the path.

George smiled. He would delight in explaining to Honor Cabot that he was right, he had indeed turned Miss Hargrove’s head, and one need only see how quickly she leaped at the chance to be his partner to know it. He graciously offered his arm to her, wished her companions a good day and began to walk with her. “Such lovely roses at Longmeadow,” he observed. “Beauty is surrounded by beauty.” He smiled.

Miss Hargrove sighed. “Quite flattering, Mr. Easton. Miss Rivers would have swooned. But I’ve never been swayed by poetic overture.”

George was only slightly taken aback. “Should I take that to mean you are immune to honest admiration?”

“I am not immune to
honest
admiration,” she said. “But how can you claim to have any admiration for me when there are so many lovely debutantes around you? I daresay my fiancé’s
four
unmarried sisters are ripe for admiration.”

She watched him closely for his response, but George was practiced in getting his way when it came to matters female. “Surely you must know that when one’s heart has divined toward someone in particular, one cannot simply will it in another direction?”

Miss Hargrove suddenly laughed at that. “You’re a rake
,
Mr. Easton! It would seem that all I’ve heard tell about you is true.”

He didn’t know precisely what she meant, but he was beginning to wonder if he’d ever worked so hard to entice a woman. “I am certain I am guilty as charged, but I am a man, first and foremost, and when I admire a woman, I cannot deny it.”

They reached the stand where a footman was handing out croquet mallets and balls. She took a mallet and handed it to him. “You’d best admire someone else.”

What had happened here? The woman had practically been melting at the Prescott Ball. Had she heard the rumors of his missing ship, that his fortune was gone, as he’d heard round his club? Was that the reason for her aloofness?

He decided to resort to more salacious tactics. “You may be engaged, Miss Hargrove, but to a man who cannot possibly please you as I would.” He paused, let his gaze drift down her body, then looked into her eyes. “In every manner your body might imagine.”

He fully expected her to succumb to that suggestion, but she didn’t. She took the croquet balls from the footman and handed them to George and pointed to the ground. “We will begin there when play is called.” She glided away toward the start of the course.

George followed her and carelessly dropped the balls at the starting point, his gaze on her.

Miss Hargrove glanced at him sidelong. “Perhaps you should have a look about this weekend and set your sights on someone who is more accepting of your attentions.” She glanced around and nodded to something over his shoulder. “Miss Peeples has no understanding with anyone.”

George didn’t even bother to glance at the Peeples girl. “I think her mother would not approve.” He was certain of that—he’d enjoyed a brief but passionate affair with Mrs. Peeples a year or so ago. The woman had been frightened of pregnancy and had preferred to please him. Which, George thought, had been pleasant enough once or twice. But he’d discovered he’d rather be the one to do the pleasing.

A sudden and unwanted image of Honor Cabot danced in his mind’s eye, and he was reminded of how lustfully she had received his advances at the Prescott Ball. So much so that he had struggled quite desperately to keep from taking it further.

“Well, there are plenty of others,” Miss Hargrove said with a shrug. “Ah, there he is, my future husband.” She gave George a pert little smile as Sommerfield began to wave his arms, seeking the attention of the players.

Bloody hell, Monica Hargrove
was
a tough little nut, George thought as Sommerfield bellowed out the rules of the tournament. He’d said things to her he’d said to far more experienced women, and which had produced
far
more satisfying results than this one would give him.

Dear God, was Honor right
?

The more he thought on it, the more vexed George grew. He was a grown man, for heaven’s sake, an
experienced
man. And when a man like him said that he desired to please a woman
,
she should slap him or eat out of his bloody palm. But she should
not
give him a coy smile and chassé away.

So what was it, George wondered irritably, that would turn Miss Hargrove’s stubborn little head? He was feeling rather determined to find it.