The Trouble with Honor (16 page)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

T
HE BEAUTIFUL SUNSHINE
of the afternoon had given way to rain, and the guests were in the foyer, filling the hallways and grand ballroom. It had been set for a night of gaming with card and casino tables, as well as roulette. The formal dining room was likewise set with tables, but for dining. At half past ten, a buffet would be provided.

Honor walked through the throng, pausing to accept the greetings of several guests and the compliments of more than one gentleman. She had dressed for the evening in anticipation of seeing Easton again. She wore a crimson satin trimmed with black lace and beaded embroidery that swirled about the hem of the gown and her train, and the front panel of the underskirt. The décolletage was scandalously deep, edged with more black lace. Around her throat she wore a choker of black obsidian stones, a gift from the earl on the occasion of her twentieth birthday. It was amazing to think that had been two entire years ago. Most of her friends that age were married now. Lucinda Stone was expecting her first child.

Honor felt a curious little draw of something when she thought of Lucinda that felt almost like regret.

But that was impossible. Honor didn’t regret anything. She’d lived her life as she’d wanted, taking advantage of every opportunity to be as free as she pleased. So why, then, had that freedom begun to feel a little like a noose? No, no, that was
not
what she believed.

She believed in her freedom when she wasn’t thinking of George Easton.

Speaking of Easton, where was he? She tried not to imagine him befriending any other woman here—the thought was a bit nauseating.

She could not see him in the throng.

A current seemed to run through the house; laughter crackled, the crowd’s jovial mood helped along by unimaginable quantities of champagne and wine, served by a team of eight footmen.

Even the earl had come down, Honor was pleased to see. He was dressed in formal tails, his neckcloth snowy white against the sickly pallor of his skin. He looked rather small in the large, upholstered armchair where he sat, a footstool under his feet, a blanket over his lap, Jericho standing behind him.

Honor’s mother was sitting beside him, beautifully regal in the silver gown. She was laughing at something Mr. Cleburne was saying. Mr. Cleburne was suddenly ever present, wasn’t he? She supposed Monica had seen to that.

Honor made her way to the earl’s side and crouched beside his chair, covering his hand with hers. “How do you fare this evening, my lord?”

He smiled at her, touched the back of his hand to her cheek. “I am fatigued, darling, but otherwise, I feel well enough, I suppose. You look beautiful.” He cocked his head to see the obsidian choker and smiled. “Look at your daughter, Joan,” he said, putting his hand on his wife’s hand. “Isn’t she beautiful?”

Honor’s mother turned a bright smile from the conversation with Mr. Cleburne, Augustine and Monica to Honor.

Honor smiled and touched the black choker. “Do you remember the necklace his lordship gave me on my birthday, Mamma?”

Her mother’s gaze dropped to the necklace a moment, then slowly lifted to Honor’s eyes again. “Of course I recall it. You’ve taken it from my jewelry box.”

Augustine chuckled and said to Mr. Cleburne, “There is never a moment’s peace with so many women, sir. But you will grow accustomed to it.”

Honor was so anxious to dispel any idea that she might have taken the necklace from her mother that she only vaguely wondered why Mr. Cleburne would need to grow accustomed to sisters. “No, Mamma! The earl made a gift of it to me, remember?”

“You
stole
it,” her mother insisted, her gaze suddenly dark and distant. Standing just on the other side of her, Monica’s gaze widened with surprise.

“She’s not stolen it, Joan,” said the earl. “I gave it to her.”

Her mother yanked her hand free of the earl’s. “Why would you lie to protect
her?
”

Stunned, Mr. Cleburne looked from Honor to Lady Beckington. “May I be of some help?”

Augustine was gaping in shock at his stepmother, and Monica... Monica’s gaze was fixed on Honor, neither surprised nor smug. She seemed only curious as to what Honor would say next.

God in heaven, she
knew.
She knew Honor’s mother was going mad.

Honor’s heart began to race. She quickly took off the necklace. “Here, Mamma. You are quite right, I have taken it without permission.” She held the necklace out to her mother.

Lady Beckington turned away from it, as if looking at it hurt her. “I don’t want it
now,
” she said, as if the necklace had been ruined. “Oh, there she is! There is my daughter Grace!” she said, and rose, almost pushing Mr. Cleburne aside as she reached for Grace.

Grace looked curiously at them all, but when her gaze met Honor’s, the color seemed to bleed from her face. “Good evening, Mamma,” she said, and kissed her mother’s cheek.

Her mother grabbed Grace in a tight embrace. “How
thankful
I am that you have come,” she said. “She stole my necklace!” She glared at Honor.

The earl very shakily reached his hand up to his wife’s arm. “Sit, Joan, sit, sit. I should like you near.”

Honor’s mother looked as if she meant to refuse her husband, but Mr. Cleburne put a hand on her elbow, guiding her into the chair. With one last glare for Honor, she smiled up at Mr. Cleburne as if everything were quite normal, as if she hadn’t just accused Honor of stealing from her.

But Augustine, Monica and Grace were all looking at Honor uncertainly, not knowing what to say. And what was Honor to do?

It was the earl who saved her. He subtly touched her hand. “Bloody women,” he said, his voice rough. “Always arguing over this jewel or that shoe, are they not, Cleburne?” he said with a dismissive flick of his wrist.

Mr. Cleburne laughed with anxious relief. “Quite so, my lord.”

“If you will excuse me, my lord, I should make sure the kitchen is in order,” Honor said, to which Grace’s eyebrows rose nearly to her hairline, seeing as how Honor rarely set foot in the kitchen. Nonetheless, Honor walked on, the necklace still clutched in her hand.

But as she moved away, she couldn’t seem to settle her heart, racing with fear.

She wished she knew what to do, she wished, oh, God, how she
wished
that she had taken her responsibility to marry more seriously. If she had married, she would be in a position to care for her mother without fearing what would become of her.

Honor needed air, a moment of quiet to think. She stepped out of the ballroom and into the crowded hallway.

A touch to her arm startled her; she looked up to see George Easton.

He gave her a subtle wink as he bowed before her. “There you are, Miss Cabot. I thought perhaps you had returned to London, as I’ve seen hide nor hair of you since I left all my cares behind to come to your aid.” He cocked a brow, a playful smile on his lips.

Her foolish heart skipped several beats at the sight of him. She suddenly didn’t feel quite so alone. “Perhaps you’ve not seen me about because you were well occupied?” She arched a brow right back at him.

“Indeed I was,” he said agreeably. “I spent the afternoon playing croquet with your future sister-in-law and charming her into submission. You do recall, do you not, the reason for our acquaintance?” he asked, gesturing back and forth between them.

She did not like to think he was here because of Monica. She wanted him to be here for her.

“It went exceedingly well, if you’re wondering,” he said. “Much like humoring a child—”

“Humoring a—
oh!
” Honor exclaimed. “It is comforting to know that your esteem for yourself never wavers!” She stepped around him, intending to stalk away before she said something she’d regret, but Easton was not content to let her go. He stopped her with a hand to her abdomen as she tried to pass.

“Don’t you dare flounce away from me in a snit, madam.”

“I am neither flouncing nor in a
snit,
” she said, pushing his hand away.

“Yes, you are. You’re angry that your little scheme is not working and are directing your frustration at me.”

That wasn’t it at all. Her frustration was too ill defined, directed at everything and everyone. “You are quite right, Mr. Easton,” she said imperiously. “I am directing my frustration at you. I truly believed you were the man for this, could turn
any
woman’s head—”

“I beg your pardon once more, but
you
claimed that. I never did.”

“I don’t want you to do it!” she blurted.

Easton blinked. “Pardon?”

What was she doing?
Honor put her hand to her forehead and closed her eyes, trying to make sense of her feelings. “You were right. It was a ridiculous notion, and one that has failed miserably.”

“Have a care, love,” Easton muttered, and smiled reassuringly. “I’ve not given up, and frankly, I never thought
you
would. I’ve never met a more tenacious and stubborn—”

Honor lifted her head, her eyes narrowing.

“Pardon,” he said with an easy smile. “
Determined
person in my life.”

“I was. I
am,
” she quickly amended. “But this...this is folly. Childish folly. I don’t want you to do it. Please.”

“Well, yes, but... Good God, you
are
defeated,” he said, pretending shock. “Where is the swashbuckler?”

The swashbuckler had deserted her. She felt nothing but fear and uncertainty and a strong desire for the man standing before her. She shrugged halfheartedly. She felt torn and pulled in so many conflicting directions, everything twisted all around, and in the midst of it were her growing feelings for Easton.

“Dear God,” Easton muttered, his gaze sweeping over her face. “Stand right where you are, Miss Cabot.” He walked a few feet away to hail a passing footman with a tray laden with champagne flutes. He returned and handed a flute to her. “Cheer up. That’s a command,” he said. “I won’t allow the one shining star in this bloody
ton
to lose her flame. I’ll even dance if I must.”

That brought her head up with a swell of tenderness. “Really?” she asked hopefully.

He smiled at her earnestness.
“Really
.
”

That admission gave Honor a new breath of exhilaration for reasons that didn’t seem prudent or even reasonable. She suddenly felt much lighter as she sipped her champagne. She looked into his pale blue eyes, filled with the warmth of his concern for her. “I need some air,” she said simply.

His eyes sparked in the low light of the hallway. “I thought you’d never admit it.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

S
HE GLIDED DOWN
the hall before him, the train of her gown sweeping elegantly behind. George had no idea where she was going, but when they passed the French doors that led out onto a viewing balcony, he caught her hand in his. “Here,” he said.

“It’s raining,” she said, but she did not pull her hand free of his.

“If I am not mistaken, there is an eave over the balcony.” George opened the door and with a quick glance behind them, he stood aside so she could slip out.

Honor stepped out into the cool, damp air and took a breath. She closed her eyes and lifted her face to the fine mist that hung over Longmeadow. Given the weather, there was no one wandering the grounds, no one outside at all. George pulled the door shut and the cacophony of so many people gathered in one place fell away. It was quiet out here, the only sound the slow patter of rain on the eaves.

“I feel as if I can breathe for the first time tonight,” Honor said, and bent her dark head and looked down, over the railing. She placed the flute of champagne on the railing and brought her hands to her bare arms.

George put his flute aside and shrugged out of his coat. He draped it over her shoulders; Honor smiled gratefully. “Thank you.” She dipped her head, touched her nose to the shoulder of his coat, as if she were breathing it in.

“Now then,” he said, picking up his flute and sipping once more. “What has happened to bring about this sudden melancholy?”

Honor sighed as if she carried a great weight. “My mother,” she said simply. “She’s getting worse. Soon, I think everyone shall know about her.” She looked down at something she held in her hand. “I realize now I should have been more inclined to accept the attentions of gentlemen after I came out. If I had, I’d be married by now and I’d have the means to care for her.”

George didn’t like the reminder that Honor was a privileged debutante, or that she would marry one day, probably to someone here in this house this very weekend. It made him feel strangely adrift, as if he was being cast out into the stream while she remained anchored behind.

“I wonder,” he said, taking in a face that seemed almost perfectly sculpted, “on whom you might have set your cap had you accepted their attentions? Perhaps he is stumbling about in his cups now, just beyond that door.”

She smiled. “No. There is no one.”

He didn’t believe that for a moment. “No one,” he repeated dubiously, and very casually brushed her earlobe with his thumb. The little black jewel that dangled there bounced a bit. “The most desirable bachelors among the Quality are gathered here this weekend and Miss Honor Cabot sees no one who might serve as a suitable husband? A father to her children? A companion in her dotage?”

She lifted her face a little. “Not in there.”

“Washburn,” George suggested.

Honor instantly burst out laughing. “Washburn! Do you think I would subject myself to simpering poetry readings every night of my life?”

“Ah, he is a poet,” George said. “How appalling for you. Then you must at least find young Lord Desbrook appealing. I have it on good authority that he is one of the most sought-after young men in all of London.”

“Well, of course he is—he will one day be a duke. But in the strictest confidence I may tell you that as a man, Desbrook is exceedingly dull. I once spent an entire supper party seated next to him, and all he could speak about was the stag he had shot.”

“He’s a hunter? The bounder,” he teased her. “There is always Lord Merryton, who has, as far as I know, resisted the many attempts to lay a dainty finger or two on his fortune.”

“Lord Merryton is not here. And if he was, I assure you, he’d be
quite
imperious. He’s too proud, if you ask me.”

“All right then, we have a poet, a hunter and a proud man who are all wholly unsuitable for the fair Honor Cabot.”

“Precisely.”

“Then who?” George traced a path down her neck, his finger sliding into the indention of her throat at the base of her neck.
Yes, who, Honor Cabot? Who would you take to your bed? Who would you allow to father your children, to love you every day of your life?
“You are a beautiful young woman with the best of connections. Surely there is
some
one you might imagine joining you in conjugal bliss? Or are the rumors perhaps true that Lord Rowley has ruined you for any other man?”

Honor looked up at him with surprise. “Is it truly said?”

“Not by everyone, but a few, yes.”

She sighed. “I grant you that my unpleasant experience with Lord Rowley did not persuade me to other courtships...but it is not
entirely
true, Easton.”

He couldn’t imagine a greater fool than Rowley, and moved his hand to her décolletage, his fingers sliding across her soft skin. “Poor Honor. It must have been painful for you.”

“At first,” she admitted, and looked away. “It was really more surprising. Until then, I didn’t know that life could be so terribly cruel.”

How he hated that she’d discovered that sad truth. He wished that he could keep her from discovering other cruel truths about life, but that was beyond his capacity. The most he could offer was some advice. “Not every man is unkind, love.”

She looked up at him, her eyes swimming in an emotion he could not name but could feel reverberating in his chest. “I know,” she said softly. “You’re not unkind. I can trust you.”

George’s heart hitched painfully. The words were erotic to the bastard child in him. They meant acceptance, respect. “Don’t trust me, love,” he warned her. As much as it meant to him to hear those words from her lips, he knew that he could never be what she expected him to be. He was too much of an outsider, a man with no home.

Honor seemed to understand; she averted her gaze, swallowing hard.

George admired her slender neck and gentle jaw. A moment passed as the two of them gazed out into the night. Honor said, “I’ve not wanted to marry these past two years.” She peeked at him again and smiled sheepishly. “I have valued my freedom and have believed that until Augustine shoved me out into the cold world so that his new wife might turn my favorite green salon into another breakfast room, I would enjoy the privileges I have somehow been fortunate enough to enjoy.”

“But won’t you still be a free woman if you are married?”

She clucked her tongue at him. “Of course not,” she said. “Really, Easton, surely you understand that a woman is not
truly
free if she is married. Some husbands are benevolent, but others are not, and if your husband is not, there is very little a woman can do for it.”

George had had liaisons with married women, and none of them had ever complained particularly about their lives. But he did recall when Lady Dearing desired to see a sister in Wales who was near death, Lord Dearing refused her, claiming he could not be parted from his wife for so long, and she was not allowed to go.

He shook off the memory. “You want freedom to do what, precisely?” he asked as he cupped the back of her neck with his hand—it felt so small to him. “To attend teas and parties and ride about in Hyde Park?”

“No, I want to be free as
you
are,” she said. “To not care about society, to do what I please, to go where I desire.”

George snorted. “Do you truly believe what I have is freedom?”

She blinked up at him. “Well, yes... The best kind.”

He laughed low, stroked her cheek. “It is a puzzle to me how one woman can be so clever and fearless, and yet so naive all at once.”

“Naive!”

“Quite. How can you even think I am free, when you yourself have had to seek invitations for me? Admit it, Honor—we are all prisoners of our society in one way or another. Don’t mistake loneliness for freedom.”

She looked startled. “Are you lonely, George?”

“At times, yes,” he admitted. “I’ve no family, have I? There are times I’d rather have a family than all the ships in the sea.” He laughed, the sound of it a little bitter to his own ears. “And now it looks as if I shall have neither.”

“Oh, George...” She slipped her hand into his. “I...I think...”

He smiled at what he assumed was an awkward attempt to soothe him, caught her hand and brought it to his mouth to kiss it. “Don’t fret for me, Cabot. I make do.”

But Honor didn’t smile. Emotion was swimming in her eyes again, and it seeped into George like good whiskey on a cold winter’s day. He could feel a beast awakening in him, rising up, wanting to take hold—

Honor abruptly looked down as if she couldn’t bear it. She opened her palm, and he saw the necklace there. “Is it broken?”

“No. It’s the casualty of a misunderstanding.”

He had no idea what she meant, but he took it from her hand, turned her around and draped it around her throat. She bent her head slightly forward so that he might fasten it. When he’d secured it, he slid his hand over her shoulder, pressed his palm to her collarbone and pulled her back into his chest.

He could feel her shift closer, her weight leaning against his. “What are you doing?” she whispered.

God, but he wished he knew. He was falling. Off a mountain, down into a strange ravine whose bottom he could not see. It was dark in that ravine—he could not see where he was heading. “I wish you the freedom you seek, Honor.”

She didn’t move at first, but then she turned slightly, glancing over her shoulder at him, her blue eyes glimmering with desire.

He slid his hand down into her bodice, dipped his head and kissed her neck. “Freedom to experience all that life is.”

“You are a curious man, Easton. Dangerous and unpredictable and unexpected. I don’t know quite what to make of you.”

He smiled against her cheek. “You might have considered that before you galloped up Rotten Row to intercept me.”

“I mostly certainly
did
consider it,” she said, and twisted around to face him.

He gazed down at her, taking in every freckle, every crease. He slipped his arm inside the coat, around her waist, and pulled her into his body.

But Honor put her hand between them and pushed back. “Don’t you dare kiss me here,” she warned him. “I can’t bear it.”

Neither could he. He gathered her closer. “Darling, you should never dare a ravenous man,” he said, and dipped his head to kiss her.

She instantly softened into him, her hand sliding up his chest.

George’s response was a guttural sound, deep in his throat. He slipped an arm around her waist, moved his mouth to her neck, her earlobe and across her jaw to her mouth again. It wasn’t enough; it was never enough with Honor. He abruptly pushed her up against the wall, pressing his body against hers as his tongue dipped hungrily into her mouth. He needed to be inside of her, needed to fill her with the emotion that was damming up inside of him.

He thought she might protest and appeal to his sense of decency, but Honor didn’t attempt to stop him—if anything, she curved more deeply into him, and her kisses became more urgent.

He paused for a moment, braced his arms on either side of her head.

Honor smiled at him like a woman who knew she was in control and on the verge of carnal pleasure, and the effect on him was maddeningly strong. It sent a quake of desire rumbling through him. He allowed himself a moment to take in her fine figure, the swell of her bosom, the inky dark hair that smelled of roses.

He touched her collarbone with the back of his hand. “If you were mine, I would remove every stitch of clothing and kiss every inch of your skin, Cabot,” he said, his voice rough with need. He dipped his hand into her cleavage, traced a line up to her neck again. “I would make myself mad thinking of all the ways I might have you.”

She sucked in her breath and held it; her lashes fluttered.

“I would use my hands,” he said, cupping her between her legs. “My mouth,” he muttered, brushing his lips across her temple, “and my cock.” He pressed his erection against her abdomen and could feel the shiver of anticipation course through her body.

“But you’re not mine,” he muttered, and began to trace a line from her chin, down her neck, between her bosoms, and to her groin. “I must then improvise.” He began to gather her skirts.

Honor glanced anxiously at the balcony door.

“Does the threat of discovery excite you?” he asked, slipping his hand beneath her gown and between her legs.

Her answer was swallowed by a soft gasp at the sensation of his fingers sliding deeper into the slit of her body, twirling suggestively around the hardened nub.

Honor splayed her hands against the wall at her back as if she were trying to hold herself up. Her head dropped against his shoulder as he moved inside her, and her breathing began to grow ragged.

But for George, it was not enough. It could never be enough. He suddenly withdrew his hand. Honor’s lips parted with surprise, and she opened her eyes. “We’ll not go as quickly this evening,” he said, and took her leg in his hand, lifting it to prop her foot against the railing.

“Easton!”
she whispered hotly as she glanced frantically at the door.

He peeled one of her hands from the wall and stuffed the voluminous skirts into it. “Hold it,” he commanded her, kissed her with all the desire that was building to a fevered pitch in him, then slid down her body, his hands following, raking across her breasts and waist, until he was on one knee and his hands had settled on her hips.

He could smell her potent desire, could feel the dampness between her legs. Above him, Honor was gasping for air. George couldn’t contain himself; he dipped in between the curls and the folds of skin, his tongue sliding into the valley. Honor gasped again and clutched at his head and hair.

George flicked his tongue against her again, gripped her hips, and began to lick her, dipping deep into her slit, exploring her, teasing her at the core of her desire then sliding down the slick pathway again, to where he could feel her throbbing for him against his tongue. Her moans of pleasure were incredibly arousing—he would not have thought himself capable of restraint, but he felt an intrinsic need to pleasure her, to give her this. The stroke of his tongue turned harder until he covered her completely with his mouth, sucking her as she moved against him, pressing against his tongue, seeking her fulfillment. He slipped his hand between her legs, used his fingers and his mouth to carry her over the edge.