The Trouble with Honor

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

EASTON LOOKED PERTURBED when the orchestra began to play. Honor stepped forward, curtsied as she ought. “You have me at a disadvantage,” he said. “I am not familiar with this music.”

“It’s a waltz. You’ve not seen it danced?”

He frowned at her as she took his hand and placed hers in it, then held it out. “You know very well that I do not inhabit ballrooms or assembly rooms.”

“Then perhaps you should engage a dance instructor. I understand Monsieur Fornier is excellent. He counts the French nobility among his students.”

“I don’t need a dance instructor,” he huffed. “I don’t intend to dance. I am only here because of you, for which I am questioning my sanity.”

“And I am forever thankful,” she said graciously. “Your other hand should rest in the middle of my back,” she said, and put her other hand on his shoulder.

He put his hand on the small of her back, just above her hip, and arched a brow. “This seems rather scandalous for a group of blathering debutantes.”

Honor arched a brow, as well. “And it is quite diverting for them, too. Your hand should be higher on my back.”

He smiled wolfishly. “I like it here.”

So did she, very much so. She liked standing next to him—he was so much larger, so much stronger—but she could well imagine Lady Chatham and Lady Prescott’s fit of apoplexy if they were to see it. Unfortunately, the song’s introduction was over, the dancing had begun and Honor had no time to argue the placement of Easton’s hand. “All right, follow me—one, two, three, one, two, three,” she muttered, moving him first one way, then the other.

After a few stumbling tries, he found the rhythm of the dance.

“There!” she said as they moved forward, “I think you have it! You’re a natural.”

“Then perhaps you will allow me to lead,” he said, and suddenly twirled her, very nearly colliding with another couple.

Honor laughed. “You can’t do that—you must turn in the direction of the other dancers.”

“I beg your pardon? I may do as I please, just as you seem to do. Longmeadow, Honor? You’ve made too much of this scheme now.”

He was cross with her. The truth was that Honor had blurted it without thinking, which, upon reflection, she’d been doing quite a lot of lately.

Easton’s foot collided with hers, and they faltered for a step or two before he quickly righted them. “Pardon,” he said apologetically, and twirled her in the wrong direction again, heedless of the other dancers.

“The wrong way, Mr. Easton!”

“Say you,” he said irritably. “And by the by, did it occur to you that perhaps I am not at liberty to leave London just now? That perhaps I might have more pressing issues than you?”

She wanted to know what those pressing issues were, if they involved women. “Impossible,” she teased him.

“Oh? Well, here’s a novel thought for you, madam—I don’t want to go to Longmeadow. And if I did, I wouldn’t need you to so bloody blatantly wrangle an invitation for me!”

So there it was—he was embarrassed. Honor was slightly chagrined by that—she never meant that. “I didn’t wrangle an invitation for you, Easton. The thought occurred to me, and I said it. And why ever would you not want to go to Longmeadow? It’s beautiful! The house is truly magnificent. And frankly, sir, I had to do it, for I never once considered that you’d not do as you’ve promised. I am merely providing you the opportunity.”

That remark caused him to stop midstep.

“Move on!” she frantically urged him.

He grudgingly did so, but his expression was full of vexation. “Honor Cabot, I have done as I said,” he snapped, and moved off step, so that she had to hop on one leg to catch up to him. “I have come to this wretched ball, I have danced with her,” he insisted, bumping into the couple behind them and tossing a curt “pardon” over his shoulder. “I have engaged her, seduced her—I’ve done all but ask for her fragile little hand in marriage!”

Honor was not the least bit chastised; she rolled her eyes at his declaration.

He looked surprised, but then his eyes narrowed. “By God, someone should have turned you over a knee long ago. I would take great delight in doing it myself.”

It surprised Honor that those words should send a delightful little shiver down her spine. “Don’t be so cross with me, George. I will concede that you’ve managed to make some headway, but you haven’t done it.”

“How do you know?” he demanded. “Your path has scarcely crossed Miss Hargrove’s this evening!”

“I know,” Honor said with confidence. “She’s not watching you now, is she?” She did not expect him to suddenly twirl her about as he did. He squinted in the general direction of where they’d left Augustine and Monica.

“Well, then?” Honor asked. “Are the eyes of a doe fixed upon you now?”

“For the love of God, she is with her fiancé.”

Honor shrugged. “That hardly keeps others from it, does it? Lady Seifert has openly admired you, and she is married.”

That news seemed to interest him in a way that Honor did not care for. “Has she?” he asked, and smiled as if that pleased him. “Where is she?”

“I don’t know!” What a rooster! Now Honor was cross. “Seems rather vulgar to me, to be ogling a man who is not your husband.”

“Spoken like a true innocent,” Easton said with a patient smile as he searched the crowd, presumably for Lady Seifert. But then his blue eyes flicked to her; he studied her a moment and suddenly smiled so charmingly that Honor felt a little unsteady. “Oh, my,” he said as they woodenly maneuvered the corner of the dance floor. “I sense you would like to convince me you are not an innocent, but couldn’t possibly say so for the sake of propriety.”

That was precisely the thing that had flitted through her mind, and Honor could feel her cheeks heating. She was very practiced in the art of courting, but she was an innocent in the purest sense of the word. In spite of all outward appearances, Honor guarded her virtue very carefully. In fact, Easton was the first man who had ever kissed her so thoroughly, and the memory of that kiss, of his mouth and hands on her skin, made her feel too warm all of a sudden. She should have guarded herself with him—he was a potent and very virile man. “That is not at all what I was thinking. You needn’t tease me—I merely wondered after your association with Lady Seifert.”

“That,” he said, clearly still amused, “is not for an innocent such as yourself to wonder. I fear it would bruise your maidenly sensibilities.”

“How foolish I’ve been. I thought you merely a rooster, but it would seem you’re an imperious rooster. Just as I should not wonder about you, neither should you wonder about me, Mr. Easton.”

His charming smile broadened with delight. “What is it that raises your hackles, love? One moment I am George, and the next Mr. Easton, depending upon just how cross you are with me, eh? Allow me to enlighten you, Miss Cabot. The difference between us is that it is not necessary for me to wonder about you. I know an innocent when I see one.”

Honor gasped indignantly, but before she could argue, he whirled her about and her back brushed against another dancer. “Will you have a care!” she whispered hotly.

“I should have a care? That’s rich—surely even you see the irony in that statement.”

“At least I’m discreet when I’m careless and don’t bump into this person or that.”

Easton laughed. “Do you hear yourself, madam? You are quite possibly the most indiscreet woman I have ever met!”

“Me?”

“Absolutely you, love,” he said, smiling. “You are a careless, indiscreet, absurdly brazen young woman, who wishes she were not as innocent as she is, and honestly, I have never been more goddamned intrigued.”

Honor had already opened her mouth to argue, but warmth ballooned through her, puffing her up. She wanted to cover her entire body with it. With him. She really wished George wouldn’t smile at her so charmingly, so warmly, so deeply. It shone inside him, glittered in his eyes. She tried to keep from smiling in return, to show him that she was quite offended, but try as she might, she could not keep the smile from her lips. “Well, you needn’t shout it.”

He laughed, pulled Honor into his body and twirled again and again to the edge of the dance floor, where he caught her hand and pulled her off.

“Wait, what are you doing?” she exclaimed, glancing nervously about them. Two gentlemen smiled knowingly. At least she worried that was so.

“I am giving my poor feet a much needed rest,” he said, and glanced back. “Come, then,” he said, and put his hand to her back, ushering her forward more quickly, to the buffet and footman. “A glass of champagne will quench your thirst, Miss Cabot,” he said, rather loudly.

“I don’t want—”

He squeezed her hand so tightly that Honor squealed a bit. But Easton ignored her and deftly steered her past the buffet, slipping into the corridor, then practically pushing her up the servants’ stairs.

“Wait! I should go back.”

He reached around her and pushed the door open onto a darkened balcony.

Honor stepped cautiously onto the balcony that overlooked the entrance below. She glanced around; it was dark, but there were couples walking about. Across the space she could see a pair of lovers, their arms entwined around each other. “Oh, no,” she said, but Easton had already grabbed her hand and tugged her to stand behind a big display of chain mail. He slipped in behind her.

She twisted about in that crowded space and frantically swiped at a cobweb that touched her hair. Easton was standing so close that she could feel the heat of his body. “What in blazes are you doing?” she demanded.

“Removing some of the innocence from you,” he said, and grabbed her waist with both hands as he kissed her.

Honor was so taken aback, she slammed her fists against him. He lifted his head. “Bloody hell, I’ve wanted to do that all night.”

Oh, God, so had she. “Are you mad?” she whispered hotly. “What if we are discovered?”

“What if?” he said, his mouth on her neck, her shoulders, his hands on her waist, her hips.

Honor heard the sound of someone approaching and caught her breath, digging her fingers into his arms. Easton stilled. They waited, her breath about to explode from her chest, until the person had walked by. When they did, George looked at her. She felt something very odd, like a whisper of silk across her chest. His eyes were darker, swimming with...with affection. Affection! She knew it was so because she felt it, too, a shock through her heart. She hadn’t felt anything like it in so long, and certainly never as ardently—Rowley suddenly seemed like a puppy compared to this wolf.

Honor surged forward and up on her toes, her mouth landing on his.

George lifted her off her feet and twirled around, put her up against the stone wall behind the chain mail, trapping her there with his body. He put his arm around her, anchored her tightly to him and kissed her, his tongue in her mouth, teasing hers, his lips on her cheek, her neck, against her lips. With his free hand, he stroked the skin of her décolletage, his fingers sliding into her gown, brushing against the rigid nipple and sending violent waves of desire through her.

Honor’s breath began to evaporate—she couldn’t breathe, didn’t want to breathe. She sought him with her hands, sliding down his arms and around his waist, up his chest again to his face, her fingers carelessly sliding in between their mouths, down his hard chest and boldly over the ridge of his erection. She caught her breath at the feel of it—so hard. Her body was responding, getting damper, softer somehow.

George reached for the hem of her gown, gathering it in folds until he could find her leg. His hand slid up past her stocking to the bare skin of her thigh, leaving a burning trail wherever he touched. Honor feared herself in danger of being swept under by the tide of hunger building in her, of rolling and tumbling along helplessly as it rushed through her, and still, she did not care.

How had he fanned so much desire in her? How had she come to esteem him so completely? He had seduced her thoroughly. “You are a scoundrel,” she said lowly, and splayed her hands against the wall at her back. “I could scream,” she said breathlessly into his ear.

“Then do it,” he challenged her. “Scream. And still you will not scream as you will when I make love to you.”

“Libertine,” she breathed, and propped her foot against the stone spindles of the railing so that his hand could reach the damp warmth between her legs. She gasped at the sensation when his fingers closed around the core of her pleasure, then slid deep inside her.

“Lover,” he whispered into her ear.

Honor closed her eyes and leaned her head against the wall. “I’m mad,” she whispered. “Mad, mad....”

“Enjoy it, lass,” he said, and kissed her mouth, the hollow of her throat and, moving down, put his lips on the skin of her bosom as he began to stroke her, his fingers swirling around the slick folds, sliding in and out of her, stroking the hard core.

With some primal rhythm pulsing through her, Honor began to ride his hand, pressing harder against his fingers, seeking release. She gripped him as he increased the intensity of his strokes, swirling, dipping, rubbing against her slick sex. She could hear voices, the laughter of people below, the whispers of other people on the balcony. It only served to heighten her experience, to realize in that moment how overpowering desire could be. She didn’t care if she was discovered. As her body tensed, coiling, preparing for release, she suddenly pitched forward, put her mouth against his shoulder and cried out against the wool of his coat with delirious pleasure as she shuddered around his hand.

They were both gasping when he withdrew his hand and dropped her skirts. She managed to lift her head and opened her eyes. She couldn’t look away from George Easton, couldn’t push back and put some distance between them as she did when gentlemen drew too close. She tried to think of something to say, but no words came to her. She felt breathless, weightless, and strangely erotic emotions swirled in her.

His hand slid down her arm, his fingers tangled with hers. He kissed her temple and said softly, “There you are, Cabot, a taste of your own medicine. And now the evening has come to its regrettable end.”

“What?” Honor tried to hide her fluster, but it was useless. She had stepped beyond an invisible curtain and could not hear very well.

He dipped his head to look her in the eye. “In spite of our disagreement about the effectiveness of your absurd ideas, the pleasure has truly been all mine.”

Honor couldn’t look away from him. She was stunned by what had happened, stunned by what he’d just done to her. “Will you come to Longmeadow?” she asked, far too anxiously.

“No.”

She nodded as if she accepted that, but then grabbed his fingers more tightly and said incongruently, “Please.”

“I’ve done all that I might do for you.” His smile was prurient.

He couldn’t mean it, surely he didn’t mean it. “We shall expect you in a fortnight,” she said stubbornly, panicking. “The guests begin to arrive on Thursday.”

He shook his head, then gave her an indulgent look as he touched her temple, brushing a strand of hair away from her eyes. His gaze was so soft that Honor felt a little fluttery. Light. As if she could float away into the chandeliers like a tail of smoke.

“You must go and dance straightaway,” he murmured. “Let everyone see you smile at someone else. You’d not want their last impression of you to be leaving the dance floor with me.”

“I don’t care,” she said earnestly, but Easton put his hand on her arm and gently held her back.

“Yes, you do. Go now, before people talk.”

Was he right? Honor truly didn’t know anymore. Everything was beginning to feel turned on its head. She didn’t care if people talked. She didn’t care that he was a bastard son. She didn’t want anything but him.

“Go,” he said, more sternly, giving her a bit of a push.

Honor moved without thinking. She walked around the balcony to the main staircase, aware that he was watching her. She told herself not to look back, begged herself not to look back—

Honor looked back.

George Easton was standing where she’d left him, his gaze fixed on her. And she could feel it in her, burning a path all the way down to her toes.