The Trouble with Honor

CHAPTER NINETEEN

SHE 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.

When she came, she fell over his head, her arms around his neck.

George was breathing as hard as Honor. Harder. His breath was full of pent-up desire, of the physical toil of his restraint. He kissed her belly, then lowered her skirts and stood up, dragging her up with him.

Honor was spent, her body limp as she sought her breath. She slowly straightened, brushed her hand against her hair—one thick strand had come undone from the neat little arrangement at the back of her head. She tucked it in and lifted her gaze to George. “You have destroyed me.”

He shook his head and casually removed a handkerchief and wiped his hand and returned it to his pocket. “I have opened the door to a different sort of freedom,” he said, and brushed her face with the back of his hand. He thought he should speak, but the taste of her was still on his lips, and he couldn’t find the appropriate thing to say. I adore you. I need you. I can’t possibly have you.

Honor rose up on her toes and kissed the corner of his mouth. She slid down again, removed his coat from her shoulders and said, “I don’t know what to do with you, George Easton.”

“The feeling is entirely mutual.”

“I should go,” she said, but her gaze was searching his face, as if she weren’t certain what she should do.

George’s body answered for them both. He could not stand on this viewing balcony with the taste of her on his mouth, her pleasure still thrumming in his trousers. “You should,” he said, and ran his thumb across her lip. “Go now, little lamb, before I devour you.” He leaned down, kissed her lightly on the mouth. “Go,” he said, more urgently. His high steps were faltering. He was off course. He needed a moment, several moments, to find his pace again.

“George—”

“No. Go now,” he said, more forcefully.

With a hint of a smile on her face, Honor stepped around him and walked to the French doors. With one last swipe of her palm against her hair, she opened both doors and disappeared inside.

George donned his coat, walked to the railing and stared into black, willing his body back to its natural state.

Willing his heart back to its natural state was not as successful.