He grinned, and that fluttering started in her all over again.

“Miss Hargrove would have any number of offers if she liked,” Honor said, and it was true. As much as it pained her to admit it, Monica was a beautiful woman, her looks admired by men and women alike. “It needn’t be Augustine. But as it is Augustine, the stakes are quite high for me.”

“I would think you’d have any number of offers, as well,” he said. “Is that not a better solution?”

“Yes, of course, a woman’s only hope—marry well. Thank you for your confidence, but we aren’t discussing me.”

“Perhaps you should have asked for an offer as your favor, Miss Cabot. I find the request for conjugal bliss far more enticing.”

“I beg your pardon,” Honor said, taking great exception. “I would never ask a gentleman to offer for my hand!”

“I see. You will not ask a man to marry you, but you will ask him to seduce the woman who would be your sister-in-law.” His brows rose dubiously.

“Two entirely different points, Mr. Easton!” she argued. “My sister Grace and I, we shall make our way in society with or without Augustine’s support, but my younger sisters are not yet out, and they cannot hope to fare as well without proper introduction. And my mother—” She caught herself, took a deep breath.

“Your mother?” he prodded.

Now she’d gone and done it. She anxiously smoothed the lap of her gown again. “My mother is unwell,” she said, and looked up. “No one knows.”

He eyed her shrewdly a moment. “I am sorry to hear it,” he said softly.

His tenderness surprised her. And strangely enough, it made the fluttering in her spread across her skin. “I rather doubt my mother will find another situation that will provide the same sort of opportunities for my younger sisters that Grace and I have enjoyed. I fear they will be pushed from society altogether.”

“Why not take your fears to Sommerfield?” he asked. “He seems a rather fair fellow to me. Surely he would provide a stipend—”

“He is too easily persuaded by Miss Hargrove’s opinion. And Miss Hargrove is... That is to say, she will...” Honor sighed again with frustration, finding her reasoning so bloody difficult to explain. “Well, I shan’t lie about it,” she said wearily. What was the point in that? “Miss Hargrove doesn’t care for me in the least.”

“Aha. And you are certain of this?”

“Oh, quite,” Honor said with a flick of her hand. “She finds me unlikable.”

“Oh?” He smiled again. “Passing strange, as I find you quite likable.”

That remark sent a little thrill down her spine. Honor didn’t want to smile, but she could feel one playing at the corners of her lips. “Even so?”

“Even so.” He smiled warmly at her.

There was nothing wolfish about it, and yet...and yet Honor was breathless once more.

“So then, tell me, Miss Cabot, if I were to agree to your outlandishly reprehensible and ill-advised request to save your poor sisters and ailing mother—”

She gasped with surprised delight. “You will?”

“I said if,” he cautioned her. “But if I were to agree, what will I have in return?”

“What do you mean?”

“Come now, lass, I’ve seen you with cards in your hand. You are far too astute to believe I’d not want something in return for this favor.”

Apparently she was not as astute as he thought, for that had not crossed her mind.

He abruptly shifted forward again and deliberately allowed his gaze to wander the full length of her body, then up again. He touched her jaw with his knuckle, tracing a slow, deliberate line, sending Honor’s heart into another wave of wild beating. “What are you willing to trade?” he asked, his voice low and silky.

She leaned away from him. “How dare you—”

Easton took her by the arm and pulled her back. “How dare I?” he asked, admiring her mouth. He reminded her of a cat with a mouse, determining just how much to play before making the kill. “How dare I ask for recompense for a wretched deed?” He abruptly cupped her breast as if it were the most natural thing to do. Honor caught her breath; he smiled a little and began to massage it. “How dare I ask for a favor in return?” he asked silkily as tiny fires of desire erupted and sluiced down Honor’s spine.

“You ask too much,” she said, and pressed away from him. “How can you call yourself a gentleman?”

“I’ve not called myself anything, love.” He brushed his knuckles across her breast, sending another shaft of fire down her spine, then cupped her face, his thumb stroking her cheek.

Honor’s heart was beating so quickly she wondered how it did not leap from her chest. She understood how he would seduce and claim a woman. She understood why so many women had taken him as a lover. She was drawn to him, to his intense gaze, admiring and ravenous at once. To his touch, unyielding and yet soft. “Allow me to suggest a suitable trade,” she said quickly, before this cat devoured its prey. “I will pay you,” she said, alarmed that her voice shook ever so slightly. “There is the one hundred pounds I won from your purse. I could return that in exchange for your help.”

“You would return one hundred pounds, fairly won, for this?” he asked silkily, and flicked his finger across the tip of her breast.

“Actually,” she said, her gaze on his mouth, “I would return ninety-two pounds.” She did not think it necessary to tell him that she’d bought a bonnet, some shoes and some underthings with the money.

“Enticing. But money is not what I have in mind.” He slipped his hand to her nape and pulled her closer. “I have in mind something just for you.” He put his mouth to her ear and said low, “Something that will make your timid heart shatter and bring a glow to your fair cheeks.” His hand was in her lap, his palm pressing against her abdomen. “Do you know what will bring a glow to a woman’s cheek, Miss Cabot?”

She tried to turn her head, but she couldn’t seem to force herself to do it. “I am not a girl, Mr. Easton.”

“Aren’t you?” he whispered, and drew her earlobe in between a pair of soft, moist lips, nibbling it.

Dear Lord, she would expire. She closed her eyes, taking in his scent—spicy and warm—the feel of his hands on her. She could imagine his hands on all of her, and feared that her heart would give in, and she would die here on this bench. And yet, somehow, she managed to keep calm. “I can offer you ninety-two pounds, nothing else. There is nothing else I will trade, sir.”

He shifted closer, his lips against her cheek now, and Honor thought he intended to kiss her. Her mind screamed for her to bang on the ceiling to cry out to Jonas to save her. But another, wanton part of her was whispering kiss me. Kiss me, kiss me....

He slid his hand up her rib cage, to the side of her breast. “I will think on your ninety-two pounds,” he murmured, his breath warm and moist on her skin, tantalizing her almost to the point of madness.

“You mean to do it,” she said softly, surprised, and opened her eyes. “You will grant me this favor.”

“Now you are reprehensible and presumptuous. I haven’t said I would.”

“But I can see that you will,” she said, and twisted about to face him, beaming. “Thank you, Mr. Easton!”

He wrapped his fingers around hers.

“Call on me tomorrow, at Beckington House, please. I can explain more openly there.”

“I cannot, for the life of me, imagine how much more open you could possibly be, Miss Cabot.”

“I knew you would agree,” she said, suddenly full of delight.

“I have not agreed to anything.”

“I shall be waiting for you at half past two. The girls will be at their studies and Augustine at his club. Thank you, sir,” she said again, her voice full of the gratitude she felt. “I am in your debt.” She moved to knock on the ceiling to signal Jonas that this ride was over.

Only then did she realize that Mr. Easton was still holding her hand.



CHAPTER FIVE

HONOR RETURNED TO Beckington House breathless from her dangerous rendezvous, her heart still beating wildly, and floated into the foyer where she found Prudence and Mercy quarreling loudly.

“Honor!” Prudence cried the moment she saw her older sister. “Please do tell Mercy she is to return my slippers at once!”

“Mercy, please return Pru’s slippers at once,” Honor said without looking at Mercy’s feet.

“But why must she have them always?” Mercy countered. “I can’t see what harm there is in borrowing them on occasion.”

“You don’t see the harm?” Prudence demanded. “Honor, you really must do something. She’s completely without scruples! If you don’t insist she hand them over, I shall remove them from her feet myself!”

“Mercy, really,” Honor said absently as she untied her bonnet, her fingers running over the same velvet fabric Easton’s fingers had stroked. The fingers that had stroked the skin of her arm, her face; she shivered lightly at the recollection. “They belong to Pru, and you have a wardrobe full of slippers.”

“What’s this about slippers?” The girls’ mother, Joan Devereaux, Lady Beckington, appeared from the corridor. “There will be no forceful removing of slippers, my dears.” Her blue eyes were bright; there was no sign of the distant fog Honor noticed in her mother’s eyes when she wasn’t entirely present. Joan Devereaux was a regal woman, the epitome of elegance and grace, and had once been considered one of the more handsome women of the ton. She smiled warmly at her daughters, looking between them. “What are you girls about?”

“Only the usual sort of thing, Mamma,” Prudence said imperiously, and began striding for the grand staircase. “Mercy has a wretched habit of borrowing things without permission, and with no consequence!”