Monica laughed. She had no intention of standing up with him, of starting any sort of rumor. She pressed her cup into his hand. “Thank you, but I should not like to be the subject of any undue speculation. Good evening, Mr. Easton,” she said airily, and walked away.

She glanced back over her shoulder as she moved away.

He was watching her, his head down, his smile a bit smug.

Really, what the devil was he after?



CHAPTER EIGHT

GEORGE EASTON LEFT the assembly in the company of a gentleman Honor didn’t recognize. He had not so much as looked in her direction in the short time he was there, but she nevertheless assumed he’d lived up to his end of the agreement.

She also assumed that if he’d been even a fraction as potent as he had been with her at Beckington House, Monica was properly reduced to a bag of weightless feathers by now. God knew that Honor had been so reduced by him, her heart racing well after he’d gone, that ethereal kiss lingering on her lips for hours afterward. That Monica would be suffering so was something Honor really had to see for herself.

Honor searched the crowd for Monica, finally spotting her at table in the company of Agatha Williamson and Reginald Beeker.

She did not look like a weightless bag of feathers.

She actually looked a little sullen.

Oh, no. No, it couldn’t possibly be. Honor was marching across the room before she even realized it.

Monica was so intent on what Mr. Beeker was saying that she did not, at first, notice Honor. “Oh,” she said, clearly surprised to see Honor standing before her. “Good evening.”

“Good evening,” Honor said brightly. “Miss Williamson, a pleasure to see you again. Mr. Beeker, how do you do?” she asked politely as that gentleman scrambled to his feet.

“Likewise, I’m sure,” Miss Williamson said.

No one invited her to sit, but that did not deter Honor. “May I join you?” she asked pleasantly.

Mr. Beeker eagerly pulled a chair out for her. Honor sat and smiled at Monica.

“Shall I fetch us some drinks?” Mr. Beeker asked.

“Would you be so kind?” Honor asked before Monica could speak.

“You’ll need some help,” Miss Williamson said.

“Thank you,” Mr. Beeker said, and smiled at Honor before departing with his trusty aide on his quest to bring back four drinks.

“Well, then? To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, Honor?” Monica asked drily.

Honor laughed. “Only a desire to greet my old friend.”

“Mmm,” Monica said, taking Honor in. “Your gown is lovely.”

If there was one thing that could be said of Monica, she appreciated a fine gown when she saw one. “Thank you,” Honor said. “As is yours,” she added, thinking the dark green suited Monica’s complexion very well. “Did Mrs. Dracott fashion it?” she asked, referring to the much-sought-after modiste.

“No,” Monica said tightly. “Mrs. Wilbert. Mrs. Dracott has many commissions at the moment, what with the Season. But she’s done very well by you, hasn’t she? I suppose there is even a bonnet that matches the gown?” she asked, her gaze narrowing slightly on Honor.

“Good Lord, you’re not still angry about the bonnet, are you?” Honor asked with a dismissive flick of her wrist.

“No angrier than I was the summer you wooed Mr. Gregory away,” Monica sniffed.

Honor laughed with surprise. “We were sixteen years old, Monica. Really, why must you always bring up old hurts?”

“I’m not bringing up an old hurt, but an old scheme,” Monica said. “That’s always the way with you, isn’t it? One scheme or another?”

“Scheme!” Honor protested. “Shall we speak of schemes? Do you recall the Bingham dance, and how you and Agnes Mulberry took the last two seats in the Bingham coach, when I was the one who’d been invited and, in turn, invited the two of you? I had no other means of attending and you knew it very well.”

“Just as well as you knew that you had not invited me to the soiree at Longmeadow.” Monica clucked her tongue. “A lost invitation, indeed!”

Honor lifted her chin, wisely choosing not to recall that summer after all. “Never mind that, Monica. I came to offer my felicitations, not rehash the summer of your sixteenth year.”

“Felicitations? For what?” Monica asked.

“Am I mistaken?” Honor asked. “Augustine said that you were very keen to marry and that it may occur sooner rather than later.”

Monica suddenly laughed; her light brown eyes sparkled. “My dearest Sommerfield!” she said gaily. “You misunderstood him, Honor. He is so keen to marry me that he speaks of Gretna Green with alarming frequency.”

“Then you’d best marry him straightaway,” Honor said. “One can hardly say when another man might come along so keen to marry you, can one?”

“Pardon?” Monica said laughingly. “Really, Honor, I know you too well, and I know you did not traverse the ballroom to ask after my wedding. That’s not the least bit like you. Or me, for that matter.”

Honor couldn’t help but laugh. “True,” she agreed. “But as we are to be sisters, I hoped we might turn over a new leaf,” she said. “No more bickering over bonnets and whatnot.”

Monica’s arched a dark brow. “Indeed? If you truly wish to turn over a new leaf, then neither of us should be surprised to discover unpleasant facts about the other...such as scheduling a tea the very day the other has scheduled one. Is that what you mean, in turning over a new leaf?”

Monica had her there—last Season, Honor had indeed scheduled a garden tea on the very day and at the very hour of Monica’s tea—to which, Honor graciously declined to point out, she and Grace had not been invited. But in Honor’s defense, she really didn’t believe they would be inviting the same people. She’d supposed Monica would invite all the tedious, lifeless acquaintances, while she would have the lively, diverting guests at hers.

“And neither shall we publicly speculate as to each other’s whereabouts,” Honor said, reminding Monica that during last Season’s Jubilee Ball, Monica had openly suggested that Honor had snuck away with Lord Cargill, when in fact Honor had been in the retiring room with Grace. It had caused quite a lot of speculation.

“We’ll mind that we don’t,” Monica said, graciously inclining her head.

Honor smiled. “So then, have you had a nice evening?”

“Passable.”

“Did you make any new acquaintances?”

Monica cocked her head to one side. “What do you mean?” she asked suspiciously. “Why have you this sudden interest in my evening?”

“Dear God, but you are suspicious!” Honor said. “It’s just that I find this crowd so terribly tiresome in its sameness, don’t you? I should like someone new to divert us all. There you have it, the root of our disagreements—you always misunderstand me!”

“Or perhaps it is because I understand you completely,” Monica parried. “If you are seeking diversion, darling, perhaps you ought to consider a trip abroad. I said as much to Augustine just this week,” Monica said, and began to straighten her glove as if she were speaking about the weather. “I said that perhaps you might find new and different things more to your liking in America.”

An alarm sounded in Honor’s brain. She tried to laugh. “What a lark.”

Monica lifted her gaze from her glove. “Augustine was rather intrigued. He said he would very much like to see you and Grace enjoy a more worldly education. It seems to me if you find our society so tiresome, maybe you will find another society more diverting.”

“I didn’t say I found our society tiresome, Monica. I said I found the company this evening tiresome. I will kindly ask you not to put thoughts into Augustine’s head.”

“As part of our new leaf,” Monica suggested slyly.

“Precisely,” Honor responded firmly.

“Here we are!” Mr. Beeker’s voice rang out. He and Miss Williamson suddenly sailed into view, each of them holding two glasses of wine.

“Oh, dear, look at the time. I’m afraid it’s gotten away from me,” Honor said, rising to her feet. “I really must be home to wish the earl a good-night.” She looked pointedly at Monica. She might be out on her arse when the earl died, but today, she still held the upper hand. “Good evening, then,” she said pleasantly.

“Good evening, Honor,” Monica said, just as pleasantly.

Honor walked away, her back straight, her chin high, as if she hadn’t a care in the world.

When in fact, she suddenly had many.

America! The devil take Monica Hargrove.



CHAPTER NINE

HOW WAS IT possible that her plan had not worked?

The question caused Honor to toss and turn all night. She herself had been on the verge of being swept away by Easton’s pretend seduction in her own receiving room, so how had Monica possibly resisted it?

There was only one explanation: George Easton had not kept his word. Or worse, he’d kept his word and had failed.

The next morning, Honor woke tired and cross. She pulled on her dressing gown, sat down at her writing table, and dashed off a note to Easton: You gave me your word.

She was still wearing her dressing gown when she went down to the foyer. The old footman, Foster, was at the door; she pressed the note into his hand. “Please deliver this to Audley Street.”

Foster looked at her letter. “Easton,” he said out loud.

“Shh!” Honor hissed, and glanced quickly behind her, lest anyone had wandered into the foyer and overheard Foster. “Discretion, Mr. Foster.”

“Aye, Miss Cabot,” he said, a twinkle in his eye. “Ain’t I always discreet, then?”

“You are,” she said with a fond pat of his arm. “I have long depended—”

“Honor? What in heaven?”

Honor whirled around. “Augustine! Good morning!”