Horses? George looked at Miss Cabot for help. “I beg your pardon, I think there is some confusion—”

“The earl has all but sold them, hasn’t he, Honor? I think the sorrel is left.”

“Mamma,” Miss Cabot said gently, “the horses... We sold them ages ago.”

“What?” Lady Beckington gave her a nervous laugh. “We haven’t! We have the sorrel. Please, do wait here, sir. My husband will be along shortly to settle the terms with you.”

George didn’t understand what was happening, but he could see a slight tremor in Miss Cabot. “I shall wait with Mr. Easton until the earl arrives, then,” she said. “Shall I ring for Hannah?” she asked, moving to her mother’s side.

“Who? Oh, no, that’s not necessary,” Lady Beckington said, and turned around to the door. “Good day, sir.” She walked out of the room without looking back.

Miss Cabot did not speak; she lowered her head a long moment, closed her eyes then slowly opened them and lifted her gaze to George.

“I don’t understand,” he said simply. How could a mother see her daughter in such an obviously compromising position and merely walk out the door?

“Perhaps if I tell you that two summers ago, my stepfather sold some horses at Longmeadow. But not the sorrel,” Miss Cabot said. “And even if he were so inclined to sell more today, he could not walk down here to settle terms with you without assistance.”

Understanding dawned. When Miss Cabot had said her mother was not well that afternoon outside of Gunter’s Tea Shop, George had vaguely thought of pleurisy. “How long has she been like this?”

“This?” Honor said, looking at the door. “Moments? Weeks? Months? Sometimes she is perfectly fine. And sometimes not at all....” Her voice trailed away and she looked at the carpet.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” George asked. “When you first came to me, why didn’t you tell me?”

“And have half of London know it?”

She was speaking to a man who had protected his mother all his life. “Miss Cabot, on my honor, I’d not tell a soul. You have my word.”

She flushed, her fists curled at her sides. “You can see, then, my dilemma, Mr. Easton. I do not think Miss Hargrove will be keen to have four sisters and a madwoman under her roof. No one will want a madwoman under their roof, will they? I need...I need time until Grace and I can marry or...something,” she said, her eyes blindly searching the ceiling. “If I could take up a sword and fight for it, I would. If I had a vast fortune at my disposal, I would use it. But I am a woman, and the only options I have are to connive as I promise myself to the highest bidder before all is discovered.” She lowered her gaze to him again. “That may seem as if I am lacking in honor to you, but on my word, it is all I have. I don’t want to hurt Augustine or Monica. I truly want only to divert her until I can think of something. What else can I do?”

George’s heart went out to her. He’d loved his mother dearly, a lowly chambermaid with the duke’s bastard son to raise by herself. She’d never been accepted anywhere. The other servants judged her to be without morals. The duke had used her and left her to her own devices.

But Lucy Easton had been determined, and when she’d learned the duke was ill, she’d somehow managed to convince him to give George a stipend. He didn’t know how she’d done it—he didn’t want to know. He knew only that his mother had sacrificed everything for him, and that the stipend had enabled George to attend school, to meet young men who would become his peers, even if they did view his claims of having been fathered by a royal prince with great skepticism. Had it not been for George’s mother, he would be mucking stalls in the Royal Mews yet.

“Please, help me,” Miss Cabot said, her voice meek. “Please, come to the ball.”

God in heaven, how could he look upon the worry and sadness in those eyes and refuse her? “Even if I come, even if I might divert her as you wish, there are any number of things that might happen afterward. What will keep her from telling everyone what you’ve done when she discovers it? What will keep her from taking her suspicions to Sommerfield? Don’t you see? It could be even worse for you then.”

“I know. But I have to try. So I will take that risk.”

George gazed at her beguiling face. He supposed he’d done some things that would be considered mad by most when he’d seen no other option.

“Will you?” she asked softly.

“I will do it once more, Honor,” he conceded. “Only once.”

She smiled in a way that began to burn in the soft part of his gut. “Thank you, George.”

Another deeper trickle of warmth rushed down his spine at the use of his Christian name. He was standing on dangerous ground here, soft pliable ground into which he could sink quickly and become mired. That it had happened so quickly shook him enough that George abruptly moved to the door. “Once more, Miss Cabot. No more than that. But don’t mistake me for someone who cares for you or the consequences of what you’re doing.”

“Oh, I won’t,” she quickly assured him. “Never.” And she smiled.



CHAPTER ELEVEN

“WHY ARE YOU smiling in that way?” Grace demanded when Honor finally emerged from the receiving room. Prudence and Mercy flanked her, and all three of them eyed Honor suspiciously. Such distrusting young things! Clearly, Honor had taught them well.

“Am I smiling?” she asked quite honestly. She thought she’d waited long enough to remove any stain of delight from her cheeks at that unexpected, remarkable experience on the settee. “I’m happy that the rain has eased, aren’t you? It’s dreadful being cooped inside.”

“But it’s raining even harder than before,” Prudence pointed out.

“For heaven’s sake, are you going to stand there gawking at me, your mouths open wide enough to attract nesting birds?” Honor demanded, and pushed through the wall of sisters on her way to the stairs.

The wall was instantly on her heels.

She was not going to tell them anything. It was none of their concern. None of them could be completely trusted to keep a confidence. And there was simply no way to describe such a tantalizing, exceptional moment with George Easton. It was the sort of erotic experience that curled one’s toes, and upon which one might reliably dream for years or decades to come. She was certain of it, for she would never forget it.

“Why are you scurrying away like a guilty cat?” Grace called out from behind her.

“Because I wish to be left alone!” Honor tossed back. Not that her declaration had even the slightest effect on her sisters; they remained on her heels.

“Must you all follow me like a flock of sheep?” she demanded crossly. She wanted only to float into her rooms and recline on her chaise longue and recall the way Easton’s eyes sparkled so enticingly when he was cross with her. To privately study exactly how those moments on the settee had occurred and to devise a way to make sure it never happened again, no matter how much she might yearn for it! As much as she had enjoyed it—breathed it, felt it in every bit of muscle—that sort of thing could ruin everything, her whole wobbly little plan! She could not entertain his advances again, not more than once, and most assuredly no more than twice more.

She walked into her room, her sisters right behind her. Mercy immediately fell onto Honor’s bed as she had dozens of times before, sprawled across the silk coverlet with her fists propped under her chin, waiting for the chattering to begin. Prudence, likewise at home in Honor’s room, went to the vanity and began to sort through her jewel box without the least bit of consciousness.

But Grace remained standing, waiting impatiently for Honor to speak. “Will you say nothing of your private meeting?”

“Grace, darling, you know how these things are,” Honor said airily. “A gentleman calls. He inquires after your health, and that of your family—”

“You’re to have a chaperone when a gentleman calls,” Mercy said. “Miss Dilly said.”

“I am aware of the rules,” Honor said. “Did your governess also tell you that sometimes rules are meant to be broken?”

Mercy gasped. “No,” she said, her eyes widening with delight. “Are they?”

“No,” Prudence said firmly. “You mustn’t listen to Honor or Grace, Mercy. They don’t do as they should.” She frowned at Honor. “I beg you, don’t give Mercy the slightest encouragement.”

“We are moral women,” Grace said, gesturing to her and Honor. “It was perfectly all right for Honor to receive Mr. Easton. She does not require someone in the room to protect her virtue, because she guards it quite closely.”

Honor pretended to be busying herself at the wardrobe so that Grace would not see her blush.

“Pardon, Miss Cabot.”

Kathleen, the housemaid who often helped them with their hair and with dressing, stood at the threshold, her cap a bit askew. “His lordship Sommerfield asks that you come to tea, as we have guests.”

“Guests?” Honor repeated. Her heart skipped a beat or two—Mr. Easton had only just left Beckington House. “Who?”

“Miss Hargrove and Mr. Hargrove. He asks that you join them and Lady Beckington in the green salon.”

Honor’s heart plummeted; she could imagine the Hargroves arriving just as Easton had left the house. She exchanged a fearful look with Grace, who, judging by her expression, was undoubtedly thinking the same thing. “We’ll be down straightaway,” Honor said. “Thank you, Kathleen.” She turned to her younger sisters. “Go, go, and keep Mamma company while I don something more presentable. Pru, offer to play your new song for Miss Hargrove until Grace and I arrive.”

Fortunately, Prudence and Mercy were so delighted to be included, they didn’t argue and went off to do what Honor had asked.