Sommerfield’s eyes widened, but Honor was on a mission and would not allow anyone to speak.

“Are you familiar with Longmeadow?” she eagerly continued.

George stared at Honor. He knew precisely what she was doing, arranging another “invitation.” It grated on him, but at the same time, Miss Hargrove was watching him expectantly.

“It’s my stepfather’s seat, just one hour to the northwest from here,” Honor continued.

“Yes, you must come, Easton,” Sommerfield said now, nodding his head firmly. “That’s that, my good man. We must have you at Longmeadow!”

He turned his happy smile to Miss Hargrove, who said, with much less enthusiasm, “Yes, we must have you, Mr. Easton.”

“That’s very kind,” he said. “Thank you.” George was glad that the music had begun again, giving him an escape from what was to him his own personal nightmare. “Miss Cabot, will you do me the honor?”

“Have a turn, Honor. He’s a grand dancer,” Sommerfield said, as if he had stood up with George himself.

“Well, then, I’d be delighted,” she said and held out her hand.

George took it and gripped it hard. Her expression did not change. “Will you excuse us?” he asked Sommerfield.

* * *

NEITHER HE NOR Honor noticed Monica’s thin smile fade behind them.

“You are a splendid dancer, my love,” Augustine said to her. “I do wish I was a better companion for you.”

“You are the perfect companion for me, Augustine.”

“Are you certain?” he asked, taking her hand and squeezing it much too hard. “For I would be lost without you, my darling.”

“I am certain.” She meant that with all her heart. Augustine was a kind soul, a gentle soul. She was happy with him. So why, then, would Honor wish to draw them asunder? That was precisely what she was doing—Monica was certain of it. “Let go of my hand before you break a bone, dearest.”

“Oh!” Alarmed, Augustine quickly relinquished it.

Monica glanced once more in Easton and Honor’s direction. They were standing on the dance floor, waiting for the musicians. Honor had turned away from him, was speaking to Miss Amelia Burnes while Easton watched the orchestra.

She saw nothing that should make her the least bit suspicious, but Monica knew that somehow, Honor had put Easton up to this. She was very astute when it came to these things, and she had not been the least bit swayed by Easton’s pretty words to her. It made no sense; there was no reason that a man like George Easton should suddenly discover an interest in her, particularly as everyone in town knew she was to marry Augustine.

She’d understood that Honor was involved the moment she’d invited Easton to Longmeadow. Honor, who never gave men another thought, so determined to have Easton, of all gentlemen, at Longmeadow. Oh, yes, Monica had known Honor Cabot far too long, and she knew when that one was up to mischief.

“I’m positively parched,” Augustine said, as if he’d danced the last three sets. “Shall we fetch some champagne and perhaps sit a bit, my love?”

“Yes,” she said, and moved along with her fiancé, her mind whirling.



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.”