She stalked past the portrait gallery, the “drafty” breakfast room, the library, the formal dining room and the ballroom. She walked past the smaller salons and the yellow drawing room that took the western sun. She imagined what Monica might do with it all, and felt a knot of anger curling in her belly.

But she had no right.

As much as it galled her to admit it, Monica was right—Longmeadow was not her house; it was never intended to be her house. Honor would marry one day, and no doubt she’d live in a respectable house with a respectable man. But that house would not be Longmeadow with its hidden staircases and cold river and miles of green fields for girls to run and play. It would not be Beckington House in London with its marble foyer and grand salon where tea could be served to dozens at once. It wouldn’t be this life at all, and the only way that Honor might hold on to it, at least until her sisters were out, was to keep Monica from destroying it, from unraveling it a thread at a time, just like her mother’s sleeve.

Honor had steadfastly put off the inevitable these past two years, unwilling to feel the sting of disappointment again. Lord Rowley had broken her young, foolish heart, and Honor had found refuge in the Beckington wealth. The trappings of it had given her the freedom to keep a distance from her heart as she flitted to this event and that. She no longer knew if she was desperate to save the cocoon the earl’s wealth gave her, or her sisters.

Honor didn’t know her own mind any longer. Everything was so muddied now, and growing murkier every day. She couldn’t keep Easton from her thoughts. Not for a moment.

Her heart was filling with that man. He was haunting her dreams, lurking in the shadows of her every waking thought since the Prescott Ball. He had resided like a brilliant comet in her memory—he had streaked across her night sky and had disappeared. But he was a bastard son, so wrong in so many ways, and yet so right...

Dear God, was he coming?

She clenched her fists at her sides and marched on. She despised the way women pined for men, hoping they would appear at this event or that. Easton had said he wouldn’t come, and yet here she was, hoping. She looked expectantly toward every coach that pulled up before the massive stone columns that marked Longmeadow’s grand entrance, hoping for him. But coach after coach had come and gone, and George Easton had not come.

He is not coming.

Surely she might admit that to herself now. Surely she might make an effort to stop reliving the moments she’d spent in his arms, awash in the mysterious connections between man and woman, her heart singing, her body yearning for his touch. Surely she might allow that George Easton was a dangerously sensual man, and while he had opened a carnal world to her, it had not been as meaningful to him as it had been to her. He had indulged her far more than she might have hoped, had made her heart flutter madly, had filled her mind with lustful images and tender thoughts...but it had been all play to him.

She had known from the beginning that he would not indulge her scheme forever; of course he wouldn’t. What man would? Even she had never believed her plot would accomplish anything but to perhaps postpone the inevitable. Honestly, she couldn’t even think of Monica now. Everything seemed so different.

If she admitted all of this to herself, she could reason that her disappointment in his not coming was absurd! She should not be disappointed in being relieved of his wretched dancing. Or that he didn’t fawn over her as the young bucks of Mayfair were wont to do. She rather liked fawning and dancing! She should not admire his blue eyes that seemed to always shine with amusement, and neither should she be enamored of a man for the sole reason he would share her general annoyance at the grand form Monica had displayed at supper last night.

Because the moment she allowed those disappointments to gain ground, the ache in her head would move to her heart, whittling away at it until there was nothing left but dust.

* * *

THE NEXT AFTERNOON, after luncheon, while the gentlemen rode about the thousand acres that made up Longmeadow, young Lord Washburn, who had graciously offered to stay behind and entertain the ladies, treated them to a poetry reading in the chapel. The ladies gamely trooped down the tree-lined lane to the small medieval church that had, at some point, been renovated to suit the needs of an earl.

Honor was well acquainted with Lord Washburn. He’d come into his title of viscount when his father’s heart had suddenly stopped beating one day. He’d always been brash, loud and vexing, and then suddenly, with a title, he’d been one of the most sought-after gentlemen in all of Mayfair. Washburn had taken to his new role with great enthusiasm, and on more than one occasion had insinuated to Honor, and then to Grace, that either of them might be the lucky young woman to win his heart.

Neither of them had the slightest desire to even try.

Today, Washburn randomly chose a young woman to affix his brown eyes upon as he read, and Honor was not pleased to see him affix them so often on Prudence. She was not yet seventeen, and frankly, her head was too easily turned.

Honor gazed at the rafters and idly wondered how long she might be trapped here. She sighed and glanced to her right—and gasped so loudly that Miss Fitzwilliam, sitting directly in front of her, glanced back over her shoulder with a look of alarm.

Honor quickly put a finger to her mouth and smiled apologetically, then glanced to the window once more.

He had come.

It was him, Easton! He and another gentleman trotted on horseback down the lane to the house. His back was to her, but Honor recognized the way he sat his horse, the broad shoulders and the glimpse of his brown hair brushing over his collar beneath the brim of his hat.

Her heart felt as if it was swelling in her chest with happiness. She could scarcely catch her breath, her heart was pounding so. Had he come for her? Had he missed her, had he thought of her as she had thought of him?

Honor was suddenly and violently desperate to quit the chapel.

Washburn had reached the crescendo of his current sonnet, had stepped away from the pulpit so that he might wave his arm around a bit. When he finished his sonnet, he crossed his arm across his heart and bowed deeply, graciously accepting the polite applause from the group of assembled young ladies. As two young women in the front row urged him to continue, Honor made her escape.

She fairly dashed out the back, bursting into the bright sunlight and pausing a moment so that her eyesight might adjust. She hurried along until she rounded the corner of the stables, taking care to walk and not run, smoothing her hair when she dipped behind the well house. She ran up the steps from the stable to the main drive, and walked quickly around the corner of the house, arriving on the drive just as Easton removed a bag from his horse’s rump and handed it to a footman.

Honor paused to take a deep breath, then walked serenely and slowly into the men’s midst. She stepped around the head of his horse. “Oh! Mr. Easton! You have come,” she said far too breathlessly to convince anyone she was surprised to stumble upon him there in the drive.

His smile was so warm that it quietly filled her up like a tub of honey. He tipped his hat. “How do you do, Miss Cabot? Begun any new schemes? Created any bedlam in anyone’s life?”

She laughed quickly, loudly, then took another steadying breath to reduce her ardor before smiling brilliantly at him. She could scarcely contain her joy at seeing him, or the urge to throw her arms around his neck and kiss him.

Easton frowned. “I will ask you kindly not to smile at me quite like that, Miss Cabot. I have come against my better judgment, and frankly, I’ve lost all respect for myself.” He bowed.

“Then why did you come?” she asked cheerfully.

“Because I feared the chaos that would rain down on this august occasion if you were left to your own devices. It is my duty as a gentleman to spare these good people your unhinged thinking.”

His declaration made her deliriously happy. She could feel her smile widening.

“Don’t,” he said brusquely. “I will not be swayed by your charming smile again.”

“You find my smile charming?” she asked, taking a step closer.

“I find it dangerous.” He bent over and picked up a valise. “I find everything about you dangerous.”

A strong shiver of longing skirted up her spine; Honor took another step closer. “You’ll be glad you have come, sir. You will have a very fine time at Longmeadow. I am certain of it.”

“I won’t,” he said adamantly. But his eyes were twinkling with mirth.

The man who had ridden in with him stepped up, took the valise from his hand and inclined his head at Honor.

“Oh, yes. Miss Cabot, may I present Mr. Finnegan. He claims to be a valet.”

“Madam,” the gentleman said, and walked on.

“You’ve arrived just in time, too,” Honor said to George. “There is to be a croquet tournament on the west lawn this afternoon.”

“That settles it, then—I may now expire from joy.”

Honor laughed. “I won’t have you expiring at Longmeadow. Think of the scandal! Come, I’ll show you to the house. Hardy has a room for you.”

She began to walk and Easton fell in beside her. She could feel him, his body so close to hers, the strength of him beside her. She was so enthralled with it that she was startled when Augustine suddenly bounded out the entrance with Hardy on his heels, looking very nervous as he surveyed the ladies coming up the path. “We really must hurry things along,” he said to no one in particular.