“Yes, well,” Honor said, “we’ve only one lady’s maid between us, and I was rather anxious to come down.”

“These past few days have been quite grueling, have they not?” Monica asked cheerfully as Augustine opined about his preference for leek soup over onion soup to Hardy. “I never understood just how difficult it is to host such a large gathering over a weekend.”

“It’s exhausting,” Honor agreed.

“I really must commend Lady Beckington. She’s always made it appear so effortless,” Monica said. “By the by, where is your lady mother? I’ve not seen her all day. I worry for her, you know.”

Honor tensed, waiting for Monica to say more. Is your mother mad? Have you noticed that she seems a bit batty? But Monica merely looked at her, politely waiting a response.

“She is feeling fatigued,” Honor said carefully. “I think she will not come down tonight.”

“Pardon, what?” Augustine said. “Goodness, it’s you, Honor. I really must insist that you speak to Mercy about her desire to discuss mummified corpses at breakfast. It’s really very off-putting. Lady Marquette was so disturbed she was forced to take to her rooms. What’s this about our Lady Beckington?”

“She is resting,” Honor said.

Augustine looked confused. “But she’s just there, and looking rather well rested, indeed.”

Honor whirled about to see what had his attention and managed to choke down a small cry of shocked relief. There was her mother on George’s arm, laughing as she explained something to Lord Hartington that apparently involved the muddied hem of her gown, seeing as how she held it out for Hartington to have a look. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkling with excitement. She looked quite beautiful in spite of her muddied hem.

And entirely lucid. Completely, utterly, lucid.

What had George done? How had he managed it?

“Honor, you are a dear and a perfect daughter,” Augustine said. “But she seems perfectly well.”

“She does, doesn’t she?” Monica said, sounding a bit perplexed.

George and Lady Beckington made their way across the room, pausing once to share something with each other that made them both laugh.

“Lady Beckington, good evening!” Augustine said.

Honor’s mother inclined her head and smiled brightly at Augustine and Monica as she reached for Honor’s hand to squeeze it. “Good evening, all! I do beg your pardon for the state of my hem and no doubt, my hair.” She laughed. “It has been a glorious day, has it not? Prudence and I walked down to the old mill, and will you believe it, we were turned this way and that. Had it not been for Mr. Easton, we might never have found our way back,” she said cheerfully.

“But where is Pru?” Honor asked.

“Oh, darling, you know your sister. She wouldn’t dream of coming in the main entrance with a muddied hem. She’ll be down shortly.”

“You are well, madam?” Augustine asked. “Feeling quite yourself and all that?”

“Yes, of course I am! Who else would I feel?” She laughed roundly at her jest.

“I thought so,” Augustine said confidently. “I was just saying to Honor that I thought her concern for your fatigue was perhaps overly cautious, as I found you to be perfectly fine this afternoon.”

“Oh, yes, so much to do!” her mother exclaimed, apropos of nothing.

“Shall we change gowns, Mamma?” Honor asked, her heart racing madly. She dared not look at George, dared not see the truth in his eyes.

“Oh, we must, mustn’t we? It won’t do to continue on in such a state.”

“Then I shall surrender you to your daughter’s care,” George said smoothly. He bowed, lifting his head and catching Honor’s eye so subtly, she wasn’t even certain of it. There it was again, that unholy urge to throw herself into his arms, to bury her face in his collar, feel his breath in her hair and on her skin, the strength of him surrounding her, protecting her from awful truths.

She linked her arm through her mother’s. “Shall we go up?” she asked, and led her away before her mother said or did anything that might surprise anyone.

* * *

FINNEGAN HAD PRESSED George’s formal tails and laid them out, but the man himself was nowhere to be seen. George didn’t want to know whose bed that randy bastard might be visiting.

He took his time at his toilette. The thought of another ball, another night of crowded rooms and the scent of a woman teasing him and making him want, did not appeal. But his feelings for Honor could not be put down as he wished. He could not leave Longmeadow without seeing her, without looking into her eyes once more, without remembering those moments on the viewing balcony and feeling the swell of desire in him, the craving to slide inside her and possess her completely.

Where did this unholy yearning end?

He thought of Lady Beckington and the burden of her madness that was now resting on Honor’s shoulders. He’d discovered Lady Beckington and Prudence on the edge of the lake—Lady Beckington was laughing wildly at a pair of ducks who were seeking food from her hand...food she didn’t have. Her madness made his desires even more impossible—Honor would need to marry someone who could protect her mother. How could he? At present, he couldn’t say if he would have any funds at all by the end of the year.

George shook his head, angry with himself for having skated onto a very thin patch of ice. Each step brought him closer to falling through, sinking into the murky depths of the dark, cold waters of his desires. Unwanted, unanswered, impossible desires.

He was late to the ball; the dancing had begun. He stood in the back, watching the dancers, lost in thought.

“It would seem we find ourselves alone again, Mr. Easton.”

He was startled by the sound of Miss Hargrove’s voice; he hadn’t noticed her approach and had no idea how long she’d been there. “How fortuitous,” he said, smiling at her.

She cocked her head to one side, studying him, her brown eyes dancing. “Is everything all right? You seem a bit subdued this evening.”

“Do I?”

Her smile deepened. “Perhaps the loss of one’s fortune puts a damper on one’s ardor.”

George blinked with surprise.

“I mean only that you are generally rather eager to seduce me. Perhaps tonight, your mind is on other things.”

His gaze drifted to her mouth, sliding slowly and deliberately down to her décolletage. At any other time in his life, he would have been attracted to a woman as handsome and coy as Monica Hargrove. Even in this moment, he was the tiniest bit captivated by his prey, in teaching her a thing or two about disparaging a man’s fortune as she’d just done. But a damnably fine pair of blue eyes suddenly shimmered in his mind’s eye, and it occurred to him that he could at least do this for Honor. He could at least lure this woman away from Honor’s troubles.

He touched Miss Hargrove’s hand. “Have you been listening to rumors, love?”

Without shifting her gaze from his face, she laced her fingers with his. “Perhaps one or two. Have you?”

He smiled. “One or two.”

She laughed lightly and dropped her hand. “Have you made the acquaintance of Mr. Cleburne, sir?” she said pleasantly, and looked past George. He glanced over his shoulder, saw a thin man with a pleasant countenance standing awkwardly aside.

“Mr. Cleburne is the new vicar here at Longmeadow. Mr. Cleburne, may I present Mr. Easton?”

George nodded. “How do you do?”

“A pleasure, sir,” Cleburne said.

“You mustn’t allow his charming smile to fool you, Mr. Cleburne,” Miss Hargrove said jovially. “Mr. Easton is quite a scoundrel.”

Mr. Cleburne laughed. “Mr. Easton, you seem perfectly respectable to me. Please, excuse me,” he said, and walked on, his gaze scanning the crowd.

“A scoundrel, am I?” George asked.

Miss Hargrove laughed again. “Mr. Cleburne is such a dear man,” she said. “And unmarried. I think he might very well be the perfect match for our Honor.”

Her gaze was locked on him, watching him closely. How George remained placid, he didn’t know, for she might as well have sliced him open. “Perhaps,” he said with a shrug.

“He would be an excellent influence, I should think. And of course, he is beyond reproach. That can’t be said of every gentleman, can it?” She gave him a coy smile and sashayed away.

George stared after her. Beautiful, exasperating creatures, women were, the lot of them. Monica Hargrove was trifling with him, trying to arouse a reaction from him.

George ignored it, because something much darker had suddenly filled his thoughts—Miss Hargrove was right. As much as George loathed to admit it to himself, Cleburne was a good match for Honor. That slender, smiling man with no more knowledge of the physical pleasures of the flesh than a rock was better suited as a match for the most interesting woman in all of London. He would provide for Honor, and moreover, he was a man of the cloth—his charity at taking his wife’s mad mother and caring for her would be exalted. Cleburne’s collar would give him access to some of the best facilities for madness, should it come to that.

George, bastard that he was, gambler, womanizer, tradesman, could not have been less suitable for a woman like Honor Cabot. She was so far above his reach that she may as well have been a bloody star.

That truth began to corrode him, eating away at his confidence. No matter how rich, no matter how handsome, or charming, or seductive, there was no happy forevermore for him with a woman like Honor or Monica Hargrove.

And yet George had combed his hair, adjusted his neckcloth and made sure his waistcoat was properly buttoned down with the express purpose of seeing the woman he desired more than life.

If only she would come down.