“I don’t think Mr. Cleburne is beneath me, for heaven’s sake. But I think he is as far removed from me in spirit and temperament as a man could possibly be. And furthermore, why don’t you ever want more, Monica? Why won’t you believe in the best possibilities, instead of taking the first offer?”

Monica gasped. “Don’t you dare disparage Augustine to me!”

“I wasn’t—”

“You were!” Monica insisted. Now she glanced over her shoulder at her fiancé. Augustine, sitting cross-legged, enthusiastically regaled Mr. Cleburne with some tale, judging by the wave of his hands. “I happen to be quite fond of Augustine. And I have done what every woman is exhorted to do, Honor. I have made a good match. There is nothing wrong with that. I am happy. Can you not see it? Can you not be happy for me? Happy that I will marry him, happy that the banns have been posted?”

Honor’s eyes widened. “They’ve been posted?”

“Yes!” Monica said crossly. “Must you look so astounded? Augustine told you that we wished to marry before his father... Well, you know very well what I mean. I have accepted my life and his offer, and I am happy.”

“Do you not hear yourself?” Honor demanded, suddenly turning to face her. “Wouldn’t you rather find true, consuming love than merely accept your life and an offer?”

Sometimes Honor was ridiculously childish, and Monica couldn’t help but laugh.

Honor’s brows sank in a confused frown. “Why are you laughing? Do you love Augustine?”

“Will you stop?” Monica exclaimed through her laughter. “I told you, I esteem him!”

“But do you love him?”

“For God’s sake, Honor! I will come to love him. Love develops over time, with familiarity, as two people move through life as one. You act as if there is some other alternative! What alternative is there? To wait indefinitely? For what? For a knight to come along and quite literally sweep me off my feet?”

“Yes!” Honor cried with frustration.

“Dear God, you are maddening,” Monica snapped, and looked away, angry with herself for allowing Honor to vex her. Again.

“We will never have alternatives if we don’t demand them,” Honor said, and folded her arms tightly over her middle.

Monica rolled her eyes. “And what alternative will you demand, pray? That you do not marry? That you may continue to flit from this soiree to that?” she asked, gesturing around them.

“I mean that unless women demand to follow their heart’s true instincts, we will never be allowed to do so. Society will insist we marry well, and that is all they will ask of us.”

“Ah. And your heart’s true instincts are not Mr. Cleburne.”

“Not in the least.”

“Have you ever considered that perhaps your heart doesn’t have a true instinct? For surely, if it did, you would have acted on it by now.”

Honor’s eyes widened. She looked almost insulted for a moment, but that quickly gave way to another expression. She seemed to be considering what Monica had said, mulling it over for a long moment. “Goodness, I think you may be right, Monica.”

“I am?” Monica said, startled.

“Yes.” Honor nodded thoughtfully. “If I don’t act, who will?”

Monica suddenly had a sinking feeling she’d unwittingly unleashed a beast from its cage. “Honor Cabot, what are you thinking?” she demanded. “You’d best not cause trouble—”

“Trouble? No,” Honor said sweetly. “You’ve helped me clarify a thing or two. We’d best go back to the gentlemen, do you suppose?” She smiled warmly at Monica, then started back toward the men, suddenly strolling along as if she hadn’t a care in the world.



CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

LONDON SCARCELY MANAGED to crawl out beneath the leaden skies on the afternoon of Lord Stapleton’s reception. A stiff wind and the smell of rain in the air only increased George’s uncharacteristically somber mood, and he wouldn’t have minded in the least to have remained in bed all day, a pillow over his head, his eyes closed against the world.

But Finnegan had other ideas, it would seem, as he had polished George’s boots and laid out his gold waistcoat and navy superfine coat to don for the reception. It looked, George thought, almost naval in appearance.

George was generally annoyed when Finnegan laid out his clothes as if he were addled, but this afternoon he was glad for it, because he doubted he would have been able to dress himself with much care. He’d been walking around in a melancholy fog for two days, obsessed with thoughts of Honor, remembering in exquisite and torturous detail the afternoon in his salon.

There was no help for him. He was a fool, a bloody fool for having agreed to help her in the beginning. He was an even bigger fool because he was mad for her. He’d broken his one cardinal rule: never believe he was one of them. After a life spent trying to be someone, to be recognized, he’d learned to keep proper society at arm’s length, to protect himself above all else.

In this case, he’d missed his steps, had fallen out of line, had looked to his left and right and, in doing so, had ruined his life. It had happened so quickly, so easily, too—when a daring, beautiful woman presented a challenge to him, his rule had held up like cotton batting in fire, disappearing completely.

The most enraging part of it was that George did not want Honor to marry a bloody vicar. He did not want her to marry at all. He wanted things to remain as they were, with opportunities to be in her company, to hear her clever mind spinning out wretched ideas to create a bit of mayhem in her society, to keep him properly diverted from the lack of a name, the loss of his fortune. From who he was.

It was an absurdly preposterous wish. And an astoundingly intense one.

To confound his thinking even more, there was part of him that didn’t entirely trust Honor. It was a truth he grudgingly admitted to himself. Yes, he loved her. And there was a part of him that believed she loved him, as well. But she was a woman of the ton, and she had come to him seeking a way to keep her fortune and standing. In spite of what they’d shared, in spite of his strong feelings—or hers, for that matter—he could not bring himself to believe she would ever truly give that up to settle for someone like him. Or that Beckington would ever consent to someone like him as a possible match for her. And though passion had flared hot and wild between him and Honor, he couldn’t help but wonder if this...this thing between them, this intangible, intense thing wasn’t merely pleasure for her.

How could it be anything but?

Oh, yes, George was a miserable man.

But in that misery, he was irrationally determined to lure Monica Hargrove to him. He told himself it was to keep her from making Honor’s burden of her family dilemma any worse by presenting potential offers for her hand. A smaller voice suggested it was even more personal than that—he’d been rather astounded that his attempts to seduce the debutante had failed. A kiss. That’s what was required. One small kiss of her lips, and all the reticence would melt right out of Miss Monica Hargrove. She’d be eating from his bag of oats or he’d find another way to tether her.

Dressed like a sailor for the occasion of honoring a war hero, George stalked downstairs so gruffly that the daily maid Finnegan had hired—to clean or to bed, George didn’t know—scampered out of his way like a frightened little hare.

Finnegan was waiting in the foyer with George’s hat and gloves. “What a splendid surprise,” he said, bowing slightly. “You’ve combed your hair.”

George snatched the hat and gloves from Finnegan. “Today, Mr. Finnegan,” he said, stuffing his hands into the gloves, “may very well be the day I throttle you.”

“Very good, sir,” Finnegan said, and opened the front door.

* * *

ON SUCH A gloomy day, Burlington House was predictably crowded. All of the illustrious guests had crammed inside the gallery, standing shoulder to shoulder, the din of their voices echoing against the cavernous ceiling. George couldn’t imagine how he’d find anyone, but he pushed through the crowd all the same, muttering his apologies for stepping on this toe or elbowing that back, receiving some less-than-welcoming looks for it.

He spotted Sommerfield first, his girth affording him a bit more space than most. Standing beside him was Miss Monica Hargrove, her expression full of tedium. George wasn’t entirely certain what he would say, but he started for her.

Miss Hargrove turned her head, and when she saw him, she straightened slightly. She seemed perplexed, and then her brows dipped into something of a frown. In a mood, was she? He’d change that. George stepped around a couple in his progress toward Miss Hargrove and was startled by the sudden appearance of Honor in front of him. “Mr. Easton,” she said, and put her hand on his arm.

George looked down at her hand on his arm, her touch incinerating his sleeve, marking his skin underneath. “May I have a word?”

“Not now, love. There is another woman I should like to address.”

“George...please. Please.” She smiled as she glanced to her right. George followed her gaze and saw Cleburne standing there.

“Mr. Cleburne, will you excuse us a moment?” she asked.

“Yes, of course. Good day, Mr. Easton,” he said, and with a curt bow, he took several steps away. But not far enough that Honor was out of his sight, George noticed.

George didn’t speak; Honor tugged him to one side.

“Go back to your suitor, Cabot. You’ve nothing to fear, I do not intend—”

“I beg of you, don’t speak to her!” Honor interjected frantically. “Don’t even look her way. It’s over, it’s done—I should never have begun this madness!”