She did not like what he was saying. She wanted him to rebel with her, to believe as she did that they were meant to be together, somehow, some way. “Doesn’t love count for anything?”

“Of course it does,” he said softly, and walked across the room to clasp her face between his hands. “But it’s not enough, Honor. Not in the world you and I live.”

“Why isn’t it enough?” she demanded, and pulled his hands from her face. “What matters more than that, really?”

“You know very well. Influence matters. Money matters. You have lived a life of privilege. You are welcome in any parlor in London. Your clothing is of the best quality, you have the finest shoes—”

“They are all just things,” she exclaimed angrily. “Do you really think so little of me? That I would put gowns and shoes above love?”

“Honor...how could you possibly understand? Those are things you’ve possessed all your life, and at present, they are things that I can’t give you.”

“I’m not asking—”

“You’re not asking for any of it, I know,” he said, and stroked her cheek with his knuckle. “But I have nothing. I invested all but this house in a ship that has gone missing. You deserve better than the likes of me. The love between us was never meant to be, darling. You must accept it.”

He wasn’t listening to her, and she was sinking into a pit of anguish. “How many times must I say it? I want to be with you always, to lay with you, eat with you, tell you that your dancing is wretched—”

George shook his head.

Honor felt her heart all but explode. She reached for his lapels, grabbing them. “I’ve never felt so sure of anything in my life—”

“Dear God,” he said, wrapping her in his embrace, forcing her to be still. He tenderly kissed the top of her head. “Neither have I. But there is far more at stake than you are willing to admit. Deep down, you know what I am saying is true. Deep down, you know very well that Honor Cabot cannot marry a bastard son who dallies in trade. One day you will thank me for making you see it.”

She shoved against him. “I will thank you?” she said angrily. “I don’t care if I ever step foot in a ballroom again! I know only that I love you, George. Perhaps you don’t love me as you say. Perhaps you have made me believe it so that you could use me—”

“Don’t be foolish,” he snapped.

“Then what has you so afraid?” she exclaimed.

“Afraid!” His smile faded. His gaze roamed her face, searching, seeking...what? What was it this man needed to love her as she loved him? George suddenly grabbed her arms and yanked her to him. He kissed her, a hard, possessive kiss. And then he held her, cupping her head against his shoulder.

Honor closed her eyes and held her breath.

“I don’t deserve you,” he muttered.

“That’s not true—you deserve the best of everything. You are the son of a prince and the nephew of a king, and you deserve all the things that have been denied you.”

“No one believes that,” he scoffed.

“I do.” She looked up at him. “I believe it.”

He gazed tenderly at her. “Do you?”

“With all my heart.”

“God, but I do love you,” he said with a sigh.

Honor could feel a smile forming on her lips, could feel it light the darkness around them.

“Don’t smile at me, Cabot,” he warned her. “It’s hopeless to deny that bloody bright smile of yours.”

Her smile only deepened. He loved her. She leaned into him. “I know,” she said happily.



CHAPTER THIRTY

IT WAS TRUE. George was incapable of telling the woman no. At last, he convinced her to go home before search parties were sent after her, and he ate a meal that a smug Finnegan presented him. His belly full, his heart fuller, he wondered if there wasn’t a way to cast off the shackles of his upbringing, his deepest fears about his place in the world, and perhaps find a way to be with the woman he loved?

He could picture the shock on even the affable face of Sommerfield—now Beckington—if he was to properly offer for Honor.

Perhaps, George thought, if he had something grand to impress with—a large country estate, or expensive jewels, something deemed acceptable to the ton....

There had to be a way, but damned if he could think of what that was.

The answer came to him quite by accident. He’d found Mayfair tedious, and had ventured out to Southwark and his favorite gaming hell one evening. He reasoned that perhaps he might postpone selling his furnishings to feed his small household and pay his debts if he could win a hand or two at cards. He’d meant it only as a lark, as he really wasn’t as desperate as that. Yet. By the end of the year, without income, he would begin sliding into poverty.

Indeed, that night, he won fifty pounds in the first game he entered, which, he thought in the first jovial moment he’d had in a fortnight, would at least pay the wages of that god-awful Finnegan for a year more. George had a pair of whiskies and won two hands more. His outlook on life began to improve. He felt his swagger return, his confidence in himself to persevere no matter what the obstacle.

One of the gentlemen at his table retired after losing another ten pounds, and it was as if the heavens opened up and shone their bright light on George’s head, for none other than the elusive Duke of Westport took the empty seat.

Westport was a man who was reputed to have little use for society.

The duke was not particularly talkative as they began to play, but he didn’t seem to mind the endless chatter from Sir Randall Basingstoke, the third player. George hadn’t heard much of anything he’d said this evening, but in the middle of a round in which George was winning the duke’s money, Basingstoke happened to mention the duke’s abbey in Bedfordshire. “Had occasion to ride by there,” Basingstoke said. “It looked empty.”

Westport glanced up over the tops of his cards at Basingstoke. “It is indeed empty, as it is in desperate need of repair.”

“Aha,” Basingstoke said, as if some riddle had just been solved. “Quite a lot of work, then, is it?”

“Quite,” the duke said, relaxing a bit. “And frankly, I haven’t the inclination for it at present.”

George guessed he didn’t have the money for it at present. The old estates were notoriously so entailed that they often were cash poor. An idea wormed its way through George’s thoughts. A grand old abbey was precisely what he needed. A respectable country estate, worthy of Honor Cabot. He was playing well, his luck running high tonight, the duke’s luck all but run out. What if...

What if he were to raise the stakes?

What if he were to gamble for an abbey and win?

George played his card, trumping the duke’s. “The abbey sounds more burden than treasure,” he said idly and watched Basingstoke fold his hand.

The duke turned his shrewd gaze to George. “Perhaps,” he said with a shrug, and laid out several banknotes, raising the bet.

George matched it and laid out his cards. He had three kings.

“Would you care to make a more interesting wager, my lord?” he asked as he shuffled the cards.

“Interesting!” Basingstoke said, and laughed. “Can’t say I find losing more money interesting.”

George ignored him. So did the duke. “What have you in mind?” the duke asked.

“I find myself in need of an abbey,” George said congenially.

The duke chuckled “And what would you have that would make the game more interesting for me?”

“Money, my lord. Enough to refurbish the abbey.” It was a calculated risk. To lose it would be to lose the last of his fortune.

The duke gestured for George to deal.

Basingstoke looked between the two men. He lifted his hands. “I beg your pardon—I’ll leave it to you,” he said, and quickly stood from the table, leaving the duke and George alone.

George dealt the cards. “Good luck to you, my lord,” he said congenially.

Word that two gentlemen were playing for an abbey spread rapidly through the hell, helped along by Basingstoke’s flapping jaws. And for the first two rounds, George was jovial, confident. He’d amassed a small fortune tonight and felt as if the abbey were already his. Easton Hall, he would name it. A monument to men who were born to dukes and kings and left to fend for themselves. Look how he had fended. Look what he’d become.

But as men began to gather around to watch the game, something awful happened: George began to lose. Spectacularly.

It began on the round where the stakes were higher than what George felt comfortable losing. A small tic of panic erupted in his gut, and as much as he tried to quell it, he could not. That tic of panic was not new to George—he’d felt it many times before and had pushed ahead, ignoring it, knowing that one had to push past discomfort for the greatest victories. It had worked for him time and again, but tonight, perhaps, the stakes were too high.

The more George lost, the more desperate he was to win. The duke was smiling, smelling the blood of his enemy. He made jesting comments about where he would begin the renovations to his abbey.

The tic of panic grew, filling George’s throat, forcing him to swallow time and again, if only so that he might catch his breath. While Westport smiled and made small talk with his acquaintances around the table, George wagered more.

Another round, and more men had gathered to watch, exclaiming loudly and drunkenly at every card that was laid. George suddenly couldn’t keep track of the cards that had been played. He made mistakes in doing quick calculations of odds in his head. The happy future he’d allowed himself to envision began to crumble away like a pile of ashes. The sound of laughter—at him, at his misfortune—clanged in his ears. He lost sight of himself, of what he’d become.