The Trouble With Honor (The Cabot Sisters #1)

Lustful thoughts gave way to terror. George knew of the Garfield Assembly; everyone in London knew of it. The haut ton in its entirety would attend. All his life, the world of the ton had been held out to him as the ideal, as the world in which he would never be welcomed. He was well aware that were it not for his wealth, he would not be tolerated at all. He feared that if he lost his wealth—which, arguably, he was on the verge of losing—he’d be shunned as a pariah. Nothing was more loathsome than someone who had tried to become one of them and had failed.

George had been treated all his life as if he were deficient, that he was less than mere mortals because his father had not claimed him. His father’s refusal had become George’s burden of shame to shoulder. He had trained himself to keep his heart at arm’s length from anyone, to maintain an emotional distance. He fancied himself like the magnificent show horses of the royal cavalry he’d brushed when he was a child. Like them, he was proud and high-stepping, his movements precise, his looks enviable. But he never looked right or left, never wanted anything that wasn’t in his prescribed path. He kept trotting forward, his steps high, his head held higher.

George had known his share of bruising disappointments, and yet he did not think himself a bitter man—quite the contrary, he thought himself generally a happy one. But then again, he took great pains to avoid venues like the Garfield Assembly.

“No,” he said instantly.

“Mr. Easton! What better opportunity?” Miss Cabot asked, her eyes shining with the victory of his giving in to her. Again.

“I think I was quite clear at our first meeting. I will not frequent assembly rooms.”

“But I can facilitate your entry—”

“Pardon, you can what? I do not need you to facilitate anything on my behalf, Miss Cabot. It may astonish you to know that there are some such as myself who simply don’t care to spend an evening surrounded by vapid, simpering debutantes!”

Miss Cabot’s smile only deepened with happy skepticism, and the drum began to beat again. “You surely do not think me so naive as that, sir,” she said pertly. “You do not want to attend the assembly because you can’t gain entry without proper invitation. But I can get you that invitation. And you must agree it is the perfect opportunity. Augustine will not be in attendance, and you need only speak with Miss Hargrove to put the suggestion in her head that you find her appealing.”

“I don’t need to attend an assembly for that,” he said crisply.

“What, then, do you think to do it on the street?” Miss Cabot asked gaily. She suddenly took him by the hand. “Come,” she said, and pulled him to the center of the room. “Stand just there, if you please.” She pulled a chair from the hearth and positioned it before him, sat down, and arranged her skirts before gracefully folding her hands in her lap. “All right, then, we are in an assembly room.”

George stared down at her.

“Go on,” she said with a charming smile. “Pretend I am Miss Hargrove and you wish to talk to me.” She settled herself once more, then looked away.

George could not believe he was standing in the Beckington House receiving room, engaged in some foolish courtship game. “This is daft,” he groused.

“Please,” she said angelically.

God in heaven. He muttered a curse to himself, pushed a hand through his hair, then bowed. “Good evening, Miss Hargrove.”

Miss Cabot glanced at him sidelong. “Oh. Mr. Easton,” she said, and nodded politely before looking away again.

George stood there. This was not the way he would go about turning Monica Hargrove’s head, not at all. In fact, he had never approached a woman in this manner and wondered at those who did. It felt a bit desperate. Is this how the young bucks behaved in the storied drawing rooms of Mayfair?

Honor looked at him sidelong again. “Sit next to me,” she whispered.

“Why?” George demanded.

“You should be at eye level. You look so...” Her gaze swept over him, and if George wasn’t mistaken, she blushed slightly. “Big,” she said. “You look very big, towering over me as you are.”

George did not see the significance. “I am big.”

“But that is rather intimidating to an impressionable woman,” she said. “Please, do sit.”

“Intimidating!” He laughed. “I think there is nothing that will intimidate you, Miss Cabot.”

“Certainly not! But we are not speaking of me. We are speaking of Miss Hargrove.”

George couldn’t help his chuckle. “Bloody hell,” he said, and reached for a chair at his elbow and set it next to Miss Cabot. He sat. She looked away. She did not speak. What was he supposed to do, then? He racked his brain for what to say. “The weather is fine,” he said.

“It is indeed.” Her gaze was not on him. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Easton, but I am wanted across the room.” She abruptly stood and glided away. When he did not follow—was he to chase after her like a puppy, too?—she twirled around and frowned at him.

“What in the devil is the point of that?” George demanded.

“The point, Mr. Easton, is that you did not engage me. All I saw was a big man with nothing to say.”