The Trouble With Honor (The Cabot Sisters #1)

Monica scanned the crowd—there was Honor again, dancing now, her step light and free as she skipped around Charles Braxton in her figures, while Braxton admired her like an adoring child. Grace was on the dance floor as well, her smile brilliant beneath the candelabras, her dancing more elegant than her sister’s.

Monica turned away, unwilling to watch. She was seeking a familiar face to talk to when she felt a tingling in her spine—she could feel someone looking at her, and when she turned about, she was surprised once again to see George Easton staring directly at her.

Not only was his gaze locked on her, he was walking purposefully in her direction. Monica thought perhaps she was mistaken, but Easton headed right to her. He smiled charmingly and bowed low. “Miss Hargrove, may I be so bold as to present myself to you? I hope you will forgive me, but I saw you with Rivers and I’ve not been able to turn away. I am George Easton, at your service.”

Was he not aware that a gentleman did not approach a lady without invitation? Monica glanced slyly around the room to see if anyone had noticed this breach of etiquette. “How do you do, Mr. Easton,” she said, smiling a little. She found his approach completely suspect, and yet she couldn’t help but be a bit flattered by it.

He gave her a dazzling smile. “I confess I am quite captivated.”

Gentlemen had, at times, been captivated with her, but they hadn’t admitted it quite like that. “Are you, indeed?” she asked, smiling coyly. “How unusual it is to have a gentleman approach without invitation, and make such a proclamation.”

“I am an unusual man,” he said cheerfully. “But I see I’ve been too forthright. I’ve been accused of being so in the past, but when it comes to beautiful women, it is a habit I cannot seem to break. May I offer you a glass of punch, Miss Hargrove?”

What was happening here? Why was he talking to her like this? She didn’t believe for a moment that a man of his charm and fine looks and reputation would be the least bit captivated by her. She was suddenly wildly curious as to what he was about. “You may.”

He led her across the room to the sideboard, nodded at the footman attending and accepted a glass of punch to hand to Monica.

“Thank you.”

Easton smiled again, his eyes softening around the corners. He really was quite handsome, what with his square jaw, blue eyes and brown hair streaked with gold. Monica wished Augustine had more hair, really; his was beginning to thin on top.

Easton touched her elbow lightly and led her away from the sideboard. “You will undoubtedly think me bold again if I were to proclaim there is not a lovelier woman in attendance tonight, but I must say it is so.”

He was perhaps a bit blind. “But there are so many women here tonight,” Monica said.

“None that can compare to you.” With his finger, he casually caressed her wrist. His eyes seemed almost to dance, and Monica was beginning to appreciate how the man might have earned his notorious reputation of bedding women with ease.

“I was watching you dance with Rivers,” he said, his gaze sliding to her décolletage. “Admiring your figure.”

“I saw you,” Monica said.

He leaned closer, his head next to hers, and whispered, “I found myself rather envious of Sommerfield.”

“Perhaps you should tell that to Lord Sommerfield.”

“And have him call me out?”

Monica couldn’t help but smile at that preposterous notion. A man like Easton had nothing to fear from Augustine when it came to duels or fights, or however men settled challenges between them. Monica was intrigued by Easton’s sudden interest in her...but not fooled by it. She wondered what gain he sought from it. An introduction to someone, perhaps? To Augustine? She looked him squarely in the eye and said, “I cannot help but wonder at your interest in me.”

He looked surprised by her forthrightness. “I should think a woman as comely as you must have gentlemen admiring you at every turn, Miss Hargrove.”

He didn’t truly think she would believe him? It was so wildly preposterous given the differences in their stations and circumstances.

“I had rather hoped you would do me the honor of standing up with me so that I might admire you a bit longer than decorum will allow,” he said, and put out his hand for hers.

Monica laughed. She had no intention of standing up with him, of starting any sort of rumor. She pressed her cup into his hand. “Thank you, but I should not like to be the subject of any undue speculation. Good evening, Mr. Easton,” she said airily, and walked away.

She glanced back over her shoulder as she moved away.

He was watching her, his head down, his smile a bit smug.

Really, what the devil was he after?





CHAPTER EIGHT