The Trouble With Honor (The Cabot Sisters #1)

George was quite realistic—he knew he could never inhabit her world. He could never be good enough for her in society’s eyes. Wanting a woman of the ton put him at great peril for heartache, for rejection, for all the things that he’d learned at a very early age to push down and ignore, pretend were not part of him.

He was reminded that as a world-wise thirteen-year-old lad, he’d developed quite a heart song for Lady Anna Duncan, the daughter of a prominent London magistrate. She had given George every reason to believe that she, too, felt esteem for him. But on a day she’d come to the Royal Mews with her father, George had tried to kiss her, and she’d laughed at him. “I shan’t give my first kiss to a stable boy,” she’d said, as if he were so far beneath her that he might have been her boots.

It was a stinging rebuke, and though George had become a man and had put that incident in perspective, he still believed Lady Anna Duncan had taught him an invaluable lesson: he would never escape the shadows that surrounded his beginnings. No lady of the Quality would ever have him.

Honor Cabot was Quality. And she was trouble; he could feel it in his bones. And yet he could not stop thinking of her, of the feel of her in his arms, of her lips and her mouth beneath his. He could almost feel her sheath around him—

George suddenly realized he was holding something and glanced down. He’d picked up the invitation she had secured for him without thinking, and now it was crumpled. He threw it across the room.





CHAPTER THIRTEEN

GEORGE HAD TO admit, Finnegan turned him out quite nicely the night of the Prescott Ball. He admired the green waistcoat with black embroidery—its appearance in his wardrobe a surprise, and its origin, at least to George, unknown. His neckcloth was black silk, and his dress coat made of the finest superfine wool. Finnegan had sent up a barber, and George was clean-shaven. His hair was trimmed and combed back so that it brushed his collar, and his boots polished to a high sheen. To his own eyes, George looked like the nephew of the king. He supposed others might think so, too...and then, inevitably, the sniggers behind their hands would begin.

George no longer took offense to the skepticism as he had when he was a lad. Now he knew who he was. He was an honest man with strong convictions, and if that didn’t suit the titled lords and ladies of this town, so be it. He reminded himself that he’d had the wherewithal to pull himself up to these social heights. He didn’t want to acknowledge the bit of queasiness at the thought of entering the highest reaches of society tonight.

He struck out on foot for the evening, having the luxury now of living within walking distance of the fashionable Grosvenor Square. Carriages were queued up around the square, waiting to disgorge their passengers into this prestigious event.

He strode briskly past them all, his crumpled invitation in his pocket, and jogged up the steps of the home of Lord and Lady Prescott.

It was quite impressive, indeed, taking up one-third of the north side of the square. Grecian columns marked the entrance; lights blazed in every window. George stepped into the entry and was instantly surrounded by a dizzying swirl of pastel gowns, headpieces and feathers. Jewels glistened at the throats and wrists of lovely ladies, who were accompanied by lean men in long tails and embroidered waistcoats. They reminded George of cranes as they bent their heads to hear the ladies speak, then lifted them again.

He stepped to one side to avoid the beaded train of a woman’s gold gown, and very nearly collided with a footman who was moving with alarming speed through the crowd, his tray of champagne flutes carried high above his head to avoid any disastrous encounter with the feathers that grew out of the ladies’ elaborate hairstyles.

George swallowed down his boyish angst and stood in line to be presented to the viscount and his wife. He handed his invitation to the butler, who in turn announced George in grand fashion as he neared the receiving line. When he stepped before the viscount, his lordship looked curiously at George, as if he couldn’t quite make him out.

Lady Prescott, however, curtsied graciously and slipped her hand into his, her gaze fluttering up to his. “Mr. Easton,” she said with a soft smile. “Welcome to our home.”

“My lady,” he responded, bowing over her hand. “Thank you.”

She did not remove her hand from his but held his gaze, smiling up at him. He knew that sort of smile, and one of George’s brows rose slightly above the other in silent question, and her smile seemed to deepen. Women, he thought as he let go of her hand, bowed and walked on. Either they were fearful of associating with his bastard self or were wanting more than he cared to deliver.