The Trouble With Honor (The Cabot Sisters #1)

He moved on, scanning the crowd. He saw several acquaintances—some who looked the other way—and paused to speak to those who did not while surreptitiously looking for Honor Cabot. He didn’t see her. Nor did he see Miss Hargrove. If Honor had forced him into attending a ball where Miss Hargrove would not be, he was afraid of what he might do to that impudent young woman.

He continued on, snatching a flute of champagne from a footman as he admired more of the women in attendance. He felt a light touch on his arm and turned, expecting—hoping—that it was Honor. But it was an old friend, Lady Seifert.

“Mary,” he said fondly, taking her hand and bringing it to his lips. He and the auburn-haired, green-eyed beauty had been...associated, a few years ago.

“George, my dear,” she said, smiling fondly. “I’ve not seen you in an age! I hear you’ve been rather well occupied. Women and ships, is it?” she asked with a slight wink. “All of them sailing beyond your reach?”

He was surprised she’d heard. “Not all,” he said with a wink.

She laughed. “I can’t believe you’re here, darling.”

“Why is that? Because I don’t dance?”

“Because Gloucester is here.” She glanced around, rising up on her toes to see over the heads of those who crowded around them. “You really shouldn’t have come.”

He privately bristled at the idea Gloucester’s invitation meant more than his. “I have an invitation,” he said.

“Best not let him see you.”

“Lady Seifert!”

Lady Seifert and George both turned round; what was that, his heart skipping a beat or two at the sight of Miss Cabot?

“Miss Cabot,” Mary said graciously. “How do you do?”

“Very well, madam. And you?”

“Quite well. May I introduce Mr. George Easton?” Mary asked, gesturing to George.

“A pleasure, Miss Cabot,” George said, clasping his hands behind his back and bowing.

Honor’s eyes sparkled with amusement as she curtsied. “Thank you, Mr. Easton. A fine night for a ball, is it not?”

He could not begin to guess what a night must include to be considered fine for a ball. He smiled. So did Honor.

Mary, he noticed, looked intently at Honor, then at him, her eyes narrowing slightly above a wry smile.

“I think fortune has smiled on Lord and Lady Prescott and sent the rain away for the day,” Honor said, and glanced about the room, as if she were looking for someone.

“Has it?” George asked amicably. “Personally, I don’t give much thought to weather.”

Honor looked as if she had just swallowed something.

“One can’t help but wonder what you do give thought to, Mr. Easton,” Mary purred next to him.

“My guess is that the gentleman gives thought to all the newly presented debutantes,” Honor suggested. “There are quite a lot of them this evening.”

“Would that include you, Miss Cabot?” George asked.

She laughed. “I was presented three years ago, Mr. Easton! I fear I’ve lost that glow.”

“Oh, I think not, my dear,” Mary said.

Another gentleman appeared in George’s peripheral vision. “Lady Seifert,” he said, greeting them. “Miss Cabot.”

“Good evening, Sir Randall!” Mary said.

“Miss Cabot,” the young man said, “if you will allow, I request the honor of standing up with you on the next set.”

“I would be delighted,” Honor said, and looked as if she meant it. “Please, excuse me, Lady Seifert.” She glanced slyly at George, a smile playing on her lips. “Mr. Easton.”

Sir Randall quickly offered his arm to her; she put her hand lightly upon it, cast George a quick but sparkling little smile and glided away at the fop’s side. George tried not to gape at her back.

That was it?

She would toddle off and dance while he did her dirty work? He watched until they’d disappeared into the crowd. He didn’t realize he was staring until Mary touched the tip of her fan to his shoulder. “Drink your champagne, George, darling. She’s not for you.”

He chuckled. “No? Tell me, love, who is for me?”

“Certainly no debutantes here,” Mary said with a lilting little laugh. “Their mothers would never allow it.” She winked at him. “Enjoy yourself all the same.” She moved away, her hips swinging suggestively.

George turned from that delectable sight, and his gaze landed on none other than Miss Monica Hargrove, standing beside Sommerfield. At least he might get his mission over and done, he thought, and casually walked to where she stood.

She glanced up as he approached and blinked with surprise. “Oh!” she said. “Mr. Easton!”

“Miss Hargrove,” he said politely.

She looked at her fiancé, who was eyeing George curiously. “Lord Sommerfield, may I introduce Mr. Easton?” she asked.

“Easton, yes, of course!” Sommerfield said jovially. “Yes, yes, it is you. We’ve met,” he said.

“Oh?” Miss Hargrove said.

“Quite right. At the club, I do believe. Was it not the club, sir?”

George was not welcome in Sommerfield’s club but said, nonetheless, “Good to see you again, Sommerfield. Your family is well?”

“Exceedingly. That is, with the exception of my father. He ails terribly, what with the consumption.”

“I’m saddened to hear it.”