The Trouble With Honor (The Cabot Sisters #1)

He decided to resort to more salacious tactics. “You may be engaged, Miss Hargrove, but to a man who cannot possibly please you as I would.” He paused, let his gaze drift down her body, then looked into her eyes. “In every manner your body might imagine.”


He fully expected her to succumb to that suggestion, but she didn’t. She took the croquet balls from the footman and handed them to George and pointed to the ground. “We will begin there when play is called.” She glided away toward the start of the course.

George followed her and carelessly dropped the balls at the starting point, his gaze on her.

Miss Hargrove glanced at him sidelong. “Perhaps you should have a look about this weekend and set your sights on someone who is more accepting of your attentions.” She glanced around and nodded to something over his shoulder. “Miss Peeples has no understanding with anyone.”

George didn’t even bother to glance at the Peeples girl. “I think her mother would not approve.” He was certain of that—he’d enjoyed a brief but passionate affair with Mrs. Peeples a year or so ago. The woman had been frightened of pregnancy and had preferred to please him. Which, George thought, had been pleasant enough once or twice. But he’d discovered he’d rather be the one to do the pleasing.

A sudden and unwanted image of Honor Cabot danced in his mind’s eye, and he was reminded of how lustfully she had received his advances at the Prescott Ball. So much so that he had struggled quite desperately to keep from taking it further.

“Well, there are plenty of others,” Miss Hargrove said with a shrug. “Ah, there he is, my future husband.” She gave George a pert little smile as Sommerfield began to wave his arms, seeking the attention of the players.

Bloody hell, Monica Hargrove was a tough little nut, George thought as Sommerfield bellowed out the rules of the tournament. He’d said things to her he’d said to far more experienced women, and which had produced far more satisfying results than this one would give him.

Dear God, was Honor right?

The more he thought on it, the more vexed George grew. He was a grown man, for heaven’s sake, an experienced man. And when a man like him said that he desired to please a woman, she should slap him or eat out of his bloody palm. But she should not give him a coy smile and chassé away.

So what was it, George wondered irritably, that would turn Miss Hargrove’s stubborn little head? He was feeling rather determined to find it.





CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

THE BEAUTIFUL SUNSHINE of the afternoon had given way to rain, and the guests were in the foyer, filling the hallways and grand ballroom. It had been set for a night of gaming with card and casino tables, as well as roulette. The formal dining room was likewise set with tables, but for dining. At half past ten, a buffet would be provided.

Honor walked through the throng, pausing to accept the greetings of several guests and the compliments of more than one gentleman. She had dressed for the evening in anticipation of seeing Easton again. She wore a crimson satin trimmed with black lace and beaded embroidery that swirled about the hem of the gown and her train, and the front panel of the underskirt. The décolletage was scandalously deep, edged with more black lace. Around her throat she wore a choker of black obsidian stones, a gift from the earl on the occasion of her twentieth birthday. It was amazing to think that had been two entire years ago. Most of her friends that age were married now. Lucinda Stone was expecting her first child.

Honor felt a curious little draw of something when she thought of Lucinda that felt almost like regret.

But that was impossible. Honor didn’t regret anything. She’d lived her life as she’d wanted, taking advantage of every opportunity to be as free as she pleased. So why, then, had that freedom begun to feel a little like a noose? No, no, that was not what she believed.

She believed in her freedom when she wasn’t thinking of George Easton.

Speaking of Easton, where was he? She tried not to imagine him befriending any other woman here—the thought was a bit nauseating.

She could not see him in the throng.

A current seemed to run through the house; laughter crackled, the crowd’s jovial mood helped along by unimaginable quantities of champagne and wine, served by a team of eight footmen.

Even the earl had come down, Honor was pleased to see. He was dressed in formal tails, his neckcloth snowy white against the sickly pallor of his skin. He looked rather small in the large, upholstered armchair where he sat, a footstool under his feet, a blanket over his lap, Jericho standing behind him.

Honor’s mother was sitting beside him, beautifully regal in the silver gown. She was laughing at something Mr. Cleburne was saying. Mr. Cleburne was suddenly ever present, wasn’t he? She supposed Monica had seen to that.