The Trouble With Honor (The Cabot Sisters #1)

“No. Go now,” he said, more forcefully.

With a hint of a smile on her face, Honor stepped around him and walked to the French doors. With one last swipe of her palm against her hair, she opened both doors and disappeared inside.

George donned his coat, walked to the railing and stared into black, willing his body back to its natural state.

Willing his heart back to its natural state was not as successful.





CHAPTER TWENTY

THREE HOURS PAST midnight, Honor finally collapsed into bed, her head aching from exhaustion. She was emotionally drained after the evening.

But mostly, Honor was oddly euphoric, her senses still filled with the extraordinary moments with George on the viewing balcony.

George.

What was happening to her? When had she become so wanton? Her thoughts raced with the memory of his arms around her, his lips on her flesh, the scent of his coat enveloping her. She had been truly transported by him, carnal pleasure introduced to her and settling deep. Honor had believed herself ready for potent sexual advances from any gentleman...but nothing could have prepared her for what had happened on the viewing balcony. She’d tasted that secret world between men and women, the thing that brought them together, and now she wanted it all. She wanted to feel his body inside hers, to feel his hands on every inch of her body. She wanted to look into those pale blue eyes for as long as she could, to see the shine in them when he looked at her.

But such want was heart-wrenching. Honor was not naive—George Easton was the sort of man no woman could ever possess, she knew that. He was a man without connection, a man that no father, no brother, would ever allow a daughter or sister to wed. He was a man who brazenly and openly risked all for the greatest pleasures in his life. That sort of man had no room in his life for a wife. A lover, certainly. But not a wife.

He was precisely the sort of man who made her heart race with excitement.

But did she want to be his wife? Was that the fullness she was feeling in her chest? Was that the desire that lurked in her, the need to be with him always, to hold him, to see his smile? Realization of what she truly wanted dawned slowly, spreading softly like morning’s first light. How interesting that Honor had believed herself to be the same at heart as George—no desire for entanglements, but only excitement and enchantment. How ironic that it would be someone just like her who would show her that what she really wanted was love. She wanted love. She wanted to feel love again, to feel the comforting security of sitting across from someone every day, of sharing a life, a family, the heartaches and triumphs of life.

She wanted George. God, how she wanted him. He was exciting, so different from the gentlemen of the ton. He was not afraid to risk all, he was not afraid of anything. He was the perfect man for her.

Except for the fact that he was a bastard, involved in trade and reviled by half the ton.

Honor tried to sleep, clutching the coverlet as if it were a rope tethering her to earth. She gripped it to keep herself on firm ground, to remember who she was, what her destiny was to be—safely married to someone of standing in the ton. An obedient wife, a perfect hostess, protector of her family. Safe in the bosom of the society she had been reared to accept.

But what did that all mean without someone she loved to share it with her? An empty life.

Honor must have slept—she was startled awake when someone grabbed her foot. Honor came up with a gasp and blinked sleepily at Prudence standing at the end of her bed.

“What in heaven?” she asked grumpily, and fell back onto the pillow.

“Why aren’t you awake?” Prudence demanded. “You’ve missed breakfast.”

“Because I had my supper at two in the morning.” She yawned and stretched her arms high above her head. “Why? Is something wrong?”

“No. But the cricket tournament is today. Augustine is in a dither about it.” She sat on the end of Honor’s bed. “Lord Washburn intends to play.”

“How perfectly lovely for Lord Washburn,” Honor said. She pushed herself up, propped herself against the pillows. Oh, to be sixteen years all over again, Honor thought wistfully.

“He’s rather athletic,” Prudence added, and restlessly stood up. “Grace is looking for you. She said if I found you, I was to send you to her.”

“But I want to sleep,” she complained. Really, to think of George. “Tell Grace I will come to her just as soon as I’m able, will you?” Honor asked.

An hour later, Honor found her sister outside beneath a parasol. Like Honor, Grace had dressed in white muslin, the traditional color of the cricket tournament. She looked as fatigued as Honor felt.

“Were you late to bed?” Honor asked. “You look as if you’ve not slept.”