The Trouble With Honor (The Cabot Sisters #1)

And when he turned around, he saw Miss Hargrove standing before him, smiling like a fat cat. “You’ve become quite the partner in demand, Mr. Easton. Should I expect to see you at more balls in London?”


George suddenly understood that Miss Hargrove suspected his feelings for Honor. She thought she would have the best of him? Oh, no—George suddenly had a renewed interest in enticing her away from Sommerfield. “I’ve been told that I am much improved. Would you like to see for yourself?” he asked, holding out his arm.

Miss Hargrove laughed and put her hand on his. “I would be delighted,” she said.





CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

IT WAS HALF past midnight when the ball’s orchestra began to ring bells, signaling something was about to happen. It seemed a good time for George to make his escape.

George was grateful that Finnegan was not about, and shut his door, locking it. He shrugged out of his coat, then yanked at his neckcloth. He had removed his waistcoat and had pulled his shirt from his trousers when he heard a knock at the door. George groaned heavenward. “Not now, Finnegan!” he barked at the door.

A moment passed; the knock came again. “Bloody hell,” he muttered, and stalked to the door, unlocking it and throwing it open, prepared to give Finnegan a tongue-lashing.

But it was not Finnegan who darted past him, it was Honor. Stunned, George quickly shut the door and turned to gape at her. “What the devil are you doing here?” he demanded. “You shouldn’t be here, Honor—”

“It’s all right,” she said quickly. “Everyone is in the ballroom. Augustine and Monica are announcing their engagement.”

He blinked. No wonder Miss Hargrove had been so confident this evening. “Shouldn’t you be there, as well?”

“Of course,” she said, and smiled sheepishly. “But I had something more important to attend.”

He didn’t understand her. “What?” he asked, thinking of her mother, of her sisters.

She started toward him. “I couldn’t leave it like this.”

“Leave it,” he echoed uncertainly.

“Oh, George,” she said, smiling at him. “There is so much that I...that I want. That I need. I don’t know precisely how to put into words what it is that I need.” She moved closer, her steps hesitant, as if she were uncertain where she meant to go in this room.

But there was something about her expression, the hope in her eyes, that caused a bit of panic in George’s chest. What was she saying?

“I need you, George. I need you to...to help me,” she said earnestly.

“You need to think of marrying,” he said gruffly, taking a step back. “I can’t help you in that.”

She paused, blinking up at him. “Perhaps,” she said. God, how he wished she wouldn’t look at him like that! “Perhaps,” she said again, and took another step, reaching up to cup his face. “But I won’t think of it now. I can only think of you, George, and the thing that is unfinished between us. Don’t you think of it, too?”

“Miss Hargrove?” he asked, confused.

“No!” she cried. “No, no—I hope that you will never speak to her again. I mean that I need you.”

It took him a moment to understand her, and the panic surged through him like a storm. He knew himself—he was not strong enough for this, he was as weak as a puppy in this. He frantically pulled her hands from his face. “Don’t ask me that,” he said. “Anything but that, Honor. Anything.”

Her lips parted with surprise. She suddenly surged forward, rising up on her toes to kiss him. Still, George didn’t touch her. He tried to pull back, but it was impossible.

Then, just as suddenly, Honor stopped and peered deeply into his eyes. She sensed his reluctance; she dropped her hands from his face and moved back, away from him.

“You don’t understand,” he said simply.

“Neither do you,” she said in a low voice, and reached behind her back with both hands.

George watched her a moment before he realized what she was doing. She was unbuttoning her gown. “No,” he said, reaching for her hand. “Don’t—”

She jerked away from his hand, her gaze locked on his. She wiggled one arm from its sleeve.

George’s heart began to race, his body growing taut. “Goddammit, Honor, don’t do this! I mean what I say—you don’t understand what I will do.”

She pushed the other sleeve down her arm, the gown over her hips, and let it fall. She stood before him in her chemise.

George’s heart was racing so hard now that he feared it would explode in his chest. His gaze swept the length of her, her breasts, spilling out of a chemise and corset, her waist, curving into hips. It was as if he’d been starved of all sustenance all his life, and here was a feast before him.

And still, he made no move. If he touched her, put as much as a finger on her skin, he would lose all control.