The Trouble With Honor (The Cabot Sisters #1)

“Then perhaps you should invite me in so that I will not be exposed to prying eyes,” she suggested without compunction.

Why was it he could not refuse women? Was his creator so cruel as to give him such a terribly vulnerable flaw? He looked her up and down and said, “I shudder to think what my Finnegan will have to say,” and gestured impatiently for her to come along.

Honor looked back to her driver and waved. The man instantly set the coach in motion.

“Wait!” George exclaimed. “Where is he going? Tell him to come back at once!”

“He believes I have come to call on a sick friend and that I shall see myself home. It’s a lovely walk from here. You might try it! But if you prefer, you may lend me your coach to see me home.”

George gaped at her. “You are free with my transport, are you not?”

“I am merely taking your concern for my reputation into account. Anyone might see the Beckington coach sitting before your house. Speaking of that, which one is it? This one?” she asked, pointing up to his white brick townhome.

He sighed.

“It’s lovely, Easton!” she said brightly, and moved up the walk to the steps.

“For God’s sake, Miss Cabot, at least do me the courtesy of accompanying you into my house,” he said gruffly, and caught her elbow, escorting her up the stairs, glancing around them to see who noticed.

“That won’t do the least bit of good,” Honor said. “Don’t you know that women in their dotage do nothing all day but sit about at their windows peering down at houses that belong to men like you?”

George muttered something under his breath, reached for the brass door handle and pushed it open.

Finnegan was there and took an almost unnoticeable step backward when he saw Honor.

Honor seemed to think nothing of it as she glided into the foyer. “Oh, Mr. Easton, your house is so lovely,” she said, looking up at the domed ceiling above her head. She took off her hat and handed it to Finnegan without actually looking at him.

Finnegan exchanged a look with George, a rakish twinkle in his eye. That was precisely what George deserved in taking the ex-lover of his ex-lover as his valet. “Thank you, Finnegan, that will be all,” George said.

“Shall I serve tea?”

“Serve whatever you like,” George snapped, and startled Honor by taking her by the elbow and marching her into the small salon.

Once inside, she wrested free of his grip and walked to the middle of the room, turning slowly to take in the silk-papered walls, the French gold-leaf furnishings, the portrait of a lady dripping with pearls hanging over the mantel. “Who is she?” she asked, tilting her head back to better see the woman with the piercing blue eyes, the creamy skin. “One of your acquaintances?” she asked coyly, looking at him sidelong.

“I haven’t the slightest idea who she is,” George said, and leaned back against the closed door, his arms folded over his chest. “Honor, look at me.”

She glanced at him over her shoulder.

“What are you doing here? I can’t believe that even you, the most audacious woman I have ever known, would come to the very door of a bastard son with a questionable reputation. Do you want to be ruined?”

“My goodness, Easton, when you put it like that, it sounds so disagreeable. But I will tell you honestly, I hardly care if my reputation is ruined or not.”

“Of course you do,” he scoffed. “If you wanted to speak to me, you should have summoned me to Beckington House.”

She clucked her tongue at him and unbuttoned her spencer. “I wouldn’t presume to summon you, George,” she said, and removed the jacket, tossing it onto a chair. “Well, not like that, at least.”

George arched a dubious brow at her and tried not to ogle her décolletage. His body was already beginning to stir, and he hadn’t even touched her. Damn her for coming. Damn him for being so besotted.

“And besides, I couldn’t have summoned you if I’d wanted, as we have a houseguest. It’s been difficult enough to keep Mamma from him.”

“Houseguest,” he repeated, noting that it was a he. “Who is this houseguest?”

She waved a hand at him. “It hardly matters.” She ran her fingers over a pair of hand-painted porcelain horses that graced a sideboard.

George watched her curiously. There was something a bit different about Honor this afternoon. She was her usual, unapologetic self, yes, but the closer he looked, the more vaguely out of sorts she seemed to him. Anxious. “Honor...is something wrong?” he asked her.

“Wrong?” She smiled and put her hand to her nape. “Nothing is wrong other than Lord Sommerfield is still engaged to marry Miss Monica Hargrove.” She dropped her hand. “They are practically standing before the altar. They are very pleased to be able to present themselves as a newly engaged couple at the reception for Lord Stapleton.”