Читать книгу The Trouble with Honour - Julia London, Julia London - Страница 11
ОглавлениеHONOR DRESSED CAREFULLY for her meeting with Mr. Easton. It would not do to give him the wrong impression, as she was walking on treacherous ground as it was. She remembered how he’d looked at her in Southwark, his gaze penetrating and boldly moving over her.
She needed something demure. Reserved. She chose white muslin with a high neckline, trimmed in green, and topped it with a dark green spencer. She donned a bonnet with matching trim, and dark green gloves.
Honor studied herself critically in the mirror above her vanity. It would do—no one would suspect she had gone to Gunter’s for anything more than a cup of tea or an ice. Certainly not to meet a gentleman alone, unchaperoned. “Certainly not,” she muttered and smiled at her reflection.
But her smile looked forced. As if her lips knew how dreadful she was behaving.
She dropped a few coins in the beaded reticule Prudence had made her, then made her way downstairs, taking care to avoid any place that Grace might be. She asked the Beckington butler, Mr. Hardy, to bring round the coach. As she stood waiting in the foyer, Augustine walked through the door.
“Honor!” he said, surprised to see her there. “Are you going out?”
“To tea,” she said breezily, hoping she didn’t appear as nervous as she felt. “Shall I see you at supper?”
“Supper? No, no, afraid not.” He handed his hat to Hardy and added proudly, “I’m to dine with Miss Hargrove and her parents this evening.” He glanced back at Hardy and whispered loudly, “Shall I tell you a secret?”
“Why, yes! I adore secrets.”
Augustine yanked at his waistcoat where it had inched up over his belly. His brown eyes were shining, his smile irrepressible. “I’ve not told anyone, but Papa agrees with me that Miss Hargrove and I should marry this spring.”
Honor’s heart hitched. She’d believed there would be no possibility for Augustine’s marriage to occur before the earl’s death. “This spring?”
“Yes, isn’t it marvelous? When I explained to Papa that Miss Hargrove is anxious to be wed—and so am I, naturally—Papa reasoned that he could very well linger for months, and that there was no point in putting it off indefinitely. I rather think he’d like to see me wed before...the, ah...inevitable.”
Honor tried to hide her shock behind a bright, happy smile.
“I should very much like to announce a date at our annual affair at Longmeadow,” he added happily.
The Beckingtons hosted a country-house gathering at the earl’s seat of Longmeadow before the opening of Parliament each year. The stately Georgian home had thirty guest rooms, and at least one hundred guests attended every spring.
“What better time and place?” Augustine happily continued.
“What better?” Honor echoed, her mind suddenly whirling. The Longmeadow soiree was a mere three weeks away.
“Monica is a bit anxious. I have counseled her she should not fret so, that my sisters have always been quite welcoming.” He looked pointedly at Honor.
“Particularly to dear friends, I should like to think,” Honor said. And she would like to think that precluded Monica, but there was no need to confuse the issue at the moment.
Augustine glanced slyly at Hardy, then leaned closer to Honor and whispered, “I think she feels as if the four of you might all see her as an intrusion into our happy family. I assured her nothing could be further from the truth. She was eased when I said so and reminded me that in any event, you will all have husbands of your own soon enough.” Augustine smiled indulgently at Honor. “I should not like to speak out of turn, but I believe she would take great pleasure in helping those happy events along in some way.”
“I have no doubt of it,” Honor said sincerely.
“You should think of it, Honor. One cannot live under one’s father’s wing forever, as I am discovering myself.”
“No, of course not.” Monica was already beginning to sow her seeds, was she? Honor was now determined more than ever to intervene before it was too late. “What a happy occasion,” she said to Augustine. “You must impress on our friend that she will not be intruding in the least,” she said, tapping Augustine’s chest with each word for emphasis.
The door opened; a footman stepped in. “Ah, there is your coach,” Augustine said happily. “I shall give Miss Hargrove your felicitations, shall I?”
“You must,” Honor insisted, and pictured herself with her hands around Monica’s neck.
“Good day, sister,” he said jovially.
“Good day, Augustine.” Honor watched him toddle off, whistling as he went. She turned to the door. Hardy was waiting, holding it open for her. “Lord help us all, Hardy,” she said as she swept past him.
“Indeed, miss.”
* * *
HONOR SAW MR. EASTON the moment the coach turned onto Berkeley Square. How could she miss him? His was an imposing figure. He was leaning up against a railing, one leg crossed over the other, his arms folded loosely across him, watching people stroll across the square. That night in Southwark she’d been properly titillated by his comely face and virile presence. She now understood why he was rumored to be London’s greatest rake, his affairs numerous. His looks stirred something deep inside her.
Honor pulled open the vent to the driver. “Jonas, please stop at Gunter’s and open the door to the gentleman in the black coat and gold waistcoat,” she called up.
The coach turned the corner and began to slow. Honor nervously adjusted her bonnet. She had only to think of Monica and an imminent wedding to find her resolve.
A moment later, she heard Jonas’s deep voice. The coach door swung open, and Mr. Easton, still perched against the railing, leaned to his right and looked inside. Honor smiled. “Good afternoon!”
He pushed away from the railing and came to his full height. He was quite tall, wasn’t he? With his muscular legs and broad shoulders he looked too big to fit into the coach. He strolled toward it now, his expression inscrutable. Just like that evening in Southwark, he had an uncanny way of looking at her that made Honor feel as if he was seeing right through her, seeing her cards, even the thoughts in her head. She’d felt fluttery that night, as if a thousand butterflies had nested within her chest.
She was feeling fluttery again.
He paused just outside the open coach door, arched a brow and said, “Your stepbrother must be dining elsewhere.”
Honor swallowed down her nerves. “Won’t you come inside, Mr. Easton?”
He cocked his head to one side, assessing her, his gaze nonchalantly taking her in, from her bonnet to the hem of her gown. The slightest shadow of a smile turned up one corner of his mouth. He reached for the coach handle and easily came inside, swaying the coach as he settled heavily across from her and the door swung shut behind him.
Honor had guessed right—he was too big for the coach. His knees framed both of hers, and his body very nearly filled the bench. He sat casually, one arm stretched across the back of the squabs. He reminded her of a wolf, calmly watching a hare hop across the path.
He inclined his head. “Miss Cabot.”
“Mr. Easton, how do you do?” She rapped on the ceiling and called up, “A drive around the park, please, Mr. Jonas.” She closed the vent and smiled at her guest. “Thank you for coming.”
“How could I possibly resist such an unusual invitation?” His voice was smooth and low, and it sent another little shiver winging through her, fluttering in her chest, in her groin.
The coach took an unexpected turn; Mr. Easton’s knee bumped her leg. He said nothing, but he smiled as if that amused him, too. “Well, Miss Cabot?” he asked. “What has brought on this unprecedented ride about the park in a Beckington coach? Do you desire to seduce me? If so, I am favorably inclined. His gaze slid down to her well-covered bosom. “I find seduction one of the greatest pleasures in life.”
Honor had the strongest urge to look down and assure herself that her spencer was properly buttoned.
Easton lifted his gaze. “Well? I am filled with curiosity.”
Her palms were suddenly damp, her heart fluttering still, making it feel impossible to speak. But speak she must, for here it was, the moment of her greatest folly. “I am in need of a favor, Mr. Easton.”
One brow arched above the other.
“Of you.... That is, if you would be so kind.” She smiled.
Mr. Easton’s gaze flicked over her again, lingering a little longer on her chest. “Do you believe we are so well acquainted that you might ask a favor?” He touched her foot with his boot.
“I...” She hesitated.
Now he smiled, as if he had the upper hand, as if there was no possible answer to that but no.
He was certainly right about that—there was no possible answer to that beyond no. But it was his faintly smug expression that gave Honor the swell of pluck that she needed. “One might agree that one hundred of your pounds suggests I do, sir.”
Mr. Easton very nearly choked on his smile. His eyes, Honor noticed, were an amazing shade of blue, the color of pale china silk. She had a fleeting thought of what it must be like to lie beneath this man and gaze up into those eyes.
“Touché, Miss Cabot,” he said. “I have never been asked a favor in quite this manner, but you are so comely, I can’t possibly refuse. Lift your skirts, then, allow me to gaze upon the valley I shall be pleasuring—”
“What?” she gasped as a hot bolt of awareness shot through her. “No, no, Mr. Easton, you misunderstand!”
“Do I?” he asked with an easy smile.
“Yes. I am in need of a different sort of favor. Not...not that,” she said breathlessly.
He laughed. “I do not frequent the same assembly rooms as debutantes.”
He didn’t what? Honor blinked with surprise. The tingling in her was momentarily forgotten in favor of her indignation. “For heaven’s sake, I am not asking you to dance with me. My dance card fills the moment I step into an assembly room.”
“Fills right up, does it?” he asked wryly.
“I mean that I do not arrange to meet gentlemen so that I might ask them to stand up with me. Or anything else,” she hastily added.
“I didn’t think that you invited me to ask me to stand up with you, Miss Cabot. I thought you had invited me for more obvious and—” He paused, ran his tongue over his lip as he took her in again, and added, “Diverting reasons. But now I am fairly certain that you have invited me here to engage in some duplicitous debutante scheme. That,” he said, “is not appealing.”
Her heart was beating wildly now, her mind sorting through all the diverting reasons. “How odd,” she said, trying desperately to ignore her thoughts. “You make it sound as if debutantes are frequently scheming.” Which, Honor was all too aware, she was doing in that very moment.
“That, or sleeping. Come now, don’t be shy,” he said, gesturing for her to carry on. “I suppose I am not generally opposed to granting favors...particularly if there is some hope I might personally enjoy the favor after all.” His gaze fell to her bodice again. “Open your spencer.”
“No!” Honor said, appalled and titillated at once.
“Then I suppose we are finished,” he said, and moved as if he meant to knock on the ceiling.
Honor quickly unbuttoned her spencer. He arched a brow; she frowned slightly and pushed it back from her bosom.
He eased back, studying her casually. Honor was accustomed to the way men looked at her. But she had never felt it quite like this, so intently. Honor’s blood began to race. She wasn’t certain if she was appalled by him or entirely aroused.
“Hmm,” he said thoughtfully as he gazed at her collared gown. “That is not an improvement.”
Honor yanked her spencer closed. “As I said, Mr. Easton, I did not come here for a dalliance.”
“Apparently not,” he said. “Or you are woefully unimaginative in your seductions.” His slow, deliberate smile made the fluttering in Honor’s breast skirt merrily down her spine and land squarely in her belly. “Nevertheless, I should think it would be pleasurable for us both.”
Honor couldn’t think. Her imagination was galloping away from her.
“Go on, then, Miss Cabot. You have me on tenterhooks. If I will not be allowed to show you the pleasure your young heart has imagined, then please, do say what it is you want.”
Steady on. Honor ignored her breathlessness, the heat in her veins, the desire to remove her spencer entirely, and said, “I will not lie, Mr. Easton. This favor involves a bit of...persuasion.”
“Even more interesting.” His gaze drifted to her lips. “I knew that you were a bold one, Miss Cabot. A young lady of your stature does not appear in a Southwark gaming hell without a river of audacity running through her veins.” He smiled as if that pleased him. “What sort of persuasion did you have in mind?” he asked, and reached out, taking the end of her bonnet’s ribbon between two fingers, rubbing the velvet.
She pulled the ribbon from his grasp. “I need you to seduce someone.”
He reached for her ribbon again and smiled so charmingly that Honor felt a bit of herself melt. “I am trying, Miss Cabot.”
She pulled the ribbon free once more. “Not me.”
He chuckled, the sound of it reverberating in her chest. “A pity. But I suppose you are too tender after all. Is it anyone I know, or anyone I choose?”
“Someone I know.” She prepared to explain herself, but George Easton abruptly reached for her wrist and wrapped his fingers tightly around it, the thumb pressing against her vein. Could he feel how her heart raced? Her heart skipped—she knew a slender moment of terror as she looked at his hand on her wrist; it looked enormous compared to her arm. She was so foolish—she had no idea if he would harm her, if he would force her—
“What the devil are you talking about?” he asked silkily, rubbing his thumb across her inner wrist.
God help her, she couldn’t falter now—she’d already walked out on the plank away from propriety and decency. “As I said, I very much need you to seduce someone.”
He lifted her arm, touched his lips to her inner wrist through the keyhole of her glove then lifted his head with a knowing smile. “It would seem I am more successful at seduction in this coach than I thought.” He pulled her forward. His eyes were blazing. “If not you, little bird, then who?”
“Miss...Miss Monica Hargrove.”
Mr. Easton blinked. He suddenly let go of her wrist and fell back against the squabs. “Miss Hargrove,” he repeated disbelievingly.
Honor nodded, thankful for the opportunity to catch her breath. She pressed her palm to her chest, took a breath.
“Isn’t Sommerfield affianced to Miss Hargrove?”
Honor nodded again.
“Your stepbrother,” he announced, as if she had not realized that Viscount Sommerfield was one and the same as Augustine.
When Honor said nothing, Easton surprised her with a laugh to the ceiling. “Of all the reprehensible—”
“Reprehensible!” Honor protested. “Goodness, Mr. Easton, I am not asking that you ruin her. I merely ask that you direct her attention elsewhere,” she said, and fluttered her fingers in a vaguely “elsewhere” direction.
“For what purpose should I direct her attention elsewhere?” he asked, mimicking her finger fluttering.
“Surely it is clear as to purpose.”
“The only purpose I can see is to make your stepbrother cry off his engagement, and I cannot imagine what reason you would have that is in any way founded—”
“I have my reasons,” she said crisply.
“Do you,” he drawled, folding his arms across his chest. “What are they?”
“You need not know—”
“Bloody hell I need not know. You ask me to turn the head of your brother’s fiancée and tell me I need not know why?”
“I certainly hadn’t counted on you arguing with me,” she said petulantly, and toyed with the fringe of the window’s sash, thinking quickly. “I cannot divulge what I know about Miss Hargrove,” she said hesitantly, “but I can assure you I have very good reason to wish that she not marry Augustine.” She glanced at Easton again, who was now looking at her with complete disdain. His eyes were still blazing, but in a strangely different way. Honor swallowed. “No good can come of their union. You must trust me,” she insisted. “And I thought...I thought that perhaps you might agree to help me.”
“Of course,” he said with mock sincerity. “Because of who I am.”
“Yes! Because you are a man who takes risks and you are rather...” She couldn’t help but take him in, his broad shoulders, his muscular legs, his fine mouth.
“Rather what?” he prodded her, nudging her leg with his knee again. “Rather a bastard? A man whose mere association with a debutante casts a shadow on her?”
“No!” Honor said, feeling herself color. “I meant you are handsome, Mr. Easton. And...and wealthy. At least there is some speculation that you are. Naturally, I would not know firsthand.”
“Naturally,” he said a bit derisively.
Lord, when she said these things out loud, she sounded absurd. She glanced to the window again, trying to find her way back to her plan, which she was having trouble remembering around the man’s sensual gaze and masculine presence. This plan had seemed almost flawless when she’d first conceived it, but Grace was right. This was a ridiculous thing to have done.
She was startled by a nudge of her knee again. She glanced at Easton.
“And if Sommerfield cries off? With that tiny bit of conscience you might have salvaged after requesting a favor such as this, you believe you will have saved him from some great embarrassment and spared his suffering?”
He had not completely dismissed her? “Well,” Honor said, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. “I wouldn’t put it precisely that way, but—”
“But,” he interrupted, and leaned forward again, so that his face was only inches from hers. His hand found her knee and squeezed, causing Honor to lose track of what she was saying altogether.
“With Beckington on his deathbed, you fear that a new countess will not look kindly to keeping four stepsisters as they should like to be kept.”
Honor gasped—how had he divined that?
“And therefore, you wish to keep Sommerfield from marrying Miss Hargrove so that you might continue to live as you please. And that, Miss Cabot, weighs more than a bit on the side of reprehensible.” He squeezed her knee once more as if to punctuate it, then leaned back, both arms now spread along the back of the squabs, looking as if he thought himself vastly superior to her. He cocked a brow, silently daring her to disagree with him.
Honor could hardly disagree with him, but she would not be chastised by him, either. Who the devil did this man think he was? She suddenly leaned forward and put her hand on his knee—but her fingers scarcely reached the breadth of it. She tried to squeeze, but his knee was as hard as stone. “And what if that is my intent? What possible difference should that make to you?”
He laughed with delight. “By God, you are bold! You admit it is true!”
“I understand how these things work, Mr. Easton. I am not some debutante freshly picked from the garden.”
“No, you certainly are not that,” he said jovially.
“Before you think to scold me, I shall remind you that you are also guilty of pursuing your singular happiness without regard for the consequences to others.” She squeezed as hard as she might, but it seemed to have no effect on him.
“Pardon?” he said, laughing outright now. “What do you mean?”
She sat back, folded her arms tightly across her. “Please,” she said with roll of her eyes. “Everyone in town knows about your affair with Lady Dearing. And that is on top of the rumors surrounding you and Lady Uxbridge and Mrs. Glover as well, who you apparently seduced at the same time you were courting her daughter—”
“All right, all right,” he said cheerfully, holding up his hand to stop her. “You have made your point.”
“I should think I have,” she said primly, and brushed the lap of her gown. Another thought flitted through her head—was this how he had seduced Miss Glover? “As to Miss Hargrove, the truth is that I am in a bit of a bind.”
“Are you?” he said skeptically, and waved his hand grandly at her, indicating she should continue.
“It is a simple fact in our society that women who don’t enjoy the protection of a brother, a father or even an uncle are rather helpless. It’s not as if we can make our own living, is it? The only way we might get by is to marry well.”
“As Miss Hargrove clearly intends to do,” he pointed out. “As you should do, if you want my opinion.”
“Thank you, but I do not want your opinion.”
He grinned, and that fluttering started in her all over again.
“Miss Hargrove would have any number of offers if she liked,” Honor said, and it was true. As much as it pained her to admit it, Monica was a beautiful woman, her looks admired by men and women alike. “It needn’t be Augustine. But as it is Augustine, the stakes are quite high for me.”
“I would think you’d have any number of offers, as well,” he said. “Is that not a better solution?”
“Yes, of course, a woman’s only hope—marry well. Thank you for your confidence, but we aren’t discussing me.”
“Perhaps you should have asked for an offer as your favor, Miss Cabot. I find the request for conjugal bliss far more enticing.”
“I beg your pardon,” Honor said, taking great exception. “I would never ask a gentleman to offer for my hand!”
“I see. You will not ask a man to marry you, but you will ask him to seduce the woman who would be your sister-in-law.” His brows rose dubiously.
“Two entirely different points, Mr. Easton!” she argued. “My sister Grace and I, we shall make our way in society with or without Augustine’s support, but my younger sisters are not yet out, and they cannot hope to fare as well without proper introduction. And my mother—” She caught herself, took a deep breath.
“Your mother?” he prodded.
Now she’d gone and done it. She anxiously smoothed the lap of her gown again. “My mother is unwell,” she said, and looked up. “No one knows.”
He eyed her shrewdly a moment. “I am sorry to hear it,” he said softly.
His tenderness surprised her. And strangely enough, it made the fluttering in her spread across her skin. “I rather doubt my mother will find another situation that will provide the same sort of opportunities for my younger sisters that Grace and I have enjoyed. I fear they will be pushed from society altogether.”
“Why not take your fears to Sommerfield?” he asked. “He seems a rather fair fellow to me. Surely he would provide a stipend—”
“He is too easily persuaded by Miss Hargrove’s opinion. And Miss Hargrove is... That is to say, she will...” Honor sighed again with frustration, finding her reasoning so bloody difficult to explain. “Well, I shan’t lie about it,” she said wearily. What was the point in that? “Miss Hargrove doesn’t care for me in the least.”
“Aha. And you are certain of this?”
“Oh, quite,” Honor said with a flick of her hand. “She finds me unlikable.”
“Oh?” He smiled again. “Passing strange, as I find you quite likable.”
That remark sent a little thrill down her spine. Honor didn’t want to smile, but she could feel one playing at the corners of her lips. “Even so?”
“Even so.” He smiled warmly at her.
There was nothing wolfish about it, and yet...and yet Honor was breathless once more.
“So then, tell me, Miss Cabot, if I were to agree to your outlandishly reprehensible and ill-advised request to save your poor sisters and ailing mother—”
She gasped with surprised delight. “You will?”
“I said if,” he cautioned her. “But if I were to agree, what will I have in return?”
“What do you mean?”
“Come now, lass, I’ve seen you with cards in your hand. You are far too astute to believe I’d not want something in return for this favor.”
Apparently she was not as astute as he thought, for that had not crossed her mind.
He abruptly shifted forward again and deliberately allowed his gaze to wander the full length of her body, then up again. He touched her jaw with his knuckle, tracing a slow, deliberate line, sending Honor’s heart into another wave of wild beating. “What are you willing to trade?” he asked, his voice low and silky.
She leaned away from him. “How dare you—”
Easton took her by the arm and pulled her back. “How dare I?” he asked, admiring her mouth. He reminded her of a cat with a mouse, determining just how much to play before making the kill. “How dare I ask for recompense for a wretched deed?” He abruptly cupped her breast as if it were the most natural thing to do. Honor caught her breath; he smiled a little and began to massage it. “How dare I ask for a favor in return?” he asked silkily as tiny fires of desire erupted and sluiced down Honor’s spine.
“You ask too much,” she said, and pressed away from him. “How can you call yourself a gentleman?”
“I’ve not called myself anything, love.” He brushed his knuckles across her breast, sending another shaft of fire down her spine, then cupped her face, his thumb stroking her cheek.
Honor’s heart was beating so quickly she wondered how it did not leap from her chest. She understood how he would seduce and claim a woman. She understood why so many women had taken him as a lover. She was drawn to him, to his intense gaze, admiring and ravenous at once. To his touch, unyielding and yet soft. “Allow me to suggest a suitable trade,” she said quickly, before this cat devoured its prey. “I will pay you,” she said, alarmed that her voice shook ever so slightly. “There is the one hundred pounds I won from your purse. I could return that in exchange for your help.”
“You would return one hundred pounds, fairly won, for this?” he asked silkily, and flicked his finger across the tip of her breast.
“Actually,” she said, her gaze on his mouth, “I would return ninety-two pounds.” She did not think it necessary to tell him that she’d bought a bonnet, some shoes and some underthings with the money.
“Enticing. But money is not what I have in mind.” He slipped his hand to her nape and pulled her closer. “I have in mind something just for you.” He put his mouth to her ear and said low, “Something that will make your timid heart shatter and bring a glow to your fair cheeks.” His hand was in her lap, his palm pressing against her abdomen. “Do you know what will bring a glow to a woman’s cheek, Miss Cabot?”
She tried to turn her head, but she couldn’t seem to force herself to do it. “I am not a girl, Mr. Easton.”
“Aren’t you?” he whispered, and drew her earlobe in between a pair of soft, moist lips, nibbling it.
Dear Lord, she would expire. She closed her eyes, taking in his scent—spicy and warm—the feel of his hands on her. She could imagine his hands on all of her, and feared that her heart would give in, and she would die here on this bench. And yet, somehow, she managed to keep calm. “I can offer you ninety-two pounds, nothing else. There is nothing else I will trade, sir.”
He shifted closer, his lips against her cheek now, and Honor thought he intended to kiss her. Her mind screamed for her to bang on the ceiling to cry out to Jonas to save her. But another, wanton part of her was whispering kiss me. Kiss me, kiss me....
He slid his hand up her rib cage, to the side of her breast. “I will think on your ninety-two pounds,” he murmured, his breath warm and moist on her skin, tantalizing her almost to the point of madness.
“You mean to do it,” she said softly, surprised, and opened her eyes. “You will grant me this favor.”
“Now you are reprehensible and presumptuous. I haven’t said I would.”
“But I can see that you will,” she said, and twisted about to face him, beaming. “Thank you, Mr. Easton!”
He wrapped his fingers around hers.
“Call on me tomorrow, at Beckington House, please. I can explain more openly there.”
“I cannot, for the life of me, imagine how much more open you could possibly be, Miss Cabot.”
“I knew you would agree,” she said, suddenly full of delight.
“I have not agreed to anything.”
“I shall be waiting for you at half past two. The girls will be at their studies and Augustine at his club. Thank you, sir,” she said again, her voice full of the gratitude she felt. “I am in your debt.” She moved to knock on the ceiling to signal Jonas that this ride was over.
Only then did she realize that Mr. Easton was still holding her hand.
