by Julia London
“If you will kindly wait here, Mr. Easton, I shall inform Miss Cabot that you have called,” the butler said, and marched briskly away, the silver tray held high.
George looked up at the soaring entry and the elaborate chandelier hanging high above him. There were paintings on the walls, portraits of people, of landscapes. The marble floor was polished to a sheen, and gold candelabras with new beeswax candles stood in neat rows on a table nearby.
He heard the butler again before he saw him, his brisk walk echoing down the corridor he’d disappeared into. The man bowed. “If you will allow me to show you to a receiving room, sir,” he said, and carefully put aside the silver tray—empty now—and moved in the opposite direction from where he’d come, walking into the west corridor.
George followed. They moved down a carpeted hallway past polished wood doors and wall sconces and more beeswax candles. George was reminded of how pleased his mother had been when she could afford to buy one or two beeswax candles and rid their rooms of the smell of tallow for a time.
The butler entered the last room on the right. He opened the pair of doors wide, pushed them back and nudged a doorstop into place with his foot. He strode across the small room to the windows, opened the drapes, tied them back then faced George. “Is the comfort in the room to your liking, sir, or shall I send a footman to light a fire?”
“That won’t be necessary,” George said stiffly. “I do not intend to be long.”
“Very well, sir. If you require any assistance at all, the bellpull is just there,” the butler said, nodding toward a thick velvet braid of rope near the door. “Miss Cabot will join you shortly.” He quit the room.
George put his hat aside and examined a painting on the wall as he waited, staring up at the puffy face of a Beckington forefather. He always looked at the portraits in homes like these, looking for any similarity to himself, any hint that he might somehow be related. This man looked nothing like the late Gloucester, except perhaps for the slightly aquiline shape of his nose. George was so intent on that feature that he did not hear the advance of Miss Cabot until she swept into the room on a cloud of pale yellow, her train swirling out behind her as she twirled around to peek out the corridor and then draw the doors quietly closed.
She twirled back around, her smile luminescent, her hands clasped just below her breast, reminiscent of a choirboy preparing to sing. But all similarity to anything remotely angelic ended abruptly when he noticed that the gown she was wearing did not conceal her up to her chin like the one she’d worn yesterday. This gown was cut fashionably low, and creamy mounds of her breast appeared to almost burst from her bodice...a mishap George would delight in seeing.
She was oblivious to his fascination with her décolletage. “You came,” she said breathlessly.
Bloody fool that he was, yes. George inclined his head in acknowledgment of that.
“I scarcely believe it! I was so certain you’d not come, and I had no good idea of what I might do if you didn’t. But here you are!” she exclaimed, casting her arms wide. “You will help me!”
“Before you take flight with joy, Miss Cabot, understand that I came here not to help you in your lunacy, but to dissuade you from it.”
She blinked her lovely blue eyes. “Dissuade me,” she repeated, as if that were a foreign concept to her, which George suspected was highly probable. “But that’s not possible, Mr. Easton. My mind is quite made up. When I am fixed on something, I am very dedicated to it. Now then—will you help me?”
George couldn’t help but chuckle at her dogged determination. “No.”
“No?”
“It is madness, complete and utter madness,” he said. “It is a loathsome thing to do to a brother and a friend, and I feel it is my duty as a gentleman to direct you away from it—not abet it.”
Now her bright smile faded. She folded her arms. “Very well, Mr. Easton. You have done your gentlemanly duty,” she said, sounding irreverent. “Now will you help me?”
George stared at her. And then he couldn’t seem to help himself—he laughed. “You may very well be the most obstinate woman I have ever met.”
“Then perhaps you have not met as many women as I’ve heard tell,” she said pertly. “Do you think I make this request to you lightly? That this is a girlish whim? Not at all, sir. Monica Hargrove intends to turn my family out when she marries my brother. She has said as much to me. Further, I don’t believe for a moment that you came all the way here to tell me you won’t help me. You might have sent a note or ignored me altogether, is that not so?”
That was so, and it made George a bit uncomfortable for her to point it out so bluntly. He shrugged.
“That you did not suggests to me that you must have at least considered my request. Have you?”
He felt as if he were a naughty boy, caught in the act of mischief. She had him, this shrewd and wily young miss, just as she had that night in Southwark. And she knew it, too, for a smile appeared on her lush lips, ending in little dimples in either cheek. That smile was a small gust of air to smoldering ashes, and George felt a tiny flame ignite.
“It would seem we are agreed,” she said silkily.
“Not so fast.” He let his gaze slide slowly down her curves and up again. He would like to sink his fingers and his tongue into that flesh, to smell her hair. “If I cannot dissuade you—”
“You cannot—”
“Then it is now my duty as a gentleman to ensure you do no harm to Miss Hargrove.”
Miss Cabot beamed, knowing she had won. “How kind of you.”
“I am not the least bit kind, Miss Cabot. But I do have some principles. I’m not sure the same can be said for you.”
“I am touched by your concern for Monica,” she said sweetly. “My desire is only that she is made aware that there are other, perhaps more attractive possibilities for her so that she will not rush to the altar as she seems to want to do. No harm.”
“Debatable,” he said, his body caught in the snare of feminine mystique as he moved closer to her. “There is still the matter of what I will have in return for this...abominable favor.”
“Of course,” she said demurely, and folded her arms across her body tightly.
“Let’s begin with the agreement that you will return to me the one hundred pounds won in Southwark.”
“Ninety-two pounds,” she corrected him.
“Ninety-two pounds, then,” he said, his gaze falling to her mouth, “will earn you one round of rakish behavior designed to turn Miss Hargrove’s head. That ought to suffice.”
“Ah...” One of Miss Cabot’s finely tweezed brows rose high above the other.
“What?” he demanded.
“Nothing, really,” she said lightly, and shrugged. “Only that you seem rather confident of that.”
George stared at her. He wished to high heaven that such bloody impertinence from a pampered, privileged woman didn’t fascinate him quite as much as it did. “Of course I am confident, Miss Cabot.”
“Oh, dear, I didn’t mean to insult you,” she said, and her tender smile shot through him. “I have no doubt that you would turn the head of most debutantes—”
“You are not improving the situation.”
She bit her lip.
He very much wanted to bite that lip, too. George frowned—he didn’t like that, not at all. When he began to want things like that, he did very foolish things. One could inquire of several women in this town and find it was so. “Well, then? I will agree to speak to Miss Hargrove and pay her a...foppish compliment or two,” he said, with a flick of his wrist, “in exchange for ninety-two pounds.” He extended his hand, offering to shake on it.
But Miss Cabot gazed reluctantly at his hand.
George sighed. “For heaven’s sake, what now?”
“I will agree on one condition,” she said, holding up a finger.
“You are in no position to impose conditions—”
“Agreed,” she said quickly. “Nevertheless...yo
u must allow me to instruct you.”
It took a moment for those words to sink into George’s brain. “I beg your pardon, but I am most certainly not in need of your instruction,” he said irritably. “You have come to me for my experience, is that not so? I think I am a fair judge of what effort is involved in chatting up a young debutante,” he added with an indignant snort.
“Yes...but I know her better than anyone,” she said, tilting her head back to look him directly in the eye.
“Good God, you speak as if I come to this in short pants—”
“That is not what I—”
George suddenly grabbed her by the waist, yanking her into his body.
“Mr. Easton!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing?”
He didn’t know what he was doing, honestly. Reacting to some primal drumbeat in his veins. “I don’t need your instruction,” he said in a low voice, and brushed his knuckles against her temple.
“You are too familiar,” she objected crossly, but her hands curled around his upper arms, and she made no move to escape him.
“I am aware.” His gaze moved over her face. “And yet you enjoy it. That is my point.”
“Are you always so assured, sir?”
“Are you?” he retorted.
“You mistake my offense for misunderstanding,” she said to his mouth, and the drum beat louder in George. “But make no mistake—I am offended.”
“If you were offended,” he said, mimicking her, “you would kick and claw like any prim little lass to be set free.” He cocked a brow, daring her to disagree.
She frowned darkly at him.
“Aha,” he said, brushing his fingers against her collarbone. It felt small and fragile to him. “It would appear that I know women far better than you.”
Honor Cabot responded to that with a firm kick to his shin.
George instantly let go and reached for his leg. “Ouch,” he said with a wince.
Miss Cabot put her hands on her waist and glared at him as he rubbed his shin. “I grant that you are acquainted with women, Mr. Easton. Everyone in Mayfair is aware of just how well you are acquainted. But I am acquainted with Monica Hargrove. I know what will entice her and what will turn her away, and I must insist that you allow me to at least prepare you!”
He was acquainted with women, all right, but he’d yet to meet one like Honor Cabot. And it didn’t help matters when she sensed a crack in his facade, for a smile slowly began to light her face. Bloody hell, but those smiles were his undoing! They fairly sang through him, made his blood rush, his body tense. How was it possible this wisp of a young woman could affect him so? He straightened up with a sigh of resignation.
“I happen to know she will be attending the Garfield Assembly this Friday,” Miss Cabot said.
Lustful thoughts gave way to terror. George knew of the Garfield Assembly; everyone in London knew of it. The haut ton in its entirety would attend. All his life, the world of the ton had been held out to him as the ideal, as the world in which he would never be welcomed. He was well aware that were it not for his wealth, he would not be tolerated at all. He feared that if he lost his wealth—which, arguably, he was on the verge of losing—he’d be shunned as a pariah. Nothing was more loathsome than someone who had tried to become one of them and had failed.
George had been treated all his life as if he were deficient, that he was less than mere mortals because his father had not claimed him. His father’s refusal had become George’s burden of shame to shoulder. He had trained himself to keep his heart at arm’s length from anyone, to maintain an emotional distance. He fancied himself like the magnificent show horses of the royal cavalry he’d brushed when he was a child. Like them, he was proud and high-stepping, his movements precise, his looks enviable. But he never looked right or left, never wanted anything that wasn’t in his prescribed path. He kept trotting forward, his steps high, his head held higher.
George had known his share of bruising disappointments, and yet he did not think himself a bitter man—quite the contrary, he thought himself generally a happy one. But then again, he took great pains to avoid venues like the Garfield Assembly.
“No,” he said instantly.
“Mr. Easton! What better opportunity?” Miss Cabot asked, her eyes shining with the victory of his giving in to her. Again.
“I think I was quite clear at our first meeting. I will not frequent assembly rooms.”
“But I can facilitate your entry—”
“Pardon, you can what? I do not need you to facilitate anything on my behalf, Miss Cabot. It may astonish you to know that there are some such as myself who simply don’t care to spend an evening surrounded by vapid, simpering debutantes!”
Miss Cabot’s smile only deepened with happy skepticism, and the drum began to beat again. “You surely do not think me so naive as that, sir,” she said pertly. “You do not want to attend the assembly because you can’t gain entry without proper invitation. But I can get you that invitation. And you must agree it is the perfect opportunity. Augustine will not be in attendance, and you need only speak with Miss Hargrove to put the suggestion in her head that you find her appealing.”
“I don’t need to attend an assembly for that,” he said crisply.
“What, then, do you think to do it on the street?” Miss Cabot asked gaily. She suddenly took him by the hand. “Come,” she said, and pulled him to the center of the room. “Stand just there, if you please.” She pulled a chair from the hearth and positioned it before him, sat down, and arranged her skirts before gracefully folding her hands in her lap. “All right, then, we are in an assembly room.”
George stared down at her.
“Go on,” she said with a charming smile. “Pretend I am Miss Hargrove and you wish to talk to me.” She settled herself once more, then looked away.
George could not believe he was standing in the Beckington House receiving room, engaged in some foolish courtship game. “This is daft,” he groused.
“Please,” she said angelically.
God in heaven. He muttered a curse to himself, pushed a hand through his hair, then bowed. “Good evening, Miss Hargrove.”
Miss Cabot glanced at him sidelong. “Oh. Mr. Easton,” she said, and nodded politely before looking away again.
George stood there. This was not the way he would go about turning Monica Hargrove’s head, not at all. In fact, he had never approached a woman in this manner and wondered at those who did. It felt a bit desperate. Is this how the young bucks behaved in the storied drawing rooms of Mayfair?
Honor looked at him sidelong again. “Sit next to me,” she whispered.
“Why?” George demanded.
“You should be at eye level. You look so...” Her gaze swept over him, and if George wasn’t mistaken, she blushed slightly. “Big,” she said. “You look very big, towering over me as you are.”
George did not see the significance. “I am big.”
“But that is rather intimidating to an impressionable woman,” she said. “Please, do sit.”
“Intimidating!” He laughed. “I think there is nothing that will intimidate you, Miss Cabot.”
“Certainly not! But we are not speaking of me. We are speaking of Miss Hargrove.”
George couldn’t help his chuckle. “Bloody hell,” he said, and reached for a chair at his elbow and set it next to Miss Cabot. He sat. She looked away. She did not speak. What was he supposed to do, then? He racked his brain for what to say. “The weather is fine,” he said.
“It is indeed.” Her gaze was not on him. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Easton, but I am wanted across the room.” She abruptly stood and glided away. When he did not follow—was he to chase after her like a puppy, too?—she twirled around and frowned at him.
“What in the devil is the point of that?” George demanded.
“The point, Mr. Easton, is that you did not engage me. All I saw was a big man with nothing to say.”
Her remark struck a nerve in George—it
was precisely the thing he feared, that he somehow would never reach the measure the ton put on him. “That’s quite enough,” he said crossly. “I refuse to be part of some elaborate, choreographed courting dance.” He suddenly stood up and strode directly toward her.
“What are you doing?” she exclaimed.
George didn’t answer. He stepped around a chair, continued moving toward her. Miss Cabot quickly scrambled out of his path, but found herself caught between a table and the door. She whirled around, pressed herself flat against the door, her eyes widening as he walked up to her and brazenly braced himself with one hand beside her head.
Miss Cabot blinked big blue eyes up at him. Silly young woman. She had no idea that she roused the beast in a man. “I’ll show you how to attract an impressionable young woman’s attention, Miss Cabot.”
“Is this how you will do it? Because you are too forward again. This sort of thing requires a bit of finesse.”
He suddenly smiled and took in her delectable figure once more. “I’ve not even begun to finesse it,” he muttered, and leaned in, his head close to hers, his breath in her hair. “I know precisely what needs to be done,” he added softly, and turned his head so that his lips brushed her temple. “You need not fret.”
“Then, for God’s sake, do not mention the weather,” she said low.
He was of a mind to take her in hand now, to show her how a man enticed a woman. But he kept his desire in check; he was a man who enjoyed the pleasures of a woman’s flesh, of giving her pleasure, yes—but he was not a man to dally with a young woman with no more experience than a goat. “To hell with the weather. I shall mention the ivory of her skin,” he said, brushing his lips against her cheek. “The scent of her hair,” he added, touching his nose to her hair. “And then I will quietly mention the desire that wells in a man when he is graced with her smile.”
Miss Cabot did not move. The color bloomed in her cheeks, and she drew another, deeper breath before slowly releasing it and saying, “That would do for a start, I should think.”
