by Julia London
He heard the slight tremor in her voice and smiled to himself as he shifted closer, his hand finding her waist. “You want me to turn Miss Hargrove’s head, love? Not only will I turn it,” he said smoothly as he caressed her side, his hand sliding down her hip, squeezing the flesh of it as he pressed against her body, “I will make her want to open her legs like a flower.”
Miss Cabot sucked in a sharp breath, her chest rising with it. “No,” she whispered.
“No? I won’t put my cock in her, if that’s what you fear. In spite of what you think you know, I am a discerning man.” He pressed his erection against her hip. “I only put my cock where it is most appreciated.” He kissed her temple, feeling the frantic flutter of her pulse beneath his lips. “I plow only fields of pure spun gold,” he muttered, and put his mouth against her neck, sucking lightly, his tongue on her skin as he ran his hand up her side to her breast, filling his palm with it, kneading it.
“No self-respecting gentleman would put his hand on a woman,” Miss Cabot said breathlessly, her eyes fluttering shut as she bent her neck to give him better access.
He almost laughed as he moved to her ear, nibbling at her lobe. “No. But you did not come to me because I am a self-respecting gentleman, Miss Cabot. Now hush,” he said, and slid his hand around to her hands, which she held clasped tightly at her back, and pulled one free of its grip of the other. He lifted that hand to his mouth. Miss Cabot’s lips parted slightly; her eyes fixed on his face. George turned her hand over and licked the inside of her wrist before kissing it. Her skin was warm and fragrant, and smooth as butter against his tongue. It was dangerously provocative, and he could feel his own heart beginning to race with want. He slipped one hand beneath her chin, tilting her head back. Her eyes were as wide as saucers, her lips slightly parted. He was out of his mind to go any further, but George couldn’t help himself; he lowered his head, touched his mouth softly to hers, lingering there, his tongue teasing her lips, one hand boldly caressing her breast, squeezing it, then sliding down to her hip, squeezing it, too. When he felt her begin to soften, felt the familiar curve of a woman’s body into his, felt himself grow harder, he lifted his head and said, “Perhaps you will do me the honor of saving me a dance, Miss Hargrove?”
Miss Cabot nodded. “Yes.” Her voice was a bit shaky, and she quickly cleared her throat. She said again, more firmly, “Yes. Thank you.”
Satisfied with the knowledge that he’d succeeded in showing her a small step in the dance of seduction, he stepped back, putting a respectable distance between them.
Miss Cabot did not move. She stared at him, her gaze sliding down to the protrusion of his desire in his trousers.
Unabashed, George cocked a brow. His response was as natural as breathing, and if she had not seen a man’s desire, more was the pity. “Well, then?” he asked her.
“I think,” she said, nervously touching the strand of pearls at her throat, “I think that will do.” She continued to stare at him, her eyes locked on his mouth, and it stirred dangerously deep and devilish in him. He needed to leave. Now. Before he did something that he regretted. “Then we are agreed, Miss Cabot. Now then. When is this assembly?”
“Friday,” she said. “Half past eight.”
He nodded, picked up his hat and fit it on his head. “Then I shall make a point of attending.”
“Thank you again, Mr. Easton. You can’t know how much I appreciate your help.” Her smile was tremulous, but there was no mistaking the glow in her cheeks.
That was it, then. George had made his deal with the devil, all for the sake of a bloody smile. He’d come very near to undoing her gown, too, and lest there be any more thoughts along those lines, he would remove himself from Beckington House. God help him, but this irresponsible and devious woman captivated him in a way he did not care to be captivated. “Good day, Miss Cabot.”
“Good day, Mr. Easton,” she said, still absently fingering the strand of pearls as she eyed him curiously as he strode through the door.
CHAPTER SEVEN
HONOR AND GRACE Cabot entered the Garfield Assembly like a pair of princesses, but tonight, Honor outshone her younger sister in a gown of pale blue silk with pearl trim. She was so stunning, Monica turned away, holding out her cup to the footman to refill with punch.
The many gowns and shoes and accoutrements Honor and Grace possessed amazed Monica. She had once teasingly inquired of Augustine if the family coffers had been robbed to support his stepsisters’ wardrobes, but Augustine had earnestly assured her that the funds had come from their late father.
Of course Augustine had believed it, the poor man—he hadn’t the slightest notion how much a wardrobe such as the one Honor possessed might cost. Monica was not even slightly convinced that the late Richard Cabot, who had risen as high as bishop in the Church of England, had left enough of his family’s money to outfit his daughters in such an extravagant manner. Monica imagined that Honor had somehow managed to take terrible advantage of her ailing stepfather. She had no evidence to support that, naturally, but it seemed quite impossible that one woman, as yet unmarried, could be so fashionable.
Honor annoyed Monica. Honor had once been Monica’s closest friend, but Monica disliked that Honor had everything. Everything! She had fine looks with her dark hair and astoundingly blue eyes and smooth skin. Monica had auburn hair and brown eyes, and when she stood next to Honor, she could almost feel herself seeping into the wallpaper.
Honor also had the unflappable, unfailingly cheerful disposition, whereas Monica was, at times, prone to dark moods that she could not, no matter how hard she might try, seem to keep from her expression.
Honor also had the privilege of making her life at the palatial Beckington House in London, or at the earl’s majestic country seat of Longmeadow. It was as if when her father died, Honor had fallen into the lap of luxury. And now that she was grown and out in society, men adored Honor—one need only look about this room and see how many of them glanced at her admiringly to see it was so. Honor squandered that attention. So many young women would appreciate the options of suitors, but Honor never seemed to move beyond only a cursory courtship.
And what did Monica have? Two older brothers, that was what, with not a single thought of society or fashion between them. Her family lived in a respectable house just outside Mayfair, and her father was an esteemed scholar of law. Not an earl. Not even a baron. A scholar.
Monica considered herself fortunate to have been accepted into such august society as the one that surrounded her this evening. She herself had never wanted for admirers, but she wasn’t the type to flirt and invite the attentions of several gentlemen at once. In truth, Monica felt intimidated by many men and considered herself fortunate to have caught the eye of Augustine, Viscount Sommerfield.
Augustine didn’t intimidate her; he was genuinely adoring of her. Her parents were over the moon at her engagement, and the sooner Monica married Augustine, the happier they would be. Who would have thought that their daughter would marry a titled man and become a countess?
Monica knew that Honor believed her understanding with Augustine was all by design, but in truth, it had happened quite honestly. At first, Monica had been amused by Augustine’s attentions. He was a bit too round for her tastes, and he could be a bit of a bumbler at times. But as days turned into weeks, she’d grown rather fond of him. He was very attentive and sincere in his devotion to her. It certainly didn’t hurt that he would one day be an earl, or that Monica would preside over the Beckington estates as Lady Beckington. Monica had grown accustomed to the idea, and she truly believed that she and Augustine would have a family, and she would live quite contentedly.
She hadn’t really given any thought to his stepsisters until her mother suggested that six in a marriage of two might be a bit crowded. “I hope you won’t need to vie for Sommerfield’s attentions with all those girls,” she’d said laughingly. Or, “Ah, isn’t Honor’s gown lovely? I hope there will be enough money for you to be cl
othed in that manner when you are countess.”
Now Monica did not see a gaggle of stepsisters in her rosy view of the future.
Speaking of which... Monica glanced over her shoulder now. A pair of gentlemen had intercepted Honor, and they were laughing as if she’d said something terribly witty. Even from here, Monica could see the twinkle in Honor’s eye.
Monica turned away from that scene and was startled by Lady Chatham, who had appeared from seemingly nowhere to stand directly beside her.
“Lady Chatham,” Monica said, dipping a curtsy.
“Good evening, Miss Hargrove,” she said cheerfully. “Have you come alone? Where is your handsome fiancé?”
“He won’t be attending this evening. He had a prior commitment.”
“I see,” Lady Chatham said.
Monica could almost hear the little mice wheels turning in the woman’s head, stuffing away gossip to be doled out in enticing little bits to her friends on the morrow. “I have come in the company of my cousin, Mr. Hatcher,” Monica added.
“Mr. Hatcher is a dear,” Lady Chatham said, as if she knew him. “I see the Cabots have arrived. At least Miss Cabot is wearing pearls in her hair and no one’s bonnet this evening.”
Really, that entire incident had spiraled out of control. Monica had commissioned the hat, but when she’d gone round, the price was much greater than the proprietress had led her to believe it would be. She hadn’t intended to purchase it—but why did Honor have to be the one to take it?
“That was just a trifle, really. I didn’t care for the bonnet at all.” She smiled, hoping that bit of untruth was not noticed.
“Well, neither did I,” Lady Chatham agreed. “It seemed to me designed to draw attention, and that, Miss Hargrove, is not the way young ladies should behave.”
Monica didn’t think that the bonnet was as showy as that, and neither did she think for a moment that Honor was concerned about appearances to old women like Lady Chatham. Quite the contrary—Honor was perfectly happy to take risks, to flaunt society rules. That was the difference between them—Honor always pushed, and Monica followed the rules.
“Miss Hargrove.”
Monica turned slightly to see Thomas Rivers standing beside her.
“Lady Chatham,” he said, inclining his head to the older woman, before smiling at Monica again. “Miss Hargrove, will you do the honor of standing up with me?”
Lady Chatham waved her fingers and trilled, “Of course, of course! You must dance and be merry, Miss Hargrove, for soon you will be a married woman.”
“Pardon?” Monica said, confused as to what, exactly, Lady Chatham had meant, but she’d already swanned away.
Mr. Rivers led her onto the ballroom floor. The dance began with a pair of turns, one way, then the other. On the second turn, Monica happened to catch sight of George Easton, who, surprisingly, was watching her. Monica twirled the other way.
George Easton, here? She knew Easton instantly, of course—everyone knew him. One did not claim to be the nephew of the king and escape attention. Recently, she’d heard he had jeopardized his fortune.
How had he gained entrance? Lady Feathers, the lead patroness of the assembly, was quite strict in her rules of entry, and Monica could not imagine that she would ever allow the bastard son of the Duke of Gloucester to enter, particularly as the current duke was disdainful of the man he called a pretender.
The dance came to an end, and Mr. Rivers escorted Monica from the dance floor. She declined his offer for a drink and watched him move away, searching for his next dance partner.
Monica scanned the crowd—there was Honor again, dancing now, her step light and free as she skipped around Charles Braxton in her figures, while Braxton admired her like an adoring child. Grace was on the dance floor as well, her smile brilliant beneath the candelabras, her dancing more elegant than her sister’s.
Monica turned away, unwilling to watch. She was seeking a familiar face to talk to when she felt a tingling in her spine—she could feel someone looking at her, and when she turned about, she was surprised once again to see George Easton staring directly at her.
Not only was his gaze locked on her, he was walking purposefully in her direction. Monica thought perhaps she was mistaken, but Easton headed right to her. He smiled charmingly and bowed low. “Miss Hargrove, may I be so bold as to present myself to you? I hope you will forgive me, but I saw you with Rivers and I’ve not been able to turn away. I am George Easton, at your service.”
Was he not aware that a gentleman did not approach a lady without invitation? Monica glanced slyly around the room to see if anyone had noticed this breach of etiquette. “How do you do, Mr. Easton,” she said, smiling a little. She found his approach completely suspect, and yet she couldn’t help but be a bit flattered by it.
He gave her a dazzling smile. “I confess I am quite captivated.”
Gentlemen had, at times, been captivated with her, but they hadn’t admitted it quite like that. “Are you, indeed?” she asked, smiling coyly. “How unusual it is to have a gentleman approach without invitation, and make such a proclamation.”
“I am an unusual man,” he said cheerfully. “But I see I’ve been too forthright. I’ve been accused of being so in the past, but when it comes to beautiful women, it is a habit I cannot seem to break. May I offer you a glass of punch, Miss Hargrove?”
What was happening here? Why was he talking to her like this? She didn’t believe for a moment that a man of his charm and fine looks and reputation would be the least bit captivated by her. She was suddenly wildly curious as to what he was about. “You may.”
He led her across the room to the sideboard, nodded at the footman attending and accepted a glass of punch to hand to Monica.
“Thank you.”
Easton smiled again, his eyes softening around the corners. He really was quite handsome, what with his square jaw, blue eyes and brown hair streaked with gold. Monica wished Augustine had more hair, really; his was beginning to thin on top.
Easton touched her elbow lightly and led her away from the sideboard. “You will undoubtedly think me bold again if I were to proclaim there is not a lovelier woman in attendance tonight, but I must say it is so.”
He was perhaps a bit blind. “But there are so many women here tonight,” Monica said.
“None that can compare to you.” With his finger, he casually caressed her wrist. His eyes seemed almost to dance, and Monica was beginning to appreciate how the man might have earned his notorious reputation of bedding women with ease.
“I was watching you dance with Rivers,” he said, his gaze sliding to her décolletage. “Admiring your figure.”
“I saw you,” Monica said.
He leaned closer, his head next to hers, and whispered, “I found myself rather envious of Sommerfield.”
“Perhaps you should tell that to Lord Sommerfield.”
“And have him call me out?”
Monica couldn’t help but smile at that preposterous notion. A man like Easton had nothing to fear from Augustine when it came to duels or fights, or however men settled challenges between them. Monica was intrigued by Easton’s sudden interest in her...but not fooled by it. She wondered what gain he sought from it. An introduction to someone, perhaps? To Augustine? She looked him squarely in the eye and said, “I cannot help but wonder at your interest in me.”
He looked surprised by her forthrightness. “I should think a woman as comely as you must have gentlemen admiring you at every turn, Miss Hargrove.”
He didn’t truly think she would believe him? It was so wildly preposterous given the differences in their stations and circumstances.
“I had rather hoped you would do me the honor of standing up with me so that I might admire you a bit longer than decorum will allow,” he said, and put out his hand for hers.
Monica laughed. She had no intention of standing up with him, of starting any sort of rumor. She pressed her cup into his hand. “Thank you, but I should not lik
e to be the subject of any undue speculation. Good evening, Mr. Easton,” she said airily, and walked away.
She glanced back over her shoulder as she moved away.
He was watching her, his head down, his smile a bit smug.
Really, what the devil was he after?
CHAPTER EIGHT
GEORGE EASTON LEFT the assembly in the company of a gentleman Honor didn’t recognize. He had not so much as looked in her direction in the short time he was there, but she nevertheless assumed he’d lived up to his end of the agreement.
She also assumed that if he’d been even a fraction as potent as he had been with her at Beckington House, Monica was properly reduced to a bag of weightless feathers by now. God knew that Honor had been so reduced by him, her heart racing well after he’d gone, that ethereal kiss lingering on her lips for hours afterward. That Monica would be suffering so was something Honor really had to see for herself.
Honor searched the crowd for Monica, finally spotting her at table in the company of Agatha Williamson and Reginald Beeker.
She did not look like a weightless bag of feathers.
She actually looked a little sullen.
Oh, no. No, it couldn’t possibly be. Honor was marching across the room before she even realized it.
Monica was so intent on what Mr. Beeker was saying that she did not, at first, notice Honor. “Oh,” she said, clearly surprised to see Honor standing before her. “Good evening.”
“Good evening,” Honor said brightly. “Miss Williamson, a pleasure to see you again. Mr. Beeker, how do you do?” she asked politely as that gentleman scrambled to his feet.
“Likewise, I’m sure,” Miss Williamson said.
No one invited her to sit, but that did not deter Honor. “May I join you?” she asked pleasantly.
Mr. Beeker eagerly pulled a chair out for her. Honor sat and smiled at Monica.
“Shall I fetch us some drinks?” Mr. Beeker asked.
