by Julia London
“Wear?” Lady Beckington repeated.
“To the ball, Mamma,” Grace said.
Her mother’s face suddenly lit with excitement. “A ball!” she said. “Who is kind enough to host one?”
It seemed to Honor as if the entire room ceased to breathe. Every head turned toward her mother, and she looked around at them, expecting an answer.
“The Prescott Ball, Mamma!” Mercy said, as if the lapse in her mother’s memory was not the least bit curious. “Don’t you recall? We were only just speaking of it.”
The countess looked blankly at Mercy.
“Goodness, Mercy, she could scarcely hear a thing, what with all the prattling between us,” Grace said quickly.
Monica, Honor noticed, was staring intently at her mother. Panic began to pound in her veins, and she quickly interjected, “Mercy, darling, we’ve not had the pleasure of hearing you play the harp.”
Mercy looked startled.
“Go on, then, Mercy. Don’t be shy,” Honor said, and waved at her youngest sister to play.
Mercy took a seat behind the harp. She looked uncertainly at the room. She adjusted her spectacles, put her hands on the strings, and with a great frown of concentration, she plucked a loud, disharmonious chord.
“E-sharp,” Prudence whispered loudly.
Mercy nodded and tried again. At least the chord seemed to be in tune, but Mercy’s handling of the harp was far from delicate. She played a truly torturous rendition of the song. Honor noticed how often Monica stole a glimpse of her mother, who sat staring at the table, nervously picking at the cuff of her sleeve.
As Mercy laid heavy hands on such delicate strings, Honor moved to take a seat between Monica and her mother and smiled broadly at Monica. “Does she not show promise?” she whispered.
It had the desired effect—Monica shifted her gaze to Mercy.
When Mercy had finished the song—at least, Honor thought she had finished, although it was impossible to know—the earl asked her mother to return him to his rooms. He walked stiffly and slowly across the room, pausing to speak to Monica and her brother, his breath shallow and wet as he moved.
On the morrow, Honor would devise a way to ask Lord Prescott to invite George Easton to his ball. With a glance to Monica, who was watching Lord and Lady Beckington’s laborious departure, she realized Monica knew something was amiss, and she was far too clever not to guess at it, and sooner rather than later.
CHAPTER TWELVE
GOOD GOD, SHE’D done it, George thought as he read a personal invitation to the Prescott Ball two days hence. He’d strongly doubted that a woman who had scarcely entered her third decade could persuade influential persons such as Lord Prescott to issue a coveted invitation to a man like him. “Who delivered it?” he demanded of Finnegan, who had swept into George’s cavernous study and presented the thick vellum with a flourish.
“Prescott’s man.”
George grumbled a few curse words under his breath. Part of him had sincerely hoped that Miss Cabot would experience a divine slap of good sense. And yet another part of him, existing right alongside the wiser, moral part of him, thought of little else other than the afternoon in the small salon.
Quite frankly, it irked George. Not the physical tangling, Lord, no—that was the only thing that didn’t irk him. But what bothered him, in a manner he could not recall having ever been bothered, was that he was a man who had sampled women across England, women who were far more experienced than that virginal little debutante. And yet it was her kiss that was living in his memory. It was her image on the settee that had bedeviled him. It had all kicked up quite a lot of dust in him that still hadn’t settled.
“Shall I press your dress coat?” Finnegan asked as he folded the vellum and tucked the ends together neatly.
George waved him away. “I know you’ll not rest until you’ve pressed the last thread within a breath of its life.”
“Very good, sir,” Finnegan managed to say without smiling. “And shall I send your affirmative reply?” he asked, placing the invitation on the desk.
George eyed the man. “You’re trying my patience, Finnegan.”
“I will send it promptly,” he said crisply, and walked out of the room, unabashed.
George frowned at Finnegan’s trim back as he disappeared from the room. He’d been in a foul mood for a pair of days now, owing to those blue eyes, and worse, owing to the little trip he and Sweeney had made down to the West India Docks yesterday. Two ships had come into port this week, both having sailed from the west coast of India. George and Sweeney had hoped to learn some news of Captain Godsey and the Maypearl.
They had been fortunate to find the captain of the Spirit of Whitby still aboard and had inquired after their ship. “Three-masted privateer ship, British flag,” Sweeney had explained. “Sits low in the water and built for speed.”
The captain had shaken his head, his beefy, sunburned cheeks bouncing. “I’ve not seen her, but that’s not to say she’s not sailing up the channel now, aye?” He’d laughed roundly, displaying a row of yellow teeth with one missing. “Might be nothing more than prevailing winds, sir. Then again, perhaps she was caught up in the blockade. ’Course, she might not have made it around the Cape. And there’s always pirates.”
It had been all George could do from putting a fist in the captain’s mouth and dislodging another tooth or two. George could very well imagine any one of those scenarios befalling his ship. In his mind’s eye, he watched three dozen men and cargo sinking into the inky blackness of the ocean.
George was worried, but like Sweeney, he had confidence in Godsey. He was a capable captain, and he’d not seemed the least bit concerned about war or pirates when he’d set sail, his hold full of provisions for the long voyage. “Quite a lot of sea out there,” he’d said when George had voiced his concern even then of what might happen in the course of his journey.
But then again, that was precisely what had George in a foul mood today—there was a lot of sea out there. Plenty of places and people for a ship to get lost or find harm. And that he was thinking of a pretty debutante with a foolish drawing room scheme instead of his ship made him quite cross. He was completely at odds with himself.
No matter how captivating Honor Cabot was, she had no place in his life. She was too young, in spite of seeming much wiser than her age would suggest. And she was too...proper. She was a well-heeled woman of impeccable connections, a debutante, a woman who would, undoubtedly, receive a handsome offer of marriage. This was nothing more than a diversion, a game. He had only to keep the stakes from getting too high, because he could not win this game.
George was quite realistic—he knew he could never inhabit her world. He could never be good enough for her in society’s eyes. Wanting a woman of the ton put him at great peril for heartache, for rejection, for all the things that he’d learned at a very early age to push down and ignore, pretend were not part of him.
He was reminded that as a world-wise thirteen-year-old lad, he’d developed quite a heart song for Lady Anna Duncan, the daughter of a prominent London magistrate. She had given George every reason to believe that she, too, felt esteem for him. But on a day she’d come to the Royal Mews with her father, George had tried to kiss her, and she’d laughed at him. “I shan’t give my first kiss to a stable boy,” she’d said, as if he were so far beneath her that he might have been her boots.
It was a stinging rebuke, and though George had become a man and had put that incident in perspective, he still believed Lady Anna Duncan had taught him an invaluable lesson: he would never escape the shadows that surrounded his beginnings. No lady of the Quality would ever have him.
Honor Cabot was Quality. And she was trouble; he could feel it in his bones. And yet he could not stop thinking of her, of the feel of her in his arms, of her lips and her mouth beneath his. He could almost feel her sheath around him—
George suddenly realized he was holding something and glanced down. He’d picked up the invitation she had se
cured for him without thinking, and now it was crumpled. He threw it across the room.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
GEORGE HAD TO admit, Finnegan turned him out quite nicely the night of the Prescott Ball. He admired the green waistcoat with black embroidery—its appearance in his wardrobe a surprise, and its origin, at least to George, unknown. His neckcloth was black silk, and his dress coat made of the finest superfine wool. Finnegan had sent up a barber, and George was clean-shaven. His hair was trimmed and combed back so that it brushed his collar, and his boots polished to a high sheen. To his own eyes, George looked like the nephew of the king. He supposed others might think so, too...and then, inevitably, the sniggers behind their hands would begin.
George no longer took offense to the skepticism as he had when he was a lad. Now he knew who he was. He was an honest man with strong convictions, and if that didn’t suit the titled lords and ladies of this town, so be it. He reminded himself that he’d had the wherewithal to pull himself up to these social heights. He didn’t want to acknowledge the bit of queasiness at the thought of entering the highest reaches of society tonight.
He struck out on foot for the evening, having the luxury now of living within walking distance of the fashionable Grosvenor Square. Carriages were queued up around the square, waiting to disgorge their passengers into this prestigious event.
He strode briskly past them all, his crumpled invitation in his pocket, and jogged up the steps of the home of Lord and Lady Prescott.
It was quite impressive, indeed, taking up one-third of the north side of the square. Grecian columns marked the entrance; lights blazed in every window. George stepped into the entry and was instantly surrounded by a dizzying swirl of pastel gowns, headpieces and feathers. Jewels glistened at the throats and wrists of lovely ladies, who were accompanied by lean men in long tails and embroidered waistcoats. They reminded George of cranes as they bent their heads to hear the ladies speak, then lifted them again.
He stepped to one side to avoid the beaded train of a woman’s gold gown, and very nearly collided with a footman who was moving with alarming speed through the crowd, his tray of champagne flutes carried high above his head to avoid any disastrous encounter with the feathers that grew out of the ladies’ elaborate hairstyles.
George swallowed down his boyish angst and stood in line to be presented to the viscount and his wife. He handed his invitation to the butler, who in turn announced George in grand fashion as he neared the receiving line. When he stepped before the viscount, his lordship looked curiously at George, as if he couldn’t quite make him out.
Lady Prescott, however, curtsied graciously and slipped her hand into his, her gaze fluttering up to his. “Mr. Easton,” she said with a soft smile. “Welcome to our home.”
“My lady,” he responded, bowing over her hand. “Thank you.”
She did not remove her hand from his but held his gaze, smiling up at him. He knew that sort of smile, and one of George’s brows rose slightly above the other in silent question, and her smile seemed to deepen. Women, he thought as he let go of her hand, bowed and walked on. Either they were fearful of associating with his bastard self or were wanting more than he cared to deliver.
He moved on, scanning the crowd. He saw several acquaintances—some who looked the other way—and paused to speak to those who did not while surreptitiously looking for Honor Cabot. He didn’t see her. Nor did he see Miss Hargrove. If Honor had forced him into attending a ball where Miss Hargrove would not be, he was afraid of what he might do to that impudent young woman.
He continued on, snatching a flute of champagne from a footman as he admired more of the women in attendance. He felt a light touch on his arm and turned, expecting—hoping—that it was Honor. But it was an old friend, Lady Seifert.
“Mary,” he said fondly, taking her hand and bringing it to his lips. He and the auburn-haired, green-eyed beauty had been...associated, a few years ago.
“George, my dear,” she said, smiling fondly. “I’ve not seen you in an age! I hear you’ve been rather well occupied. Women and ships, is it?” she asked with a slight wink. “All of them sailing beyond your reach?”
He was surprised she’d heard. “Not all,” he said with a wink.
She laughed. “I can’t believe you’re here, darling.”
“Why is that? Because I don’t dance?”
“Because Gloucester is here.” She glanced around, rising up on her toes to see over the heads of those who crowded around them. “You really shouldn’t have come.”
He privately bristled at the idea Gloucester’s invitation meant more than his. “I have an invitation,” he said.
“Best not let him see you.”
“Lady Seifert!”
Lady Seifert and George both turned round; what was that, his heart skipping a beat or two at the sight of Miss Cabot?
“Miss Cabot,” Mary said graciously. “How do you do?”
“Very well, madam. And you?”
“Quite well. May I introduce Mr. George Easton?” Mary asked, gesturing to George.
“A pleasure, Miss Cabot,” George said, clasping his hands behind his back and bowing.
Honor’s eyes sparkled with amusement as she curtsied. “Thank you, Mr. Easton. A fine night for a ball, is it not?”
He could not begin to guess what a night must include to be considered fine for a ball. He smiled. So did Honor.
Mary, he noticed, looked intently at Honor, then at him, her eyes narrowing slightly above a wry smile.
“I think fortune has smiled on Lord and Lady Prescott and sent the rain away for the day,” Honor said, and glanced about the room, as if she were looking for someone.
“Has it?” George asked amicably. “Personally, I don’t give much thought to weather.”
Honor looked as if she had just swallowed something.
“One can’t help but wonder what you do give thought to, Mr. Easton,” Mary purred next to him.
“My guess is that the gentleman gives thought to all the newly presented debutantes,” Honor suggested. “There are quite a lot of them this evening.”
“Would that include you, Miss Cabot?” George asked.
She laughed. “I was presented three years ago, Mr. Easton! I fear I’ve lost that glow.”
“Oh, I think not, my dear,” Mary said.
Another gentleman appeared in George’s peripheral vision. “Lady Seifert,” he said, greeting them. “Miss Cabot.”
“Good evening, Sir Randall!” Mary said.
“Miss Cabot,” the young man said, “if you will allow, I request the honor of standing up with you on the next set.”
“I would be delighted,” Honor said, and looked as if she meant it. “Please, excuse me, Lady Seifert.” She glanced slyly at George, a smile playing on her lips. “Mr. Easton.”
Sir Randall quickly offered his arm to her; she put her hand lightly upon it, cast George a quick but sparkling little smile and glided away at the fop’s side. George tried not to gape at her back.
That was it?
She would toddle off and dance while he did her dirty work? He watched until they’d disappeared into the crowd. He didn’t realize he was staring until Mary touched the tip of her fan to his shoulder. “Drink your champagne, George, darling. She’s not for you.”
He chuckled. “No? Tell me, love, who is for me?”
“Certainly no debutantes here,” Mary said with a lilting little laugh. “Their mothers would never allow it.” She winked at him. “Enjoy yourself all the same.” She moved away, her hips swinging suggestively.
George turned from that delectable sight, and his gaze landed on none other than Miss Monica Hargrove, standing beside Sommerfield. At least he might get his mission over and done, he thought, and casually walked to where she stood.
She glanced up as he approached and blinked with surprise. “Oh!” she said. “Mr. Easton!”
“Miss Hargrove,” he said politely.
She looked at her fianc�
�, who was eyeing George curiously. “Lord Sommerfield, may I introduce Mr. Easton?” she asked.
“Easton, yes, of course!” Sommerfield said jovially. “Yes, yes, it is you. We’ve met,” he said.
“Oh?” Miss Hargrove said.
“Quite right. At the club, I do believe. Was it not the club, sir?”
George was not welcome in Sommerfield’s club but said, nonetheless, “Good to see you again, Sommerfield. Your family is well?”
“Exceedingly. That is, with the exception of my father. He ails terribly, what with the consumption.”
“I’m saddened to hear it.”
“Thank you,” Sommerfield said perfunctorily.
“I had hoped,” George said, turning his attention to Miss Hargrove, “that I might entice Miss Hargrove to take a turn about the dance floor.”
Miss Hargrove blanched at the invitation and looked at Sommerfield, who looked just as flustered. He smiled nervously and patted her hand. “Of course you must, my dear.”
“But I...I thought that perhaps...”
“I vow not to step on your toes,” George said, and offered his arm. Miss Hargrove looked uncertainly at his arm, then at Sommerfield. Her fiancé nodded encouragingly.
She reluctantly put her hand on George’s. “Thank you.”
George moved quickly, forcing her to come along before she leaped into Sommerfield’s arms. He led her out onto the dance floor, and they lined up across from each other.
Miss Hargrove frowned at him. “That was rather brazen.”
“That is the least brazen I can be, Miss Hargrove. You may as well accept that I am a determined man.” He smiled.
The music began, and he bowed. She curtsied. They moved forward, and she skipped around his back.
“What could you possibly want from me?” she asked, taking her place in line again.
He stepped forward and around her back. “To convince you that there are more potent choices than Sommerfield for a beautiful woman such as yourself.”
She gasped as he stepped back into line. They came together in the middle, their hands meeting above their heads. “I am affianced to Lord Sommerfield.”
