to imagine what Miss Cabot was about today, but he had every intention of being at the tea shop this afternoon. It was a daring move for her to conspire to meet him, alone. Away from prying eyes.
That was not an invitation a man of any stripe would turn down, and George Easton least of all.
HONOR 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
