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
