by Julia London
Until Honor had thought what to do, she had no choice.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
GEORGE’S VISIT WITH Mr. Sweeney sent him even deeper into the despair he was feeling for the first time in a very long time.
Sweeney had paid another visit to the docks looking for word of the Maypearl. “No one has seen her,” he said apologetically.
“What does it mean?” George demanded. Not of Sweeney, really, but of life. His life. What did it all mean?
Sweeney’s chair creaked and moaned beneath him as he squirmed about. “It’s hard to know. I think we must prepare to accept that she is lost.”
George was not ready to accept it—he couldn’t even bring himself to fully accept the possibility of it. In that moment, he outright refused to give any credence to it. “If that is what you believe, Mr. Sweeney, perhaps I should find a new agent,” he snapped.
Mr. Sweeney paled. “That is...that is not necessary, Mr. Easton. It is my duty to be as honest with you as I might—”
“Speculation is not honesty, sir, it is merely that—speculation. And I, for one, refuse to accept your speculation as fact. Good day,” he said crossly, and stormed from Mr. Sweeney’s office, ignoring Mr. Sweeney’s calls to please wait, to hear him out.
He owed the man an apology, but then again, he thought it hardly fair to surmise that all was lost merely because a ship was now a month late to port. One might argue that Mr. Sweeney’s was the more prudent viewpoint, but George had not built his fortune with prudence.
Lost in thought of how he would revive his fortune if indeed it was lost, George thundered back to his home. On Audley Street, his horse trotted down the cobblestones and came to a halt before his magnificent house without prompt. The house, the symbol of the man he thought he’d become, was the only thing of value that George held now.
He swung down off his mount, tossed the reins through the iron ring where he generally tethered the horse, tying them loosely. As was his habit, he would send a stable boy out to fetch him and take him to the mews. He took one step in the direction of his house and happened to glance up the street as he did so.
He saw the coach with a B emblazoned in a swirl of foxes, the sleek black lines of a vehicle familiar to him since stepping into its interior some weeks ago. He paused, squinting at it. She wouldn’t have come here, would she, in the light of day, for everyone to see? Had she no regard for her reputation at all?
The coach door suddenly swung open. From it emerged a small boot attached to a shapely leg. And then another. Honor alighted without help, dropped her skirts and shook them out. She was wearing a jaunty little bonnet with a trio of feathers artfully arranged, and when she cocked her head to one side to smile warmly at him, they bounced gaily, reminding him of little birds dancing around her head.
He strode forward as she ran daintily across the street. He paused several steps before her, his hands on his hips, wondering if he should kiss her or physically put her back in the coach. “Have you lost your mind? Dispensed with all good judgment? Kicked your common sense off the London Bridge?”
She beamed at him. “Good afternoon, Easton!”
“What are you doing here?” he demanded. “I grant you, I’m hardly one to give a whit about what anyone will think, but in this instance, even I am concerned that you have crossed an ineradicable line.”
“Then perhaps you should invite me in so that I will not be exposed to prying eyes,” she suggested without compunction.
Why was it he could not refuse women? Was his creator so cruel as to give him such a terribly vulnerable flaw? He looked her up and down and said, “I shudder to think what my Finnegan will have to say,” and gestured impatiently for her to come along.
Honor looked back to her driver and waved. The man instantly set the coach in motion.
“Wait!” George exclaimed. “Where is he going? Tell him to come back at once!”
“He believes I have come to call on a sick friend and that I shall see myself home. It’s a lovely walk from here. You might try it! But if you prefer, you may lend me your coach to see me home.”
George gaped at her. “You are free with my transport, are you not?”
“I am merely taking your concern for my reputation into account. Anyone might see the Beckington coach sitting before your house. Speaking of that, which one is it? This one?” she asked, pointing up to his white brick townhome.
He sighed.
“It’s lovely, Easton!” she said brightly, and moved up the walk to the steps.
“For God’s sake, Miss Cabot, at least do me the courtesy of accompanying you into my house,” he said gruffly, and caught her elbow, escorting her up the stairs, glancing around them to see who noticed.
“That won’t do the least bit of good,” Honor said. “Don’t you know that women in their dotage do nothing all day but sit about at their windows peering down at houses that belong to men like you?”
George muttered something under his breath, reached for the brass door handle and pushed it open.
Finnegan was there and took an almost unnoticeable step backward when he saw Honor.
Honor seemed to think nothing of it as she glided into the foyer. “Oh, Mr. Easton, your house is so lovely,” she said, looking up at the domed ceiling above her head. She took off her hat and handed it to Finnegan without actually looking at him.
Finnegan exchanged a look with George, a rakish twinkle in his eye. That was precisely what George deserved in taking the ex-lover of his ex-lover as his valet. “Thank you, Finnegan, that will be all,” George said.
“Shall I serve tea?”
“Serve whatever you like,” George snapped, and startled Honor by taking her by the elbow and marching her into the small salon.
Once inside, she wrested free of his grip and walked to the middle of the room, turning slowly to take in the silk-papered walls, the French gold-leaf furnishings, the portrait of a lady dripping with pearls hanging over the mantel. “Who is she?” she asked, tilting her head back to better see the woman with the piercing blue eyes, the creamy skin. “One of your acquaintances?” she asked coyly, looking at him sidelong.
“I haven’t the slightest idea who she is,” George said, and leaned back against the closed door, his arms folded over his chest. “Honor, look at me.”
She glanced at him over her shoulder.
“What are you doing here? I can’t believe that even you, the most audacious woman I have ever known, would come to the very door of a bastard son with a questionable reputation. Do you want to be ruined?”
“My goodness, Easton, when you put it like that, it sounds so disagreeable. But I will tell you honestly, I hardly care if my reputation is ruined or not.”
“Of course you do,” he scoffed. “If you wanted to speak to me, you should have summoned me to Beckington House.”
She clucked her tongue at him and unbuttoned her spencer. “I wouldn’t presume to summon you, George,” she said, and removed the jacket, tossing it onto a chair. “Well, not like that, at least.”
George arched a dubious brow at her and tried not to ogle her décolletage. His body was already beginning to stir, and he hadn’t even touched her. Damn her for coming. Damn him for being so besotted.
“And besides, I couldn’t have summoned you if I’d wanted, as we have a houseguest. It’s been difficult enough to keep Mamma from him.”
“Houseguest,” he repeated, noting that it was a he. “Who is this houseguest?”
She waved a hand at him. “It hardly matters.” She ran her fingers over a pair of hand-painted porcelain horses that graced a sideboard.
George watched her curiously. There was something a bit different about Honor this afternoon. She was her usual, unapologetic self, yes, but the closer he looked, the more vaguely out of sorts she seemed to him. Anxious. “Honor...is something wrong?” he asked her.
“Wrong?” She smiled and put her hand to her nape. “Nothing is wrong other than Lord Sommerfield is still engag
ed to marry Miss Monica Hargrove.” She dropped her hand. “They are practically standing before the altar. They are very pleased to be able to present themselves as a newly engaged couple at the reception for Lord Stapleton.”
George knew of that reception; everyone knew of it. Hundreds would attend it, he guessed, as Stapleton was being honored for his bravery in the war. “I hope you’ve not come here to ask me to engage in parlor games with Miss Hargrove at that reception.”
“To what?” She looked surprised, as if the thought had not crossed her mind. “Of course not!” she said, recovering and giving him a withering look. “I told you, I hope you never speak to her again.” She sighed, put her hands to her waist. “It was foolish. And in trying to...to dislodge her, I’ve only made the situation worse for myself.”
He didn’t like the look in her eye. “What has happened? I can see that something has.”
Honor shook her head. “Oh, George,” she said, sounding almost defeated. “I’ve nowhere else to turn—”
A knock at the door startled them both; Honor turned away and walked to the window, pretending to peer out.
Finnegan entered with a tea service, moving with swift efficiency across the carpet and depositing the heavy silver tray onto a small table. He smiled; his attention was on Honor, and George could see the look of appreciation he gave her figure. “Shall I serve?”
“No, thank you, I will,” George said, glaring at him.
Finnegan looked at Honor again, and George was reminded that one day, he would indeed put his fist in his valet’s face or dismiss him. But for the moment, he shoved Finnegan toward the door. “That will be all, thank you, Finnegan.”
Finnegan grinned and started for the door.
“We won’t need you again,” George hastily added, lest Finnegan devise some reason to return for another look.
When Finnegan went out, George locked the door for good measure. He turned back to the room and gestured to the tea. “Shall I pour?”
“I don’t care for tea, thank you,” Honor said distractedly.
“All right. Then will you tell me what has happened?”
“What has happened is that a new vicar has come to Longmeadow, and he is quite unmarried.”
A lump of resentment instantly formed in George’s chest.
“Augustine has told me, with uncharacteristic determination, that if I cannot produce an offer for my hand, then I must allow the vicar to court me properly, and then...then I must marry him.”
That news left George speechless. He couldn’t imagine Sommerfield insisting on anything, much less that. That he had filled George with a sudden and uncontrollable rage.
“In fact, I am to be home by five o’clock,” she said, glancing at the mantel clock, “as Mr. Cleburne has invited me and my sisters to attend a church service with him.”
George pushed a hand through his hair as a wave of bitter disappointment roiled through him. This was just what he’d expected. So why, then, was it so gut-wrenching to hear? He supposed he’d hoped that nothing like this would happen until after he’d managed to remove himself from the circle of Honor’s life. “And if you don’t do as he asks?”
She shrugged. “I suppose he’ll find another way to remove us from Beckington House. Some way that is far less convenient than marriage, I’d wager.”
“I see,” he said tightly.
“No,” Honor said. “No, George, I don’t think you do. You may choose who you will marry. Or who you will not marry. But that’s not a choice I have. I’ve managed to delay it a year or two, but I suppose I’ve always known that, eventually, I would be forced to marry.”
George couldn’t find the words to express his bitter disappointment, even to himself. He was a jumbled mess of raw, unfamiliar feelings, and for a man who had steadfastly avoided feeling, he felt decidedly unsteady.
He glanced uncertainly at the tea service, then abruptly turned away, stalked to the sideboard and poured two whiskies. He crossed the room and handed one to Honor, who took it hesitantly, staring down into the amber liquid.
“He seems kind,” George grudgingly offered. “You might come to esteem him.”
Honor sipped from the glass. She winced, pressed her hand to her chest then sipped again.
An alarming swell of fondness for her bloomed in him, and he felt entirely lost, adrift on a sea of feelings he had struggled to avoid all his life. He suddenly despised Monica Hargrove. It was an irrational surge of anger—this wasn’t her fault—but he could see her hands all over this forced engagement. All in retaliation for what he’d done.
He put aside his whiskey glass. “I can fix things, Honor. I can undo this.”
“You can’t,” she said wearily. “No one can. It was bound to happen, and I’ve no one to blame but me.”
“But it doesn’t need to happen now. Not like this,” George said angrily. “I should have heeded your advice, but I merely toyed with her. Now she will feel the full force of my ardor—”
“George!” Honor said, alarmed. “You mustn’t do anything! We’ve tried and failed, as you yourself warned me we would—”
“I intend to kiss her,” he said. How could he even contemplate kissing Monica Hargrove? The thought made him shudder. The only one he could think of kissing was Honor. “I will seduce her.”
“No!” Honor cried. “No, you mustn’t!” She suddenly took his face between her hands. “You can’t kiss her,” she implored him. “You can’t kiss her, because I will perish with jealousy.”
George lifted his arms, his palms out and away from Honor, fearful of what he would do if he touched her again. “Then tell me, Honor, instruct me. Tell me what to do to help you.”
“I’ve missed you,” she said softly, knocking him off center once more.
“Pardon? We were speaking of Miss Hargrove—”
She shook her head. “Why did you tell me not to speak?”
He blinked; it took him a moment to recall what he’d said. She was watching him closely, and he could see the doubt in her eyes. “Honor, darling...I told you not to speak because I couldn’t bear to hear it.”
Her eyes suddenly began to water, and she dropped her hands. “Because you cannot return my affection,” she said.
He didn’t mean to chuckle, but he couldn’t help it. Honor blinked; she began to turn away, but he caught her hand. “Because I can only return it tenfold,” he said. “I couldn’t bear to hear it because I can’t have you.”
Her eyelids fluttered; she eyed him warily, as if she expected him to declare he was jesting after all. When he did not, she turned to him and said, “Do you want to know how you can help me? You can show me your deepest affection before I am forced to marry the vicar. Before the ache of missing you turns my heart to dust.”
Those words were a salve to old, ancient wounds, and he scarcely knew what to do with them, which way to turn. “I can’t do that, Honor. You know as well as I that it’s impossible for us.”
“Impossible?” She laughed. “I don’t know which way is up or down anymore. I only know what I feel in this moment, Easton, and I have missed you.”
“Honor, please,” he said, begging her now. “I cannot resist you.”
She curled her fingers around his, squeezing them tightly. “Then don’t.”
He reached for her at the same moment she reached for him, slipping into his arms as if she belonged there, had been there all his life. George’s heart began to reel. Her lips felt like silk beneath his, tantalizing the beast in him. He crushed her to him, felt her breasts against his chest, the heat of her body mingling with his, flaring in his groin.
He lifted his head, gazing down on the woman who had the power to do this to him. She opened her eyes and smiled so seductively that it was a wonder George didn’t fall to his knees. He was on fire, fully engulfed by a woman whose smile could reduce him to ashes. She touched her finger to his lip and whispered, “Did you miss me?”
“More than the air I breathe,” he growled, and lust
for her flooded into every part of him, hardening his cock to the point of aching. Her hands moved over his body; he grabbed her bottom, kneading it, pushing it against his erection, showing her just how badly he wanted her. She began to move against him, pressing into him, nipping at his lips, sliding her tongue into his mouth. She was a hellion, so brazen in her desire that he was melting with it.
He put her on the settee and moved over her, trapping her beneath his body. Hungry for the taste of her skin, he moved his mouth to her throat, down to her breast, nipping at the hardened nipple through the fabric of her gown. Honor whimpered softly, shoved her fingers into his hair as she instinctually lifted her breast to his mouth. He pulled at her gown, freeing both breasts, uncaring that he was devouring her, uncaring of anything but the dangerously desperate need to touch her, to be in her once more.
He suddenly sat up, clawing at his clothes, his gaze locked on Honor. When he had thrown off the coat and waistcoat, had removed his neckcloth and shirt, he slipped his hand under her back, lifting her up, kissing her deeply with all the emotion that was surging through him, and lowering her down once more as he found the hem of her gown. The need to feel her body surround his was overpowering; when she kissed his nipple, he caught her hands again, pinned them above her head. “Be still.”
Honor laughed breathlessly. “Why?”
“Because you drive me to madness.”
Her eyes were glittering up at him, her lips, wet and lush, curved enticingly. “Touch me, George,” she whispered. “Touch me.”
George unbuttoned his trousers and freed himself, then lowered her hands to his member. She wrapped her fingers around him, squeezing lightly, feeling him as he slipped his hands between her legs, into her wet depths. The lids of her eyes grew heavy as she lost herself in the sensation. She bit her lower lip as he stroked her—she was so alluring, so seductive. George moved down her body, leaving a trail of kisses over her gown, finding the bare flesh of her thigh and licking his way up, pushing her thighs apart and dipping his tongue into her sex. She bucked at the sensation of his mouth and tongue in her, which in turn sent blood pounding through George, engorging his heart and his cock. Had she been anyone else, he would have hurried his pleasure along. But with Honor, he desired her pleasure almost more than his own. He held on to her, holding her firmly as he carefully explored her every crevice, flicking airily across the core of her desire, then deep into the recesses of her body.