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 like 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.

“Would you be so kind?” Honor asked before Monica could speak.

“You’ll need some help,” Miss Williamson said.

“Thank you,” Mr. Beeker said, and smiled at Honor before departing with his trusty aide on his quest to bring back four drinks.

“Well, then? To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, Honor?” Monica asked drily.

Honor laughed. “Only a desire to greet my old friend.”

“Mmm,” Monica said, taking Honor in. “Your gown is lovely.”

If there was one thing that could be said of Monica, she appreciated a fine gown when she saw one. “Thank you,” Honor said. “As is yours,” she added, thinking the dark green suited Monica’s complexion very well. “Did Mrs. Dracott fashion it?” she asked, referring to the much-sought-after modiste.

“No,” Monica said tightly. “Mrs. Wilbert. Mrs. Dracott has many commissions at the moment, what with the Season. But she’s done very well by you, hasn’t she? I suppose there is even a bonnet that matches the gown?” she asked, her gaze narrowing slightly on Honor.

“Good Lord, you’re not still angry about the bonnet, are you?” Honor asked with a dismissive flick of her wrist.

“No angrier than I was the summer you wooed Mr. Gregory away,” Monica sniffed.

Honor laughed with surprise. “We were sixteen years old, Monica. Really, why must you always bring up old hurts?”

“I’m not bringing up an old hurt, but an old scheme,” Monica said. “That’s always the way with you, isn’t it? One scheme or another?”

“Scheme!” Honor protested. “Shall we speak of schemes? Do you recall the Bingham dance, and how you and Agnes Mulberry took the last two seats in the Bingham coach, when I was the one who’d been invited and, in turn, invited the two of you? I had no other means of attending and you knew it very well.”

“Just as well as you knew that you had not invited me to the soiree at Longmeadow.” Monica clucked her tongue. “A lost invitation, indeed!”

Honor lifted her chin, wisely choosing not to recall that summer after all. “Never mind that, Monica. I came to offer my felicitations, not rehash the summer of your sixteenth year.”

“Felicitations? For what?” Monica asked.

“Am I mistaken?” Honor asked. “Augustine said that you were very keen to marry and that it may occur sooner rather than later.”

Monica suddenly laughed; her light brown eyes sparkled. “My dearest Sommerfield!” she said gaily. “You misunderstood him, Honor. He is so keen to marry me that he speaks of Gretna Green with alarming frequency.”

“Then you’d best marry him straightaway,” Honor said. “One can hardly say when another man might come along so keen to marry you, can one?”

“Pardon?” Monica said laughingly. “Really, Honor, I know you too well, and I know you did not traverse the ballroom to ask after my wedding. That’s not the least bit like you. Or me, for that matter.”

Honor couldn’t help but laugh. “True,” she agreed. “But as we are to be sisters, I hoped we might turn over a new leaf,” she said. “No more bickering over bonnets and whatnot.”