Dear God, was he coming?

She clenched her fists at her sides and marched on. She despised the way women pined for men, hoping they would appear at this event or that. Easton had said he wouldn’t come, and yet here she was, hoping. She looked expectantly toward every coach that pulled up before the massive stone columns that marked Longmeadow’s grand entrance, hoping for him. But coach after coach had come and gone, and George Easton had not come.

He is not coming.

Surely she might admit that to herself now. Surely she might make an effort to stop reliving the moments she’d spent in his arms, awash in the mysterious connections between man and woman, her heart singing, her body yearning for his touch. Surely she might allow that George Easton was a dangerously sensual man, and while he had opened a carnal world to her, it had not been as meaningful to him as it had been to her. He had indulged her far more than she might have hoped, had made her heart flutter madly, had filled her mind with lustful images and tender thoughts...but it had been all play to him.

She had known from the beginning that he would not indulge her scheme forever; of course he wouldn’t. What man would? Even she had never believed her plot would accomplish anything but to perhaps postpone the inevitable. Honestly, she couldn’t even think of Monica now. Everything seemed so different.

If she admitted all of this to herself, she could reason that her disappointment in his not coming was absurd! She should not be disappointed in being relieved of his wretched dancing. Or that he didn’t fawn over her as the young bucks of Mayfair were wont to do. She rather liked fawning and dancing! She should not admire his blue eyes that seemed to always shine with amusement, and neither should she be enamored of a man for the sole reason he would share her general annoyance at the grand form Monica had displayed at supper last night.

Because the moment she allowed those disappointments to gain ground, the ache in her head would move to her heart, whittling away at it until there was nothing left but dust.

* * *

THE NEXT AFTERNOON, after luncheon, while the gentlemen rode about the thousand acres that made up Longmeadow, young Lord Washburn, who had graciously offered to stay behind and entertain the ladies, treated them to a poetry reading in the chapel. The ladies gamely trooped down the tree-lined lane to the small medieval church that had, at some point, been renovated to suit the needs of an earl.

Honor was well acquainted with Lord Washburn. He’d come into his title of viscount when his father’s heart had suddenly stopped beating one day. He’d always been brash, loud and vexing, and then suddenly, with a title, he’d been one of the most sought-after gentlemen in all of Mayfair. Washburn had taken to his new role with great enthusiasm, and on more than one occasion had insinuated to Honor, and then to Grace, that either of them might be the lucky young woman to win his heart.

Neither of them had the slightest desire to even try.

Today, Washburn randomly chose a young woman to affix his brown eyes upon as he read, and Honor was not pleased to see him affix them so often on Prudence. She was not yet seventeen, and frankly, her head was too easily turned.

Honor gazed at the rafters and idly wondered how long she might be trapped here. She sighed and glanced to her right—and gasped so loudly that Miss Fitzwilliam, sitting directly in front of her, glanced back over her shoulder with a look of alarm.

Honor quickly put a finger to her mouth and smiled apologetically, then glanced to the window once more.

He had come.

It was him, Easton! He and another gentleman trotted on horseback down the lane to the house. His back was to her, but Honor recognized the way he sat his horse, the broad shoulders and the glimpse of his brown hair brushing over his collar beneath the brim of his hat.

Her heart felt as if it was swelling in her chest with happiness. She could scarcely catch her breath, her heart was pounding so. Had he come for her? Had he missed her, had he thought of her as she had thought of him?

Honor was suddenly and violently desperate to quit the chapel.

Washburn had reached the crescendo of his current sonnet, had stepped away from the pulpit so that he might wave his arm around a bit. When he finished his sonnet, he crossed his arm across his heart and bowed deeply, graciously accepting the polite applause from the group of assembled young ladies. As two young women in the front row urged him to continue, Honor made her escape.

She fairly dashed out the back, bursting into the bright sunlight and pausing a moment so that her eyesight might adjust. She hurried along until she rounded the corner of the stables, taking care to walk and not run, smoothing her hair when she dipped behind the well house. She ran up the steps from the stable to the main drive, and walked quickly around the corner of the house, arriving on the drive just as Easton removed a bag from his horse’s rump and handed it to a footman.

Honor paused to take a deep breath, then walked serenely and slowly into the men’s midst. She stepped around the head of his horse. “Oh! Mr. Easton! You have come,” she said far too breathlessly to convince anyone she was surprised to stumble upon him there in the drive.

His smile was so warm that it quietly filled her up like a tub of honey. He tipped his hat. “How do you do, Miss Cabot? Begun any new schemes? Created any bedlam in anyone’s life?”

She laughed quickly, loudly, then took another steadying breath to reduce her ardor before smiling brilliantly at him. She could scarcely contain her joy at seeing him, or the urge to throw her arms around his neck and kiss him.

Easton frowned. “I will ask you kindly not to smile at me quite like that, Miss Cabot. I have come against my better judgment, and frankly, I’ve lost all respect for myself.” He bowed.

“Then why did you come?” she asked cheerfully.

“Because I feared the chaos that would rain down on this august occasion if you were left to your own devices. It is my duty as a gentleman to spare these good people your unhinged thinking.”

His declaration made her deliriously happy. She could feel her smile widening.

“Don’t,” he said brusquely. “I will not be swayed by your charming smile again.”

“You find my smile charming?” she asked, taking a step closer.

“I find it dangerous.” He bent over and picked up a valise. “I find everything about you dangerous.”

A strong shiver of longing skirted up her spine; Honor took another step closer. “You’ll be glad you have come, sir. You will have a very fine time at Longmeadow. I am certain of it.”

“I won’t,” he said adamantly. But his eyes were twinkling with mirth.

The man who had ridden in with him stepped up, took the valise from his hand and inclined his head at Honor.

“Oh, yes. Miss Cabot, may I present Mr. Finnegan. He claims to be a valet.”

“Madam,” the gentleman said, and walked on.

“You’ve arrived just in time, too,” Honor said to George. “There is to be a croquet tournament on the west lawn this afternoon.”

“That settles it, then—I may now expire from joy.”

Honor laughed. “I won’t have you expiring at Longmeadow. Think of the scandal! Come, I’ll show you to the house. Hardy has a room for you.”

She began to walk and Easton fell in beside her. She could feel him, his body so close to hers, the strength of him beside her. She was so enthralled with it that she was startled when Augustine suddenly bounded out the entrance with Hardy on his heels, looking very nervous as he surveyed the ladies coming up the path. “We really must hurry things along,” he said to no one in particular.

Honor guessed Monica would be close behind, and as much as she would have liked to engage Easton a bit longer, she thought she might succumb to her desire to touch him if she did not take her leave. Her thoughts began to tumble over each other as she plotted how to speak to him alone, away from prying eyes. But it was impossible to say the things that were bubbling up in her on the drive, so she called out to her stepbrother, “Augustine, look who has come!”

Augustine whirled about, squinting. And then he smiled. “Easton, yes, yes, of course! Welcome!” he said, and gestured to Hardy to follow him as he closed in on Easton.

“You’re in excellent hands, sir,” Honor said. “Hardy will see you properly situated.” She turned about before he could respond and said, “Augustine, you must tell him about croquet! Mr. Easton said he is keen to play.”

“Croquet!” she heard Augustine say. “Then you must play, Mr. Easton! We will have a spectacular course, naturally,” he added, and began to explain in enthusiastic detail the plan for croquet on the west lawn.

Honor could feel Easton’s gaze on her back as she practically skipped into the house, her step suddenly lighter, her heart still racing.



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

LONGMEADOW WAS AS impressive as George had heard, perhaps even more so. The Beckington butler led him and Finnegan down wide, carpeted corridors that turned into more wide, carpeted corridors, each one lined with paintings and portraits that George did not have time to study, artful little consoles that held Ming vases and hothouse flowers, and all of it illuminated by sunlit windows whose velvet drapes had been tied back with thick, gold silk cords.

The guest room George would inhabit was large, with a four-poster canopied bed and a view of the forest. As he stood in the middle of the room, looking up at a ceiling that had been painted with ropes and Grecian urns, he could certainly understand that Honor would not want to lose these surroundings. He really didn’t know how exactly marriages were arranged among the very privileged, but from what he did know, he believed it was doubtful that she would marry into such opulence as this, only because there were so few families that enjoyed such wealth.

He was beginning to feel a bit foolish; he’d come here after a long internal debate. He’d told himself that he was helping Honor Cabot. His body had said otherwise. His body, his heart had said that he had to see her again. But toward what end? That was the murky mystery brewing in him.

Finnegan seemed perfectly at ease, putting George’s things away as George stood by, uncomfortable in his uselessness. He’d not wanted Finnegan to come, but Finnegan had explained to Easton that if he arrived without a manservant or valet, he’d appear out of place.

“I am out of place,” George had pointed out.

“Only if you believe yourself to be,” Finnegan had said curtly, and had begun to fill a valise, his jaw set with determination. George knew better than to argue with the man when he was like that, and now here he was, brushing down George’s formal dinner coat. “I suggest you have a walkabout,” Finnegan said without looking up from his work. “You might prepare yourself for croquet. Perhaps it will improve your disposition and put you into a proper frame of mind for society here.” He glanced up at George. “If I may, sir, it is vastly different than the society in which you typically associate.”

George couldn’t help but grin. “Do you know, Finnegan, that there are days I have the strongest urge to put my fist squarely in your comely face?”

“That would not become a gentleman,” Finnegan said, and went about his business.

George couldn’t watch Finnegan any longer; he ran his fingers through his hair, straightened his neckcloth and went out. He walked out into the gardens and paused to admire the fine specimens of roses rivaled only by those he’d seen around St. James.

He heard the sound of feminine laughter and was unthinkingly drawn to it, making his way through the maze of roses to the gate that led to a large expanse of manicured lawn. Beyond the vast lawn, he could see a lake shimmering in the sunlight, bounded by forest on two sides.

He walked through the gate and carried on down the slope, his gaze on footmen who were busily setting the croquet hoops. He approached a trio of ladies seated near a large fountain where three enormous cherubs streamed great arcs of water from their pursed lips.

One of the ladies glanced up from her wide-brimmed hat and blinked. “Mr. Easton!” she said, gaining her feet.

George had been so taken by the giant cherubs that he’d failed to recognize Miss Hargrove at first. He quickly recovered and bowed low. “Miss Hargrove,” he said. “My day has just been immeasurably improved.”

The two ladies in her company tittered at that.

“I wasn’t aware you’d come,” Miss Hargrove said.