The Trouble with Honour. Julia London

heart was beating wildly now, her mind sorting through all the diverting reasons. “How odd,” she said, trying desperately to ignore her thoughts. “You make it sound as if debutantes are frequently scheming.” Which, Honor was all too aware, she was doing in that very moment.

      “That, or sleeping. Come now, don’t be shy,” he said, gesturing for her to carry on. “I suppose I am not generally opposed to granting favors...particularly if there is some hope I might personally enjoy the favor after all.” His gaze fell to her bodice again. “Open your spencer.”

      “No!” Honor said, appalled and titillated at once.

      “Then I suppose we are finished,” he said, and moved as if he meant to knock on the ceiling.

      Honor quickly unbuttoned her spencer. He arched a brow; she frowned slightly and pushed it back from her bosom.

      He eased back, studying her casually. Honor was accustomed to the way men looked at her. But she had never felt it quite like this, so intently. Honor’s blood began to race. She wasn’t certain if she was appalled by him or entirely aroused.

      “Hmm,” he said thoughtfully as he gazed at her collared gown. “That is not an improvement.”

      Honor yanked her spencer closed. “As I said, Mr. Easton, I did not come here for a dalliance.”

      “Apparently not,” he said. “Or you are woefully unimaginative in your seductions.” His slow, deliberate smile made the fluttering in Honor’s breast skirt merrily down her spine and land squarely in her belly. “Nevertheless, I should think it would be pleasurable for us both.”

      Honor couldn’t think. Her imagination was galloping away from her.

      “Go on, then, Miss Cabot. You have me on tenterhooks. If I will not be allowed to show you the pleasure your young heart has imagined, then please, do say what it is you want.”

      Steady on. Honor ignored her breathlessness, the heat in her veins, the desire to remove her spencer entirely, and said, “I will not lie, Mr. Easton. This favor involves a bit of...persuasion.”

      “Even more interesting.” His gaze drifted to her lips. “I knew that you were a bold one, Miss Cabot. A young lady of your stature does not appear in a Southwark gaming hell without a river of audacity running through her veins.” He smiled as if that pleased him. “What sort of persuasion did you have in mind?” he asked, and reached out, taking the end of her bonnet’s ribbon between two fingers, rubbing the velvet.

      She pulled the ribbon from his grasp. “I need you to seduce someone.”

      He reached for her ribbon again and smiled so charmingly that Honor felt a bit of herself melt. “I am trying, Miss Cabot.”

      She pulled the ribbon free once more. “Not me.”

      He chuckled, the sound of it reverberating in her chest. “A pity. But I suppose you are too tender after all. Is it anyone I know, or anyone I choose?”

      “Someone I know.” She prepared to explain herself, but George Easton abruptly reached for her wrist and wrapped his fingers tightly around it, the thumb pressing against her vein. Could he feel how her heart raced? Her heart skipped—she knew a slender moment of terror as she looked at his hand on her wrist; it looked enormous compared to her arm. She was so foolish—she had no idea if he would harm her, if he would force her—

      “What the devil are you talking about?” he asked silkily, rubbing his thumb across her inner wrist.

      God help her, she couldn’t falter now—she’d already walked out on the plank away from propriety and decency. “As I said, I very much need you to seduce someone.”

      He lifted her arm, touched his lips to her inner wrist through the keyhole of her glove then lifted his head with a knowing smile. “It would seem I am more successful at seduction in this coach than I thought.” He pulled her forward. His eyes were blazing. “If not you, little bird, then who?”

      “Miss...Miss Monica Hargrove.”

      Mr. Easton blinked. He suddenly let go of her wrist and fell back against the squabs. “Miss Hargrove,” he repeated disbelievingly.

      Honor nodded, thankful for the opportunity to catch her breath. She pressed her palm to her chest, took a breath.

      “Isn’t Sommerfield affianced to Miss Hargrove?”

      Honor nodded again.

      “Your stepbrother,” he announced, as if she had not realized that Viscount Sommerfield was one and the same as Augustine.

      When Honor said nothing, Easton surprised her with a laugh to the ceiling. “Of all the reprehensible—”

      “Reprehensible!” Honor protested. “Goodness, Mr. Easton, I am not asking that you ruin her. I merely ask that you direct her attention elsewhere,” she said, and fluttered her fingers in a vaguely “elsewhere” direction.

      “For what purpose should I direct her attention elsewhere?” he asked, mimicking her finger fluttering.

      “Surely it is clear as to purpose.”

      “The only purpose I can see is to make your stepbrother cry off his engagement, and I cannot imagine what reason you would have that is in any way founded—”

      “I have my reasons,” she said crisply.

      “Do you,” he drawled, folding his arms across his chest. “What are they?”

      “You need not know—”

      “Bloody hell I need not know. You ask me to turn the head of your brother’s fiancée and tell me I need not know why?”

      “I certainly hadn’t counted on you arguing with me,” she said petulantly, and toyed with the fringe of the window’s sash, thinking quickly. “I cannot divulge what I know about Miss Hargrove,” she said hesitantly, “but I can assure you I have very good reason to wish that she not marry Augustine.” She glanced at Easton again, who was now looking at her with complete disdain. His eyes were still blazing, but in a strangely different way. Honor swallowed. “No good can come of their union. You must trust me,” she insisted. “And I thought...I thought that perhaps you might agree to help me.”

      “Of course,” he said with mock sincerity. “Because of who I am.”

      “Yes! Because you are a man who takes risks and you are rather...” She couldn’t help but take him in, his broad shoulders, his muscular legs, his fine mouth.

      “Rather what?” he prodded her, nudging her leg with his knee again. “Rather a bastard? A man whose mere association with a debutante casts a shadow on her?”

      “No!” Honor said, feeling herself color. “I meant you are handsome, Mr. Easton. And...and wealthy. At least there is some speculation that you are. Naturally, I would not know firsthand.”

      “Naturally,” he said a bit derisively.

      Lord, when she said these things out loud, she sounded absurd. She glanced to the window again, trying to find her way back to her plan, which she was having trouble remembering around the man’s sensual gaze and masculine presence. This plan had seemed almost flawless when she’d first conceived it, but Grace was right. This was a ridiculous thing to have done.

      She was startled by a nudge of her knee again. She glanced at Easton.

      “And if Sommerfield cries off? With that tiny bit of conscience you might have salvaged after requesting a favor such as this, you believe you will have saved him from some great embarrassment and spared his suffering?”

      He had not completely dismissed her? “Well,” Honor said, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. “I wouldn’t put it precisely that way, but—”

      “But,” he interrupted, and leaned forward again, so that his face was only inches from hers. His hand found her knee and squeezed, causing Honor to lose track