Regency Vows. Kasey Michaels

repeated, as if that were a foreign concept to her, which George suspected was highly probable. “But that’s not possible, Mr. Easton. My mind is quite made up. When I am fixed on something, I am very dedicated to it. Now then—will you help me?”

      George couldn’t help but chuckle at her dogged determination. “No.”

      “No?”

      “It is madness, complete and utter madness,” he said. “It is a loathsome thing to do to a brother and a friend, and I feel it is my duty as a gentleman to direct you away from it—not abet it.”

      Now her bright smile faded. She folded her arms. “Very well, Mr. Easton. You have done your gentlemanly duty,” she said, sounding irreverent. “Now will you help me?”

      George stared at her. And then he couldn’t seem to help himself—he laughed. “You may very well be the most obstinate woman I have ever met.”

      “Then perhaps you have not met as many women as I’ve heard tell,” she said pertly. “Do you think I make this request to you lightly? That this is a girlish whim? Not at all, sir. Monica Hargrove intends to turn my family out when she marries my brother. She has said as much to me. Further, I don’t believe for a moment that you came all the way here to tell me you won’t help me. You might have sent a note or ignored me altogether, is that not so?”

      That was so, and it made George a bit uncomfortable for her to point it out so bluntly. He shrugged.

      “That you did not suggests to me that you must have at least considered my request. Have you?”

      He felt as if he were a naughty boy, caught in the act of mischief. She had him, this shrewd and wily young miss, just as she had that night in Southwark. And she knew it, too, for a smile appeared on her lush lips, ending in little dimples in either cheek. That smile was a small gust of air to smoldering ashes, and George felt a tiny flame ignite.

      “It would seem we are agreed,” she said silkily.

      “Not so fast.” He let his gaze slide slowly down her curves and up again. He would like to sink his fingers and his tongue into that flesh, to smell her hair. “If I cannot dissuade you—”

      “You cannot—”

      “Then it is now my duty as a gentleman to ensure you do no harm to Miss Hargrove.”

      Miss Cabot beamed, knowing she had won. “How kind of you.”

      “I am not the least bit kind, Miss Cabot. But I do have some principles. I’m not sure the same can be said for you.”

      “I am touched by your concern for Monica,” she said sweetly. “My desire is only that she is made aware that there are other, perhaps more attractive possibilities for her so that she will not rush to the altar as she seems to want to do. No harm.”

      “Debatable,” he said, his body caught in the snare of feminine mystique as he moved closer to her. “There is still the matter of what I will have in return for this...abominable favor.”

      “Of course,” she said demurely, and folded her arms across her body tightly.

      “Let’s begin with the agreement that you will return to me the one hundred pounds won in Southwark.”

      “Ninety-two pounds,” she corrected him.

      “Ninety-two pounds, then,” he said, his gaze falling to her mouth, “will earn you one round of rakish behavior designed to turn Miss Hargrove’s head. That ought to suffice.”

      “Ah...” One of Miss Cabot’s finely tweezed brows rose high above the other.

      “What?” he demanded.

      “Nothing, really,” she said lightly, and shrugged. “Only that you seem rather confident of that.”

      George stared at her. He wished to high heaven that such bloody impertinence from a pampered, privileged woman didn’t fascinate him quite as much as it did. “Of course I am confident, Miss Cabot.”

      “Oh, dear, I didn’t mean to insult you,” she said, and her tender smile shot through him. “I have no doubt that you would turn the head of most debutantes—”

      “You are not improving the situation.”

      She bit her lip.

      He very much wanted to bite that lip, too. George frowned—he didn’t like that, not at all. When he began to want things like that, he did very foolish things. One could inquire of several women in this town and find it was so. “Well, then? I will agree to speak to Miss Hargrove and pay her a...foppish compliment or two,” he said, with a flick of his wrist, “in exchange for ninety-two pounds.” He extended his hand, offering to shake on it.

      But Miss Cabot gazed reluctantly at his hand.

      George sighed. “For heaven’s sake, what now?”

      “I will agree on one condition,” she said, holding up a finger.

      “You are in no position to impose conditions—”

      “Agreed,” she said quickly. “Nevertheless...you must allow me to instruct you.”

      It took a moment for those words to sink into George’s brain. “I beg your pardon, but I am most certainly not in need of your instruction,” he said irritably. “You have come to me for 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