The Trouble with Honour. Julia London

He glanced back at Hardy and whispered loudly, “Shall I tell you a secret?”

      “Why, yes! I adore secrets.”

      Augustine yanked at his waistcoat where it had inched up over his belly. His brown eyes were shining, his smile irrepressible. “I’ve not told anyone, but Papa agrees with me that Miss Hargrove and I should marry this spring.”

      Honor’s heart hitched. She’d believed there would be no possibility for Augustine’s marriage to occur before the earl’s death. “This spring?”

      “Yes, isn’t it marvelous? When I explained to Papa that Miss Hargrove is anxious to be wed—and so am I, naturally—Papa reasoned that he could very well linger for months, and that there was no point in putting it off indefinitely. I rather think he’d like to see me wed before...the, ah...inevitable.”

      Honor tried to hide her shock behind a bright, happy smile.

      “I should very much like to announce a date at our annual affair at Longmeadow,” he added happily.

      The Beckingtons hosted a country-house gathering at the earl’s seat of Longmeadow before the opening of Parliament each year. The stately Georgian home had thirty guest rooms, and at least one hundred guests attended every spring.

      “What better time and place?” Augustine happily continued.

      “What better?” Honor echoed, her mind suddenly whirling. The Longmeadow soiree was a mere three weeks away.

      “Monica is a bit anxious. I have counseled her she should not fret so, that my sisters have always been quite welcoming.” He looked pointedly at Honor.

      “Particularly to dear friends, I should like to think,” Honor said. And she would like to think that precluded Monica, but there was no need to confuse the issue at the moment.

      Augustine glanced slyly at Hardy, then leaned closer to Honor and whispered, “I think she feels as if the four of you might all see her as an intrusion into our happy family. I assured her nothing could be further from the truth. She was eased when I said so and reminded me that in any event, you will all have husbands of your own soon enough.” Augustine smiled indulgently at Honor. “I should not like to speak out of turn, but I believe she would take great pleasure in helping those happy events along in some way.”

      “I have no doubt of it,” Honor said sincerely.

      “You should think of it, Honor. One cannot live under one’s father’s wing forever, as I am discovering myself.”

      “No, of course not.” Monica was already beginning to sow her seeds, was she? Honor was now determined more than ever to intervene before it was too late. “What a happy occasion,” she said to Augustine. “You must impress on our friend that she will not be intruding in the least,” she said, tapping Augustine’s chest with each word for emphasis.

      The door opened; a footman stepped in. “Ah, there is your coach,” Augustine said happily. “I shall give Miss Hargrove your felicitations, shall I?”

      “You must,” Honor insisted, and pictured herself with her hands around Monica’s neck.

      “Good day, sister,” he said jovially.

      “Good day, Augustine.” Honor watched him toddle off, whistling as he went. She turned to the door. Hardy was waiting, holding it open for her. “Lord help us all, Hardy,” she said as she swept past him.

      “Indeed, miss.”

      * * *

      HONOR SAW MR. EASTON the moment the coach turned onto Berkeley Square. How could she miss him? His was an imposing figure. He was leaning up against a railing, one leg crossed over the other, his arms folded loosely across him, watching people stroll across the square. That night in Southwark she’d been properly titillated by his comely face and virile presence. She now understood why he was rumored to be London’s greatest rake, his affairs numerous. His looks stirred something deep inside her.

      Honor pulled open the vent to the driver. “Jonas, please stop at Gunter’s and open the door to the gentleman in the black coat and gold waistcoat,” she called up.

      The coach turned the corner and began to slow. Honor nervously adjusted her bonnet. She had only to think of Monica and an imminent wedding to find her resolve.

      A moment later, she heard Jonas’s deep voice. The coach door swung open, and Mr. Easton, still perched against the railing, leaned to his right and looked inside. Honor smiled. “Good afternoon!”

      He pushed away from the railing and came to his full height. He was quite tall, wasn’t he? With his muscular legs and broad shoulders he looked too big to fit into the coach. He strolled toward it now, his expression inscrutable. Just like that evening in Southwark, he had an uncanny way of looking at her that made Honor feel as if he was seeing right through her, seeing her cards, even the thoughts in her head. She’d felt fluttery that night, as if a thousand butterflies had nested within her chest.

      She was feeling fluttery again.

      He paused just outside the open coach door, arched a brow and said, “Your stepbrother must be dining elsewhere.”

      Honor swallowed down her nerves. “Won’t you come inside, Mr. Easton?”

      He cocked his head to one side, assessing her, his gaze nonchalantly taking her in, from her bonnet to the hem of her gown. The slightest shadow of a smile turned up one corner of his mouth. He reached for the coach handle and easily came inside, swaying the coach as he settled heavily across from her and the door swung shut behind him.

      Honor had guessed right—he was too big for the coach. His knees framed both of hers, and his body very nearly filled the bench. He sat casually, one arm stretched across the back of the squabs. He reminded her of a wolf, calmly watching a hare hop across the path.

      He inclined his head. “Miss Cabot.”

      “Mr. Easton, how do you do?” She rapped on the ceiling and called up, “A drive around the park, please, Mr. Jonas.” She closed the vent and smiled at her guest. “Thank you for coming.”

      “How could I possibly resist such an unusual invitation?” His voice was smooth and low, and it sent another little shiver winging through her, fluttering in her chest, in her groin.

      The coach took an unexpected turn; Mr. Easton’s knee bumped her leg. He said nothing, but he smiled as if that amused him, too. “Well, Miss Cabot?” he asked. “What has brought on this unprecedented ride about the park in a Beckington coach? Do you desire to seduce me? If so, I am favorably inclined. His gaze slid down to her well-covered bosom. “I find seduction one of the greatest pleasures in life.”

      Honor had the strongest urge to look down and assure herself that her spencer was properly buttoned.

      Easton lifted his gaze. “Well? I am filled with curiosity.”

      Her palms were suddenly damp, her heart fluttering still, making it feel impossible to speak. But speak she must, for here it was, the moment of her greatest folly. “I am in need of a favor, Mr. Easton.”

      One brow arched above the other.

      “Of you.... That is, if you would be so kind.” She smiled.

      Mr. Easton’s gaze flicked over her again, lingering a little longer on her chest. “Do you believe we are so well acquainted that you might ask a favor?” He touched her foot with his boot.

      “I...” She hesitated.

      Now he smiled, as if he had the upper hand, as if there was no possible answer to that but no.

      He was certainly right about that—there was no possible answer to that beyond no. But it was his faintly smug expression that gave Honor the swell of pluck that she needed. “One might agree that one hundred of your pounds suggests I do, sir.”

      Mr. Easton very nearly choked on his smile. His eyes, Honor noticed, were an amazing shade of blue,