The Trouble with Honour. Julia London
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Easton took her by the arm and pulled her back. “How dare I?” he asked, admiring her mouth. He reminded her of a cat with a mouse, determining just how much to play before making the kill. “How dare I ask for recompense for a wretched deed?” He abruptly cupped her breast as if it were the most natural thing to do. Honor caught her breath; he smiled a little and began to massage it. “How dare I ask for a favor in return?” he asked silkily as tiny fires of desire erupted and sluiced down Honor’s spine.
“You ask too much,” she said, and pressed away from him. “How can you call yourself a gentleman?”
“I’ve not called myself anything, love.” He brushed his knuckles across her breast, sending another shaft of fire down her spine, then cupped her face, his thumb stroking her cheek.
Honor’s heart was beating so quickly she wondered how it did not leap from her chest. She understood how he would seduce and claim a woman. She understood why so many women had taken him as a lover. She was drawn to him, to his intense gaze, admiring and ravenous at once. To his touch, unyielding and yet soft. “Allow me to suggest a suitable trade,” she said quickly, before this cat devoured its prey. “I will pay you,” she said, alarmed that her voice shook ever so slightly. “There is the one hundred pounds I won from your purse. I could return that in exchange for your help.”
“You would return one hundred pounds, fairly won, for this?” he asked silkily, and flicked his finger across the tip of her breast.
“Actually,” she said, her gaze on his mouth, “I would return ninety-two pounds.” She did not think it necessary to tell him that she’d bought a bonnet, some shoes and some underthings with the money.
“Enticing. But money is not what I have in mind.” He slipped his hand to her nape and pulled her closer. “I have in mind something just for you.” He put his mouth to her ear and said low, “Something that will make your timid heart shatter and bring a glow to your fair cheeks.” His hand was in her lap, his palm pressing against her abdomen. “Do you know what will bring a glow to a woman’s cheek, Miss Cabot?”
She tried to turn her head, but she couldn’t seem to force herself to do it. “I am not a girl, Mr. Easton.”
“Aren’t you?” he whispered, and drew her earlobe in between a pair of soft, moist lips, nibbling it.
Dear Lord, she would expire. She closed her eyes, taking in his scent—spicy and warm—the feel of his hands on her. She could imagine his hands on all of her, and feared that her heart would give in, and she would die here on this bench. And yet, somehow, she managed to keep calm. “I can offer you ninety-two pounds, nothing else. There is nothing else I will trade, sir.”
He shifted closer, his lips against her cheek now, and Honor thought he intended to kiss her. Her mind screamed for her to bang on the ceiling to cry out to Jonas to save her. But another, wanton part of her was whispering kiss me. Kiss me, kiss me....
He slid his hand up her rib cage, to the side of her breast. “I will think on your ninety-two pounds,” he murmured, his breath warm and moist on her skin, tantalizing her almost to the point of madness.
“You mean to do it,” she said softly, surprised, and opened her eyes. “You will grant me this favor.”
“Now you are reprehensible and presumptuous. I haven’t said I would.”
“But I can see that you will,” she said, and twisted about to face him, beaming. “Thank you, Mr. Easton!”
He wrapped his fingers around hers.
“Call on me tomorrow, at Beckington House, please. I can explain more openly there.”
“I cannot, for the life of me, imagine how much more open you could possibly be, Miss Cabot.”
“I knew you would agree,” she said, suddenly full of delight.
“I have not agreed to anything.”
“I shall be waiting for you at half past two. The girls will be at their studies and Augustine at his club. Thank you, sir,” she said again, her voice full of the gratitude she felt. “I am in your debt.” She moved to knock on the ceiling to signal Jonas that this ride was over.
Only then did she realize that Mr. Easton was still holding her hand.
HONOR RETURNED TO Beckington House breathless from her dangerous rendezvous, her heart still beating wildly, and floated into the foyer where she found Prudence and Mercy quarreling loudly.
“Honor!” Prudence cried the moment she saw her older sister. “Please do tell Mercy she is to return my slippers at once!”
“Mercy, please return Pru’s slippers at once,” Honor said without looking at Mercy’s feet.
“But why must she have them always?” Mercy countered. “I can’t see what harm there is in borrowing them on occasion.”
“You don’t see the harm?” Prudence demanded. “Honor, you really must do something. She’s completely without scruples! If you don’t insist she hand them over, I shall remove them from her feet myself!”
“Mercy, really,” Honor said absently as she untied her bonnet, her fingers running over the same velvet fabric Easton’s fingers had stroked. The fingers that had stroked the skin of her arm, her face; she shivered lightly at the recollection. “They belong to Pru, and you have a wardrobe full of slippers.”
“What’s this about slippers?” The girls’ mother, Joan Devereaux, Lady Beckington, appeared from the corridor. “There will be no forceful removing of slippers, my dears.” Her blue eyes were bright; there was no sign of the distant fog Honor noticed in her mother’s eyes when she wasn’t entirely present. Joan Devereaux was a regal woman, the epitome of elegance and grace, and had once been considered one of the more handsome women of the ton. She smiled warmly at her daughters, looking between them. “What are you girls about?”
“Only the usual sort of thing, Mamma,” Prudence said imperiously, and began striding for the grand staircase. “Mercy has a wretched habit of borrowing things without permission, and with no consequence!”
“That’s a bit dramatic, my darling Pru,” Lady Beckington said as she watched her daughter flounce up the stairs.
“Of course you would say that—you’re not the injured party!” Prudence tossed over her shoulder, and disappeared into the corridor at the top of the stairs.
Lady Beckington sighed and looked askance at her youngest daughter. “Mercy, darling, you really must learn to ask to borrow things instead of taking them. I suggest you go and apologize to your sister and return the slippers. Now go and dress for supper.”
“But we’ve only just had tea,” Mercy complained.
“Go on, darling,” her mother said, giving her a gentle push in the direction of the stairs. To Honor, she offered her arm, which Honor was happy to take. She let the ribbons of her bonnet flutter behind them as they walked. She noticed that the embroidery on her mother’s sleeve was damaged—the threading was coming loose. “What’s happened here?” she asked, bending over it to have a look.
“What?” Her mother scarcely glanced down at her sleeve. “Never mind it. Where have you been this afternoon?” she asked as they began to make their ascent.
“Nowhere, really.” She gave her mother a sheepish smile.
“I know you better than that, Honor. I would guess that your absence from tea involved a gentleman.”
Honor could feel herself flush. “Mamma—”
“You don’t have to tell me,” she said, squeezing her hand fondly. “But your poor mother hopes that you are at least considering the idea that