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 of what she was saying altogether.
“With Beckington on his deathbed, you fear that a new countess will not look kindly to keeping four stepsisters as they should like to be kept.”
Honor gasped—how had he divined that?
“And therefore, you wish to keep Sommerfield from marrying Miss Hargrove so that you might continue to live as you please. And that, Miss Cabot, weighs more than a bit on the side of reprehensible.” He squeezed her knee once more as if to punctuate it, then leaned back, both arms now spread along the back of the squabs, looking as if he thought himself vastly superior to her. He cocked a brow, silently daring her to disagree with him.
Honor could hardly disagree with him, but she would not be chastised by him, either. Who the devil did this man think he was? She suddenly leaned forward and put her hand on his knee—but her fingers scarcely reached the breadth of it. She tried to squeeze, but his knee was as hard as stone. “And what if that is my intent? What possible difference should that make to you? ”
He laughed with delight. “By God, you are bold! You admit it is true!”
“I understand how these things work, Mr. Easton. I am not some debutante freshly picked from the
“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 of what she was saying altogether.
“With Beckington on his deathbed, you fear that a new countess will not look kindly to keeping four stepsisters as they should like to be kept.”
Honor gasped—how had he divined that?
“And therefore, you wish to keep Sommerfield from marrying Miss Hargrove so that you might continue to live as you please. And that, Miss Cabot, weighs more than a bit on the side of reprehensible.” He squeezed her knee once more as if to punctuate it, then leaned back, both arms now spread along the back of the squabs, looking as if he thought himself vastly superior to her. He cocked a brow, silently daring her to disagree with him.
Honor could hardly disagree with him, but she would not be chastised by him, either. Who the devil did this man think he was? She suddenly leaned forward and put her hand on his knee—but her fingers scarcely reached the breadth of it. She tried to squeeze, but his knee was as hard as stone. “And what if that is my intent? What possible difference should that make to you? ”
He laughed with delight. “By God, you are bold! You admit it is true!”
“I understand how these things work, Mr. Easton. I am not some debutante freshly picked from the
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