Regency Vows. Kasey Michaels
Rivers, were waiting for George at the Cochran stables. They were accompanied by a sour-faced woman whom George could only assume was their nurse, given that these young ladies were of a tender age, which he found almost laughable for a man who’d just marked his thirty-first year. But the young ladies were giddy and bright eyed on that cool spring afternoon, their cheeks like pairs of apples. “By my oath,” George said, “I cannot determine which of you is the lovelier.”
The girls giggled, and George liked the sound of it; it sounded like spring. He was glad to set out with the little birds onto Rotten Row, their smaller horses trotting alongside his Arabian, who ambled along at a leisurely pace.
George quickly discovered that the young debutantes liked to finish each other’s sentences, which made it difficult for him to follow their conversation. He was calculating how many steps it would take to return the young ladies to the stable—he liked to distract himself with mathematical practices from time to time—when he was startled by a cloud of blue headed directly at him at a reckless speed.
He leaned forward in his saddle, peering at the blue cloud, and realized it was actually a woman riding so fast and hard that he thought perhaps the horse had gone wild with her on his back. He was fully prepared to chase the animal down and save the woman when she pulled up directly before them and smiled broadly. “Good afternoon, Miss Rivers. Miss Rivers,” she said with jaunty breathlessness, and touched her gloved hand to her hat.
George’s companions were so astonished by her approach that they could only gape at her, but George recognized her instantly: Honor Cabot.
She smiled brightly. “Mr. Easton!” she said, as if she’d just noticed him. “A pleasure to see you again, sir!”
“Miss Cabot,” he said, dipping his head. “You gave us a fright.”
“Did I?” She laughed gaily. “I beg your pardon, that was not my intent. I meant only to stretch the old girl’s legs,” she said, and leaned over her horse’s neck, patting her with enthusiasm. “Miss Rivers, how are your parents?” she asked.
“Very well, thank you,” said one of them.
“I’m very glad to hear it. I did not mean to interrupt your ride, and I shall leave you to carry on,” she said. “I do beg your pardon for the fright.”
“Quite all right,” said another of the twins.
“Good day!” Miss Cabot’s smile turned the tiniest bit sultry when she glanced at George. “Mr. Easton,” she said, and let her gaze slide over him as she turned her horse about and moved away. Curiously, George felt that gaze run down his body.
Miss Cabot suddenly reined up and glanced over her shoulder. “Pardon me, but it just occurred to me! Mr. Easton, I understand you will be among those dining at Gunter’s Tea Shop at five o’clock this afternoon with my brother, Lord Sommerfield.”
Sommerfield? Hardly. George did not have much use for soft men who preferred books to sport. He looked at her curiously, wondering how she might have confused it.
“I was wondering if you would be so kind as to pass a message to him? I shan’t see him today due to prior commitments.”
“I had not—”
“If it’s not a bother,” she quickly interjected, “would you please relay to him that I shall come round in the earl’s coach at half past five to fetch him? I would not want to intrude on your meeting.”
He opened his mouth once more to explain that she had confused him with someone who actually took tea in tea shops, but she quickly interjected before he could speak. “Thank you. You won’t forget, will you? Half past five outside Gunter’s Tea Shop. I’ll be in the earl’s coach.”
George had the strange, preposterous idea that Miss Cabot was trying to arrange a meeting with him.
No. Impossible. That was not something that a proper young miss would do. But she’d just done it. What could she possibly want? It was baffling. And damn well intriguing. “I should be delighted to deliver the message,” he said. “Half past five. I’ll not forget.”
She smiled. “Thank you.” She turned about and spurred her horse, riding hard, catching up with other riders down the way.
George happened to glance at Miss Eliza Rivers.
She was staring at him. “Are you acquainted with Miss Cabot?”
“I’ve been introduced,” he said, and left it at that. “Shall we carry on?” He spurred his horse and made a remark about the fine weather.
He hadn’t been introduced, precisely, but he had indeed met her in Southwark, when he’d been charmed to the tips of his toes and played like a harp.
If there was one thing George Easton hated, it was losing.
If there was one thing he hated worse than losing, it was losing to a handsome woman.
If there was one thing he hated even worse than losing to a handsome woman, it was losing to a handsome woman before a bloody audience, and all because he’d preferred to admire her delectable décolletage than his own damn hand.
He couldn’t begin to imagine what Miss Cabot was about today, but he had every intention of being at the tea shop this afternoon. It was a daring move for her to conspire to meet him, alone. Away from prying eyes.
That was not an invitation a man of any stripe would turn down, and George Easton least of all.
HONOR DRESSED CAREFULLY for her meeting with Mr. Easton. It would not do to give him the wrong impression, as she was walking on treacherous ground as it was. She remembered how he’d looked at her in Southwark, his gaze penetrating and boldly moving over her.
She needed something demure. Reserved. She chose white muslin with a high neckline, trimmed in green, and topped it with a dark green spencer. She donned a bonnet with matching trim, and dark green gloves.
Honor studied herself critically in the mirror above her vanity. It would do—no one would suspect she had gone to Gunter’s for anything more than a cup of tea or an ice. Certainly not to meet a gentleman alone, unchaperoned. “Certainly not,” she muttered and smiled at her reflection.
But her smile looked forced. As if her lips knew how dreadful she was behaving.
She dropped a few coins in the beaded reticule Prudence had made her, then made her way downstairs, taking care to avoid any place that Grace might be. She asked the Beckington butler, Mr. Hardy, to bring round the coach. As she stood waiting in the foyer, Augustine walked through the door.
“Honor!” he said, surprised to see her there. “Are you going out?”
“To tea,” she said breezily, hoping she didn’t appear as nervous as she felt. “Shall I see you at supper?”
“Supper? No, no, afraid not.” He handed his hat to Hardy and added proudly, “I’m to dine with Miss Hargrove and her parents this evening.” 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.”