The Trouble with Honor by Julia London Page B

appealing.”
    “I don’t need to attend an assembly for that,” he said crisply.
    “What, then, do you think to do it on the street?” Miss Cabot asked gaily. She suddenly took him by the hand. “Come,” she said, and pulled him to the center of the room. “Stand just there, if you please.” She pulled a chair from the hearth and positioned it before him, sat down, and arranged her skirts before gracefully folding her hands in her lap. “All right, then, we are in an assembly room.”
    George stared down at her.
    “Go on,” she said with a charming smile. “Pretend I am Miss Hargrove and you wish to talk to me.” She settled herself once more, then looked away.
    George could not believe he was standing in the Beckington House receiving room, engaged in some foolish courtship game. “This is daft,” he groused.
    “Please,” she said angelically.
    God in heaven. He muttered a curse to himself, pushed a hand through his hair, then bowed. “Good evening, Miss Hargrove.”
    Miss Cabot glanced at him sidelong. “Oh. Mr. Easton,” she said, and nodded politely before looking away again.
    George stood there. This was not the way he would go about turning Monica Hargrove’s head, not at all. In fact, he had never approached a woman in this manner and wondered at those who did. It felt a bit desperate. Is this how the young bucks behaved in the storied drawing rooms of Mayfair?
    Honor looked at him sidelong again. “Sit next to me,” she whispered.
    “Why?” George demanded.
    “You should be at eye level. You look so...” Her gaze swept over him, and if George wasn’t mistaken, she blushed slightly. “Big,” she said. “You look very big, towering over me as you are.”
    George did not see the significance. “I am big.”
    “But that is rather intimidating to an impressionable woman,” she said. “Please, do sit.”
    “Intimidating!” He laughed. “I think there is nothing that will intimidate you, Miss Cabot.”
    “Certainly not! But we are not speaking of me. We are speaking of Miss Hargrove.”
    George couldn’t help his chuckle. “Bloody hell,” he said, and reached for a chair at his elbow and set it next to Miss Cabot. He sat. She looked away. She did not speak. What was he supposed to do, then? He racked his brain for what to say. “The weather is fine,” he said.
    “It is indeed.” Her gaze was not on him. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Easton, but I am wanted across the room.” She abruptly stood and glided away. When he did not follow—was he to chase after her like a puppy, too?—she twirled around and frowned at him.
    “What in the devil is the point of that?” George demanded.
    “The point, Mr. Easton, is that you did not engage me. All I saw was a big man with nothing to say.”
    Her remark struck a nerve in George—it was precisely the thing he feared, that he somehow would never reach the measure the ton put on him. “That’s quite enough,” he said crossly. “I refuse to be part of some elaborate, choreographed courting dance.” He suddenly stood up and strode directly toward her.
    “What are you doing?” she exclaimed.
    George didn’t answer. He stepped around a chair, continued moving toward her. Miss Cabot quickly scrambled out of his path, but found herself caught between a table and the door. She whirled around, pressed herself flat against the door, her eyes widening as he walked up to her and brazenly braced himself with one hand beside her head.
    Miss Cabot blinked big blue eyes up at him. Silly young woman. She had no idea that she roused the beast in a man. “I’ll show you how to attract an impressionable young woman’s attention, Miss Cabot.”
    “Is this how you will do it? Because you are too forward again. This sort of thing requires a bit of finesse.”
    He suddenly smiled and took in her delectable figure once more. “I’ve not even begun to finesse it,” he muttered, and leaned in, his head close to hers, his breath in her hair. “I know