Regency Vows: A Gentleman 'Til Midnight / The Trouble with Honour / An Improper Arrangement / A Wedding By Dawn / The Devil Takes a Bride / A Promise by Daylight

Lustful thoughts gave way to terror. George knew of the Garfield Assembly; everyone in London knew of it. The haut ton in its entirety would attend. All his life, the world of the ton had been held out to him as the ideal, as the world in which he would never be welcomed. He was well aware that were it not for his wealth, he would not be tolerated at all. He feared that if he lost his wealth—which, arguably, he was on the verge of losing—he’d be shunned as a pariah. Nothing was more loathsome than someone who had tried to become one of them and had failed.

George had been treated all his life as if he were deficient, that he was less than mere mortals because his father had not claimed him. His father’s refusal had become George’s burden of shame to shoulder. He had trained himself to keep his heart at arm’s length from anyone, to maintain an emotional distance. He fancied himself like the magnificent show horses of the royal cavalry he’d brushed when he was a child. Like them, he was proud and high-stepping, his movements precise, his looks enviable. But he never looked right or left, never wanted anything that wasn’t in his prescribed path. He kept trotting forward, his steps high, his head held higher.

George had known his share of bruising disappointments, and yet he did not think himself a bitter man—quite the contrary, he thought himself generally a happy one. But then again, he took great pains to avoid venues like the Garfield Assembly.

“No,” he said instantly.

“Mr. Easton! What better opportunity?” Miss Cabot asked, her eyes shining with the victory of his giving in to her. Again.

“I think I was quite clear at our first meeting. I will not frequent assembly rooms.”

“But I can facilitate your entry—”

“Pardon, you can what? I do not need you to facilitate anything on my behalf, Miss Cabot. It may astonish you to know that there are some such as myself who simply don’t care to spend an evening surrounded by vapid, simpering debutantes!”

Miss Cabot’s smile only deepened with happy skepticism, and the drum began to beat again. “You surely do not think me so naive as that, sir,” she said pertly. “You do not want to attend the assembly because you can’t gain entry without proper invitation. But I can get you that invitation. And you must agree it is the perfect opportunity. Augustine will not be in attendance, and you need only speak with Miss Hargrove to put the suggestion in her head that you find her 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 precisely what needs to be done,” he added softly, and turned his head so that his lips brushed her temple. “You need not fret.”

“Then, for God’s sake, do not mention the weather,” she said low.

He was of a mind to take her in hand now, to show her how a man enticed a woman. But he kept his desire in check; he was a man who enjoyed the pleasures of a woman’s flesh, of giving her pleasure, yes—but he was not a man to dally with a young woman with no more experience than a goat. “To hell with the weather. I shall mention the ivory of her skin,” he said, brushing his lips against her cheek. “The scent of her hair,” he added, touching his nose to her hair. “And then I will quietly mention the desire that wells in a man when he is graced with her smile.”

Miss Cabot did not move. The color bloomed in her cheeks, and she drew another, deeper breath before slowly releasing it and saying, “That would do for a start, I should think.”

He heard the slight tremor in her voice and smiled to himself as he shifted closer, his hand finding her waist. “You want me to turn Miss Hargrove’s head, love? Not only will I turn it,” he said smoothly as he caressed her side, his hand sliding down her hip, squeezing the flesh of it as he pressed against her body, “I will make her want to open her legs like a flower.”

Miss Cabot sucked in a sharp breath, her chest rising with it. “No,” she whispered.

“No? I won’t put my cock in her, if that’s what you fear. In spite of what you think you know, I am a discerning man.” He pressed his erection against her hip. “I only put my cock where it is most appreciated.” He kissed her temple, feeling the frantic flutter of her pulse beneath his lips. “I plow only fields of pure spun gold,” he muttered, and put his mouth against her neck, sucking lightly, his tongue on her skin as he ran his hand up her side to her breast, filling his palm with it, kneading it.

“No self-respecting gentleman would put his hand on a woman,” Miss Cabot said breathlessly, her eyes fluttering shut as she bent her neck to give him better access.

He almost laughed as he moved to her ear, nibbling at her lobe. “No. But you did not come to me because I am a self-respecting gentleman, Miss Cabot. Now hush,” he said, and slid his hand around to her hands, which she held clasped tightly at her back, and pulled one free of its grip of the other. He lifted that hand to his mouth. Miss Cabot’s lips parted slightly; her eyes fixed on his face. George turned her hand over and licked the inside of her wrist before kissing it. Her skin was warm and fragrant, and smooth as butter against his tongue. It was dangerously provocative, and he could feel his own heart beginning to race with want. He slipped one hand beneath her chin, tilting her head back. Her eyes were as wide as saucers, her lips slightly parted. He was out of his mind to go any further, but George couldn’t help himself; he lowered his head, touched his mouth softly to hers, lingering there, his tongue teasing her lips, one hand boldly caressing her breast, squeezing it, then sliding down to her hip, squeezing it, too. When he felt her begin to soften, felt the familiar curve of a woman’s body into his, felt himself grow harder, he lifted his head and said, “Perhaps you will do me the honor of saving me a dance, Miss Hargrove?”

Miss Cabot nodded. “Yes.” Her voice was a bit shaky, and she quickly cleared her throat. She said again, more firmly, “Yes. Thank you.”

Satisfied with the knowledge that he’d succeeded in showing her a small step in the dance of seduction, he stepped back, putting a respectable distance between them.

Miss Cabot did not move. She stared at him, her gaze sliding down to the protrusion of his desire in his trousers.

Unabashed, George cocked a brow. His response was as natural as breathing, and if she had not seen a man’s desire, more was the pity. “Well, then?” he asked her.

“I think,” she said, nervously touching the strand of pearls at her throat, “I think that will do.” She continued to stare at him, her eyes locked on his mouth, and it stirred dangerously deep and devilish in him. He needed to leave. Now. Before he did something that he regretted. “Then we are agreed, Miss Cabot. Now then. When is this assembly?”

“Friday,” she said. “Half past eight.”

He nodded, picked up his hat and fit it on his head. “Then I shall make a point of attending.”