Regency Vows. Kasey MichaelsЧитать онлайн книгу.

       CHAPTER SIX

      IT TOOK QUITE a lot to astonish George, but Honor Cabot had done just that. From her bold invitation to meet, to her ridiculous, preposterous, cake-headed suggestion, George could not have been more astonished than if the king were to recognize him as his legitimate nephew.

      Yesterday, he’d left Berkeley Square stewing in his own juices, aroused as he always was by prettiness, and as disgusted with Miss Cabot as he was with himself for somehow softening to her charm again. He couldn’t fathom what it was about this debutante that could so keenly capture him with a smile, but he’d been determined to never see her again. She was trouble. In fact, he’d even been of half a mind to ride directly to Beckington House and explain to the dimwitted Sommerfield exactly what his stepsister was about. She deserved no less.

      But George hadn’t gone to Beckington House. He’d gone home, riding hard from a pair of dark-lashed blue eyes shimmering in his mind’s eye.

      Bloody, bloody hell.

      Still, he thought that after a good night’s sleep, that would be the end of it, that he’d not give as much as a passing thought to the young woman again. He’d gone out last night as was his custom, had dined with several gentlemen at the Coventry House Club. But he’d had no interest in cards or prattling, and had returned home before midnight.

      Finnegan had not said a word when George had stalked into his house far earlier than was his custom. He’d merely arched one dark brow high above the other as he’d taken George’s hat. “Don’t look so smug,” George had snapped as he’d strode past.

      George had gone to bed quite early, but then had tossed and turned. He’d finally settled on his back, one arm draped above his head, the other on his bare abdomen, and had glared at the canopy above him, his jaw clenched, mulling over that absurd meeting.

      Honor Cabot’s suggestion was the most fatuous thing he’d ever heard in his life. Furthermore, it was the very thing that made him cringe when he saw squads of young debutantes milling about Mayfair—silly girls in pretty colors playing silly courtship games.

      But worse, the game Honor Cabot played was harmful.

      The problem, George had mused, was that he was the sort of man who was intrigued by dangerous women. He had no illusions—Honor Cabot was a dangerous woman by nature, and she was made all the more dangerous because of her beauty and her incandescent smile. Regrettably, cunning and beauty were his primary weaknesses when it came to women.

      Why was it, he’d wondered in the dark, that he could not be the sort of man who was pleased with a woman of virtue? The sort of chaste woman who would make him a fine wife and bear him beautiful children, someone who would make him attend church services on Sunday and give alms to the poor and dutifully open her legs to him? He supposed that one day, he would settle on a woman for that reason, for her goodness and purity, and he would have his slippers and his spectacles, and he would while away his evenings with a book while his wife attended her needlework.

      Someday.

      But he had no patience for it now, not with a ship late to port and buyers awaiting his cotton.

      So how was it, then, that George found himself the next afternoon at half past two at Grosvenor Square, staring up at the impressive Beckington House with its row of windows that looked black in the afternoon sun? Utter, indefensible folly.

      No one answered straightaway when George rapped three times, and he had all but turned about, prepared to make his escape when the door suddenly swung open and a man with thinning hair stood imperiously before him.

      George fished a calling card from his interior coat pocket. “Mr. Easton for Miss Honor Cabot, if you please.”

      The man nodded and disappeared for a moment, reappearing again with a silver tray, which he held out to George. When George had deposited the card onto the tray, the door opened wider. The man stepped aside and inclined his head, indicating George should step inside, which he did. Just over the threshold. He tentatively removed his hat.

      “If you will kindly wait here, Mr. Easton, I shall inform Miss Cabot that you have called,” the butler said, and marched briskly away, the silver tray held high.

      George looked up at the soaring entry and the elaborate chandelier hanging high above him. There were paintings on the walls, portraits of people, of landscapes. The marble floor was polished to a sheen, and gold candelabras with new beeswax candles stood in neat rows on a table nearby.

      He heard the butler again before he saw him, his brisk walk echoing down the corridor he’d disappeared into. The man bowed. “If you will allow me to show you to a receiving room, sir,” he said, and carefully put aside the silver tray—empty now—and moved in the opposite direction from where he’d come, walking into the west corridor.

      George followed. They moved down a carpeted hallway past polished wood doors and wall sconces and more beeswax candles. George was reminded of how pleased his mother had been when she could afford to buy one or two beeswax candles and rid their rooms of the smell of tallow for a time.

      The butler entered the last room on the right. He opened the pair of doors wide, pushed them back and nudged a doorstop into place with his foot. He strode across the small room to the windows, opened the drapes, tied them back then faced George. “Is the comfort in the room to your liking, sir, or shall I send a footman to light a fire?”

      “That won’t be necessary,” George said stiffly. “I do not intend to be long.”

      “Very well, sir. If you require any assistance at all, the bellpull is just there,” the butler said, nodding toward a thick velvet braid of rope near the door. “Miss Cabot will join you shortly.” He quit the room.

      George put his hat aside and examined a painting on the wall as he waited, staring up at the puffy face of a Beckington forefather. He always looked at the portraits in homes like these, looking for any similarity to himself, any hint that he might somehow be related. This man looked nothing like the late Gloucester, except perhaps for the slightly aquiline shape of his nose. George was so intent on that feature that he did not hear the advance of Miss Cabot until she swept into the room on a cloud of pale yellow, her train swirling out behind her as she twirled around to peek out the corridor and then draw the doors quietly closed.

      She twirled back around, her smile luminescent, her hands clasped just below her breast, reminiscent of a choirboy preparing to sing. But all similarity to anything remotely angelic ended abruptly when he noticed that the gown she was wearing did not conceal her up to her chin like the one she’d worn yesterday. This gown was cut fashionably low, and creamy mounds of her breast appeared to almost burst from her bodice...a mishap George would delight in seeing.

      She was oblivious to his fascination with her décolletage. “You came,” she said breathlessly.

      Bloody fool that he was, yes. George inclined his head in acknowledgment of that.

      “I scarcely believe it! I was so certain you’d not come, and I had no good idea of what I might do if you didn’t. But here you are!” she exclaimed, casting her