The Trouble with Honor by Julia London Page A

you.” With his finger, he casually caressed her wrist. His eyes seemed almost to dance, and Monica was beginning to appreciate how the man might have earned his notorious reputation of bedding women with ease.
    “I was watching you dance with Rivers,” he said, his gaze sliding to her décolletage. “Admiring your figure.”
    “I saw you,” Monica said.
    He leaned closer, his head next to hers, and whispered, “I found myself rather envious of Sommerfield.”
    “Perhaps you should tell that to Lord Sommerfield.”
    “And have him call me out?”
    Monica couldn’t help but smile at that preposterous notion. A man like Easton had nothing to fear from Augustine when it came to duels or fights, or however men settled challenges between them. Monica was intrigued by Easton’s sudden interest in her...but not fooled by it. She wondered what gain he sought from it. An introduction to someone, perhaps? To Augustine? She looked him squarely in the eye and said, “I cannot help but wonder at your interest in me.”
    He looked surprised by her forthrightness. “I should think a woman as comely as you must have gentlemen admiring you at every turn, Miss Hargrove.”
    He didn’t truly think she would believe him? It was so wildly preposterous given the differences in their stations and circumstances.
    “I had rather hoped you would do me the honor of standing up with me so that I might admire you a bit longer than decorum will allow,” he said, and put out his hand for hers.
    Monica laughed. She had no intention of standing up with him, of starting any sort of rumor. She pressed her cup into his hand. “Thank you, but I should not like to be the subject of any undue speculation. Good evening, Mr. Easton,” she said airily, and walked away.
    She glanced back over her shoulder as she moved away.
    He was watching her, his head down, his smile a bit smug.
    Really, what the devil was he after?

CHAPTER EIGHT
    G EORGE E ASTON LEFT the assembly in the company of a gentleman Honor didn’t recognize. He had not so much as looked in her direction in the short time he was there, but she nevertheless assumed he’d lived up to his end of the agreement.
    She also assumed that if he’d been even a fraction as potent as he had been with her at Beckington House, Monica was properly reduced to a bag of weightless feathers by now. God knew that Honor had been so reduced by him, her heart racing well after he’d gone, that ethereal kiss lingering on her lips for hours afterward. That Monica would be suffering so was something Honor really had to see for herself.
    Honor searched the crowd for Monica, finally spotting her at table in the company of Agatha Williamson and Reginald Beeker.
    She did not look like a weightless bag of feathers.
    She actually looked a little sullen.
    Oh, no. No, it couldn’t possibly be. Honor was marching across the room before she even realized it.
    Monica was so intent on what Mr. Beeker was saying that she did not, at first, notice Honor. “Oh,” she said, clearly surprised to see Honor standing before her. “Good evening.”
    “Good evening,” Honor said brightly. “Miss Williamson, a pleasure to see you again. Mr. Beeker, how do you do?” she asked politely as that gentleman scrambled to his feet.
    “Likewise, I’m sure,” Miss Williamson said.
    No one invited her to sit, but that did not deter Honor. “May I join you?” she asked pleasantly.
    Mr. Beeker eagerly pulled a chair out for her. Honor sat and smiled at Monica.
    “Shall I fetch us some drinks?” Mr. Beeker asked.
    “Would you be so kind?” Honor asked before Monica could speak.
    “You’ll need some help,” Miss Williamson said.
    “Thank you,” Mr. Beeker said, and smiled at Honor before departing with his trusty aide on his quest to bring back four drinks.
    “Well, then? To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, Honor?” Monica asked drily.
    Honor laughed. “Only a desire to greet my old friend.”
    “Mmm,” Monica