The Trouble with Honor by Julia London

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