Читать книгу A Daring Liaison - Gail Ranstrom - Страница 7

Georgiana looked down at the darkened city street outside her window. There were a few trees in the small square across the way, two or three benches and a grassy patch for children to play. A little piece of the country in London. The thought made her a bit melancholy. She’d lived most her life in Kent, shut away with her guardian. Lady Caroline’s tragic disfigurement had isolated her from the world but for her brief and successful husband-hunting forays for Georgiana. But she could not regret those quiet, idyllic days. In fact, she yearned for them. A life in the countryside free of the controversy and scandal of her circumstances seemed the most desirable of all goals. The moment she could conclude her business, she’d hasten back to Kent and retire there.

London was too unsettling. Too demanding. Too dangerous.

She leaned against the window casement and pulled the lace curtain aside to watch the flicker of the lamppost below and try to organize her mind for the days ahead. But all that came to her was Charles Hunter. Her first love. Her greatest shame.

She’d met him years ago, in her come-out season, and she’d thought him terribly handsome and quite amusing. She’d made the mistake of allowing him to kiss her in a garden one summer night, and that had been her undoing. That kiss had been deeply stirring and had led to more than she intended.

Upon their reintroduction this afternoon, she’d confirmed he was quite the best-looking man she’d ever met. But now there was nothing of his youthful openness left. He was still tall and dark, like his brothers, and he had the same startling violet eyes as his sister, but he seemed more guarded, more … dangerous. What had happened to him during the intervening years?

Back then, he’d been her favorite, and she’d thought she was his. But after that kiss he’d turned moody and began to avoid her. She wondered if she’d done something wrong, commited some gaucherie, or somehow offended him. When she’d complained, Aunt Caroline informed her that some men were fickle, and lost interest when a woman came too easily. Charles Hunter, she was told, was a rake—the sort who liked the chase more than the capture. Had the kiss been his capture? Humiliated, she’d begun to avoid him, too.

Now? Well, he was Lady Sarah’s brother, and she would likely be encountering him on occasion. But she was seven years older and wiser. She could hold her own with a man like Mr. Hunter. His subtle challenge and the ever-so-slight insult this afternoon aside, she could be as polite as he. Yes, warm and polite on the surface, cool and distant beneath—that was the way to deal with a man of his mettle. Surely ignoring his little barbs would be easy for her now that she had some measure of sophistication and experience.

The mantel clock struck the hour of eleven just as a knock sounded on her door. Sanders, her footman, entered carrying a small silver tray bearing two letters. “Mr. Hathaway said these came for you a bit ago, madam. I think one is from that solicitor fellow.”

Her solicitor? Oh, pray he had found time for her in his schedule. “Why did he not bring it to me when it arrived?”

“Mr. Hathaway was on his way out to fetch blacking for the stove and andirons, madam. He left them in the foyer and Clara told me to bring them up.” Sanders placed the little tray on her night table.

Blacking? Where would her butler find blacking so late at night? Georgiana sighed as she realized her household had become used to functioning by itself during her mourning. It might take her a while to get matters back in hand.

Sanders added wood to the fireplace and turned to Georgiana. “Will that be all for tonight, madam?”

“Yes, thank you. Please send Clara up.”

He gave a crisp bow before leaving her alone in her room. She looked around and sighed. In London three days, and they’d just managed to settle in. She hadn’t thought to send servants ahead to prepare for her arrival. Aunt Caroline had always tended to such matters. The house had needed airing, the linens washing, the furniture dusting and the floors polishing. But now she was ready for her stay, no matter how long. The only room they hadn’t opened was Aunt Caroline’s. She was not quite ready for that yet.

How odd, she thought as she turned to the four-poster bed and removed her apron. She and Aunt Caroline had talked endlessly about everything in the world, but they’d never talked about this—about the small details of her aunt’s final wishes.

The threat of tears burned the backs of her eyes and she blinked rapidly to hold them at bay—she had promised herself that she was done with them. She’d cried oceans of tears in the past seven years, but her deepest sorrow was for Aunt Caroline.

She removed her lace cap, tossed it on her dressing table and pulled the pins from her tidy bun. The weight of her hair tumbled down her back and she ran her fingers through it to remove any remaining hairpins as her maid bustled in.

“Ready for bed, madam?”

“Yes, Clara. I think we are all exhausted. Please tell everyone to sleep late.”

The plump woman smiled. “Aye, madam. Won’t have to tell them twice, I vow.”

Georgiana laughed. Sleeping late was a treat Aunt Caroline had always offered after an unusually long day of work. “If you will just help me with my stays, I shall do the rest myself.” She undid her tapes, lifted her work dress over her head and turned her back to the maid.

Clara went to work loosening the laces of her corset until it fell away, leaving Georgiana only in her chemise. “Aye, madam. I think we’re all settled in, like. Everyone is excited to be back in town. Why, even Mr. Hathaway has a spring in his step.”

Her staid butler? Imagining Hathaway excited about anything was nearly impossible.

“Cook and me think he has a sweetheart.” Clara giggled. “He was sad to leave last fall and he perked up the minute we got here.”

And now he was going out at night to buy blacking. Georgiana smiled. She wondered if she’d have to hire a new upstairs maid soon. She hoped Hathaway’s sweetheart was not a cook, because Mrs. Brady was truly gifted in the kitchen.

Clara picked up the brush but Georgiana took it from her and sat at the dressing table. “Go on to bed, Clara. I’ll finish up. And mind you, lie abed in the morning.”

Clara bobbed a curtsy and practically ran for the door before Georgiana could retract the offer. She began to pull her brush through her hair and then set it aside to open her little jewelry case.

Silly to look again, she knew. It hadn’t been there yesterday and wouldn’t have magically appeared today. But she’d have sworn she’d left the little opal ring here last fall. Aunt Caroline had given it to her on her sixteenth birthday and it was precious to her. Even more precious now that Auntie was gone.

She closed her jewelry case with a sigh and turned to the letters on her tray. She broke the unfamiliar seal on the first one—not from her solicitor but from Grace Hawthorne. She and her husband, a diplomat, were hosting a reception for the American ambassador tomorrow evening and requested her attendance—a very proper and sedate way to reenter society after her most recent mourning. She would send her acceptance in the morning.

The next letter was, indeed, from her solicitor. He would see her Friday morning and hinted that he had news for her. Whatever it was, she could not be surprised. She and her aunt had shared every detail of their lives. Well, every detail but for those in her will.

Georgiana went to her escritoire and opened her appointment book. She scratched the Hawthorne reception tomorrow night and her appointment with the solicitor the day after into the book, then blew the candles out, dimming the bedroom to the indistinct glow of the fireplace.

After she shed her chemise and donned her nightgown, she went back to her window to open it to the soft breeze. A movement in the shadows across the street set her heart to racing. The overwhelming sensation of being watched sent a shiver though her and she rubbed her arms to banish the sudden gooseflesh that rose there. Someone walking over her grave, her aunt used to say. The edge of the curtain drifted back into place as she backed away from the window. Had it been her imagination or a foreshadowing of things to come?

Charles shifted in the darkness. He hadn’t meant to let the sight of Mrs. Huffington in the window draw him closer to the light, but he’d forgotten himself in his study of her. She was so bloody beautiful that he could well understand men getting lost in those soulful green eyes and proposing in the face of almost certain death.

But was she a victim or a villainess? That was the question Wycliffe wanted answered. And he needed to know if she’d been the cause of Adam Booth’s death and his wound. He rubbed his shoulder absently, the muscles still stiff from the injury.

Georgiana Huffington’s entire future depended upon what he uncovered. And, as heart-stopping as she was, he could not afford to allow his baser instincts to interfere. He’d never compromised an assignment before, and he wouldn’t start now. Seduce her, perhaps, but be drawn in by her supposed innocence? Never. He knew better.

Ah, but anticipation of tomorrow night at the Hawthorne reception made him smile to himself. Mrs. Huffington’s dismay should be quite amusing when she realized he would not be so easy to avoid as he’d been years ago.

A cold shiver worked its way up his spine. Someone walking over his grave? He glanced around and strained to hear any sound, no matter how faint. Damn Gibbons and his cutthroats. Charles hadn’t been able to relax for months, but this was different. His every instinct warned him danger was in the wind. Breathlessly, he waited. Moments passed before he breathed again. A falling leaf? A stray cat?

Only stillness. And oppressive atmosphere.

He turned away, grateful that Thackery’s was nearby. He’d find his friends and indulge in a bit of gaming. Perhaps a bit of female companionship.

Charles paid his respects to Adam Hawthorne and his honored guest, the American Ambassador Richard Rush, and moved away. The press of guests at his back waiting for introductions relieved him of the responsibility of making polite conversation.

He was pleased to find there was an orchestra. Dances, he had found, were quite convenient to get a lady alone for a private word. All he needed was the lady. He waited in the foyer to watch the wide entry door. Sooner or later, Mrs. Georgiana Huffington would come through it, and the game would begin.

Charles’s anticipation rose with each passing moment. The memory of her standing in the window in a nearly transparent nightgown, her hair falling around her in a golden aura, was enough to keep him standing there for hours. How would that glorious mass feel slipping between his fingers? What lay beneath that alluring nightgown he’d glimpsed? Did she still kiss like a wild angel?

He straightened as his sister and Mrs. Huffington came through the door, followed by his brother-in-law, Lord Ethan Travis. He hovered until they had been presented to the ambassador and then followed them into the music room.

Mrs. Huffington was elegant in a soft gray satin that draped to reveal her excellent figure. Rather than drab, as it might have been on any other woman, the sheen of soft gray became her, nicely setting off her delicate coloring and hair. Was the gown a remnant from her previous half mourning? Her hair had been contained in a graceful coronet from which a few curls were left to dangle and caress her long, graceful neck.

For one prurient moment he found himself wondering if the hollow of her throat was still soft and sweet, if he would be able to feel her heartbeat there, quickening against his lips. Did her passions run hotter now that she was an experienced woman? How fierce would she be in making love?

Sarah noticed his approach and smiled a welcome. “Ah, I thought you’d be here, Charles. With your imminent appointment to the Foreign Office, you could scarce afford to miss this event. The American ambassador—perhaps you will be sent to America.”

His imminent appointment? Now, why hadn’t he heard this? Another of Wycliffe’s ploys to convince him to investigate the Widow of Kent? He forced a smile and bowed. “Dear sister. Mrs. Huffington.” He greeted the ladies. “I trust you are well?”

Sarah turned to Mrs. Huffington, deferring to her for an answer.

“Very well, thank you,” she said. Her full lips curved in a smile both wise and innocent.

Charles knew when a woman was attracted to him, and knew by her smile that she recognized the attraction was still mutual. The question was what she would do with that knowledge. Time to test the waters.

“Have you taken care of your business in town, Mrs. Huffington?”

“I’ve done no more than make appointments, sir. I think all of London must be waiting on someone or other.”

He laughed at her assessment. “Then you will be with us for a while yet?”

“So it would seem.”

“And I am doing my best to keep her diverted,” Sarah said. “I am taking her to my modiste tomorrow.”

Ethan slipped his hand into Sarah’s, an endearing gesture that belied their four years of marriage. “Her favorite establishment,” he explained. “Though I always suspect there is some manner of mischief afoot there.”

Sarah nudged him. “Tease! The only mischief is to your accounts. Marie is simply the best dressmaker ever. One has not truly arrived in London until one has had a gown fashioned by Madame Marie. Her judgment is unerring.”

Ethan read Charles’s expression, smiled and edged a knowing glance toward Mrs. Huffington. “Have you seen the Hawthorne gardens, Mrs. Huffington? The topiary is extraordinary.”

“I’ve not had that pleasure, Lord Ethan.”

Taking the cue, Charles offered his arm. “Allow me to show you the grounds, Mrs. Huffington.”

She hesitated, then blinked and took his arm, her hand trembling just a little, and he surmised she had been about to refuse. Did she realize he was on to her “poor widow” act? That his interest in her now was due to his suspicion of her? Or was she remembering their last encounter in a garden?

“Bring Georgiana back before long, Charlie. I really must introduce her around,” Sarah called after them.

He gave his sister a sardonic wink. Sarah had admonished him more than once for his rakish ways, but he was not about to lie just to set her mind at ease. Instead, he led Mrs. Huffington through the ballroom and out to the terrace.

“I fear I’ve appropriated you with falsehoods, Mrs. Huffington,” he admitted.

“You have no knowledge of topiaries?”

He smiled down at her, a bit diverted by the subtle scent of her perfume—a note of flowers blended with ambergris—similar to the scent his former mistress had used. But on Mrs. Huffington it was quite heady. Lush and seductive. “None,” he admitted. “Absolutely none.”

“Then we shall have to bumble along on our own, shan’t we?”

Quite adventurous of her. He’d just given her the perfect excuse to return to the house, and she hadn’t taken it—not that he’d have let her escape. Perhaps she had her own reasons for wanting to speak to him alone.

They strolled deeper into the twilight, guided by the lantern-lit paths. She did not prattle on like most women in like situations. To the contrary, after her initial reluctance, she seemed composed and calm, and he supposed that was due to the familiarity of such a walk. Had her husbands strolled with her through gardens before going down on bended knee?

They reached a path of hedges trimmed in various forms. He paused at one with a sharp spire. “Here we have the ever-popular boxwoodicus pointum.”

She laughed, a sound that sent a shiver up his spine. “I shall commit that to my memory, Mr. Hunter.”

He led her a bit farther from the house, curious how far he might take her. Far enough for privacy? “How have you come to know my sister?”

“I am not long in her acquaintance,” she admitted. “Miss Eugenia O’Rourke—oh, sorry, Mrs. Hunter since her marriage to your brother, but she was an O’Rourke when I met her—introduced us.”

“And how do you know Gina?”

“Last fall when Aunt Caroline and I came to town, we met in mutual company. I was previously acquainted with the Misses Thayer, who made the introductions.”

“Hortense and Harriett? Aye, the twins know everyone between the two of them. Did you all go about together?”

“Occasionally.” She paused and looked up at him as if she would say more, then glanced down again and the moment passed. “Not long after our arrival, Aunt Caroline and I returned to Kent. There was … trouble. And Aunt Caroline felt we should go home.”

Trouble? Was that how she thought of her most recent conquest’s death? Aye, he’d wager that would send her back to the countryside to hide. He stopped and took her hand, mildly surprised by its softness and warmth. “May I offer my condolences on your aunt’s death? I am told time will ease the loss.”

Tears welled up in her eyes and she brushed them back with her free hand before they could fall. “It was quite unexpected. I do not believe she was much in pain.”

As they continued to stroll in silence, still holding hands, Charles was surprised that she hadn’t sought to break the contact. All the better for him, since accustoming her to his touch was a part of his plan. Her little half smile was back and he breathed a little easier. He’d learned that the more a woman smiled, the less suspicious she was.

After a moment or two, she spoke again. “Did I hear your sister say that you are bound for the Foreign Office?”

“It has been mentioned to me as a possible option, but I have not made a decision. I have unfinished business where I am.”

“And where is that, Mr. Hunter?”

“London,” he told her without a twinge of conscience. Though it was no secret that he was with the Home Office, he perpetuated the myth that he was a minor clerk to Lord Wycliffe at Wycliffe’s suggestion. Only his brothers knew the extent of his activities.

“The Foreign Office sounds wonderfully exotic. I think I would love to travel, though I have not done enough of it to know.”

Charles shrugged. “My family has always believed in service to one’s country. All of us have traveled extensively, and allow me to assure you, Mrs. Huffington, that there is no place on earth like England.”

“Still, I have nothing left to hold me here, and it might be nice to see something of the world. That is the one benefit that Aunt Caroline’s infirmity denied me.”

He looked down at the top of her head, bowed to the pebbled path. Her scent, the soft warmth of her hand as it rested in his, the curve of her throat that begged his kisses, and the fullness of her lips just waiting for his. His eyes slipped lower to the provocative swell of her breasts above the modest neckline of her gown. Though they were mostly hidden from view, his imagination fueled an immediate and strong response in his body. One that he hoped Mrs. Huffington was yet innocent enough to miss.

He shook his head to clear it. Was this part of her allure—this mixture of worldliness and innocence? The undeniable appeal that had lured two men, perhaps three, to their deaths?

“Is something amiss, Mr. Hunter?” she asked.

The lowered intimacy of her voice caused him to stop and face her again. There was an unquestionable risk in growing closer to the woman, but he was a man who’d always liked the thrill of danger. “Mrs. Huffington, I hope you will not think me presumptuous, but how long do you plan to be in town?”

“No longer than it will take me to settle matters regarding Aunt Caroline’s estate. I find London society a bit … ruthless.”

He, too, lowered his voice. If the chit was flirting, he’d give her more than she’d bargained for. “If you are referring to the gossip shared over teacups, I cannot deny it. But I hope you will be staying longer.”

Georgiana’s heart tripped. He leaned closer. Too close. “Are you flirting, Mr. Hunter?”

He gave her the boyish smile that used to turn her insides to mush. “Neither of us is innocent of the world and its … pleasures.”

She held her breath as he lifted her hand and bent his head to brush his lips across her knuckles. A dark lock of hair fell across his forehead, and instant warmth seeped through her. She knew quite well that Aunt Caroline had been right about him. He teased, he flirted and once he’d stolen a kiss, he was on to the next woman. Who would know that better than she? Charles Hunter was an irresistible rake who had broken half the hearts in the ton. But not hers for a second time. She was immune.

After two marriages and a rather serious courtship, she had experience of a man’s passion. But Charles Hunter’s slow, easy grace was nothing like poor Arthur’s, who’d done no more than kiss her before his tumble down the stairs. Nor was his seduction akin to Gower’s quick, hard passion, come and gone in a blink. Yet not so sweet as Adam Booth’s humble kiss.

No, Mr. Hunter was in no hurry, and that unsettled her. He was a challenge to everything she’d come to believe—that love and passion were not for her, and marriage would be a disservice to any man for whom she bore any fondness at all. But it might almost be worth a kiss or two, since she no longer bore any fondness for him. Just curiosity. Could he still render her senseless with his kiss? Cause her heartbeat to race? Kindle a burning in her soul?

She looked up into those deep unfathomable eyes and he seemed to read her mind. He lowered his head toward hers, parting his lips just slightly. She wanted to cry. To run. But she wanted to kiss him even more. Aunt Caroline’s voice echoed in her mind. Once a man like Charles Hunter has what he wants, he will go on to the next conquest.

Slowly, reluctantly, she withdrew her hand. “You are most gallant, sir, but I think we’ve … studied the topiary rather longer than we intended.”

He offered his arm, which she took. A frisson of misgiving warned her that there was more to Charles Hunter than Aunt Caroline had suspected. The night had deepened and the shadows encouraged her to say things she might not have dared in daylight. “Why did you really ask me into the garden, Mr. Hunter?”

He seemed surprised by her frankness. “I should think that would be apparent, Mrs. Huffington. As you have become my sister’s friend, we shall be often in the same company. ‘Twill be more pleasant if I can count you a friend, too.”

Friend? Their brief moment of familiarity had passed, and the time had come to be polite again. “I believe we have established that much, sir.”

He guffawed. “I like the way you speak your mind, Mrs. Huffington. Quite refreshing. Is there anything coy about you?”

“Heavens! I hope not. If you hadn’t noticed, I’m a bit past the blushing maiden stage of my life. And, alas, there is no one left to remind me of my manners.”

He arched one dark eyebrow. “Do not look to me for reminders, Mrs. Huffington. Had I my way, you’d be joining the gentlemen for cigars and brandy. I am far more likely to encourage your frankness than complain of it.”

They entered the terrace doors to the strains of a waltz already in progress. Mr. Hunter swept her into his arms without a “by your leave” and led her into the whirl of soberly dressed gentlemen and gaily gowned women.

“Why, yes, Mr. Hunter. I’d love to dance,” she said with mild reproach.

“The first of many to come.”

Oh, she doubted that. Too much Charles Hunter would have her undone and forgetting both her scruples and Aunt Caroline’s warnings. A moment later the dance ended and Mr. Hunter took her arm to lead her back to his sister.

Their way was blocked by two couples who had stopped to chat.

“… just as brazen as you please,” one woman was saying. “And now it seems she has dug her talons into Charles Hunter, dragging him into the gardens like a common trollop…. ”

Georgiana’s cheeks burned.

“I would think she’d have the decency to remain in the countryside,” the other woman agreed. “Everyone knows what she is.”

“And what is that, Francine?” one of the men asked, his gaze flicking over the woman’s head to meet Georgiana’s eyes.

“Why, a schemer at best. A murderess at worst,” the woman answered. “And if I were to choose between the two—”

The scorching heat was replaced by a sudden icy coldness in the pit of her stomach. She could not mistake the mocking glance of the man who’d asked the question. She looked up at Mr. Hunter, and the expression on his face was terrifying—dark and furious. She started to turn, thinking he would quickly lead her around the group.

His grip tightened on her arm. “Hello, DeRoss. Everly. Ladies,” he said with an inflection that cast doubt on the name.

Georgiana was torn between amusement and humiliation.

“Hunter.” DeRoss, the man who’d asked the question, looked pointedly at Georgiana, pressing the introduction.

Mr. Hunter gave a slight smile, but there was something predatory about it. She suspected there was worse to come and lifted her chin with every bit of pride she could muster.

“Have you met my sister’s dear friend, Georgiana Huffington?” he asked as he placed his hand over hers where it rested on his arm. The move was proprietary and flattering. And false.

Mr. DeRoss and Mr. Everly both gave the barest of bows and Mr. DeRoss spoke for them both. “Charmed, Mrs. Huffington.”

She curtsied as slightly as they’d bowed. “Gentlemen,” she murmured.

But Mr. Hunter was not inclined to stop there. “Miss Wilton-Smythe and Miss Grayson, allow me to present Mrs. Huffington.”

Georgiana nodded and the women did likewise.

“I importuned Mrs. Huffington to allow me to show her the topiary. Quite artistic, were they not, my dear?”

My dear? He really was going a bit far. “Quite, sir. Exceeded only by your knowledge of the subject.”

He laughed. “You are most welcome to whatever random knowledge I possess.” Turning to the others, he said, “Must be getting Mrs. Huffington back to my sister. She will be waiting.”

“Lady Sarah?” one of the women asked.

“I only have the one sister,” he said. He turned Georgiana in Sarah’s direction and led her away. “I’ve found it’s always best to face bullies down,” he said. “Let them know you’re equal to them and that they cannot force you into a corner.”

“But what was the point of mentioning your sister?”

“She has a reputation in the ton, Mrs. Huffington. Whoever Sarah approves publicly will be accepted without question.”

“Ah, so then …”

“Those women will say nothing further against you.”

Lady Sarah aside, she did not think any of them would want to cross Charles Hunter again. “But they will not like it,” she said. “And they will be waiting for me to do something wrong.”

He looked down at her, one eyebrow cocked and a challenge in his words. “Then your task is simple, Mrs. Huffington. Do nothing wrong.”

She shivered as he released her hand. What a pretty pass things had come to when even her professed friends did not think she would be able to keep out of trouble! Worse—that she, herself, doubted it, too.