A Daring Liaison

by Gail Ranstrom

  Mr. Hunter uttered a curse under his breath as he stood and lifted her to her feet. “A flower girl stopped us as we strolled. The moment she had her coin, she dashed for the alley. A second later—the shot. I’d wager she’d been hired to stop us long enough for the shooter to take aim, and then run away.”

  Oh, dear Lord! Another man she’d been with had nearly been killed! She was cursed!

  “You think the flower girl was involved?” Lord Wycliffe asked.

  Mr. Hunter glanced quickly in Georgiana’s direction and she made a pretense of brushing the dust from her gown and examining herself for damage, though her trembling hands were apt to betray her. Apparently assured of her well-being, he turned back to Lord Wycliffe.

  “Aye,” he said in a hushed voice. “Paid to distract us. As for knowing why, that’s anyone’s guess.”

  But Georgiana had a guess. Whoever had killed her husbands, and perhaps Mr. Booth, had now turned his attention to her. Or Charles Hunter. Her heart pounded against her ribs at the thought of Charles lying in the street with a bullet in his chest. She turned slightly to pretend attention to her costume, trying to cover her fear and wondering what else they might say if they thought she wasn’t listening.

  “Gibbons?” Lord Wycliffe asked.

  There was a pause and then Mr. Hunter’s voice answered in a hushed tone. “Unlikely that Gibbons would have missed once we were still for longer than a moment, and I doubt he’d part with a ha’penny to hire a flower girl.”

  Who was this Gibbons person, and why would he want to kill her?

  From the corner of her eye, Georgiana noted that Lord Wycliffe slid a glance in her direction. “Do you think...”

  “Possible,” Mr. Hunter answered.

  She shivered with that implication. She knew what they suspected. That someone had tried to kill her. Was that better or worse than someone trying to kill the men with her? Icy cold crept through her as she surveyed the crowd, looking in one direction and then the other. Was a killer still watching? She caught sight of the edge of a cape rounding the corner of the Theatre Royal. She shivered. She really must get a grip on her imagination!

  She met Charles’s gaze, painfully aware that attention was directed at her and they were likely wondering if she really was such a dreadful person that someone wanted her dead. She banished the terrifying notion and gave them an uncertain smile. “At least no one was injured. Thank heavens for that.”

  “Are you not frightened?” Charles asked.

  Terrified! But she had no intention of discussing it. “S-surely the whole thing was some sort of accident, was it not?”

  Lord Wycliffe seized on her excuse. “Pistols misfire all the time, Mrs. Huffington. Very sensible of you to understand that.”

  The thought flashed through her mind that his lordship was a dreadful liar for a man in his position. “Nevertheless, I should like to return to the theater, if you do not mind. I would think the intermission is well over and my friends will be looking for me.”

  Mr. Hunter and Lord Wycliffe flanked her as they turned toward the theater. She glanced over her shoulder one last time, her skin prickling with the feeling that someone was watching. She was sure of it. As sure as she’d been the other night at her window.

  * * *

  “How perfectly dreadful!” Hortense exclaimed. “Why, you could have been killed.”

  Harriett’s eyes narrowed and an angry furrow creased her brow. “Really! Men ought to be more careful. I do prefer swords to pistols for that very reason. You wouldn’t have an accident like that with a sword, now, would you?”

  “You have a point, Miss Harriett,” Lord Wycliffe replied with a wry grin.

  The orchestra struck a chord to signal the end of the intermission, and Harriett lowered her voice. “Furthermore, men who discharge their pistols in public ought to be horsewhipped.”

  Hortense nodded her agreement. “At the very least.”

  Georgiana noted the twinkle in Lord Wycliffe’s eyes. She was relieved that neither of her friends seemed to be taking the incident as a personal attack. One could argue that one shot was much like another, but she was not reassured. That shot had seemed deeply personal.

  “Mrs. Huffington, are you quite all right?” Mr. Hunter asked yet again, noticing her distraction.

  “Quite,” she said as everyone turned to her. She gave them a cheering smile and shrugged. “Nevertheless, I should like to go home.”

  “Why, of course, you poor dear,” Harriett said. “You’ve had a frightful experience. We should have thought of that, but you seem so composed.”

  “I am just exhausted. But please do not shorten your own evening. I shall hire a hackney.”

  “You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Mr. Hunter said, shooting a meaningful look at Lord Wycliffe.

  Ah, so contrary to their assertions, he and Lord Wycliffe actually did suspect there was something sinister in the wind.

  Mr. Hunter took her arm and led her from the theater as the performance resumed. On the street, he signaled a hackney, handed her up and followed her in. The jarvey cracked his whip and the carriage lurched forward, propelling Mr. Hunter into the seat beside her instead of across from her.

  “Beg pardon,” he murmured as he settled next to her.

  She gave him a sideways glance and arranged her skirts to keep them from wrinkling, then folded her hands in her lap, trying to give the appearance of sublime unconcern. She did not want him to know how acutely aware of him she was—of his warmth, his size, his sensual mouth or the devastating effect he was having on her senses.

  “I have a vague recollection of glimpsing you last fall, Mrs. Huffington. Were you in London as late as September?”

  So it was to be inconsequential conversation, was it? And a tacit agreement to ignore their earlier acquaintance? But she couldn’t ignore the fact that he smelled utterly masculine—like good shaving soap and starched linen.

  She gave herself a mental shake and turned her thoughts to the conversation. “Yes. In fact, I believe I saw you at the Argyle Rooms the night my...Mr. Booth was shot.”

  “Did anyone ever mention to you that someone else had been shot that night, too?”

  “I believe so. One of his friends, I was told, but the injury was not life threatening.” She looked at him and surprised an almost incredulous look on his face. But she had told him about Mr. Booth before, hadn’t she? Why should he be surprised?

  A muscle jumped along his jaw and he took a deep breath. “You were saying, Mrs. Huffington?”

  “Oh, yes. That we left for home a day or two after that. There seemed no point in staying and Aunt Caroline was never very comfortable in London.”

  “I understand. London, for all its glamor, can be an unsettling place.”

  She smiled. “I would never call it peaceful.”

  He shifted to face her, and a small smile quirked the corners of his mouth. “Somewhat of an understatement, that.”

  She looked into his deep violet eyes and wondered where her wits had gone. Two husbands and a fiancé, and it had taken Charles Hunter and a vow of celibacy to make her heart beat faster—the very definition of irony. He had, in fact, been the only man who ever had ever made her heartbeat race. The only man who had ever made her lose her wits with a single kiss.

  Her little voice, the one that whispered good sense when her heartbeat tripped along a wayward path, told her to demur. Told her, in fact, to run home as fast as she could. Charles Hunter could have her rushing headlong into a relationship she’d sworn never to have again.

  “But I must say, Mrs. Huffington, that you have a very cool head. Not many women could be shot at and then dust themselves off and get on with their lives.”

  “If there was another choice, sir, I missed it.”

  * * *

  Charles laughed at her attempt at irony, then grew sober. Perhaps it was just as well that she didn’t know he was the other man shot last fall. That knowledge could put her on her guard and he wanted her as
unguarded as possible. He reached out to tuck an escaped lock of hair behind her ear. The strands felt like silk against his fingers. “I gather you’ve learned to cope with shocks.”

  A shadow passed over her face, and her dark lashes lowered to shield her eyes at his reference to her husbands’ deaths. Was she hiding something? Preparing to lie? “When you are at fate’s mercy, Mr. Hunter, there is little else you can do.”

  “Fate?” he echoed. “Is that how you define your ill fortune with husbands?”

  Her gaze, half angry, half bewildered, snapped upward to meet his. “Or that I am cursed. What else can it be?”

  “Coincidence?” he ventured.

  She relaxed and shrugged. Had she thought he was making an accusation when he’d only meant to open the discussion? Mention the elephant in the room that everyone seemed intent on ignoring?

  “’Tis just that I hardly know what to say. How can I explain such odd occurrences? And how shall I explain my late fiancé? Mr. Booth had just signed the contracts before he was killed. Am I supposed to believe that, too, was coincidence?”

  Charles gritted his teeth. Booth. His head spun with Wycliffe’s unsubtle suggestion that the shooter hadn’t been Dick Gibbons. Had, in fact, been Georgiana Huffington. He fought the impulse to ask her where she’d been when those shots had been fired.

  Long adept at covering his emotions with innocuous expressions and meaningless banter, Charles did nothing to betray his anger and suspicion. If Mrs. Huffington had been responsible, in part or whole, for Adam Booth’s death, what had she hoped to gain? Without the nuptials, she was not entitled to anything more than the small settlement her aunt had negotiated. Could she have done it to preserve her freedom rather than for gain? Did she not like her aunt’s choices? Or was she a secret man-hater who disposed of any who threatened her freedom? If so, he sure as hell knew how to find that out.

  “Rational explanations or evidence aside, Mrs. Huffington, what do you think is behind it?”

  Her bewilderment looked genuine enough. “Fate is as good an explanation as any I’ve pondered. Unless...”

  “Pray, enlighten me.”

  “If...if it is not a curse or coincidence, then it has to be deliberate. And if it is deliberate, then it must be personal. And if it is personal, then someone, for some unknown reason, wanted Mr. Allenby and Mr. Huffington dead—perhaps even Mr. Booth. And if that is true, then I am the common thread between them. But if that is so, then why hasn’t an attempt been made on my life?”

  “Aside from tonight, you mean?”

  She turned her lovely face up to his, and her expression was one of bewilderment. “To make me suffer? Or to hang for the crimes? Or could that person simply be taunting me until he is ready to kill me, too?”

  Ah, she was good. He almost believed her. “Why? Who would despise you so much?”

  “I cannot think of anyone I’ve wronged deeply enough to warrant such hatred.” Something of her desperation reached him. If she was telling the truth, she would be frantic, indeed. Her eyes were luminous in the dark coach. “That is why I must get to the bottom of this before something else calamitous can happen.”

  Better and better. She was falling like a ripe plum into his open palm. “I collect it wouldn’t be much of a life if you feared any man you showed an interest in could die, and that you must always watch over your shoulder.”

  She cocked her head to one side and her lips quirked in a sardonic smile. “Was that supposed to be comforting, Mr. Hunter?”

  “Were you looking for comfort or honesty, Mrs. Huffington?”

  “Honesty,” she conceded.

  “I am prepared to help you, if you desire it.”

  “Help me what?”

  “Find out if there is anything sinister behind your ill fortune and the odd things that have been happening to you. That gunshot tonight, for instance.” Could have been Dick Gibbons targeting him, but she did not need to know that. “Apart from that, I think you will be needing a male escort. Delightful though they are, I doubt the Misses Thayer can offer you much protection.”

  Her deep shudder told him that she’d feared the same thing. Mrs. Huffington was not just in fear for the lives of men who knew her, but in fear for her own life—unless this was an act to disarm him.

  “I am nobody,” she murmured. “I cannot in my wildest imaginings think why someone would want Mr. Allenby or Mr. Huffington dead. Or Mr. Booth, for that matter. Nor is there anyone who might wish me dead. It has to be something else. And that is why...” She blinked and pressed her lips together as if she’d said too much.

  “Why it is a mystery you are compelled to solve?” he finished for her. “Again, one with which I am prepared to help you.”

  “I scarcely know what to say, Mr. Hunter. I appreciate the sentiment, but you would be putting yourself in danger.” She sighed and only the steady clip-clop of the horses’ hooves broke the heavy silence.

  Charles took her hand, so delicate and small in his that he almost regretted what he was about to do. She was playing into his scheme, offering an opportunity only an idiot or a man with scruples would waste—and Charles was neither. No, he was a man about to test whether she was a man-hater or not. With his other hand, he lifted her chin to look up at him. Slowly, relentlessly, he lowered his lips to hers.

  They were soft, plush, voluptuous and they trembled just a fraction. A studied response? Or genuine? He didn’t care which. He lost himself in the taste of honey, her heated moan and her almost unwilling response. He sensed that she wanted to deny him, but was unable. Could there be any sweeter revenge for her previous rejection than that?

  And that was his last rational thought as he answered in kind, releasing her hand to draw her closer. His reaction was purely visceral—as primal and basic as that long ago night when he’d fancied himself in love. Time had done nothing to dull that edge. He wanted to lose himself in her, bury himself in her softness, feel her heat surround him, lay her bare to his study, watch her face as she found release in his arms. He was older now, more experienced than he’d been back then, but knowing what lay ahead only deepened his hunger and quickened his urgency.

  Seven years had changed Georgiana considerably. She was no longer a maiden. She was a woman of experience, schooled to passion. No demurring now. No fear. No crimson blushes. She arched to him, her breasts crushing against his chest. He felt a shiver of passion shoot through her and nearly choked on his body’s response—a desire so strong he was hard-pressed to contain it. And, sooner than he’d thought, he had the answer to his question. No, Georgiana Huffington was no man-hater, and yes, she would love fiercely. Or, at least, make love fiercely.

  And who had the upper hand now?

  “Charles...” she murmured when he softened his kiss.

  The single word was more declaration than denial. She wanted him. Him. Whom she’d had so little regard for that she’d had her aunt reject him. Well, she could have him. Far be it from him to leave a lady wanting or waiting.

  Her shawl slipped down her arms, baring her slender neck. The warmth of her skin and the subtle scent she wore rose to him, wrapping him in a seductive cloud. He answered in the only way he could.

  He relinquished her lips to nip at one earlobe, tugging gently until, with a faint moan, her head dropped back to expose her throat. He accepted that invitation and traced a path of kisses to the hollow where her heart beat closest to the surface. Lingering there, he triumphed in her gasp and the quickened beat against his lips.

  Georgiana Huffington was his for the taking, and he was mystified by how deeply he wanted her, too. Could it be possible to love and hate at the same time? To want to give both pleasure and pain?

  She tangled her fingers through his hair and held him close, lifting her throat to his lips with a longing sigh. He left that sweet spot, moving downward, scraping her delicate skin with the coarse stubble emerging from his morning shave. She shivered and wiggled closer.

  He wove his fingers through her hai
r to hold her immobile while he continued his exploration. He moved his other hand to push the willow-green bodice lower. Even through the gloom of the coach, he could see the delicate pink contrast of her breast appear above the trim, and his sudden need to sample it was greater than he’d thought possible.

  He captured the little crown between his teeth and drew it deeper into his mouth. The peak, already firm, tightened into a bead against his tongue, teasing, tickling. He rolled it against the roof of his mouth and she made a soft keening sound. As she’d done all those years ago, before she’d stopped him with a desperate cry.

  But there was no plea for mercy this time. No demurring. Her hand, still tangled in his hair, pressed him even closer—so deeply that he feared he’d hurt her. He swept his hand downward to lift her hem and skim his palm up the inside of her thigh. Past stocking, past garter, past a soft chemise, until he found the soft heat of her sex.

  She shivered and twitched as if she would draw away or stop him. But he nuzzled her breast again, drawing her ever deeper into his mouth, and she hesitated. That split second was all he needed.

  He stroked lightly and she was almost wanton in the way she arched to his teasing touch. He circled her opening with one fingertip, gathering the dew of her passion, and then slipped it upward to find the source of her need. At his first touch to the little nub, she moaned and pressed against his palm. Oh, she was ripe and ready, but he was in no position to join her—damn the luck. Their coach had just passed the park across from her home.

  Ah, but he could bind her to him with a lesser satisfaction and leave her still craving more. The next time they met she’d be ready and eager for anything he’d be willing to give. She’d think him smitten and never suspect that he had other motives.

  With a few deep strokes, she was finished, gasping and trembling in his arms. She seemed so surprised, so genuinely disconcerted, that he almost believed she had not experienced that particular pleasure before. He eased his hand away and smoothed her skirts as the coach drew up outside her town house. He tugged her bodice up to cover that wanton nipple and lifted her shawl to cover her shoulders. No trace remained of their indiscretion.