A Daring Liaison

by Gail Ranstrom

  “I did not realize that men could languish over lost love as women do.”

  He gave her a wry smile. “Did you not?”

  “I have seen no evidence of it. Most men have wives and mistresses. Which do they love, if either?”

  “That would depend upon their reason for marrying, Georgiana.”

  What would that say about Charles’s reason for marrying her? “Do you have a mistress, Charles?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “Will you have one again?”

  He coughed. “We are marrying tomorrow.”

  “Yes, but—”

  The French doors opened and Lord Carlington peered out. “There you are. Wondered what happened to you.”

  Georgiana noted his reddened eyes and his flushed cheeks. Whatever Caroline had written him had affected him deeply.

  Charles saw his state, too, and interceded. “We really must be going, Carlington. Much to do tomorrow, you know.”

  “Oh, of course. Well, thank you for coming.” He led them toward the door. “Lovely visit. And I was quite pleased to read Caroline’s letter after all these years. Still the most beautiful script. She had a very fine hand, did she not, Georgiana?”

  “Yes. I think she was a bit vain about it.”

  He laughed. “I recall. I used to peek over her shoulder when she’d write in her little journals. She’d shoo me away and say that her scribblings were not meant for men. Did she keep them up, my dear? Those little diaries?”

  “Every day, though I wondered what she could possibly have to say when our lives were so quiet.”

  Carlington cleared his throat as a footman opened the door for them. “If there is nothing too personal, I’d like to read them. I would be interested in what her days were like. And her nights.”

  Georgiana blinked back her tears. She had not thought of her aunt’s journals since she’d died. In fact, she could not remember her aunt writing in them at all after their last return to Kent. Perhaps there were some in the attic at the town house. She would have to read them first, of course, to make certain there was nothing that would compromise Caroline’s dignity.

  “I will look for them, Lord Carlington. If I should find one or two fit for male eyes, I will be glad to share them.”

  He took her hand and squeezed it in gratitude. “I shall look forward to it.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Once Georgiana had finished bathing, Clara dressed her hair into a Grecian knot from which curls were left to dangle down her back, and made shooing motions with her hands. “Go on with you, now! You will only get in my way. Mind you, do not muss yourself. This is your wedding day. Just sit somewhere and look pretty.”

  Georgiana slipped a modest gown over her head and left her room, noting the whirlwind of activity everywhere in the house. Charles’s servants had arrived and were busily crating the belongings she would take with her. And, in a matter of hours, she would be married again.

  Fear was growing in her and she was near panic. The closer the wedding, the closer Charles could be to death. How could she go through with it? How could she marry him without telling him the truth of her birth?

  One of Charles’s servants passed her in the foyer with a muffled apology and she knew she would have to find someplace quiet to think. She turned and went back upstairs to the attic. The windows were still uncovered and it didn’t look as though anything had been disturbed since the last time she’d been up here just before Charles evicted Hathaway.

  One of the opened trunks was a small one she thought might contain her aunt’s—no, her mother’s, journals. She had never looked in that trunk, respecting Caroline’s privacy, but Hathaway had had no such qualms. She fingered the latch and noted that the lock had been forced. What could he have been looking for?

  She sat on the bare floor, lifted the little trunk into her lap and began removing the journals to take stock. Each one bore dates on the inside covers but they were out of order. She found one that began when Caroline was away at school with Lady Aston. By matching the date of the last entry of one journal to the date on the insider cover of another, she put them in order and found that only a few were missing. Perhaps they were back in Kent, perhaps never written. Surely Hathaway had not taken them. What use would he have for such things? She searched for the dates she knew by heart. The year that she was born was missing, but she found the one from three years later when Lady Caroline had brought her home from Cornwall.

  Oh, she was full of “duty” and “obligation,” but there was no mention made of love. She was reported to have been “an amiable child, not overly fussy or demanding.” She had “cheered the servants after the bleakness following father’s death.” None of them “suspected the truth.” Reference was made to Caroline’s having been sent away to Devon for her pregnancy, so the servants or neighbors would not suspect. They’d been told she had gone to a private nursing hospital to convalesce from her injuries as a result of the accident.

  And never—not once—was there mention of her father. Was he living or dead? Was he a secret affair? Or could he have been Lord Carlington?

  Georgiana closed the journal and wondered if the answer was in any of the journals, or if the truth would always elude her. What, dear Lord, could she tell Charles? It was bad enough that she’d been born out of wedlock, but that she did not even know the name of her father was untenable. Unthinkable. Surely telling Charles the truth would be easier if she could name her father.

  She closed the journal quickly when she heard a scuffle on the stairs. “Madam? Are you up there?”

  “Yes, Clara.”

  “There’s a Mr. Foxworthy at the door, missus. Says he must see you at once. I told him you were not receiving today, but he insisted.”

  Foxworthy? Good heavens! “Put him in the front parlor, Clara, and tell him I will be down in a moment.”

  She replaced the journal hastily, closed the lid and carried the trunk in front of her as she descended the narrow attic stairs. Finn was waiting for her, his massive arms crossed over his chest and a frown of disapproval marring his brow. She pushed the trunk into his arms. “Give that to Clara, will you? I’d like it packed with the rest.”

  Finn held the trunk tightly but ignored her instructions. Instead he followed her down the two flights of stairs and across the foyer to the parlor. She paused outside the door to pat her hair and smooth her skirts, took one deep breath in preparation and opened the door, Finn fast behind her.

  A man who appeared slightly older than Lord Carlington turned from his study of the garden outside the window. He was not unpleasant looking, but appeared very stern and uncompromising. “Mrs. Huffington?”

  She went forward, her hand extended. “Indeed. And you are Mr. Foxworthy?”

  “Mr. Walter Foxworthy,” he corrected, ignoring her offered hand.

  “I did not know you were in London, sir.”

  “No reason you should. Our branches of the family have not been close for a generation or more.” He gripped the lapels of his brown jacket and puffed his chest out. “I say ‘ours,’ Mrs. Huffington, but I am referring to Cousin Caroline. You are not a true Betman.”

  A truer Betman than he knew, but she did not intend to tell him that. “I’m aware of the distinction, sir,” she allowed.

  “I have just come from Mr. Goodman. He informs me that you are aware of my suit.”

  “To become my conservator? Yes.”

  Mr. Foxworthy glanced at Finn. “I believe this is a private conversation, Mrs. Huffington.”

  She turned and smiled at Finn. “Will you excuse us, Finn? You may wait outside the door.”

  “I cannot leave you alone with strangers, Mrs. Huffington.”

  “Mr. Foxworthy is family.”

  Finn looked between the two of them and finally nodded. “I will be outside,” he allowed, leaving the room with the trunk tucked under one massive arm.

  When the door closed with a quiet click of the latch, she breathed out and pretended a
n ease she did not feel. “May I offer you refreshment, Mr. Foxworthy? A cup of tea or a glass of sherry, perhaps?”

  “I do not like your people poking around asking questions of my neighbors.”

  Ah, Mr. Renquist’s questions had alerted the Foxworthys. “Surely you can understand my concern when I heard that a man I’ve never met has filed to control my fortune and my person on the accusation that I am not of stable mind? I think it only natural to inquire what sort of man that might be.”

  “You see him before you now.”

  Yes, she did. She let her gaze sweep him from head to toes. She did not think she would like being under his control at all. “What will you take, Mr. Foxworthy? How much do you want to drop the proceedings?”

  He bared his teeth, but she gathered the gesture was not a smile. “You think you can buy me off? You’re just like Caroline and his lordship. Looking down your nose at the Foxworthys. Think you’re better than us, do you? Think you can buy your way out of trouble? Not for any amount, Mrs. Huffington. We, my brother and I, are going to do what’s right.”

  Georgiana perched on the edge of a settee, fearing her wobbly knees would give out. She knew she could not afford to show any weakness to this man or he would rip her to shreds. “What is right?”

  “Stopping you from squandering the family fortune.”

  “I’ve been conservative, sir. I’ve certainly spent less than Aunt Caroline used to.”

  “This is not just about your spending, Mrs. Huffington. It is about your rash behavior and your...your unseemly decisions. You are frivolous and unstable.”

  And the fact that she was not a blood relation, no doubt. “Decisions? What controversial decisions have I made?”

  “I learned today that you have got yourself engaged to Mr. Charles Hunter. This barely six months after Lady Caroline’s death.”

  Oh, Charles knew society well. News had traveled quickly. “I am past the prescribed period of mourning for my aunt, Mr. Foxworthy, and well past it for my late husband.”

  “Have you no shame? Your engagement so soon after your return to London has caused a stir in society. Why, it is as if you care nothing for the good opinion of others. You’ve gone about buying gowns from the most expensive dressmaker in London. You cavort at pleasure gardens and—”

  “Cavort?” The man had made it his business to know her comings and goings, for heaven’s sake! She clasped her hands tightly to keep from doing something rash. “Has it also caused a problem with your suit, sir? Is that why you came to see me now? Do you fear that a marriage would put my fortune out of your reach?”

  “Little upstart!” he snarled, taking two steps toward her. “You are marrying to spite my suit, are you not? If you go through with this, I could petition to have your marriage to Mr. Hunter set aside as fraudulent.”

  She stood and moved behind the settee, wanting to keep a distance from this man. “You could, but you’d never prove it. I am offering you money to drop your suit, sir, which is more than you deserve. My only reason for doing so is to preserve the peace and avoid the scandal of a public proceeding and not because I think your suit has merit. My future husband, however, will not care about that. I’d advise you to take my proposal now and go away before he can intercede.”

  The clock in the foyer chimed three times and Georgiana realized that Charles’s coach would be here soon to take her to Lockwood’s.

  Mr. Foxworthy’s hands fisted at his sides as he advanced. “You will pay for your insolence, Mrs. Huffington. I will see to it that you do not forget it once I am in control.”

  Suddenly marriage seemed like an excellent idea. “You will never be in control, sir. I am marrying Mr. Hunter this afternoon. You should have taken my offer. Now you are too late.”

  Foxworthy’s eyes bulged and his complexion deepened to a hue that Georgiana feared indicated apoplexy. “Why, you little—”

  “Finn!”

  The door opened before his name had faded from her lips.

  “Show Mr. Foxworthy out, please.”

  In three long strides, Finn had seized Mr. Foxworthy by the back of his jacket and lifted him so that only his toes touched the floor. Foxworthy in one arm, and the little trunk still under the other, he strode to the garden door, gave the man a shove and closed the door. “Didn’t think you’d want him on the front stoop, Mrs. Huffington.”

  She resisted the impulse to give the man a hug. “Thank you, Finn. Now, if you will watch for the coach, I must go change. I am getting married this afternoon, you know.”

  He gave her a wide grin. “As you say, ma’am.”

  “Put that little trunk with my other things, please. Must we tell Mr. Hunter about this unfortunate meeting?”

  “’Fraid so, Mrs. Huffington.”

  * * *

  Charles waited impatiently in the small family chapel in Lockwood’s back garden. He hadn’t seen Georgiana since last night and, to admit the truth, he was more than a little uncertain if she would go through with the marriage. According to Finn, however, he would have Walter Foxworthy to thank if she did.

  Yes, he’d thank him, and right after he’d thrash the man to within an inch of his life. Richardson had warned him that the elder Foxworthy was an unpleasant person, and it was appalling that he would stoop to threaten a woman.

  Restless and impatient, he started forward. If Georgiana would not come, he would go fetch her. Lockwood clamped a hand over his shoulder and whispered in his ear.

  “Patience, Charlie. They’ll be along in a moment. Elise said she wanted to pin some flowers in Mrs. Huffington’s hair.”

  His brothers, along with Ethan Travis and Devlin Farrell, grinned at him. All of them had been down this path, and they knew his anxiety. At the sound of soft female voices, they turned toward the chapel door. His sisters-in-law entered and came to stand beside their husbands, and then his own sister, Sarah, entered arm-in-arm with his bride.

  Georgiana was stunning in a pale blush-colored creation with a sheer white organza overdress. Fresh soft pink roses set off the glints of sunlight in her hair and she carried a posy of the same innocent flowers. As she came forward, he could read the doubt in her luminous green eyes. Her lips parted and she began to say something, but he gave her a slight shake of his head.

  Too late for doubts now. He would erase them all tonight. When they were alone. He gave her a reassuring smile and was rewarded with her quick response.

  Sarah brought Georgiana to his side and then stepped back beside her husband. He and Georgiana turned toward the minister, and the ceremony began. He held Georgiana’s gaze steadily and barely listened to the words. He did not need to. He’d have vowed anything to have this done with and Georgiana his forever. And Georgiana did not need to listen. She’d heard the words often enough.

  He was so lost in her that Lockwood had to nudge him when the minister called for his consent. “I will,” he murmured.

  A moment later Georgiana’s faint agreement followed his and they recited the vows after the minister—he in a clear, steady voice, and Georgiana in a soft whisper that seemed to caress him. When the minister asked for the ring, Charles slipped the gold band studded with diamonds and emeralds, which he’d purchased at Rundel and Bridge’s this morning, from his little finger and placed it on the minister’s prayer book to be passed back to him to slip on Georgiana’s finger.

  Repeating after the minister, he gave his solemn vow, still surprised that he could mean every word when just a week ago he’d mistrusted her every word. “With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow...”

  As they knelt for the prayers, Georgiana’s shoulder touched his and deep satisfaction spread through him. She was his wife. His. For as long as he lived. Even if that was only until tomorrow. The seductive scent of roses wafted up to him, and his next reflection was far from godly. The rest of the ceremony became a blur as he indulged in salacious thoughts that were sure to damn him to Hell.

  T
hen it was done and, though it was not a part of the ceremony, Charles lifted Georgiana’s chin and planted a proprietary kiss on her lips. They turned to the family to find broad smiles and teary eyes. Lockwood and Andrew went with them to sign the clerk’s book and finish the business.

  The sun was setting as they strolled across the lawns to the house. “Welcome to the family, Mrs. Hunter,” Lockwood said.

  Georgiana looked bewildered for a moment until she realized that she was the Mrs. Hunter to whom Lockwood referred. Then she sighed—a sound that spoke more of melancholy than of contentment. Was she wondering if she would be attending his funeral tomorrow? He squeezed her hand and she looked up at him. He gave her a reassuring wink and was rewarded with a smile that warmed her face. Charles vowed to give her all the reassurance she’d ever need tonight.

  * * *

  The moment they arrived home, Charles’s butler bowed and assumed an apologetic smile. “Lord Wycliffe and Sir Henry Richardson are waiting in the library, sir. They say it is urgent.”

  “Thank you, Crosley.” Charles turned to her with a pained expression. “I may have neglected to mention that this was my wedding day. I apologize, Georgiana. I will see what they want and send them on their way. I shall be with you presently.”

  Clara, who had been waiting for her arrival, took her arm to lead her up a curved central staircase. Every detail of the house spoke of good taste and elegance. She had not suspected that Charles’s home would be so charming.

  “We’ve been unpacking all day, madam. Soon as we have everything set out, you’ll be quite at home. Your room is lovely. Why, it’s twice the size of your old one. And twice the room for your gowns and such.”

  Georgiana followed her maid down a passageway to a door at the end. When Clara threw it open with a flourish, she blinked. Hers was a corner room, which would admit light in both the morning and evening. And it was, indeed, large. High ceilings, mahogany wainscoting and restful colors soothed her, and she dropped her reticule and shawl on a side table to explore. Deep Persian carpets padded her footsteps as she went forward. The dressing table was twice the size of hers and the bed was enormous. She noted that the headboard had been carved with intricate intertwined vines that spiraled up the posts to the green velvet canopy, and the mattress looked as soft as a cloud. It was the most beautiful bed she’d ever seen.