“No? Why not?”
“Because I do not believe Georgiana’s father was in the Royal Navy. Nor was he ever a captain.”
“Well, who was he, then?”
After an uncertain pause, Charles delivered his theory. “You, I believe.”
Carlington sat forward in his chair, coughing and sputtering. “I say! That’s a bit of a surprise, Hunter.”
“Were you and Lady Caroline not in love?”
“Quite. I’d have done anything for her.”
“And?”
Carlington raised his eyebrows. “You want the details, do you? Very well. We had pledged ourselves to each other. We were going to marry. We were, perhaps, a week or two from a formal announcement. And, had everything gone well, we’d have been married by the end of the season.”
“What happened?”
“Her accident. I never saw her afterward. But I’ve told you all that. It still does not explain why you think I am Georgiana’s father.”
Charles took a deep breath. “Because Lady Caroline was her mother.”
He thought Carlington might challenge him, or call him a liar. Instead, the older man just sank back into his chair and sighed. “Ah. I wondered. She looks like Caroline, you know. Same eyes. Same honey hair. Perhaps even a bit more beautiful.”
“I’d like to know what you intend to do about this, Carlington.”
“Do? Why...nothing.”
“You will not claim her?”
“She is not mine.”
“But you said you and Caroline were—”
“We were in love, Hunter. Not that it is any of your business, but we were never...intimate.”
Charles could not hide his shock. “Then who...?”
Carlington nodded. “Who, indeed?”
“Was there anyone else she might have been interested in? Or who might have been interested in her?”
“Certainly no one I knew about. But are you certain Georgiana is Caroline’s? Could you be mistaken about that?”
“I do not think so, sir. The resemblance... Did Lady Caroline have female cousins or other relations? Could Lord Betman have fathered a by-blow?”
Carlington snorted. “Not bloody likely. A stuffy old man if ever there was one. Stickler for propriety. Caroline was afraid of him. That’s why we never risked...well, you know.”
Charles did know. He had his own regrets about not protecting Georgiana from the consequences of an unwanted pregnancy.
“But you are married to Georgiana now, are you not? You will not cast her off, will you?”
“Why would I do that?”
“All that nonsense you spouted about birth and blood, and it being who you are.”
“I do not consider that nonsense.”
Carlington’s brow lowered in a stern manner. “I warned you not to involve yourself with an orphan if that mattered to you.”
“And if she is Lady Caroline’s daughter—”
“Then, although she is of good blood, she is illegitimate. Will you punish her for something she could not help?”
The conversation was taking a turn he hadn’t bargained for. He finished his sherry in a gulp and stood. “Who and what Georgiana is remains to be seen. Thank you and good day, Carlington.”
* * *
Finn met Charles at the front door and barely gave him time to hand his greatcoat to Crosley before voicing his concern. “Quiet day, sir, but I think there’s something wrong with the missus.”
“Why?”
“I found her cryin’ in the garden, sir.”
A quick stab of guilt shot to his heart. He’d been churlish and suspicious this morning. Trusting did not come easy for him, but to accuse Georgiana of murder was a bit much, even for him. His only excuse was that he’d still been reeling from Richardson’s report and learning that his new wife was Lady Caroline’s love child. And then he’d found the laudanum in her drawer.
Laudanum! Damn. He’d meant to drop the vial in the Thames upon leaving Wycliffe’s office, but he’d forgotten after his errand at Rundel and Bridge’s. He’d apologize to Georgiana at once and then remedy that omission. “Where is she, Finn?”
“In her room, sir. Clara informed the staff that she wishes to be left alone. I believe she has a ‘crushing headache.’”
More than likely she was trying to avoid him. “Thank you, Finn. I shall look in on her and be down in a moment.”
He climbed the stairs, thinking how different his house was in just twenty-four hours. Before, there had only been himself, Crosley and the cook. Now his staff had more than doubled. Though he was not used to so many people, he did not mind. The bustle reminded him of the house he’d grown up in with three rowdy brothers and one dainty sister. They’d been a boisterous lot and there’d never been a moment’s peace. Now his house felt more like a home.
He knocked on Georgiana’s door and waited. When there was no answer, he tried the latch. Locked. That was going a bit too far. His anger returning, he turned, entered his own room, crossed through his dressing room and opened the door on Georgiana’s side. The room was dim and she’d been reclining on a chaise with her eyes closed. She sat upright when he burst in.
“Charles! I...I didn’t know you were home.”
“And still would not if I were a respecter of locked doors, madam.”
She gave him a timid smile that made him ashamed. “Well, you have found your way in, and since it was never my intent to close you out, we can both be pleased.”
“If you did not mean to bar me, then who?”
One hand went up and pressed her temple as if it throbbed. “Clara, mostly. She means well, but I cannot think with her constant hovering and coddling. She can be quite distracting.”
He did not know about Clara being distracting, but he could well believe it about Georgiana. Was, in fact, dealing with that distraction at this very moment.
She stood and held out her hand. “Charles—”
He took the hand and drew her against him. He wanted her with a banked desire he’d never before experienced. She’d been his wife nearly a full twenty-four hours, and he still had not bedded her.
“We need to talk, Georgiana. I have questions, and things I must tell you, but at the moment I can only think how beautiful you are.” And how he was growing hard just watching her.
She must have read his mind. A pretty blush rose to her cheeks and she looked at the fading light outside the window. “Dinner will be ready soon. I think we’ve already given the servants enough to talk about.”
She was right, of course, but unfortunately he did not care in the least. He led her to her dressing table and held the little boudoir chair for her. When she was seated, he took the small box from his waistcoat pocket and placed it on the table in front of her. She looked at his reflection in the mirror, the question in her eyes.
“My apology,” he explained.
She lifted the lid and her eyes, those remarkable olive-green eyes, widened. She traced the circle of twinkling diamonds surrounding the deep emerald pendant with her index finger. “You are...eloquent, Charles.”
“It is a match for your wedding ring.”
She nodded and lifted it by the chain to examine the jewels more closely.
“Allow me,” he whispered, bending over her shoulder to take the necklace from her. He unfastened the clasp, lowered the pendant to its rightful place, and fastened it again.
She held his gaze in the mirror as he settled the object against her chest. Her mouth curled up in a subtle smile and, starting at the back of her neck, he slipped his fingers downward to smooth the links of the chain against her skin. When he reached the pendant resting in the valley between her lush breasts, he left his hands there, and was rewarded by the thump of her heart against his palm. “There,” he said. “Perfect.”
Her eyelashes fluttered and her lips parted in a faint sigh. He watched in rapt fascination as the peaks of her breasts made little dots against the fabric of her gown and her color deepened. Ah
, she was aroused. This foreplay was causing havoc. Would he last through dinner?
She scarcely breathed and he waited for an indication of what she wanted. Her head fell back against him and she brought her hands up to cover his, still at that voluptuous curvature. “Thank you.” She sighed.
“No need.”
She turned her head to look up at him and her cheek brushed his erection. Even through the fabric of his breeches, the sensation was electric. His control, already drawn tight as a frayed bowstring, snapped.
Chapter Eighteen
Georgiana wanted to regret her shameless ploy or blush at the brazenness of it, but she couldn’t. She wanted Charles. And she wanted him as she’d never wanted him before. Quickly. Before something could happen to stop it. While she could still quiet her conscience enough to deceive him. Now, as the urgency built inside her with a blind nameless need.
The boudoir chair toppled over as she stood and neither of them stopped to right it. She wanted to touch his skin and feel his warmth. Already damp with desire, she pushed his jacket off his shoulders and made a shambles of his cravat.
He groaned. “Allow me.”
But she continued to unknot the intricate folds, leaving him to struggle with the fasteners of his pants and kick off his boots. Between them, he was quickly exposed and free to turn his attention to her.
There would be mending to do tomorrow by the number of little rips she heard in their urgency, but she could not regret it. Once her gown was upon the floor and her stockings and garters tossed across the room, Charles seized her and fell back upon her bed, ignoring the rest.
“God help me, I cannot wait,” he moaned.
Her breasts swelled above her chemise and were pushed higher by her corset. She reached for the laces and Charles shook his head. “Now, damn it.” He lifted the hem of her chemise and pulled her on top of him.
Oh, the perceptive man! He had sensed what she wanted. She straddled him and sank onto his erect shaft, dropping her head back at the sheer deliciousness of the sensation. She ground against him, finding the depth of his penetration to be wildly erotic. She’d have been content to remain there longer, grinding against him, but he finally gasped and gripped her hips, lifting her and letting her sink again, teaching her his rhythm.
As she took to his guidance, he released her hips to skim his hands upward to her breasts and flick the taut peaks with his thumbnails. With both hands free, he worked a sensual magic on her, intensifying her arousal and sending her spiraling higher. She emitted an involuntary sound, half pain, half pleasure, as the quaking began inside her.
Charles must have felt the first stirrings of her tremors because he thrust hard, his hips rising off the bed to impale her inescapably. “Charles! Oh, Charles. Oh, yes!”
She could feel the power of his release inside her and collapsed on him, her loosened hair tumbling around them.
“Georgie, ah, my sweet, sweet Georgie. Will I ever have enough of you?” Still joined, he rolled with her until he had the superior position. “That just dulled the urgency, Georgie. Now let’s get down to business.”
He began to move inside her again, growing longer and thicker with alarming speed, her own arousal building apace. Resting his weight on his elbows, he brushed her hair away from her face and grinned.
“You surprise me,” he whispered, still moving within her. “And I am not easy to surprise.”
She smiled and stretched her arms above her head as she lifted her knees to encase his hips. “You make me feel beautiful, Charlie. And unafraid. And confident that you will not chastise me for my boldness.”
His gaze never left hers. “I will never chastise you for that. I will thank God every night for it.”
And before she could think better of it, she uttered the words she had guarded so long. “I love you, Charles Hunter. I always have.”
“Ah, Georgie.” He sighed, and she imagined a hint of sadness in the words.
He quickened his pace and she writhed beneath him, seeking to take all of him and to bind him to her for eternity but knowing it was just for tonight. Tomorrow? Why, tomorrow would likely see an end to all her foolish dreams.
* * *
The next morning Charles was barely aware of his surroundings as his coach stopped outside the Home Office and he stepped down. “Do not wait, Peters,” he called to his driver. “I will not need you again today.”
As the coach pulled away, he was distracted by thoughts—memories, actually—of last night and of Georgiana. She’d been surprisingly eager and deeply sensual. He had not rung for dinner to be brought until sometime near midnight and then they’d fallen back into bed. He’d held her and they’d succumbed to the deep dreamless slumber of utter exhaustion.
And still, his every instinct told him that she was hiding something. Afraid of something. He wanted to reassure her and tell her that everything would come aright, but he very much feared it wouldn’t. If Foxworthy was released today, Georgiana would be arrested by tomorrow. And then it would be too late to save her.
The laudanum bottle still weighted his greatcoat pocket. He’d forgotten about it again last night, and he could not throw it away in daylight. He might be seen and remarked upon, or the bottle could be retrieved by some observant boatman. He would have to find a safer way to dispose of it.
From the right corner of his eye, he caught a flurry of motion. Instinct drove him to lunge right and turn. Something caught in the fabric of his jacket and ripped through. The slash of a knife bit into his skin and a searing pain slashed across his left rib cage. When he reached to catch the hand that held the knife, the wound opened wider and the pain nearly doubled him over. If he could not rally, he was a dead man. The sound of shouting and running feet reached him and, even as the man pulled away, a whiff of the sewer revealed his identity.
“Gibbons!”
His admission was a deep snarl. “Blast ye, Hunter! Ye’ve got more lives than a cat.” He crouched, his arms out to his sides as he measured for another attack. “Ye done this to spite me, didn’t ye, ye blighter?”
Done what? What the—
“I mighta let ye go, but now yer gonna have t’ die.”
The wicked looking blade came up again and slashed outward to define an arc across what would have been Charles’s belly if he hadn’t ducked and slipped under Gibbons’s arm to come up behind him. He knew better than to get close enough for the man to make another cut. He already felt the wet flow of blood down his side.
“You came looking for me, Gibbons. I’ve done nothing to you.”
“Ye killed my brother.”
“Is this about Artie? Damn, Gibbons! You shot me and killed Booth. I was home having a ball dug out of my shoulder. I couldn’t have killed him.”
“’Twere one of yer brothers, then. Or Farrell. I’ll kill ye all.”
“You’ll be dead first.”
A wild gleam lit Gibbons’s eyes. “Yer blood will cover the street, Hunter. Count on it.”
“Empty threats, Gibbons.”
Gibbons’s filthy lip curled, his anger making him incautious.
Charles rallied for another lunge and knocked Gibbons’s arm out of the way. But the knife was a part of him and he did not release it.
Gibbons loomed over him, hatred in every line of his body. He was getting ready to slash when he glanced up and scowled, then broke into a run. Charles followed the moment Gibbons turned and made for an alleyway.
Richardson rushed by him. “You’re hurt. Stay out of the way!”
Hurt? Charles stopped long enough to feel his side, now stinging like fury, and when he looked up they were gone. A crowd had begun to gather and Wycliffe took his arm to drag him inside the building.
“The bastard will not give up,” he muttered.
Once they were in Wycliffe’s office, he shrugged out of his jacket and waistcoat to examine the damage. His white shirt was stained with blood along his left side. He pulled the tattered remains from his waistband and bared the flesh
. Not deep, but wide. The blood was already beginning to thicken to a sticky consistency.
Wycliffe took the whiskey bottle from his desk drawer and poured some on his handkerchief. “Good God, Hunter. Are you trying to make Georgiana a widow already?”
Charles winced as Wycliffe applied the handkerchief to his side. “I’ve been trying to kill the sod for months now. He’s slippery. Knows every hole and crib in Whitechapel. He’s been invisible for the past six months, and now he’s coming after me every time my back is turned. He must be desperate to have me dead.”
Wycliffe called his clerk and told him to bring a shirt for Charles, then turned back to him. “We are getting closer to finding where he’s been holing up. We have it narrowed down to three blocks near Halfpenny Lane.”
“You will let me know when you get to within one block?”
“Our usual informants will not talk. They are afraid of Gibbons. They know he’ll come after them if he suspects they’ve betrayed him.”
Charles inspected his side again. With the blood cleaned, he could see that the cut should have stitches but would heal without them. Bandages would suffice. He wondered how he would explain this to Georgiana. She’d be certain her “curse” was responsible.
Wycliffe wound gauze strips around him several times and secured the end by tucking it in the folds. His clerk returned with a clean shirt and Wycliffe tossed it to him. “Have Crosley return it to my house, will you?”
Charles laughed. “Does this confirm the rumors that you live here?”
Wycliffe grinned. “I’ve found it is always convenient to have a fresh change of clothes. I believe I might have a jacket that would fit you, though not a waistcoat.”
Charles tucked the shirt into his breeches. “I’ll take the jacket and be grateful. What news have you?”
Wycliffe scribbled a few lines on a piece of paper and pushed it across the desk. “That’s Hathaway’s address. He’s rented a room there. The watch hasn’t seen him yet. And—” he sighed and shot Charles a worried look “—Foxworthy was released this morning with a warning to stay away from your wife. Charles, it won’t be long before she is arrested. Tonight or tomorrow morning, likely.”
A Daring Liaison Page 21