A Daring Liaison(15)

“Though I scarcely knew the men, I was quick to assure her that I was more than content with the matches.”

“And were you in actuality?”

“I had no particular objection to them, and Aunt Caroline was so eager for my happiness that I could not disappoint her.”

“Is that why you married so quickly each time?”

“I married because she urged me to. I’d have been perfectly happy to wait for...”

“Wait for what, Mrs. Huffington?”

She sighed and shook her head. “For her death, sir. I would rather have stayed with her and eased her old age, just as she eased my childhood.”

“Is that why you returned to Kent after each of your husbands’ deaths?”

“Yes, and there was nowhere else to go. I could have stayed at Mr. Huffington’s estate, but I was quite alone and did not know anyone in Yorkshire. Aunt Caroline sent for me, and I was happy to go.”

“I must say that I find your equanimity refreshing,” he said. “Most women go on about marrying for love, and yet you managed to find contentment, brief though it was, with two men. And a fiancé?”

She laughed at his assessment. “I was not married long enough to be disappointed, Mr. Hunter. As for love...” She shrugged. “Perhaps that requires a certain fierceness of character that I do not possess. In regard to my...equanimity, I have a practical nature. And practicality tells me that marriages are seldom made for love. They are made for gain, position, consolidation, convenience or simply to produce an heir.”

“So you’ve never loved deeply?”

“Certainly I have. Lady Caroline. My darling spaniel. The memory of my mother and father.”

“But not a man?”

“Once I thought...” There was a long pause before she stopped and looked up at him. “No. Not a man.”

The moment stretched out as Charles wondered what it would be like to be loved by such a woman. If she loved, would she love fiercely?

“Flowers fer the missus?”

He turned to find a young girl staring up at him. She had a small wooden box filled with posies slung around her neck and was holding one made of violets and lily of the valley. Innocent, yet provocative, like Mrs. Huffington. He took a sixpence from his waistcoat pocket and flipped it to the child. She snatched it out of midair and gave him the posy before dashing off down a side street, not even offering change.

Basking in her brilliant smile and with a small bow, he presented the flowers to Mrs. Huffington.

She accepted them and lifted them to sample their fragrance. “Thank you, Mr. Hunter. You are the first to ever give me flowers.”

A muzzle flashed. Instinctively, he pulled Mrs. Huffington into his arms before he dove for the ground. The deafening report of a pistol shattered the night as the bullet whistled past his left ear, and fury filled him.

Bloody hell! The flower girl had been sent to distract him.





Chapter Four




A shrill scream split the air in the echo of the gunshot even as the sound of running feet increased. Help arriving? Or pedestrians escaping the chaos?

Georgiana felt the reassuring weight of Charles Hunter across her, and the rise and fall of his chest against hers, and sighed with relief. He was breathing. He was alive. Thank God.

He lifted himself slightly, as if he was unwilling to expose her if the danger was still present. His glance bored into her, as if searching for signs of injury or hysteria. “Are you...”

“I am well, Mr. Hunter,” she answered, trying to give the impression of aplomb even as she cleared her throat to steady her voice. “And you?”

He grinned and she realized he had anticipated hysteria. He eased himself to the side. “Well enough, Mrs. Huffington.”

“What—”

“Hunter! Good God, man! What happened?”

Mr. Hunter sat up and helped her into a sitting position as Lord Wycliffe and Sir Harry arrived at their side. “’Twould seem buying a lady flowers has become a capital offense.”

Lord Wycliffe’s narrowed gaze swept the surrounding square and paused at each deepened shadow. At a subtle gesture, Sir Harry spun about and headed in the direction from which the shot had come. “No warning?”

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.”