A Daring Liaison(10)

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.