A Daring Liaison(26)
He came forward and gave the maid a polite inclination of his head, a nicety most servants were not afforded. “So you are the one responsible for Mrs. Huffington’s impeccable appearance?”
Clara giggled—actually giggled. “Aye, sir. But it’s no problem. Mrs. Huffington could make sackcloth and ashes look stylish.”
“And a good thing that black actually becomes her, eh?”
Clara nearly choked on her laughter. “Oh, sir! You’re a wicked one, you are.”
A wicked one? But Clara’s flirtatious smile belied her words. Then she covered her mouth with both hands, apparently realizing she had overstepped her place.
“I’ve been called worse, Clara,” Mr. Hunter interceded.
Indeed, Georgiana could think of a few names herself.
“But, as you can see, we are just having a nightcap and Mrs. Huffington will be up shortly.”
“Aye, sir,” she said, turning on her heel and heading back out the door.
Mr. Hunter took her hand and led her to a chair, indicating that she should sit. Like her servants, she did as he wished, then cursed herself for complying so readily. What was it about this man that was so compelling?
“I have been thinking, Mrs. Huffington, that we should dispense with the ploy of my being your escort.”
She took a deep breath and nodded, fighting both relief and disappointment. “I am pleased you see the sense in that, Mr. Hunter. It would be quite awkward—”
“Awkward? Yes, I suppose so. Your ‘escort’ sounds as if we are having an affair. In fact, I propose we make it an engagement.”
Engagement? Had he lost his mind? “But...I... Are you mad?”
“Probably. My friends and family will certainly think so. But I cannot think of a more efficient way to prove or disprove your theory of a curse.”
“I think it far more likely that the events were coincidence, or that someone holds a grudge against me or my husbands. And I cannot think why any of this is your concern. Unless... Has your sister asked you to assist me?”
“Sarah? No. The truth is, I find you—”
“Oh! Do not think you can flatter me, sir. I am acutely aware of how you think of me. It is in your eyes and manner. I have not forgotten our earlier acquaintance, and the way you—” She broke off when she saw the flint-hard look enter his eyes.
“Then shall we say that I cannot resist a mystery? You do not have to like me, Mrs. Huffington, nor must I like you. The fact is that you require some assistance with your current situation, and I am prepared to lend it. Although I will grant you that is a daring liason, my reasons are my own. And, you must admit, we have a certain fascination for each other. A certain...je ne sais quoi.”
There it was—last night in his coach. The physical manifestation of their mutual attraction. Physical. Nothing more. “That will not occur again, sir. So if you are lingering in the hopes of finding me unguarded again, disabuse yourself of the notion.”
He laughed as he took her hand to lift her to her feet. He did not step back to accommodate her and she found herself barely an inch from his chest. She looked up, almost afraid of what she’d find in his eyes.
Heat. Smoldering heat. It rushed through her veins, prickled her skin and left her breathless. Fascination. Yes, that was the word for it.
“Come, now, Mrs. Huffington. Since you dislike me so, it should not inconvenience you in the least should something untoward happen to me.”
He lowered his head, his lips moving against hers as he whispered, “With very little effort, we shall be able to give a convincing performance. Whatever is between us, Mrs. Huffington, will pass for affection with just a bit of help from us.”
“I...I...”
“You’re welcome.” He stepped back and headed for the door. “Rest tomorrow, Mrs. Huffington. Monday we shall announce our engagement.”
* * *
Comfortably settled in his favorite chair before the fireplace in the library, Charles read the Times and sipped coffee. Sunday newspapers were filled with all manner of useful information. Auctions, shipping news, birth, death and marriage notices, engagement announcements, the scandals of the day and other news of society were standard fare. Though he had little use for the gossip, he found it convenient to catch up on what was happening in his own circle.
One news article, however, caught his attention. A man had been found murdered in Whitechapel early yesterday morning, his throat slit ear to ear. The report was of a robbery, but from the description, Charles knew it was the man who’d attacked him after he’d taken Georgiana home from the theater. This, then, was the price of failure. Gibbons had stolen back the money he’d paid and killed the man so he couldn’t talk. Charles would have to be even more careful now.