Stranger in My Arms(60)

“Esther,” he said, bending over her hand, holding it a second longer than was strictly proper. Lady Carlysle’s gloved fingers were long and strong, her grip uncommonly firm. He could easily see the appeal of this straightforward woman, who would never require a man to be a hero, only a companion. Except … every man had the urge to be a hero once in a while, to offer a woman his strength and protection … and thousands of years of civilization would never breed that out.

“You heartless knave,” Lady Carlysle murmured, though her brown eyes were warm with affection.

“Why haven’t you come to me? I’ve been waiting ever since I learned of your return from the East.”

She gave his fingers a light squeeze and withdrew her hand.

“I would have chosen a more private moment than this,” he said with a slight smile.

“The time and place wasn’t of my choosing. Our dear Larissa persuaded me, by means of a charming letter, to come here tonight.”

“Did she,” Hunter remarked pleasantly, longing to find his meddling wife and throttle her. “What exactly did she write, Esther?”

“Oh, something along the lines of wanting you to be happy after all you had been through-and believing that I was necessary to your happiness.”

Her gaze met his, her height making it nearly unnecessary for her to look up at him. “Was she right, my lord?” Coming from another woman, the question might have been coy, but she infused it with a quiet earnestness that touched Hunter.

To hell with the ball and the avidly watching guests, he thought suddenly. He would be damned if he’d hurt this woman in front of them all. He had already provided more than enough entertainment for them, and at his own expense.

“Let’s talk,” he said bluntly, taking her elbow and pulling her from the ballroom.

Lady Carlysle gave a low laugh of pleasurable anticipation, accompanying him willingly. “We’re already talking, my dear.”

Hunter took her to the library and closed the doors, surrounding them both in the comforting ambience of oiled wood, the smell of books, leather, and liquor. Turning the key in the lock, he fought a leaden feeling of dread. Silently he cursed Lara for maneuvering him into this situation.

“Esther…” he said, facing her.

She smiled and held out her arms to him. “Welcome home. Oh, it’s been too long.”

Hunter hesitated and went to her. She was an attractive, pleasant woman, but he tesed at the feel of her arms closing around him, her long body matched against his. She wasn’t the one he had desired and dreamed of, and he wouldn’t satisfy himself with anyone other than Lara.

Thankfully Lady Carlysle didn’t attempt to kiss him. She tilted her head back and smiled at him.

“You’re too lean,” she accused. “I miss the way your arms used to feel. It was like being held by a great brawny bear. Promise me you’ll eat beefsteak every night until you’ve filled out again.”

Hunter didn’t return the smile, only stared at her seriously as he sought the words to tell her he had no more interest in her. God, it would have been easy if he disliked her, but the reluctant respect she inspired was a definite hindrance.

As it turned out, explanations weren’t necessary.

Lady Carlysle read it all in his expression, or lack thereof. Her friendly grasp loosened, and then her arms fell away. “You don’t want me, do you?” she asked incredulously.

There was a welter of confusion and pain in her eyes, but somehow Hunter forced himself to meet her gaze. “I want to make a new start with my wife,” he said gruffly.

“With Lara…? Her mouth dropped open. “If you want to be rid of me, Hawksworth, you have only to say so. But don’t insult me with lies.”

“Why shouldn’t I want my own wife?”

“Because she is the last woman you would ever want! I remember the countless times we used to make sport of her. You used to despise such delicate creatures-you said Lara was as spineless and cold as a jellyfish! And now you expect me to believe that you have some sort of feeling for her? She wouldn’t last five minutes with you-she never could!”

“Things have changed, Esther.”

“I should say so,” she retorted. “I…” She stared at him and began to look rather queer, the healthy glow of her skin undercut by an ashen paleness. “Oh, no,” she whispered. “Oh, I should have known…”

“What is it?” Moved by concern, Hunter reached for her, but she twisted away with a sickly gasp. She threw a desperate glance at the door, briefly contemplating escape, but made her way to a chair instead.

She sat down abruptly, as if her legs had been cut from beneath her.

“A drink,” she said, staring at him in open horror.

“Please.”

Hunter knew he should have felt remorse for her obvious distress, but instead he was aware of a biting impatience. Damn you, he thought savagely, how much trouble are you going to make for me? Snatching up a glass from the sideboard, he poured a large brandy and brought it to her, not bothering with the courtesy of warming the snifter between his palms.

Receiving the drink, Lady Carlysle sipped it until the color had returned to her face. “My God,” she said, staring at him over the rim.

“I don’t know why I was fool enough to hope. He didn’t survive the shipwreck. He’s dead. And somehow you’ve taken his place.” Tears glimmered in her eyes, but she dashed them away impatiently. “You’re not Hawksworth. You’re not half the man he was.”