She’d tried to read a few of Aunt Caroline’s—she could not yet think of her as her mother—diaries, but her attention kept wondering at the sameness of Caroline’s days and the loneliness of her nights. When she mentioned Georgiana, it was with the objectivity of an observer, never the fondness of a mother. Georgiana had been daily evidence of Caroline’s shame, and yet she had done her duty and accepted responsibility for her.
She put three journals aside for Lord Carlington, hoping he would not be bored to distraction. She’d chosen one volume where Caroline had mentioned that ‘Owen’ would laugh at something that had happened in the village. She thought he might like to know that Caroline had still thought of him.
In an attempt to escape her ennui, Georgiana donned a bonnet and went down to the back garden to cut some flowers for the foyer and dinner table. She found a pair of pruning shears and a basket in the garden shed adjoining the stable and took the path most likely to lead her to flowers. The grounds were not extensive and she arrived by simply turning a corner around a hedge.
Though it was too early in the year for blooming roses, there were lavish lilac bushes and soft pink and lavender anemone. The sun warmed her skin and she sighed happily. At that moment she could almost believe everything would come aright. She sank to her knees and began taking cuttings of the anemone, hoping there would be enough for a small bouquet for the foyer table.
Her anger at Charles faded as she worked the rich soil and took careful cuttings so she would not deplete the garden. She thought of various ways to mend the rift between them when he came home.
The lilac bushes rustled and she smiled. Perhaps it was a hummingbird looking for nectar, or a robin seeking worms in the soft dirt.
“Aye, yer right pretty, ye are.”
Georgiana squeaked and toppled backward onto her bottom. Before she could scramble to her feet, a man emerged from the bushes. He was rough looking and dirty. The gardener? How long had he been lurking there?
“Who are you?” She gripped the shears in her fist like a weapon.
“Why, I’m yer pa.”
She recognized that voice. She’d heard it in Vauxhall Gardens. She’d almost forgotten him and his “plans” for her. “No, you are not.”
“Aye, yer my gal, right enough. I’ve been watchin’ you yer whole life, Georgie gal. Ever since you was brought back to Kent. Finest thing I ever done. Think it was me, but coulda been Artie. An’ everything we done after was fer you.”
Watching her? And who was Artie? She could not take this in. Could not comprehend what he was saying. But there was something familiar about him, something vaguely disquieting. Yes! He’d been across the street the night of Lord Carlington’s ball, waiting for her and Charles to come out. And she thought she might have seen him before that. In her village in Kent. Hadn’t he once given her a rock candy when she’d gone to market with the cook? All she could remember was that he smelled bad and his teeth were yellowed and broken when he smiled. She had thrown the candy into the bushes on her way back to the manor.
Another brief memory flashed in her mind, and then another, until she wondered how he could have been so present in her life and she not recognize him. The disquieting feelings of being watched, being followed, had been true! He’d been a specter weaving in and out of her entire life. Dear God! Could this horrid man she’d dismissed as a demented villager actually be her father? But Aunt Caroline would never—
“I do not believe you.”
He grabbed her upper arm and squeezed. “Don’t you be gettin’ saucy with me, missy! A gal’s bound to do what her pa says. I’da come sooner but that blasted giant Hunter hired is always in the way.”
She shuddered with revulsion. “Let me go!”
“Not yet, Georgie gal. I got plans fer you. But I gotta get rid of Hunter first. Hunter, fer Christ’s sake! I oughta whip you fer marryin’ him like you done. I warrant he’s ridin’ you hard but you ain’t a tart. You was raised better. That fancy ma of yers saw to that.”
She felt sick to her stomach. Surely she would wake from this nightmare any moment. This horrid man would be gone and his hideous claims would go with him.
“A gal’s bound to do what her pa says. Now that yer ma’s gone, I’m yer boss. D’you understand?”
“Y-yes.” She’d say anything to make him release her.
“That’s better.”
He eased his grip and she stepped back, drawing a deep breath of clean air. “What do you want?”
He smirked, certain he’d won their contest of wills. “Yer comin’ with me. Once I put Hunter outta the way, you’ll marry who I say. No more of them country squires an’ the like. Yer fit fer a duke.” He laughed and slapped his thighs with enjoyment. “T’ think. My whelps is gonna be swells. Aye, the Gibbonses is risin’ in the world.”
She took another step backward. Put Hunter out of the way? The man was quite mad. Caroline would never have allowed a man like that to touch her. But, somehow, he had become obsessed with Georgiana in the village and built a fantasy around being her father. And now that Caroline was dead, he thought he had the right to control her.
She still held the pruning shears in her hand. She tightened her grip and drew her arm back to lend force to her blow.
“Mrs. Hunter!”
Finn’s voice was blessedly near! “Here, Finn!”
The man snarled at her and glanced over his shoulder, backing into the lilac bushes the way he’d appeared. “Looks like I’m gonna have to teach you not to cross yer pa. You ain’t too big to whip. Use the cane on you, I will.”
And then he was gone. She sank to her knees, fighting the tears that were crowding forward and trying to still her trembling.
“Need help with the basket, Mrs. Hunter?” Finn asked as he came around the bend in the path.
“Yes, please.” She took a moment to get to her feet, waiting until she was certain her knees would not fail her and trying not to meet Finn’s discerning eyes, then busied herself by smoothing her skirts and collecting her emotions.
She did not want to tell Finn about the encounter with that horrid man. She did not want to tell anyone what he’d wanted with her. A pack of lies, certainly, but...but she did not want to give them voice. Or was it her own nameless fears that kept her silent? That he could be behind the attacks on Charles. That she, through the obsession of this demented man, could actually be responsible for the deaths of her husbands? That he would keep his promise and come back for her?
* * *
Charles stood at the window in Lord Carlington’s study. How could he tell the man what he suspected? It was bound to be a deep shock, perhaps welcome, perhaps not, but a shock nonetheless.
The door opened and Carlington entered. “Ah! Hunter. I was just going to send for you, lad. Finally heard from my man in the Royal Navy.”
Ah, yes. He’d been going to inquire regarding Georgiana’s supposed father and mother. He’d almost forgotten the offer.
“Sherry? Whiskey? Name your poison, lad. Not too early, eh?”
Charles glanced at the ormolu mantel clock. Five o’clock. “Sherry, I think.” He did not want to arrive home drunk. He still had a few matters to settle with Georgiana. And she would need to hear this news, too.
Carlington poured two glasses and brought one to Charles. “To old friends in the navy,” he toasted.
Charles drank and waited for Carlington to take a seat in a chair by the window. “Like to watch the world go by now and then,” he explained, gesturing to the window and chuckling. “See some of the damnedest things when no one knows you’re watching. Sit, Hunter. Don’t want to drink looking up at you.”
Charles sat in the chair next to him and glimpsed out the window. A very good view, indeed.
“Yes, well, to the point, eh? The Captain George Carson I was recalling could not have been
little Georgiana’s father. Seems he and his wife both went down on his ship. No children. I asked my friend to look into any other Carsons who might fit the bill. No luck. Not yet, anyway.”
Charles hadn’t expected news. He was now certain Carlington could inquire into every Carson ever in the navy and never find Georgiana’s father. “I suspect you will not get the answer we want.”
“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.
Harlequin Historical February 2013 - Bundle 1 of 2: Never Trust a RakeDicing With the Dangerous LordA Daring Liaison Page 69
