The Fortune Hunter

by Diane Farr

  A timid cough sounded from the doorway. The aproned individual stood there, still looking rather harried. “I beg pardon, gentlemen—oh, and yours, milady—but I’ve shown the other females to the coffee room as you bade me, and my good wife was wondering if you was all staying to dinner. Or if you was wanting rooms,” he added, brightening a little at the thought.

  “Both, I think,” said Olivia. “It’s growing quite late.” She bestowed a reassuring smile upon the nervous landlord, indicating her brother with a wave of her hand. “Lord Badesworth will pay for any breakage or damage sustained to this room. And we do beg your pardon for whatever trouble we have caused.”

  The landlord looked relieved. “Thank you, milady, I’m sure. My wife was fair bewattled, thinking the gentlemen would murder each other right here on the premises—which, I’m sure you understand, is not the sort of thing we are accustomed to.”

  “No, certainly not,” said Olivia sympathetically. “Anyone can see that you run a respectable establishment.”

  The landlord bowed, seeming much mollified. He then cast an uneasy glance at Lord Badesworth. “I hope the gentleman is not injured, ma’am. Should I call for a surgeon, or—or anything of that nature?”

  “I think not,” said George, flicking an imaginary speck of dust from his sleeve. “What this country needs, of course, is a police force. But absent that—”

  The landlord looked shocked. “Police? Oh, no, sir, begging your pardon. This is England.”

  He scurried off to order their dinner and George drew a chair up to where Ralph still sat on the floor. He placed one booted foot on the seat of the chair and leaned one arm on his knee.

  “Now, then,” he said pleasantly, looking down into the truculent face glowering up at him. “We are going to discuss your marriage, Lord Badesworth. None of my affair, you will say, but you have seen fit to make it my affair. You have dragged my name into it, Badesworth, and I want an explanation. And while we are discussing your marriage,” he added, “we may as well discuss its future. I don’t think Lady Badesworth will be returning to your care, sir.” His voice became silky. “In fact, I will personally guarantee that she does not.”

  19

  She had been expecting a miserly little hip bath. Instead, one of the largest bathtubs it had ever been her pleasure to encounter had been carried to her room and filled for her. Olivia sank nearly to her chin in the steaming water and sighed with bliss. There was nothing quite like a hot bath at the end of a long day, particularly a day spent traveling in an open carriage. Olivia had lavishly ordered baths for everyone in her party. The expense would be well worth it. Bessie’s stiff muscles would be soothed, Edith’s anxiety would melt away, and George—oh, dear. The bath seemed to grow hotter when she thought of George.

  The inn had only had three rooms available, and one private parlor. Ralph had immediately removed himself from the premises and headed back toward London rather than share a room with Lord Rival, and Olivia was hopeful that they had seen the last of Ralph for the time being. Bessie seemed to have a calming effect upon Edith, so Edith and Bessie were sharing the largest of the three rooms. Olivia’s room was two doors down from theirs. George had been placed, with the landlord’s profuse apologies, in a small and noisy room over the kitchen. He assured the landlord that he was inured to hardship and could sleep through anything. Remembering that, Olivia chuckled. Lord Rival did not have the appearance of one who was inured to hardship. She supposed he equated Tom purring at his feet with the racket of a public kitchen.

  She rested her head against the rim of the tub and let her eyes drift shut. Steam curled around her, fragrant with the scent of lavender. One by one, her muscles seemed to loosen. This, she thought lazily, was the best moment of the day. Unless one counted all the moments when she had touched George. They had touched frequently today, and each tiny contact seemed to brand itself into her skin. She wondered for a moment what it would be like to combine the two experiences . . . a hot bath and George Carstairs. What would happen if George walked into her room right now? At any other time, lascivious thoughts about Lord Rival would make her blush. Here in the bath, warm and loose and safe, such imaginings made her smile.

  She lifted one leg out of the bathwater and regarded it, arching her foot. Water streamed down her calf in little rivulets. She had always wished that fashion allowed a lady to show her legs. Hers were long and slim and smooth, prettily shaped, and—so far—utterly wasted. No man had ever seen them. She wondered now whether Lord Rival one day would. The thought frightened her a little, and not just because it was outrageous. She hated the idea of exposing her pathetic claims to beauty to a man who had viewed the charms of so many women. So many beautiful women.

  She submerged herself again, shivering a little. Spicing up one’s life was all very well, but one had one’s pride. She must never make herself that vulnerable to George.

  Was she winning the strange little game they were playing? She supposed she was. He had enlivened her existence, just as she had hoped. Rather more than she had hoped, actually . . . but the sense of growing danger added to the excitement. And she had not agreed to marry him. So she must be winning.

  The problem was, some mad corner of her being wished that she would lose.

  What a masterful man he was, she thought dreamily. She generally disliked the masterful types, but George—ah, George broke all the rules. And after today’s experiences, the advantages of having such a powerful man at her side were glaringly obvious. Ralph would never have let three mere women shame him into civility. He had left in a huff, but he had left—and without his wife. For that, they had George to thank. It was the force of Lord Rival’s personality, his rank, and probably his proven ability to land a solid punch, that had won Ralph’s grudging cooperation. Really, it was marvelous. Bad Lord Badesworth had not only left without injuring Edith, he had agreed to stay away from her until some formal arrangement could be made for her protection. Edith had actually wept with gratitude; it was all Olivia could do to prevent her from kissing George’s hand as if he were a saint.

  A small frown creased Olivia’s forehead as she replayed that scene in her mind. She had to admit, she disliked the idea of Edith physically demonstrating her gratitude to George. She didn’t want Edith kissing his hand—or any other part of him. It had been upsetting enough to see Edith pressed against George after he had knocked Ralph senseless. She had no wish to witness such a spectacle again. Ever.

  Not that there was anything she could do about it.

  Olivia moved restlessly in the water, mulling over that unpleasant thought. She had no right to complain, whatever George did or whoever touched him. George was offering her the right, but she had steadfastly refused it. At some point—some not very distant point—he would leave her and move on to the next heiress on his list. He had made that brutally clear. He would soon be dancing attendance on some other lady. Some other lady would enjoy his smiles, his attentions, his delightful company. His kisses. Would she mind?

  Yes, she would mind. Terribly. Olivia’s frown deepened and she sat up, wringing her washcloth with a vicious emphasis. There was no blinking the fact. She was going to hate it when George moved on. And she was going to hate the lucky lady he moved on to.

  The water had grown cold, as bathwater inevitably does. Olivia shivered as the air hit her. She began scrubbing herself in a brisk and businesslike manner. High time she finished her bath and dressed for dinner. She had been lolling about, indulging dangerous trains of thought, for too long.

  Dinner had been ordered for her party in the very room where George had felled Ralph just a few hours ago. Olivia was the first to arrive. The table had been righted and fresh linen spread, and the landlord, eager to do justice to the occasion—since it was rare for his little inn to house members of the peerage—had whisked all the pewter accouterments away and replaced them, somehow, with a decent grade of porcelain. He bowed Olivia nervously into the room, begging her to excuse the candlesticks, which did
not match the dishes. She smiled and promised him that everything looked lovely. He then began making apologies for the dinner he was about to set before her, since, on such short notice, his wife had been unable to acquire or prepare the elaborate dishes she deemed appropriate for persons of their rank. He would have enumerated all the courses that awaited, and confided far more than she wished to know about their procurement and preparation, had the door not opened to admit Lord Rival. At that moment, either the landlord fell silent or Olivia no longer heard him.

  George was clad in his morning costume, less the driving coat, but he had apparently had his clothing brushed clean and pressed for him, and his boots polished to a high gloss. And somehow, he had procured fresh linen. A clean shirt and neckcloth gleamed white at his neck and wrists. His appearance was immaculate, and he carried himself with an elegant poise that made the wearing of morning clothes to dinner seem de rigueur.

  Dear saints in heaven, the man was handsome. More than handsome. There was that certain something about him that simply brought her to her knees—metaphorically speaking, of course. Did he have this effect on every female? She supposed, rather forlornly, that he did.

  Well. Even if she were inclined to marry—which, of course, she was not—the last man on earth she would want to marry would be Lord Rival. Fancy having to live with a man that handsome! He simply could not help attracting women the way honey attracts flies. His bride’s life would be a torment. An absolute torment.

  On the other hand, Olivia’s life was a torment now.

  Then he strolled forward, a light in his eyes that seemed to be for her and her alone, and Olivia felt her breath catch in her throat. A very foolish smile trembled on her lips. Hating herself for her weakness, she allowed him to bow over her hand. As he bowed, his eyes twinkled with sly mischief.

  “Alone at last,” he murmured, low enough to escape the landlord’s hearing.

  She blushed and pulled her hand away. “How absurd you are. The others will arrive at any moment.”

  “On the contrary.” He turned to indicate the landlord, who, in his capacity as waiter, was busily clearing half the dishes off the table. “It seems Miss Fairfax and Lady Badesworth have sent their regrets, and requested that trays be sent up to their room. Your sister-in-law is still feeling a trifle overset by the events of the day, and Miss Fairfax looked all in when I saw her last.”

  “Yes, she did. Poor Bessie. What a miserable journey that must have been for her.” Olivia was glad to hear that her voice sounded quite normal, not flustered in the least. She was feeling decidedly flustered. Dinner alone with George was not what she had bargained for. In fact, she suspected that dining alone with a single gentleman was indecent. Since the gentleman in question was George, it was almost assuredly indecent. She glanced uncertainly at him. “I wonder if we ought to follow their example, my lord?”

  Devils danced in his eyes. “Have our dinner sent up to your room? Certainly, if you insist.”

  She bit her lip and threw an agonized look at the landlord, but it was clear he had not heard George’s sally—thank goodness. Occupied in balancing his dishes, he was bustling back out the door.

  It struck her that the landlord, an eminently respectable man, seemed to think nothing of her dining alone with Lord Rival. Perhaps she was making a mountain of a molehill. She tapped her foot against the wooden floor, thinking hard. Could she justify dining with George? Did she even want to? The risks were high . . . on several levels . . . but it might be worth it.

  The door closed behind the landlord. She was alone with George. She cast him a sidelong glance. He was, predictably, completely at ease—and laughing at her. Olivia sighed and rolled her eyes. “I know I am being missish,” she observed crossly. “I can’t help it. As a female, I can’t afford to ignore the proprieties the way you do.”

  “When you are eighty, my dear Olivia, and look back on your life, you should have a few racy memories to warm your heart.” He winked. “I’m here to provide them. Don’t waste your opportunity.”

  An unwilling smile tugged at her lips. “This very morning—my word, how long ago it seems!—you proposed dining alone with me, and I refused you.”

  “Yes, you have a habit of refusing my proposals. But I’m a persistent chap.” He walked to the table and pulled a chair out for her. “Pray sit down, dear lady, and give me the pleasure of your company. I promise to do nothing outrageous.”

  She moved forward and allowed him to seat her. “Your notion of outrageous and mine probably do not coincide,” she said ruefully. “But I suppose it would be shabby to refuse you, after all you have done for me this day.”

  “In that case, I won’t tell you what a pleasure it was to help you.” He strolled over to the seat across from her and sat down.

  “It is your kindness that makes you say so. It can’t be your idea of pleasure to be . . . commandeered and forced to drive to Brighton! With no luggage, too. And then to have to deal with Ralph at the end of it! I am quite sunk with shame when I think of the trouble I have caused you.”

  He eyed her with amusement. “Chalk it up to my service to the school.”

  She looked away, uncomfortable. She disliked recalling that she held that power over him. “I will, if you wish,” she said lightly, “but I don’t believe either of us were thinking of the school when I brazenly dragged you into my family squabbles.”

  “Never mind. I found it instructive—furthering my acquaintance with Lord Badesworth.” His mouth twisted wryly. “I have not forgotten the tales you told me about your father. If your opinion of the male sex is based on these two specimens, I obviously have a hard row to hoe.”

  She smiled. “It’s true that old impressions die hard. But I have come to realize, over the years, that the men of my family do not represent the entire spectrum of manhood.”

  Unexpected emotion suddenly choked her as she mentally compared Ralph and her father to the knight in shining armor seated across the table from her. She suddenly felt that her cynical view of his motives was mean and petty, and had blinded her to his innate heroism.

  She leaned forward impulsively and touched his hand. “All joking aside, George—I don’t know how to thank you,” she said softly. “I don’t know what we would have done without you today. I don’t care why you did it. You rode to my rescue without a backward look or a second thought, and I will never forget it.”

  His hand covered hers for a moment, all amusement wiped from his expression. Although he was touching her, he looked away. It seemed to her that the remoteness she had seen in him earlier returned, as if he were listening to faraway voices. He frowned, and seemed to speak with an effort. “You needn’t thank me. It is I who am grateful. You have given me a chance to . . .” His voice trailed off. “To lay some old ghosts to rest.”

  Olivia almost stopped breathing; she was so afraid of shattering this moment. Would he confide in her? She longed to know something about him. It occurred to her that she had fallen into the habit of thinking she knew him well when, actually, he was an enigma. She knew nothing whatever of his past, and little of his present. But for the places where his life touched her own, she did not know him at all.

  His urbanity, as always, surfaced quickly and he smiled at her again. “You haven’t even asked me why I flattened your brother.”

  “Half brother,” she responded automatically. “I assume he insulted you. Or offered you violence.”

  “No,” said George quietly. “I’m afraid I haven’t that excuse.” She looked inquiringly at him and he gave her a wry smile. “Most people, I suppose, have hidden triggers that cause an explosion when pulled. Lord Badesworth unwittingly pulled one of mine.”

  “Heavens. How did he find time to pull a trigger? I arrived barely ten seconds behind you, and Ralph was already on the floor.”

  “It’s a hair trigger,” George explained. “Fires immediately when touched.”

  “I see.” She smiled a little. “Perhaps you should tell me what it is before I i
nadvertently run into danger.”

  He gave a short laugh. “You won’t. What fires it is seeing a bully terrorize someone weaker than himself.” His features hardened. “When I arrived on the scene, Lord Badesworth was attempting to gag his wife. He was stuffing a piece of cloth in her mouth—a handkerchief, I believe. He had pinned her into a wooden chair with his knee, and was stuffing the cloth in her mouth with one hand while pulling her hair with the other. Pulling her hair to force her chin up, you understand.” He paused, then spoke very softly. “I’m afraid I lost my temper.”

  “Merciful saints,” whispered Olivia, horrified. “I would have, too. What did you do?”

  “I’m not sure.” His eyes lit with dark humor. “Whatever action I took, it was apparently prompt and effective. But I fear it may not have been gentlemanly.”

  “Gentlemanly? It was heroic,” exclaimed Olivia. “I am more grateful to you than ever. I think it was perfectly splendid of you to rescue Edith. Why, you barely know her!”

  “True.” His urbanity once more slipped a little. “But I have known—others in her predicament.” The rueful smile flashed again. “These triggers in a man’s soul do not appear at random. They are created.”

  Olivia felt that she had caught a glimpse beneath the polished veneer that Lord Rival showed the world, and she craved more. However, the landlord entered with the soup tureen and their conversation shifted, perforce, to more general topics.

  Yet the sense of new intimacy they had established remained. Olivia tasted little of her dinner, so absorbed was she in her conversation with George. Dishes were brought, dishes were removed, glasses filled and emptied, but the two of them seemed as alone as if they sat together on some private island. The table was drawn near the hearth, where a wood fire popped and crackled, warming them. Candlelight sparkled in the cut glass, making the wine glow as if lit from within. And across from her sat the embodiment of all her fantasies, separated from her only by the width of the narrow table. As they talked and laughed, the evening took on a dreamlike quality. Olivia could never afterward recall what they had talked about over that meal, but she never forgot the way George looked and moved and sounded. Sometimes he leaned back in his chair, toying with the stem of his wineglass, a half-smile playing across his features. Sometimes he leaned forward, resting an elbow on the white cloth, his dark eyes mesmerizing. Always, a sense of delicious promise was in the air, a tingling connection between them that grew stronger as the evening progressed.