Indiscretions. Gail Ranstrom
a clever little jibe to loosen his tongue. “Ah, the on dit. Well then, you knew, of course, that the Burlington Arcade opened in Piccadilly? Two floors of excellent shopping, or so I’ve been told by my sister. I have been shopping there, myself.”
“No!” She feigned a delightful disbelief. “What did you purchase?”
“Wedding gifts.”
“For whom?”
“Ah, a sad story, that. You knew that Princess Charlotte died after giving birth to a stillborn son?” He waited for her nod. “Yes? Well, it was truly scandalous what happened next.”
“What?”
“Since Prinny has no other heirs, the royal dukes raced to the altar with suitable women in tow. Clarence wed Princess Adelaide, Kent wed Mary Victoria, Cambridge wed Princess Augusta. I vow, ’twas impoverishing me to buy wedding gifts that year. Kent has won the race for England’s future by producing a daughter, Princess Victoria. The entire country is praying for her health. And for a son.”
He had hoped to amuse her, but she turned thoughtful at this news. “Heirs,” she said with a wistful sigh. “They are important, are they not? Do you have an heir, Lockwood?”
“Aye. Three of them. My brothers, Andrew, Charles and James.”
The road veered into the deep canopy of overhanging trees and the night became somehow more intimate without the light of the moon.
“No heirs of your own?” she asked.
“Not yet, Mrs. Hobbs.”
“Do you not want to marry?”
He winced at the surprise in her voice and fought the impulse to tell her the truth—that he couldn’t live a lie. More to the point, that he couldn’t subject an innocent woman to the life he’d led and was still living. That he’d never marry, never risk the revulsion of his wife when she found out who he really was. If he dared to share the truth, she would flee, appalled by his past and the things he’d done. No, he’d have to give her the expected response of half-truths, omissions and lighthearted lies.
“I haven’t reached my ripe old age unattached by avoiding women, Mrs. Hobbs. On the contrary, I’ve been searching high and low for the right one. Ah, the rigors I’ve endured! The disappointments.”
“The rejections?”
“Dozens.”
Now she laughed outright. “I am loath to call you a liar, Lockwood, but that just does not seem possible.”
He shrugged. “I suppose you’d be right. I’ve never actually had the opportunity to propose. I seem to always come up late. My friends snatch up the good ones.”
“Have you ever thought of fighting for the one you love?”
“An interesting concept, that,” he admitted. “Perhaps I have not loved deeply enough to do so. But my sister swears she will choose me a wife if I do not come up with one soon.”
“I shall hope, for your sake, that she has excellent judgment.”
“She does. She is the only one of us married and is the youngest of us all.”
“That must aggravate the matchmaking mamas at Almack’s. Four eligible men, none of them married? You must be the talk of the town.”
Were they? He wouldn’t be surprised. Ah, but he and his brothers had avoided Almack’s for the past five years. The atmosphere was too cloying and the almost unseemly forwardness of mothers desperate to marry off their daughters was too unsettling.
“My dear Mrs. Hobbs, I am more like most men than you’d suspect. Society has become stale and I would like to believe I could find friendship and affection with a woman who would be willing to cast her lot in with mine and, if fortune favors us, have a gaggle of little Hunters. Failing that, my brothers will provide heirs aplenty.”
“Yet I must maintain that the only obstacle to your goal is you. If you wanted a wife, Lockwood, you would have one.” She waved at a gate just off the road. “Here. This is Sea Whisper, my home.”
Ah, this was convenient. Should he tell her that his plantation adjoined her property? He turned the gig down the drive and passed a small gatehouse cottage with a light in one window. Mrs. Hobbs, noting his interest, said, “My housekeeper lives there. This is far enough, my lord. No harm could possibly come to me on my own land.”
He drew up and paused with the reins in his hands. He did not want their ride to end. “Thank you for your company, Mrs. Hobbs.”
She tilted her face up to his and smiled. “Thank you for your escort home, Lord Lockwood.”
In the moonlight filtering through the oaks and cypress, she took his breath away. It had been months—nay, years—since he’d kissed a woman as enticing as this one.
Slowly, allowing her to escape if that were her wish, he bent to her lips. To his profound relief, she did not demur. On some level, she must have been expecting it. The dark fan of her lashes lowered as he hovered, barely touching, unwilling to deepen the contact until he had a response. When her lips parted ever so slightly, he was quick to take the gift she offered. Her mouth tasted of a subtle honey blended with flowers and heat, as delicious as any of her confections.
He met her tongue, shared his fire and hunger with her. A shivering sigh was her only response, as if she were struggling to regain her senses. Dear Lord, he knew he was lost. A single kiss, and he wanted Mrs. Hobbs with an intensity that nearly doubled him over. Wanted to lose himself between her heated thighs, to bury himself inside her and hear her sighs of passion.
Instead, she placed one trembling palm against his chest and pushed him away with a little gasp. “Please, I…that was a mistake, Lockwood. It must never happen again.”
What a sweet little fool she was if she thought they could recork that bottle. Once opened, that particular brew was too intoxicating to leave untasted. But he’d grant her the illusion of control, and he’d wait for the inevitable outcome. Because he had no doubt they would become lovers.
He smoothed a wayward strand of hair back from her cheek and passed her the ribbons. If she was expecting an apology, she was not going to get it, nor would she get a promise it would never happen again. He grinned at her bemusement and stepped down from the gig. Unfastening the reins of his horse, he mounted as she pulled away down the drive.
“Sweet dreams, Mrs. Hobbs,” he called after her.
Gasping, Daphne woke in the middle of the night, sitting up, sweat soaking her thin nightgown and tears dampening her cheeks. She threw her covers back and staggered to her feet, wishing she could cast off the haunting memories as easily.
What had brought them on—the memories of terror and pain she had so carefully buried, suppressed with hard work and denial? Just surviving—keeping William safe from his greedy uncle, preparing him to claim his rightful inheritance and escaping the hangman’s noose—had consumed her days and nights. That had become all she knew of life these last five years.
Then, Lockwood’s kiss! That one small intimacy had awakened the dormant part of her—the woman she had been before Barrett. Before the nightmare marriage and that final bloody night. That she could even think of the sweetness of a kiss again, or the aching of her heart for something she’d never thought to have, was completely unacceptable. She had denied herself for five years. Surely she could deny Lockwood for a few weeks?
Chapter Five
“Y ou’re awfully quiet this morning,” Hannah said. “Did you enjoy the governor’s reception?”
Daphne sighed and continued to roll the pastry dough out until it was paper thin. “It was not as tedious as I feared it would be.”
“About time you got out, I’d say,” Hannah commented as she added wood to the fire beneath the oven. “I wondered how long