Impetuous Innocent (Regencies 3)

Charles laughed mirthlessly, his eyes never leaving her face. “What I want. Your hand in marriage.” Then his gaze slid slowly over her. “Among other things.”

His tone made Georgiana feel physically ill. She forced herself to sip her tea calmly, drawing what strength she could from the strong black brew. Her mind wandered frantically amid the pieces of the puzzle but could not make out the picture.

“Not worked it out yet?”

Charles’s taunt broke into her mental meanderings. She looked at him coldly.

He smiled, enjoying her obvious discomfort. He leant back in his chair, balancing it on its back legs. “I’ll spell it out for you, if you like.”

Georgiana decided that, however distressful, knowing his plans had to be her primary aim. So she allowed a look of patent interest to infuse her features.

Charles’s lips twisted in a gloating grin. “My plan is quite simple. We arrived here just as the accommodation coach was unloading. You were seen entering this inn with me by at least two people who know you. That, in itself, will cause only minor comment. However, when we leave here tomorrow morning, while the northbound accommodation coach passengers are breakfasting in the main room downstairs, I feel certain the sight of you leaving at such an early hour with me, without the benefit of maid or baggage, is going to raise quite a few brows.”

Georgiana’s heart sank as she pictured the scene. He was right, of course. Even she knew what a scandal such a sighting would provoke, regardless of the truth of the matter.

“So, you see, after that you’ll have little choice but to accept my proposal.” Charles’s grin turned decidedly wicked.

Georgiana had had enough. Carefully replacing her cup on the tray, she wiped her hands on the napkin and then, laying the cloth aside, fixed her cousin with a determined stare. “Charles, I have no idea why you are so set on marrying me. You don’t even like me.”

At that, he laughed. Hand over heart, he bowed from the waist mockingly. “I assure you, sweet Georgie, I’ll manage to drum up enough enthusiasm to convince all and sundry of what took place here.”

Georgiana shook her head slowly. “It won’t work, you know. I won’t marry you. There’s no reason why I should.”

The cynical twist of Charles’s lips told her she had not heard all of his plan. “I hesitate to correct you, fair cousin, but, unless you want the Winsmeres mired in scandal, you’ll most certainly marry me. It won’t have escaped the notice of the gossip-mongers that you’re supposedly in their care.”

Involuntarily, Georgiana’s lip curled. “You really are despicable, you know.”

To her surprise, her tone was perfectly controlled. In fact she felt strangely calm. The lack of expression in Charles’s cold eyes sent shivers up and down her spine. But now her own, usually latent temper was on the rise. It had been one thing when he had threatened her; to threaten her friends was another matter entirely. She folded her hands and met his gaze unflinchingly. “Be that as it may, I repeat, I will not marry you. Unless things have changed rather dramatically in England, I suspect you still need me to speak my vows. That being so, if you persist in your plan to ruin my reputation, then, when I leave here, I will stop at Green

Street only long enough to pick up my luggage and servants. I’ll return to Ravello.” Summoning a disaffected shrug, she lifted her chin and added, “I always meant to go back eventually. And, with me gone, no scandal of any magnitude will touch Bella and Arthur.”

For one long moment, Charles stared at her, eyes quite blank. It had never occurred to him, when he had planned this little campaign, that his prey would simply refuse to co-operate. Having seen her riding high in the social whirl, the threat of a catastrophic fall from grace had seemed an unbeatable card. Now, looking into hazel eyes that held far too much calmness, Charles knew he was facing defeat. Typically, he chose to counter with the usual threat of a bully. With a low growl, he rose menacingly, his chair falling back with a clatter on the floor.

Georgiana’s eyes widened in dismay. She felt trapped, unable to move, caught and transfixed by the animosity which poured from Charles’s eyes. Not until then had she realised just how much he disliked—nay, hated—her. She stopped breathing.

Charles was poised to come around the table, muscles tensed to lay ungentle hands on her, when the unlikely sound of quiet applause broke across Georgiana’s strained senses. She turned towards the door.

Deafened by his anger, Charles only turned after seeing her attention distracted.

The sight that met their eyes was, to Georgiana, as welcome as it was unbelievable. The door lay open. Absorbed in their mutual revelations, neither had heard the click of the latch. Leaning against the door-frame, his greatcoat open and negligently thrown over his shoulders to reveal the elegance of his attire, Lord Alton surveyed the room. Having successfully gained the attention of both its occupants, he smiled at Georgiana and, pushing away from the door, strolled towards her.

In a daze, Georgiana stood and held out her hand, bemused by the sudden turn of events. Blue eyes met hers, conveying warming reassurance and something else—something very like irritation. Bewildered, Georgiana blinked.

Dominic took her hand and bowed over it, then placed it on his arm and covered it comfortingly with his own large hand. “Miss Hartley. I am here, as arranged, to convey you back to town.”

Georgiana’s eyes flew to his and read the silent message there. The warmth of his hand banished her fears. She had complete confidence in him.

With an encouraging smile, Dominic turned and, seeing her cloak, released her to fetch it.

The action broke the spell which had held Charles immobile. His normal pasty complexion had paled at the sight of his childhood nemesis. Now his face flooded with unbecoming colour. “You’re out of order, Ridgeley,” he ground out through clenched teeth. “My cousin is in my care. And she’s not returning to London.”

Settling Georgiana’s cloak about her shoulders, Dominic raised his brows in fascinated contemplation of the thinly veiled threat. His gaze met Charles’s squarely, then wandered insultingly over the younger man’s frame. Dominic Ridgeley was a man in his prime, a noted Corinthian, five years older, three inches taller and two stone of sheer muscle heavier than Charles Hartley. And Charles knew it.

To Georgiana’s intense relief, he dropped his eyes, blanching, then flushing again. Bella’s brother tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and patted it comfortingly.

“Come, my dear. My carriage is waiting.”

By some magical machination, Georgiana found herself escorted gently but firmly out of the inn by a route which exposed her to no one other than the innkeeper, bowing obsequiously as they passed. Handed into the same luxuriously appointed coach that she had used on her previous visit to the inn, she sank back against the fine leather with a small sigh of relief tinged with disillusionment. The search for her mother’s portrait had nearly ended in nightmare.