The Smuggler and the Society Bride (7 page)

Gabe had a sudden vision of his brother's perpetually disapproving face. ‘Not really. I don't expect the proper home folk would be too happy if they knew what sort of business brought me here. In fact, it would likely create a scandal that would find me banished from the family forever!'

She'd been smiling at his merry tone, but at that last remark, the humour vanished from her expression as abruptly as if he'd tossed the rest of his ale into her face.

‘Thank you for conversation, Captain. Now, I must finish some commissions for my aunt. Good day.'

Before he could even rise to his feet, she sprang up in a soft swish of skirts and half ran out of the room.

Gabe stared after her, bemused. One moment it seemed he'd coaxed her into being more open and genuine than he'd ever seen her; the next, she'd bolted from the inn. Sipping his ale, he reviewed the last bits of their conversation.

It didn't take long to pinpoint the turning point. His sister, now safely married to a baronet outside Cork, might accuse him of possessing the sensibility of a rock, but even he had noticed that 'twas after his mention of scandal—of being cast out by one's family—that Miss Foxe took flight.

Suddenly her presence in Sennlack began to make more sense. He was already convinced that no one who knew her could have believed she'd be a success as companion to an elderly relative. Appearing hastily in the middle of the Season, with what Tamsyn said had been no warning—no bedchamber ordered to be prepared for her use, nor an extra maid hired—he could see no logical explanation but that there had been some sudden, catastrophic reversal of her family's fortunes. Or a scandal.

One by one, Gabe considered the alternatives. Had her father lost all his money on the 'change, and shot himself, she might react with sensitivity to the idea of a scandal. But the remark that had turned her face pale and made her white about the lips had been his comment about being cast out of the family.

Which seemed to indicate some personal, rather than familial, scandal.

For a beautiful young lady like Miss Foxe, that could mean only one thing: involvement with some rogue and a loss of her virtue.

Might she have been sent here to rusticate after playing fast and loose with her reputation? Cornwall was certainly an ideal place to banish a young lady who had not been as prudent as she should. Gabe himself would never countenance the seduc
tion of an innocent, be she kitchen maid or titled lady, but recalling Miss Foxe's golden hair, rounded bosom, lush lips and satiny skin, he had to feel a certain sympathy for any man who might have been wooing her. With such a prize, intoxicated by her spirit and beauty, a man might forget himself and get carried beyond the bounds of propriety.

The real question was—had
she
forgotten herself?

His much-treasured vision of her at the beach surfaced in his mind again: body outlined by her soggy clothing, the transparent linen leading the eye from her bare, foam-kissed toes up her long, long legs to a rounded swell of belly above a sweet dewy triangle feathered with gold. He could just imagine those legs wrapped around him as he drove into those golden depths.

Gabe, me lad, that's hoisting sail before hauling in the anchor.
He had no proof whatsoever that she'd lost control and her virtue, only a wild conjecture based on her spirited nature and sudden appearance in Cornwall.

Still, a man could hope.

Already she drew him strongly: her smile, her sharp wit, her odd combination of pride and vulnerability. And she had tantalized his body from the start. If she were no longer an innocent maid, there would be no need to refrain from seeing if she'd be equally susceptible to dallying with another rogue. And he was just the man to find out.

Suddenly the dull days of waiting, marooned in Sennlack until the next cargo was ready to be fetched, looked more appealing.

H
onoria practically ran for the door, aware of Mr Hawksworth's puzzled gaze following her, the words he'd tossed out with such levity still cutting into her heart like a sabre's slash…creating a scandal that would banish one from one's family forever.

She halted outside the door, trying to calm her racing pulse. He must indeed come from ‘proper folk,' for that one phrase, obviously meant to be lightly taken, validated his good character more than anything else he could have said. A rogue comfortable operating outside the law would never have conjured up such a remark, and only one secure in the backing of one's family could speak so slightingly of losing that support.

Perhaps no one fully understood the true value of one's place within a protective, encircling clan, until one lost it.

Still, she'd acted like a looby, running off like that. She'd been trying to discourage him by assuming an overbearing, disdainful manner, not scare him away from a crazy woman.

Perhaps she'd be more successful at the latter than she'd been at the former. Her thoughts still too much in disorder to sort out, she pushed them, and questions about the all-too-attractive free-trader, from her mind and went off to carry out
her aunt's commissions. By the time she'd dropped by several shops and stopped to dispatch some letters at the post, her nerves had steadied.

Her last errand took her to the draper's shop that stood on a rise to the north of town, overlooking the harbour. After handing over her aunt's order for cloth and lace—suspicious now about the origin of those items—she walked out, pausing to gaze down at the cove where a dozen ships rode at anchor. Some were obviously fishing craft, but several vessels, sleek of line and with sails reefed and ready, looked as if they were straining at their mooring lines, yearning to sprint into the freshening breeze. One of them must be the
Flying Gull.

Unbidden, the memory of the captain's handsome face flashed into her mind. What had possessed her to speak so frankly? She was supposed to be discouraging him, an unsuitable man far below her in station. Though she was not yet sure what her eventual station would be. Was a disgraced gentlewoman still a gentlewoman? Maybe she had fallen to the level of a common smuggler.

Whatever his station, he'd not been easy to discourage.

Curiosity sparked as she considered his behaviour. Now that she thought about it, Captain Hawksworth was rather well-spoken. Much better-spoken, in fact, than any common seaman or soldier she'd ever heard.

Might he be the son of a gentleman? When she added his genteel speech to the polish of his manners with Aunt Foxe and the innkeepers, she could not help but conclude he must have sprung from the gentry.

Who was he, then? His birth could not be too elevated, certainly, or he'd never be here doing what he was doing. Though the words were meant to be humorous, the fact that he'd mentioned being banished—though not yet entirely—seemed to indicate he might be the black-sheep son of some baronet or squire. Or perhaps he was related to the peerage, but born on the wrong side of the blanket?

The natural antagonism of being raised a bastard—blood to wealth and power but barred from claiming it himself—might explain the curious dichotomy of his thinking: suffering no qualms of conscience about breaking smuggling laws, but drawing the line at inciting bloodshed to bring in his illegal cargoes.

Whoever he was, he probably was not the equal of Lady Honoria Carlow. But he might well be on a level with a Miss Foxe.

Honoria found that conclusion both disturbing and intriguing.

Still, what had possessed her to confide in him? It had been easy enough to depress his pretentions when he tried to ply her with absurd gallantries. But when he abruptly switched to sincere compliments that seemed to approve her actions, and serious inquiries that suggested he was genuinely curious about the girl behind the outward mask of beauty, then he'd succeeded in luring her to speak candidly even as his nearness intensified the strong physical pull she'd been trying to ignore.

There was just something about his smile, she recalled, that invited her to share his humour. About his eyes, so intensely blue she could understand Tamsyn's tendency to poetry. His gaze seemed to penetrate beneath the surface, to see not just golden hair and china-blue eyes, a well-curved body and smooth skin, but down to the questing, turbulent, passionate, unsettled soul within. And not just to see, but to
like
what he saw. She'd been suffused by this deep, instinctive sense of connection, this feeling that he knew and understood her as no one but Hal ever had.

In fact, Captain Hawksworth reminded her vividly of her brother: strong, dashing, going his own way independent of family, a bit of a rogue walking the fine line between propriety and disgrace. Could the Hawk become as good a friend to her as Hal had always been?

Nonsense, she thought, reining in her runaway thoughts. 'Twas sheer loneliness pushing her in this absurd direction.
She'd been away from Society too long, stripped of anyone of an age in whom she might confide. She was a candidate for Bedlam indeed if she was beginning to cast a rogue Irish smuggler into the role of friend and confidant.

Especially when he'd not only managed with embarrassing ease to level the barriers of her hauteur, but called forth from her a potent physical response that intensified each time she met him. Just an hour ago at the inn, even not knowing who or what he was, she'd been so tempted to touch his hand, to see if the mere pressure of her fingers against his would elicit another spark like the one that had blazed through her when he took her arm in the churchyard on Sunday. She'd had to wrap her fingers around her mug to resist the urge.

With her emotions still at such a low ebb and her ability to resist his charm so demonstrably weak, she must avoid casting Gabriel Hawksworth in the role of friend. She didn't think she could bear the crushing disappointment such a naïve hope was almost certain to make her suffer.

Resolutely turning away from the sea, she thrust her hand into the small secret pocket in the lining of her cloak—and felt the stone, still there where someone had put it the night of her disgrace. A bit of clear, polished glass, facetted on one side almost like diamond, smooth but unfinished on the other.

She hadn't discovered it until several days after that night, but immediately recognized the significance. She, who had been a Diamond of the Ton, now was worthless as glass.

It had to have been placed there by the same someone who had gone to such pains to set up her disgrace in the garden, someone calculating and thorough enough to make sure her ruin was complete, someone who knew her family well enough to gage their reaction.

But who?
For the first time since that night, she forced herself to consider events so painful and distressing that until this moment, she'd not been able to bear examining them.

She and Anthony had had a sharp quarrel earlier that day,
he pressing her to accept as an engagement gift a heavy, ornate diamond parure that had been in his family for generations. Although supposing in the end she couldn't refuse, Honoria hadn't wanted it—especially not after having found a much finer, more delicate and intricately wrought set in the jeweller's shop. The disagreement led to harsh words: she accusing him of not caring what she preferred, he accusing her of thinking always of her own pleasure, heedless of tradition and the feelings of family.

Still angry that night, she'd looked forward to flirting outrageously at the ball they were both to attend, to punish him for speaking so unkindly. Then Anthony ruined her plans by not being present to become annoyed and jealous. So she'd been relieved—and touched—when a footman brought her a verbal message begging her to meet him in the garden, where he would show her a surprise he knew would make her happy.

Triumphant—just knowing he'd acceded to her wishes and purchased the new diamond set—without further thought, she'd left the ballroom and hurried to the rendezvous point the footman described, a small arbour at the far end of the dark trail leading from the ballroom. And found waiting for her not Anthony bearing gifts, but Lord Vickers Barwick, one of the most notorious and unprincipled rakes of the Ton.

She'd been too shocked in the first moment to speak as Lord Vickers, his eyes glazed with drink, slurred out how excited he was to discover she was interested in a little dalliance. And then he'd reached for her…

Gritting her teeth and squeezing her eyes closed, Honoria shut down the memories while a chill shook her body and nausea clawed up her throat.
Enough.
Clenching her hands together, she willed the sick feeling away and swiped at the tears that had begun to drip unnoticed down her cheeks.

Who had arranged the message that led her to Lord Barwick, knowing she would never have left the ballroom if she'd known who waited for her at the end of that dark, deserted path?

Another young lady, jealous of her place as reigning Belle of the Ton? Though Honoria believed another woman capable of such spite, she couldn't credit any of the rivals to her beauty or position with possessing either the cunning or the means to create so intricate a plan.

A rejected suitor seemed more probable. Which left her quite a list. Might there be among them some arrogant man, more twisted in character than she'd ever guessed, who'd decided if he couldn't possess her, he'd make sure no honest gentleman ever would?

She sighed. Except for satisfying her curiosity, discovering who had fashioned the trap no longer made any difference. The perpetrator had done his or her work well. Regardless of the excuse that had brought her to the arbour, as Marc acidly pointed out, only a fast young piece would have agreed to meet a man, even a fiancé, alone and unchaperoned in a midnight garden. To be discovered there by a party of gentlemen in the arms of a notorious womanizer, regardless of how fiercely she was struggling, only sealed her fate.

The architect of this scheme had been diabolically clever, using her reputation to trap her. For she had skirted the rules hemming in young ladies, earning the dubious distinction of being a dashing miss teetering on the edge of respectability, a reputation for which her brother, mother and chaperone had all chided her.

She'd never meant to become a byword. But she'd found the rules so silly and restrictive! Why such a fuss that she'd once escaped Miss Price's care and slipped down Bond Street to get a view of White's famous bow window? 'Twas morning, she'd explained when she rejoined Verity and her furious and chagrined chaperone, with no club members going in or out…though someone must have recognized her, Marcus later grimly informed her, for the news of her unauthorized visit had become the latest gossip in the men's clubs by nightfall.

Nor had she foreseen the furore that would result from her
agreeing to race her curricle in the park early one morning against a famous Corinthian who also happened to be a friend of Hal's she'd known since childhood. So, they'd scattered a few ducks and attracted a following of amused gentlemen and excited urchins. What harm was there in that?

Frowning, one by one she ticked off the series of small misadventures which had led to exasperated remonstrances from Miss Price about the deleterious example she was setting for Verity and increasingly irritated lectures from Marc about compromising her respectability.

Taken all together, she could see how the sum had been enough to position her like an apple ripe for the falling when her unknown enemy had struck. After hearing her angrily declare before the ball that if Anthony didn't care about pleasing her, she'd show him that other men did, Marcus wouldn't believe she hadn't knowingly gone to meet Lord Barwick in a foolish and disastrous attempt to inspire her fiancé with jealousy. And with Hal far away, only Marc had possessed the power and the means to track down the true mastermind behind the scheme.

Anthony's scornful words about not taking to wife a woman other men now looked upon as a common doxy still made her skin crawl with humiliation—and bruised the heart that had believed in the affection he'd avowed.

Even during his angry tirade after the event, Marc had not threatened to banish her forever. But with her character ruined beyond redemption—for even if she eventually convinced her brother to prove her innocence, the Carlow family was powerful enough that there would always be those who'd whisper the earl had simply paid well to redeem his wild daughter's reputation. No, Honoria had decided the day she quit London that whatever her future might hold, she would never return to London Society.

What would she do with herself? Helping the Methodist-leaning vicar with his school for girls might do for now—but what of the future? That unresolved question still filled her with a sickening uncertainty.

Quickly she squelched the now-familiar panicky feeling stirring in her breast, submerging it in the same dark place as her memories of that awful night. True, she still had no idea what she going to do, but she wouldn't tease herself any further about it at the moment.

Perhaps in the same ‘later,' when the whole episode no longer made her feel so humiliated and hopeless, a reviving anger would come, and with it a compulsion to finally discover who or what, beside her own naïveté and vanity, had brought her to this. For now, she pushed that speculation aside like the lump of glass in her pocket.

Like she should her curiosity about the man who, so soon after her disgrace, was already tempting her to forget that no man could be trusted.

She'd just turned from the harbour to set off for the vicarage when she heard the woman's scream.