Indiscretions. Gail Ranstrom

a hidden lushness. And was that a hint of black lace beneath the plum silk? Lord! Was she wearing a black chemise? His mind ran riot with the fantasy and his body responded shamelessly.

      “Mr. Hunt,” she said in a low, throaty voice, obviously unaware of what she was doing to his pulse. “I wondered if you might be here tonight.” She offered her hand, as gracious as any duchess.

      Mr. Hunt? Then she still didn’t know who he was? He bowed over her hand and held it fast. “Have you come alone, Mrs. Hobbs? Might I importune you for a waltz?”

      She glanced around and took note of Governor Bascombe, still in conversation with Mr. Goode near the punch bowl.

      “You can pay your respects to our host afterward,” he said. “In fact, I will be pleased to take you to him myself.”

      A shadow of indecision passed over her features and he thought she might refuse. Then she looked up at him and when her uncertain green eyes met his, he could see her surrender. Whatever internal battle she had been waging had just been lost. And he’d won. Still holding her hand in his, he led her to the dance floor.

      She tilted her chin to look up at him and an enigmatic smile curved her full lips. She looked so exactly like a woman who’d just tempted fate that he grinned back.

      “It’s just a dance, Mrs. Hobbs. I’m not going to devour you,” he said, not entirely certain that was the truth.

      She laughed and moistened her lips as he led her into the dance. “It’s just that…it has been a while, Mr. Hunt.”

      “Really? How long?”

      She shook her head. “So long I cannot remember. Six, seven years?”

      “Ah, since your husband died.”

      “Long before that. I…we did not mix in society much. My husband did not like to dance, and he did not like me to dance with others.”

      And yet, as they danced, he’d have sworn dancing had been second nature to her. “Where was that? London?”

      “Yes. It seems like another lifetime ago.”

      He found it hard to believe that he could have missed her, even in the height of the seasonal crush. He had no doubt she was a part of the ton, even if only on the periphery. Could she have come to town when he was away on business?

      “You have not forgotten a single step,” he said, and led her into a quick turn.

      She tilted her head back and laughed. “I shall hope I keep my balance.”

      “Follow my lead, Mrs. Hobbs. I shall keep your balance.” He should be doing his job—meeting and charming the locals, ferreting out information about the islanders, pirates and the leeward side of St. Claire—but he didn’t care. He’d rather dance with Mrs. Hobbs than breathe at the moment.

      “How long have you been on St. Claire?” he asked, still curious how he had ever missed meeting her in London.

      She glanced away and sighed. “A little more than five years.”

      “Less than ten?”

      He felt her resistance to his questions in the stiffening of her spine and her unwillingness to meet his gaze. Mrs. Hobbs was hiding something. He’d seen the signs too many times to be fooled by it now. He shouldn’t be surprised. After all, most of the English occupants of the West Indies were hiding from something or looking for a fresh start. Had she just wanted to find a life away from painful memories after her husband died?

      He glanced sideways at her hand on his shoulder. Her wedding ring was gone. That was interesting, as was her pretty blush when she noticed the direction of his gaze.

      The music ended and he released her with a reluctant sigh, remembering his promise to deliver her to the governor. He offered his arm and led her toward the reception line, which had halted in his absence.

      “Ah, here you are,” Bascombe said as they approached. “We’ve been waiting for you, Lockwood. But now that I see what has delayed you, I completely understand.”

      “Lockwood?” Mrs. Hobbs looked up at him in surprise.

      “Oh? I thought you’d been introduced.” Bascombe looked between them with a touch of reproach, as if to say that they shouldn’t have danced without a proper introduction. “Lord Lockwood, may I present Mrs. Daphne Hobbs? Mrs. Hobbs, please meet Reginald Hunter, Lord Lockwood.”

      Unbelievably, Hunt saw a veil drop over her features, as if she had just shut herself off from him. She performed a graceful curtsy and bowed her head. “Lord Lockwood. So pleased to meet you.”

      If they had not been surrounded by people, he might have told her to call him Reginald, Hunt or Lockwood, but not Lord Lockwood, or my lord, or sir, or any of the other words that would put distance between them. He bowed, lifting her hand to his lips. She met his gaze over her hand and her expression was guarded. When he released her, she moved away, as if she’d been just another guest waiting in line to meet him.

      Oh, no. There was nothing he could do about it at the moment, but he was not about to let her close him out so easily.

      Daphne sipped a glass of wine as she stood in the shadows and watched the reception line dwindle. Whatever tryst or liaison she’d fantasized about with Mr. Hunt was now an impossibility. As Lord Lockwood, he would mix with the same society she had fled. He would have heard the scandal concerning her. She was not naive enough to think such a delicious bit of gossip would have been hushed up. She would wager everything she owned that Lord Lockwood would know the name Lady Barrett. It was not every day a peer’s wife murdered him and escaped the country with his family’s jewels and the heir to the title.

      As soon as she could make her plea to Governor Bascombe, she would excuse herself and leave. Furthermore, she would ask Hannah to wait on Lockwood if he came to Pâtisserie again. She would immediately remove herself as far as she could from his notice. She’d only been successful in remaining undiscovered all these years by avoiding encounters such as this.

      Finally, Governor Bascombe exchanged a few words with Lord Lockwood and moved away, leaving Lockwood with the chargé. She seized the opportunity and went forward to take the governor’s arm.

      “Thank you for inviting me,” she said as she led him toward a balcony overlooking the bay.

      “Not at all, m’dear. Thank you for coming. You’ve always refused, and that’s what I told Lockwood.”

      “The invitation was his idea?”

      “Imagine my astonishment to learn that you’d never been formally introduced. Ah, well, that’s fixed now. A very clever way for him to arrange a proper introduction. I think it’s plain that you can expect even more attention from Lockwood.”

      Daphne looked over her shoulder to see Lockwood deep in conversation with a local planter. How extraordinary that he would request an invitation for her.

      But she could not think of that at the moment. A quick glance right and left assured her that they were quite alone on the balcony. “Actually, I wanted to speak with you, Governor Bascombe. I have a favor to ask.”

      “Well, now. I hope it is within my power to grant.”

      “The favor is for a friend of mine. Captain Gilbert. He makes the run from London to Washington and St. Claire, and then back to London. He is here at least three times a year.”

      “Yes. I’ve met the man. Quite competent.”

      “I’m glad you think so, sir. You see, I thought it might make good business sense to offer him a patent to carry official government documents.”

      The governor just stared at her, speechless. No doubt he was not accustomed to women meddling in state affairs. This was going to take a little finessing.

      “I am concerned, sir, that Captain Gilbert may discontinue the run if it is not more profitable. As he is one of the most reliable shippers