Gail Ranstrom - A Daring Liaison

The beguiling creature performed a polite curtsy, her eyes downcast. Was she remembering the single extraordinary kiss they had stolen in a garden seven years ago?

He took her hand and bowed. ‘Charmed again, Mrs Huffington. How long have you been in town?’

‘Not long, sir,’ she said as she looked up from their joined hands. ‘I’ve only just returned from Kent.’

He took a moment to absorb her remarkably green eyes. Not emerald. Not greenish-grey or sea-green. Hers were more … olive. And every bit as captivating as they’d been years ago. His memory had not failed him. Nor had hers—indicated by the subtle blush on her cheeks. Yes, she was remembering that single astonishing kiss, too. Ah, but she was no longer girlishly coy. No, this Georgiana was a woman of considerable experience. One he would have no qualms about seducing.

GAIL RANSTROMwas born and raised in Missoula, Montana, and grew up spending the long winters lost in the pages of books that took her to exotic locales and interesting times. That love of the ‘inner voyage’ eventually led to her writing. She has three children, Natalie, Jay and Katie, who are her proudest accomplishments. Part of a truly bi-coastal family, she resides in Southern California with her two terriers, Piper and Ally, and has family spread from Alaska to Florida.

Previous novels by the same author:

A WILD JUSTICE

SAVING SARAH

A CHRISTMAS SECRET

(in The Christmas Visit anthology)

THE RAKE’S REVENGE

THE MISSING HEIR

THE COURTESAN’S COURTSHIP

INDISCRETIONS

LORD LIBERTINE

A LITTLE CHRISTMAS

(in Regency Christmas Gifts anthology)

A RAKE BY MIDNIGHT

Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

Writing about the Regency world of the Wednesday League has always been fascinating for me. The things I’ve learned through my research have both surprised and dismayed me. The juxtaposition of the glittering society of the ton with the ‘seedy underbelly’ of the rookeries and Whitechapel offer endless opportunities to my fertile imagination—which tends to run wild even in the best of circumstances. Adding to that mix, I’ve always been obsessed with the similarities between justice and revenge. When does one become the other? Or does it? I think I will always want to explore that question in my fiction.

Charles Hunter’s story gave me ample opportunity to do this. Readers who have met Charles in earlier books may not recognise him in the single-minded, determined man in this book. As he searches for revenge he is faced with a different but equally important lesson—sometimes the heart sees more clearly than the eyes, and forgiveness can be more healing than revenge. But Charles must learn that lesson quickly if he is to save the woman he loves.

I enjoy hearing from readers, so please feel free to visit me at www.gailranstrom.com or e-mail me at gail@gailranstrom.com

And now, without further ado, here is Charlie’s story.

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London, April 1822

Charles Hunter always sat with his back to the wall to avoid unpleasant surprises—a tactic he had learned from his superior at the Home Office, Lord Wycliffe—and the Black Dog Tavern was not a place where one would want to be surprised. Charles watched Wycliffe come toward him now, wondering why he had arranged this meeting outside the office. The grim look on his face was not reassuring.

Trouble, then. Serious trouble, and highly sensitive if they couldn’t they talk about it at the Home Office. He took a deep drink from his mug and gestured to the waiting tankard, which Wycliffe lifted promptly.

“Hunter,” he said as he sat.

Charles nodded. “What is this about?”

“It’s on the hush, Hunter. I can’t make you take the venture, but it would be good for your career if you did. Probably get you that assignment to the Foreign Office you asked about. That’s why I thought I’d give you first chance at it.”

The Foreign Office? That was a plump little carrot to dangle in front of him. He’d wanted to get the hell out of England for months now. Maybe a transfer would clear his head. Ever since he’d been wounded last fall, he’d been restless, angry and a bit reckless. Standing by one’s best friend as he was shot through the head could do that to a man, he’d been told.

“What’s it about?”

Wycliffe sighed and looked down into his ale. “Long story. First, have you met the late Lady Caroline Betman’s former ward, Georgiana Carson, currently known as Mrs. Gower Huffington?”

Charles covered his surprise and damned the quick twist of his gut at that name. Did he know her? Hell, he’d been about to propose to her when her guardian informed him that his feelings were not returned. But that was before she’d married for the first time. She’d been so fresh. So beautiful. So duplicitous.

“We’ve met,” he admitted.

“What do you think of her?”

“I’ve always thought she is a stunner. Intelligent and self-possessed, though guarded and …”

Wycliffe nodded again, as if confirming Charles’s opinion. “Inscrutable?”

Charles shrugged. He’d been about to say deceitful, but perhaps that had only been his experience. “Aloof, I’d say. And not given to emotion.”

“Odd for a woman who’s been married twice.”

“And widowed twice, and hides in the countryside now, from what I hear.”

“Then you didn’t know?” Wycliffe narrowed his eyes as he sat back in his chair. “Mrs. Huffington has come back to town.”

The connection was lost on him. What did Georgiana Huffington, née Carson, have to do with Wycliffe’s assignment? He rubbed his shoulder, still aching from the ball he’d taken when his friend was killed last October. “Aye, she’s come back to town and …?”

“Good Lord, Hunter! Where have you been? Allow me to catch you up.” Wycliffe leaned forward again and lowered his voice as if he feared they might be overheard. “Rumor has it that she killed her husbands.”

Charles stared into his ale, remembering his obsession with the woman seven years ago. He’d been taken with those olive-green eyes—and the promise of lush curves beneath her demure girlish gowns. She’d been shy, sweet and possessed of a gentle humor he found endearing but there had always been a hint of darkness and mystery about her. “She doesn’t look like the type.”

“You, better than most, know that appearances can be deceiving. Why, you’ve witnessed things that would shock the ton into speechlessness—with the possible exception of me.”