out, he startled Harriette by running a finger along the edge of her jaw, lifting her chin so that she must look up at him. Then with a swift movement belying his bruising, Luke swooped and kissed her again, hard and sure.
His demeanour might be cool, but his mouth held the heat of a searing flame. His previous kiss had warmed her with pleasure. This was a brand that scorched her, fire consuming every inch of her body. It stirred a hunger in her of which she had no experience. It turned her limbs to water. Harriette pressed her hands against his chest, not to make a distance between them but simply to savour the warmth of his body, the solid beat of his heart under her palm.
Then, as quickly as he had taken her, he released her.
‘I don’t need your gratitude, only your acceptance, Miss Lydyard.’
He took her hand to lead her back to break the news to Sir Wallace, the only sensible thought in Harriette’s mind—What have I done, offering to wed a man whose way of life might be totally immoral? followed quickly by—Why would the Earl of Venmore need the use of a fast cutter to get him to France? A question that lodged, hard and heavy as a stone, in Harriette’s chest. For if the Earl intended to use the Ghost in some nefarious practice with the enemy—and did all the evidence not point to that?—how could she be attracted to a man who might very well be a spy?
A smuggler. A smuggler as Countess of Venmore? By God! What had he done?
Whilst George Gadie set to work to negotiate the hire of a horse and gig from the tight-fisted landlord of the Silver Boat, Luke was left to juggle a range of unpalatable thoughts, all centring on Harriette Lydyard. For most of them he had no answer. Such as, why had he fought so hard to get her? And what had happened to his legendary charm, his ability to conduct an elegant flirtation, that he had made so ham-fisted an attempt, stricken into damning silence when she had listed her faults and accused him of not wanting a bride such as she? He had simply stood there like an ill-educated and mannerless boor, all his presence of mind buried beneath a cold dose of honesty, skewered by the lady’s forthright stare. The fact that all her observations were a fairly accurate reading of the situation was by the by. What had she said? Unfashionable, no fortune, no looks to speak of, past the age of a débutante with no inclination to come out into society.
Dispassionately, the Earl reconsidered his bride. Miss Lydyard had sold herself short. Blinding honesty was certainly one of her attributes. That’s what he would get. An honest, outspoken wife, a capable woman who did not faint at the sight of blood with the courage not to retreat before her brother’s bullying and intimidation. His wealth, his title, his entrée into society held no apparent attraction for her. He smiled sardonically at her reaction to his prestigious tailor. Unfortunate Weston! She did not even know who he was.
And, no, she was not unattractive. There was an elusive charm about her, of which he thought even she was unaware. When she had explained about this ruin of a house, full of vital energy, her features had lit, her eyes—and what remarkably beautiful eyes they were—had glowed. No, she was not unattractive at all. When she had smiled, she had been transformed. He thought that he had not seen her laugh, and wished he had. Instead there had been that sudden shadow of fear when she had asked for a discreet wedding. What had that been about? What woman of his acquaintance would resist the chance of a society wedding, to be the envy of the haut ton when she became the Countess of Venmore? He was not so naïve that he did not appreciate his own worth as a bridegroom. But there had been a lingering sadness there.
Who would have thought any woman would have tried so hard not to marry him? A harsh laugh escaped him. A wise man, he decided, would make a fast escape and thank the gods for it—but an honorourable man would not. Luke had no intention of allowing Harriette to suffer through the strange workings of fate that had tumbled him into her boat. Nor of his name being coupled with her dishonour. His family name deserved better than that, as did her own.
Would he regret this further complication in his life? He shrugged the thought away abruptly, until his bruised shoulder caused him to hiss through his teeth at the pain. Probably he would. Did he not have enough troubles at the moment with discovering the present whereabouts of Mademoiselle Marie-Claude? He frowned, not seeing a way forward there, and contact with Jean-Jacques Noir was becoming hazardous. Should he tell Harriette about that? No. Not yet, at least. Better to keep his mouth tightly shut and his fears to himself—as he had been warned that he must.
For now he had the prospect of a wife, the last thing he wanted at this point in his life when he was living a lie and burdened with guilt, but in all honour, he could not abandon her. A strange alliance. A smuggler and a…what? Spy? Traitor? Some would undoubtedly say the latter. An unscrupulous pairing, but Miss Lydyard had the Ghost, too good a chance to miss it if it allowed him to save an innocent young woman from harm.
And whatever happened, he would make sure Miss Harriette Lydyard did not suffer for her compliance.
Would Harriette Lydyard enjoy being a countess? Somehow he doubted it. He would wager she would rather face a gale-force wind in the Lydyard’s Ghost than a dress ball. But she wanted freedom from family restrictions; he saw the value of a fast ship to France. Both had an eye to a main chance, as she had observed in those cool tones of disdain, pure self-interest for both of them.
And what did he think of a girl who wore breeches and boots, evaded the law and ran the gauntlet of the Revenue men without any hint of fear? He ought to be outraged. Luke smiled wryly. Somehow he could not summon that emotion in his dealings with Miss Harriette Lydyard. He ought to be thoroughly outraged, condemning her morals and her sense of propriety. Even now, their final exchange in the library remained to echo uncomfortably in his mind.
As he was about to open the door, Harriette had stopped him. ‘If I am to wed you, does this mean that you would prefer me to give up smuggling?’
‘Yes,’ he had replied in some surprise, without hesitation. ‘How could I wish my wife to be involved in criminal activities? Ah!—that’s to say…’
‘I suppose you think it’s a vicious, damnable trade.’ She must have seen him searching for a tactful response. ‘Most people do, you know, even though it puts food into the mouths of poor women and children in fishing villages, who might otherwise starve.’ She raised her hand when he might have replied. ‘I understand—you don’t have to hide your condemnation of it, or me. I will just say this, my lord. I will consider retiring from the Trade, because it is your preference.’
And that was as much as she would promise. Now he must live with the consequences. Was it possible to build a future on a fleeting and wholly inexplicable admiration for Miss Lydyard, simply because she had rescued him and saved his life? An admiration because she had faced him and flung his offer of wealth and consequence at his feet as so much dross?
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