exhaled and dropped her scissors. “Why did you not answer me?”
Olivia shrugged. “I wished to see what you would do. I worry about you when I am not here.”
Daphne turned away from her to hide her annoyance. Olivia meant well, but she could often be trying. “I got on quite well before you came along,” she snapped.
“Si?” Olivia laughed and shook her head. “And that is why you are here on St. Claire? Because you ‘got on’ well?”
Daphne had learned almost the same day she arrived on the island that Olivia was a conscienceless busybody. Thank heavens she was discreet. And thank heavens Daphne had been careful to bury her secrets deeply beneath the rain tree behind her house.
“I suspect I am here for the same reason you are, Olivia,” she answered.
Olivia gave a weary shrug. “Men,” she said. “They are the reason for everything, eh? But I came back tonight because I forgot to put the little William’s letter where you could see it. It is in your desk.”
William? She went to the escritoire in one corner of the room. Her spirits lifted and she smiled as she opened the thin little letter and saw the child’s bold writing. “Do you mind if I read it now, Olivia?”
“I will go, querida. Tomorrow, eh?”
“Yes, tomorrow.” Daphane sighed, settling into her chair again. She read the words quickly, then went back to savor them a second time.
Her son was doing well. His letter was filled with news about his friends and classes. He’d finished his exams and had been promoted a level. He had grown two inches since last Christmas. The headmaster and his wife had invited him to stay with them over the Christmas holiday again, but he begged to be allowed to come home. He was homesick for her and St. Claire, he wrote, and promised he would be no trouble.
Trouble? That he could even think such a thing cut like a dagger to her heart. Of course he was no trouble, and she would give anything to have him with her every single day. It tore at her very soul to spend so much time apart from him, but the danger of having him where he could be found if she was discovered was too great. Oh, but surely she could risk having him for the Christmas season? A month? Two?
She withdrew a sheet of paper from the escritoire drawer and scribbled a few lines. Words of encouragement and love, and the promise that she would send for him soon. She folded her letter, sealed it and placed it on the foyer table to take with her to town tomorrow. She would post it by packet to a neighboring island, where it would be routed to Charleston—the only way she could be certain her letters wouldn’t be traced.
Music floated on the sultry island breeze. Chandeliers cast a gentle glow through the grand ballroom. Were it not for the smell of salt air stirring the draperies and the humidity, Hunt could well imagine himself at a state dinner at Whitehall. On his left, Governor Bascombe introduced him to yet another island notable while, on his right, the chargé d’affaires, Mr. Doyle, kept the line moving.
Hunt shook the newest arrival’s hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Goode,” he said. “I believe we are neighbors, are we not?”
“Aye, Lord Lockwood. Our lands adjoin to the east. Glad you’ve come. Now you can straighten out that factor of yours.”
“Prichard?” Hunt asked in surprise. “Has he encroached on your land or business?”
“In a manner of speaking. I can’t keep workers. Prichard pays yours too much, so mine keep wandering off to New Albion.”
“Have you tried paying yours more, Mr. Goode?”
The man gave him an incredulous look. “Profits, Lord Lockwood. That would cut my profits.”
“Ah, yes,” Doyle interrupted smoothly. “A man must make a living, mustn’t he? Have you tried the hors d’oeuvres, Mr. Goode? They’re delicious. You’ll find them in the drawing room.”
“Nicely done, Doyle,” Hunt said when Mr. Goode had shuffled off to the drawing room. The chargé was the type of man who had always been popular at school—charming, good-looking and the sort one wanted on one’s cricket team.
The tall, fair, solidly built chargé grinned. “Mr. Goode has a tendency toward confrontation. Easy enough to manage when you see it coming.”
Hunt was about to reply when he caught a flash of shimmering plum from the corner of his eye. He refocused on the captivating creature. Mrs. Hobbs. Bascombe had been wrong. She’d come. Dare he hope she’d come alone? He gave a polite half bow and excused himself.
She had her back to him and he took a moment to admire the curve of her swanlike neck and the set of her shoulders. Her sun-streaked hair, done in an interesting twist at her nape, glowed in the candlelight. He could smell her scent—not vanilla and sugar, as it had been in her shop, but something more tropical. Oleander? No, gardenia. He inhaled deeply before speaking.
“Mrs. Hobbs. I am delighted to find you here.”
She spun and left him bemused. The cut of her gown was both innocent and bold, revealing the valley between her breasts and suggesting 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?”
