The footman and groom who usually accompanied the Hawkins ladies on their outings had been trained by Garrick himself. They were capable of defending themselves and the ladies.
“The longer the war drags on, the greater the unrest grows.” It was a typically cryptic thing for Sir Hawkins to say, but Garrick didn’t discount the network of men and women and even children who passed whispers to Sir Hawkins. Some solidified into truths, and some dissipated like smoke.
“Have threats been made against Miss Hawkins or Lady Hawkins?” Garrick’s shoulders tensed and pulled the fabric of his jacket taut.
“Not precisely.” Hawkins was often infuriatingly vague. “But I would feel more at ease if you were to accompany them in the carriage and remain at their side as they shop. Can I count on you?”
“I would protect Miss Hawkins with my life,” Garrick said with more emotion than he intended.
Sir Hawkins looked up and stared at Garrick without blinking. It was quite unnerving. The urge to shift on his feet became a compulsion he barely halted.
Becoming aware not so much of what he’d said but what he hadn’t said, Garrick added hastily, “And Lady Hawkins, of course.”
“Of course.” A gleam flashed in Sir Hawkins’s eyes, but as the rest of his face was bland, Garrick didn’t know how to interpret it.
“I’ll watch for anything out of the ordinary and report back, sir.” Garrick turned on his heel, exited the study, and tamped down any anticipation at spending the morning in Victoria’s company.
This was not a carefree outing with a lady he might be more than slightly in love with. The mere thought must be eradicated. It was impossible.
After having a word with Callum and Henry, Garrick waited at the curb beside the carriage for the ladies, hands behind his back, his body still. Lady Hawkins descended the front stairs and treated him like a lamppost, ignoring his presence entirely.
Victoria was halfway down before she looked up and noticed him. The shadows casting worries across her face were banished by her radiant smile. For him. He smiled back. The muscles in his cheeks protested the rare usage.
Lady Hawkins entered the carriage with Callum’s help. Victoria took the last steps slowly, her gaze never leaving his. She had donned a brown fur-lined pelisse with matching collar and cuffs. Her gloves were brown kid, and a reticule in the same yellow as her dress swung from her wrist. Springs of her black hair had escaped her bonnet to frame her face. The untamed wildness suited her.
He stepped forward before Callum could offer his hand. With no hesitation, she slipped her hand into his. Time splintered. The world spun on around them, but all he could see and feel was her. Such a simple thing, yet lightning arced between them.
After avoiding her for two years, they had touched three times in one morning. It was too much. Or was it not enough? Her thumb skimmed over the back of his hand with an unmistakable pressure. He tried not to read anything into the touch, but his fingers answered the call and clasped hers tighter. Even as he cataloged the delicacy of her hand, he noted her strength.
Then she was inside the carriage, and he drew his empty hand into a fist as if he could hang on to the feel of her. He swallowed and shook himself free from the spell she’d cast over him. He wasn’t here to play patty-fingers with Victoria. He had a duty to perform.
He looked up and down the street, taking careful note of the other carriages and a man strolling in a black hat and swinging his cane. Nothing struck him as out of the ordinary. After giving Callum a nod, he joined the ladies in the carriage on the opposite squab. Callum would ride with the coachman, and Henry on the back. Each of them carried a pistol.
The interior of the carriage was dim after the unusually bright sunshine of the day. It wouldn’t last long. Stacked clouds portending snow loomed on the horizon. The carriage jolted forward. Lady Hawkins continued to ignore him and stared at the passing scenery.
London wasn’t crowded this time of year. Most of the ton had retreated to their country houses long ago, but a few families remained in London through the yuletide season if they couldn’t garner an invitation elsewhere or had business in town like Sir Hawkins.
“Why are you accompanying us?” Victoria tilted her head, her gaze fixed on him. “Have you developed a keen eye for ladies’ fashions, then?”
“I have many talents.” He kept his face bland. “Or so I’ve been told.”
The corners of her mouth twitched with puckish charm.
The memory of how soft and supple her lips had been and probably still were—not that he would get the chance to verify—was distracting him. He forced his gaze from her mouth to the window. Distractions were deadly. Even ones as tempting as the coveted memory of their one and only kiss.
“There’s naught to worry over,” he said.
“Who said I was worried?” While the sentiment was lighthearted, her voice was heavy.
He shot her a look, but it was her turn to stare out the window. Her profile gave none of her true thoughts away. He had no right to her confidences, but he was a patient man. It was one of his strengths. He would wait and watch and do whatever he could to help relieve her burdens.
The carriage pulled to a stop. Garrick didn’t wait for Callum to open the door. He did it himself, positioning his bulk in the opening to protect Lady Hawkins and Victoria from possible threats. He made a quick study of his surroundings.
Two gentlemen stood in conversation farther down the street in front of a shop, but neither glanced at the carriage. Another man exited the shop next door and turned the collar of his greatcoat up against the chill, heading in the opposite direction. A hack clattered past, pulled by a run-down nag, the jarvey buttoned up tight and wrapped in a scarf against the brisk wind.
Garrick hopped to the curb and lowered the steps. Callum backed up to stand to the side of the modiste’s door, his cheeks ruddy from the cold, his expression alert to trouble. Lady Hawkins descended first, her hand lightly touching Garrick’s forearm for balance. Black hair streaked with gray peeked out of her bonnet. She had the same curls as her daughter, but she kept them under strict control, while Victoria’s rebelled, as if drawing from her personality.
Victoria slipped her hand into his again, her grip firm. Her gaze remained on her feet, and he caught the flash of her stocking-covered calf above her half boots as she descended. He swallowed and released her with difficulty. The barrier he had arduously erected between them after their kiss had been demolished by the mere touch of her hand and flick of her hems.
Callum opened the door to the modiste, and Garrick trailed the ladies in. He felt like an invader. The land was as foreign as when he’d entered Portugal under the cover of darkness for the first time, unsure of the topography and ignorant of the language.
Ribbons and laces and fabrics in a rainbow of colors and patterns covered the walls and tables. His gaze darted, as if threats lurked behind every scrap of satin. It finally landed on Victoria, who was looking up at him with barely suppressed laughter. At his expense, of course.
“Would you rather wait outside with Callum?” The sparkle in her eyes lit embers in his chest, warming him better than any hearth.
“Yes, I would, but I promised your father not to let you out of my sight.” It wasn’t exactly what he had promised, but it was a good excuse to torture himself and wallow in her presence for as long as possible.