How To Seduce A Pirate (The Hawkins Brothers Series) (6 page)

CHAPTER
9

Holly had sensed
her husband’s presence the moment he’d entered the ballroom; the air had
changed somehow, the nattering men around her had dissolved like ghosts into
obscurity. She searched the crowd and as soon as she spotted him, her heart stomped
with the unbridled passion of a race horse eager to take to the tracks—and win.

He had bronzed
in the African sun, she mused. His muscles had swelled. His wavy black hair had
grown unfashionably long, but he’d smoothed the tresses behind his ears, soft curls
stroking his chiseled jaw line.

She had missed
him. He had been her husband for a single day before he’d gone to sea. And yet
she had missed him. Or perhaps she had missed the desire to know him better. He
had left her wanting, yearning for more than a marriage of convenience.

Holly observed his
every movement, waiting for the moment he’d look in her direction. He had
greeted his brothers and was dancing with his sister at present, his features a
scowl. Whatever their conversation, it wasn’t a pleasant reunion. Suddenly he
stumbled, then his head snapped up and he scoured the ballroom.

When his smoldering
eyes lighted on her, a shot of pure pleasure ripped down her spine. He stalked
away from the duchess, leaving her on the dance floor with her arms akimbo, and
headed straight for Holly.

 Her skin
sprouted gooseflesh, her lungs craved more air. The room grew hot, sweltering
hot. The licentious men around her disbanded in haste. And then he was there.
Her husband. Towering above her. Fire in his eyes.

“Welcome home,
Quincy.”

He hardened. It
was the first time she had used his Christian name, and the implied intimacy
had obviously unsettled him.

She smiled and
lifted her gloved hand. “Shall we dance?”

Not only had her
husband abandoned her on their wedding night with the unexpected declaration
that they would never have a real marriage, but he’d also informed her he was a
privateer, spending most of the year at sea chasing slavers.

The first
revelation had struck her with dismay and eventually a hard-headed
determination to improve her circumstances and become a
real
wife. The
second revelation, however, had jarred her at a later date.

It had taken her
a long while to accept the harsh possibility that one day her husband might not
return from the sea, that a brutal storm or fierce clash with a slaver might
take him away from her forever.

She shivered at
the grim thought. But she needn’t fret about his wellbeing tonight. He had
returned and in robust health. She could hold him in her arms and dance with
him, not worry about his next tour of duty or even the next day.

After a brief
hesitation, Quincy grasped her fingers and guided her toward the dance floor.
She shuddered at the rough tenderness in his hold, and when he curled an arm
around her waist and swept her across the room, she sighed with delight.

“How was your
voyage?” she wondered in a warm manner, hiding the quiver in her heart. She really
didn’t want to hear about any near death escapes.

“Unremarkable.”

“And William?”

“Alive.”

His succinct
answers, lacking any dangerous details, put her heart at ease and allowed her
to focus on his sharp gaze instead, piercing her like arrowheads. She maintained
his unwavering stare, wading in the dark blue pools of his eyes, relishing the passionate
closeness.

“I purchased a
house on Park Street,” she announced in the same agreeable vein. “There is room
for my sister, an art studio for myself and a separate bedroom for you.” Though
she’d every intention of changing that last unpleasant fact, right quick.

“You will
not
return to work as Lord H.”

“I am capable of
more than nudes, I assure you. I intend to paint for my own pleasure, any
number of subjects. And I will not sell my work, nor expose it to public view.
I must have a hobby.”

Still he
glowered. “Why did you reveal you identity as Lord H to Belle?”

Ah, the thorn in
his side. In the three months since his departure, Holly had made earnest
efforts to befriend her in-laws and had found their sincere welcome of her the
most wonderful gift. But she’d been unable to accept their generosity on false
pretenses. How could she build camaraderie with her new family without first
being truthful about her past?

And so she’d
confessed her identity as Lord H and the real reason behind her hasty marriage
to their youngest brother, that he had not seduced her or acted in a
dishonorable manner.

Holly had
dreaded making the admission. She had finally found a secure situation in life,
and she would risk it by revealing a scandalous secret? But her brother-in-law,
Edmund, already privy to her former identity as Lord H, had welcomed her into
the fold. Perhaps the others would as well? she’d reasoned.

Whatever the
outcome, Holly would not allow the rest of the family to believe Quincy a
blackguard. In the end, to her boundless relief, the Hawkins’s had accepted her
in spite of her sordid past.

“I revealed my
former identity to your entire family,” she corrected.

His features
tightened. “Why?”

“To take the
stain off your character, of course.”

“Bully to that!
Belle is still furious with me.”

“She’s furious
with you because you allowed her to believe you were a dishonorable rake.”

“Well, haven’t
you done me a world of good? She now thinks I’m a liar instead of a
dishonorable rake.”

Holly flushed.

“I warned you to
leave the matter alone,
wife
.”

If he thought to
reproach her for her defiance by playing the part of the dominant husband, he would
first have to
be
her husband.

“I am a wife in
name only, remember? And I will not always honor your wishes,
husband
.”

The veins in his
neck throbbed. “Is that so?”

“It is, indeed.”
And then she pressed her breasts against his hard chest, touched his ear with
her lips and whispered, “But if you ever care to be a real husband, do let me
know.”

And with that
invitation, she sashayed off the dance floor.

~ * ~

Quincy remained
rooted to the dance floor. As resplendent couples twirled around him, the blood
in his veins pounded with such ferocious intensity, he thought his head would
burst from the pressure.

Had the
audacious wench just disobeyed him
and
invited him to bed?

His fingers
ticked, his cock stirred. He was going to cause a spectacle and ruin his brother’s
engagement ball.

In swift
strides, Quincy stormed from the ballroom. He burst through the terrace doors
and  prowled the flagstone courtyard, searching for something to crush with his
hands. When he discovered a bench, he slammed his fists into the seat,
splintering the wood. He thought of turning the bench over and ramming it into
the ground, when mordant laughter captured his senses.

”Piss off,
James!”

His brother
crossed the terrace with a knowing grin. “I once fractured my knuckles after a
fight with Sophia, shoved my fist right into a wall.”

“Is that why
you’re being such a charming ass? You know I’m in hell?”

“Aye.”

Quincy clenched
his palms, aching for a fight, but his sadistic brother wasn’t going to give
him one, relishing instead in his torment.

“I can’t live
with her, James.”

He shrugged.
“You spend most of the year at sea.”

“I’ll stay in a
hotel when I’m on land.”

“And spread
rumor of an abandoned bride? You can’t avoid her, Quincy. She’s your wife.”

And with another
ruthless smirk, James sauntered back inside the ballroom, his last words
hanging over Quincy like a noose.

She’s your wife.

His innards
twisted with want. Aye, she was his wife. And she was intent on her blasted wedding
night. It wasn’t enough he had saved her reputation? He had to surrender his
body, too? Why? What did she want? Children?

Well, she could
take a damn lover and have her infernal wedding night. He’d claim any of her offspring
as his own. There were already hordes of men salivating over her now that she
was wed, plenty of candidates to choose from.

A maiden was
dangerous territory, always leading to wedlock—he knew firsthand—but a married
woman was the perfect mistress, offering an affair without the risk of a
nuptial entanglement.

As soon as the
vision of another man grinding over his wife flashed through his mind, though, a
murderous impulse streamed through his blood.

“You must be so
tired after your long voyage.”

Her gentle voice
came over him like a hammer. He trembled with fury. And more. He trembled with
unfathomable lust. He’d never wanted to bed a woman with such intensity in all his
life. He doubted another wench would satisfy him—and that worried him.

Immensely.

Quincy girded
his muscles as he turned toward the terrace doors and found his wife in angelic
amity, the ballroom lights illuminating her shapely silhouette.

She had been
spending his money carte blanche, he thought, nettled. She looked damned rich
in her shimmering satin gown and bejeweled headpiece—and bloody beautiful, too.
Her low cut bodice cupped her firm breasts, elongated her slender neck and
framed her heart-shaped lips. He dragged in mouthfuls of air as his blood
simmered with achingly familiar hunger. 

“Shall we retire?”
She stepped forward, her hips swinging. Her eyes narrowed on him with such
intent, he shuddered. “I’ll have the staff prepare your room. A light supper,
too.”

He imagined her in
his bed, screaming his name as she orgasmed, drawing him deeper into her womb,
and he shuddered again.

“No.”

“All right, if
you’re not hungry.”

“Oh, I’m
hungry,” he rasped, his erection pressing against his trousers. “I’ll be at
Madam Barovski’s for the rest of the night.”

He headed through
the garden, pounding the grass.

“I’m afraid
you’re banned from Madam Barovski’s establishment.”

He stilled. “What?”

“She wants
nothing more to do with you, not since your brother’s visit to her gaming hell some
months ago.”

Slowly he turned
toward her again. “Who told you this?”

“Your brother,
Edmund.”

Damn! Edmund had
threatened the gaming mistress with ruination unless she confessed the identity
of Lord H. Quincy would have to find another haunt to fulfill his needs.

Unbelievable.
He’d yet another reason to throttle his wife.

And
why
was his wench-of-a-wife talking to Edmund about his haunts? Or conversing with
James for that matter? Or Belle? And about such intimacies?

“I’ve already
sent for the carriage,” she said in a quaint, almost innocent manner. “You
really should rest.”

He gritted his
teeth. She would not take what was left of him, he vowed. His body was his to
give alone. And while he’d no experience resisting a luscious woman, he was
determined to resist this one.

You can’t avoid
her. She’s your wife.

She
was
his wife. And he would put her in her rightful place, make it clear to her there
would be no wedding night between them.

Ever.

But how? He
wasn’t a brute. He usually charmed a woman into giving him what he wanted with a
smile, a wink, a few craftily whispered words. He sure as hell couldn’t charm
his own wife, though.

Bullocks.

CHAPTER
10

As the carriage
jounced through the gas illuminated streets, Holly clasped her hands in her
lap—though she envisioned clasping them around her husband’s throat. Imagine,
returning from a dangerous three month voyage and outright confessing to a new,
worried bride you were off to a den of sin to bed a whore!

It took every
bit of her self-restraint to maintain an agreeable manner and amiable tone, and
to keep from clobbering her husband with her shoe. The nerve. The
bullheadedness. The
rake
. And she had defended his honor. What rubbish!
She should have left the matter alone as he’d bidden her. Instead, she’d risked
alienating her new family by confessing her scandalous past and ennobling her
husband.

“Are you all
right?”

Holly snapped
her head away from the window and glared at the man. “What?”

“You’re
huffing,” said Quincy. “Often.”

Was she? “I’m
fine. Tired, is all.”

“Hmm.” He
crossed his arms over his chest and stretched out his long legs, bumping her
shin. “It must be very tiring indeed, flirting with so many men?”

She shivered at
his incidental touch. He had noticed the pack of roués, had he? She humphed.
The men were an infernal nuisance, to use her husband’s turn of phrase. She had
once coveted such amorous attention, but since meeting her desirable husband,
no other man had captured her interest.

Wait! Was Quincy
jealous? She glanced at his furrowed brow and dark frown. A warmth settled in
her belly at the delightful thought, and she decided to turn the frustrating
situation into an advantageous one.

She smiled. “Yes,
I shall have to acquire a little notebook to keep all their names straight in
my mind.”

The conversation
ended there, followed by a tense silence. When the carriage rolled up to a flat
faced townhouse with three rows of six paned windows and an elegant lintel
above the front door, alight with sconces, Quincy exited the vehicle and
climbed the front step, pounding on the door, leaving her unattended in the
carriage.

Well, she’d
ignited his jealousy. She only hoped she hadn’t pushed him too far with the
innuendo of other lovers. She had to keep the fire between
them
burning.
If ever his disposition toward her changed, turned indifferent, their marriage
would truly be in name only, having withered to ash.

She tottered
from the vehicle before the driver whipped the horses and headed around the corner
to the stables at the rear of the house.

The front door
opened.

Quincy charged
indoors, passing the aghast butler, and headed for the stairs.

“It’s all right,
Thompson,” she assured the elderly servant as she stepped into the entrance
hall. “Meet your new master, Mr. Hawkins.” As Quincy mounted the stairs, she
called after him, “Would you like me to give you a tour of the house?”

“No.”

“You don’t even
know which bedroom is yours, though.”

“I’ll recognize
my own bleedin’ furniture.”

He crossed the
landing, disappearing from view, his heavy footfalls marching through the
upstairs passageways.

Holly sighed. “He’s
tired,” she reassured a frowning Thompson. “He has been at sea for months and
needs rest. He’s really rather charming otherwise.”

The dubious
butler nodded in silence and collected her shawl. “And Miss Turner?”

“Still at the
ball. Captain and Mrs. Hawkins will escort her home.”

Holly trusted
Captain James Hawkins and his wife to chaperone her sister. One ominous glare
from the imposing captain would squash any licentious intents toward Emma, so
there was no reason to curtail the girl’s fun with an early departure. Besides,
Holly had hoped for time alone with her husband, a pleasant conversation over a
late supper perhaps. Regrettably, her hopes had been dashed.

As she climbed
the stairs, a stark bellow resounded through the house.

“Holly!”

She scowled. The
first
time her husband used her Christian name and it was in the tone of
a disapproving parent. How ignoble. Was he mad? Had he
no
manners? His
outrageous behavior was fodder for servant gossip. And what the devil was the
matter now?

She rushed up
the stairs, skirt in hands, and rounded the corner. She found the door to her
art studio ajar—and smirked.

Holly smoothed
her satin skirt before gracefully entering the room, ablaze with newly
installed gas lamps. Her husband, searching for his own private chamber, had
turned up the lights to discover her workspace and had obviously snooped
around.

After closing
the door, she asked in her most pleasant voice, “Yes?”

“What is
that
doing here?” he demanded, drape in hand. His features turned a crimson red as he
pointed at the painting of himself, the sensual painting that’d caused so much
trouble.

“It was found
under your bed during the move from St. James’s.”

“
Why
is
it still in one piece? I thought you had destroyed every infernal nude.”

“I destroyed
every nude in my studio at the cottage. This was not at my cottage. And since
you had stored it under your bed . . .” She shrugged. “I thought you’d wanted
to keep it.”

“Are you mad? I
wanted to burn the wretched thing, but our wedding and my tour at sea prevented
me from torching it.”

He headed for
the door.

“Where are you
going?” she cried.

“To fetch
matches.”

“No!” Holly
dashed toward the door and barricaded it with her body. “You will not destroy
that painting.”

His body,
heaving with fury, leaned over hers. “Move away from the door, wench.”

“You can’t burn
it.”

“I
own
it. I can do anything I damn well please with it.”

“You also own
this house. Will you burn it, too?”

“If it pleases
me, aye.”

She snorted. “A
ridiculous reason. That painting is my greatest work. You will
not
destroy it.”

“Your greatest
work marks one of the worst moments in my life.”

“Then don’t come
in here.” She snatched the drape from his hand. “I didn’t invite you into my
private studio. I would like you to leave, please.”

She hastened back
to the artwork, veiling it to protect it from sunlight, dust and any paint
splatter that might occur from future works.

Quincy glared at
her from the door. “What about the servants? And your sister? I won’t have
anyone ogling that painting.”

While Holly had
hired new staff, she had also retained two of her former servants, the maid and
gardener from the cottage. And she had already trained all the employees about
the strict running of the household.

“The servants do
not come into my studio, nor does Emma. Ever since I converted the potting shed
at the cottage into an art studio, that has been the rule. No one will ever
look at this painting, except me.”

His breathing
deepened, turned to rasps of air. “You?”

She confronted
her husband again, his eyes glowing like embers. “Yes, me. If all I will ever
have of you is what I took and put in this painting, then I will keep the
painting and look at it whenever it pleases me.”

Her declaration must
have set off an explosive fire inside him, for his expression twisted, turning
both tortuous and ravenous. Her own body flared with heat, and she longed for
his primal touch, his sensuous kiss, but after a few strained moments, he
swiveled his stone hard posture and left the room.

Holly sighed
with a blend of disappointment and hope.

One day, she
vowed.

One day she
would have her husband.