Secrets of Seduction (2 page)

“Well … we are not related by blood, but my aunt has known you for ten years. You and she are such good friends, I feel as if I know you myself. And you are acquainted with my elder brother, Quinn Wilde, the Earl of Traherne. I was never officially introduced to you, but I saw you once a long time ago, when you and your wife attended a ball at our home, Tallis Court in Kent. I was the girl hanging over the banister, watching the dancers below.”

Even in the dim light, she could see recognition dawn in Hawkhurst’s eyes.

“I am flattered that you remember me,” Skye said honestly. “Except for a brief moment, you paid no attention to me that evening.”

“I feared you might be in need of rescue.”

Skye felt her cheeks warm at the reminder. She’d been watching the glittering company with her cousin Katharine from the gallery above the ballroom. When the devastatingly handsome Lord Hawkhurst had looked up at her and smiled, her heart had instantly melted. Stricken with awe, she’d nearly tumbled over the railing. The earl had leapt closer, prepared to catch her and break her fall
if necessary. Fortunately—or unfortunately, Skye had thought at the time—her cousin’s quick action in grasping her skirts had saved her from disaster.

Uncomfortable awareness flooded Skye. This was twice now that she had almost fallen at his feet. How embarrassing to appear so awkward with a nobleman she wanted earnestly to impress.

“I am not usually so clumsy, I promise you.”

He did not seem interested in prolonging their discussion. “What brings you here in the midst of a storm, Lady Skye?”

His abruptness was rather unmannerly, but given her unexpected arrival, she could forgive him.

“My aunt wrote me a letter of introduction and explained my purpose to you.…” Fishing in her reticule, Skye pulled out a folded letter that was a bit worse for wear and presented it to him. “Please, will you read this?”

Hawkhurst broke the wax seal but barely glanced at the contents, perhaps because it was difficult to read in the scant light. When he made to move closer to the wall sconce, Skye spoke up. “Is there a fire where I may warm myself?”

He hesitated before finally replying. “There is one in my study. Follow me.”

When he strode off across the entrance hall, she hurried to keep up with him and found herself eying his tall, athletic form with admiration. He was dressed informally—white linen shirt, buff breeches, and riding boots—and the way his clothing clung to his broad shoulders, lean hips, well-formed buttocks, and muscular thighs emphasized his stark masculinity. It was brazen to admit, Skye knew, but the intense physical
attraction she felt for Hawkhurst now was much less pure than when she was a mere girl.

She was also brazen to call at his nearly deserted country estate when no one suitable was present to act as chaperone. Yet to attain her heart’s desire, she needed to be bold and daring. She would not let the risk of scandal deter her. Courting scandal in their amorous affairs was a Wilde family legacy, and she was a Wilde, through and through.

When they entered a dark corridor, Skye glanced inside the rooms they passed. The fact that the elegant manor was damp and musty from disuse was no wonder, considering that it had been shut up for more than ten years. But the furniture was still shrouded in holland covers.

“I expected you to have servants to answer your front door,” she commented to the earl’s back.

“The elderly man who acts as caretaker is hard of hearing and didn’t heed your pounding.”

“But I understood you arrived here a full week ago. I thought by now you would have tried to set the castle to rights.”

Only after another pause did he answer her probing remark. “I haven’t yet arranged for a full-time staff. Some women from the village came today to begin cleaning, but with the storm approaching, I sent them home before it grew too dark.”

“That was kind of you.”

Hawkhurst made another low sound of dismissal in his throat and kept walking.

“I am grateful that you opened your door to me,” Skye pressed, “although you frightened me out of my wits, brandishing that knife at my throat.”

“You did not look particularly frightened.”

She had not been—but then she knew the sort of man she was dealing with. “I suppose you have an excuse for your extreme reaction. You can’t help yourself. You were trained to be suspicious. You have been a spy for the Foreign Office for many years. You joined while still attending university, did you not?”

Hawkhurst halted in his tracks and glanced back at her. “Who told you that?”

“My aunt, of course. She also warned me that you were a determined recluse. But you could be a trifle more welcoming, for her sake if nothing else.”

His eyebrow shot up at her impertinence. Hawkhurst regarded her for several more heartbeats, obviously reassessing her.

He must finally have realized that she was attempting to lighten the mood, for her complaint won her the barest hint of a smile. “You break into my home and then take
me
to task?”

“I did not
break
in,” she pointed out genially. “You admitted me.”

“Much to my regret.”

Just then the darkness in the corridor was broken by another lightning flash. When he continued on his way, Skye followed in his footsteps.

Upon arriving at his study, he allowed her to precede him. To her relief, this room at least looked habitable. A fire was crackling in the hearth and a low-burning lamp rested on a massive desk.

“You may sit there by the fire,” he said, pointing to a leather wing chair that was angled before the hearth.

His invitation seemed slightly grudging, but Skye did not take offense. “Do you mind if I remove my
cloak first? I am chilled to the bone.” Her discomfort was not a lie. Her cloak was soaked through and her gown was damp at the bodice and sodden at the hem.

Hawkhurst murmured something under his breath that sounded much like, “It serves you right,” but he stepped closer to aid her.

When he reached out to lift the cloak from her shoulders, Skye’s own breath suddenly turned ragged at his close proximity. After she handed over the garment, revealing an elegantly tailored traveling dress of forest green kerseymere beneath, his gaze dropped to her breasts.

Instinctively she went still as his marvelous eyes traveled over her body in dispassionate appraisal. She was well aware of her physical attributes and that her feminine countenance and figure appealed to most men. Usually she had suitors falling at
her
feet, declaring themselves in love with her. Yet she had no clue what Hawkhurst was thinking or feeling.

There was no question about her body’s reaction to
him
, however. She was not sexually experienced, but the intense fascination she felt for him was most certainly sexual, her desire that of a grown woman, not merely the love-struck awe of a young girl. But what he did to her insides was more remarkable. His mere nearness filled her with fluttery excitement and sweet yearning—a response she had never felt with any man but him.

She had no difficulty picturing Hawkhurst as her husband now, just as she’d done numerous times in her romantic dreams these past few months. If he were her husband, though, she could have removed her gown instead of standing there shivering in her clammy one. If
he were her husband, she could have undressed down to her shift and moved into his arms. Indeed, she could have bared her entire chilled body to him and shared his warmth.…

The alluring image dissolved when he took her dripping cloak and spread it near the hearth to dry, then went to his desk without another word.

As she removed her wet gloves, Skye could tell Hawkhurst was clearly displeased to have her in his home. She ought to be intimidated by his surly manner; any normal young lady would be. But few gentlemen had the power to shake her, perhaps because she was accustomed to handling the strong-willed men in her family.

She usually was able to bend them to her own will with sweet reason. She suspected in this case, though, it would take a good deal more than reason to sway the earl. Indeed, the sheer size of her task daunted her. But if Lord Hawkhurst was looking for a wife, it might as well be her, Skye judged. At the very least, she wanted to see if they were a compatible match. And regardless of her romantic hopes, she needed a hero just now, and he was a genuine hero.

Skye drew a steadying breath to bolster her courage. She had contrived to land on his doorstep, and now she had to capitalize on the opportunity she had created for herself.

“Will you please read my aunt’s letter, my lord?” she asked.

Obligingly, he turned up the flame on the desk lamp, then held the letter nearer the light. It was then that Skye really saw the burn scars marring the back of his hands.

A sudden lump formed in her throat. Hawkhurst was still the most beautiful man she had ever seen, but also the most deeply scarred. Not just on the outside but on the inside, if her information was correct. After all, he had crawled through fire to save his wife and young son, futilely as it happened. With his life shattered, he’d exiled himself to a distant Mediterranean island and spent the past decade engaged in dangerous deeds, not caring whether he lived or died.

Skye’s heart went out to him. Perhaps that organ was too tender, but as the youngest Wilde cousin of the current generation, she was known for being the sensitive one, in addition to being the most mischievous.

Mentally chiding herself for staring at the earl’s scarred hands, she busied herself spreading her gloves on the hearth. Then she settled into the wing chair and began to remove the pins from her chignon, since her damp hair would dry more quickly if down.

For a short while as he read, the silence in the study was broken only by rain spitting against the windowpanes and the occasional snap of a log in the hearth fire.

When Hawkhurst absently reached for a snifter that was almost empty, Skye noticed the crystal decanter half-filled with what appeared to be brandy. Evidently he had been drinking, which partially explained his morose mood.

It was not surprising that he would be sitting alone here and brooding. She would have brooded also if she’d had to face the ghosts of her dead family, as he doubtless had upon his arrival at the castle after a decade of being absent.

In fact, it was his castle that had made Skye wonder if the earl might be her ideal match. According to her cousin Kate’s matchmaking theory, the five Wilde cousins—Ashton, Quinn, Jack, Katharine, and Skye—could find true love by mirroring legendary lovers in history and literature.

Skye hoped that her romance would follow a French fairy tale written nearly a century ago, where a beautiful young lady had been delivered to a beast whose lair was a palace.

Of course, Lord Hawkhurst was not a beast in the literal sense, but a scarred recluse somewhat fit the role. And this gloomy mansion could be a beast’s lair, Skye thought with a shiver.

Just then Hawkhurst looked up from the letter. His gaze narrowed on her as she combed her fingers through her tangled tresses. Then he said rather brusquely, “Lady Isabella’s missive falls far short of the explanation you promised. She says only that you have a request to make of me. So what do you want, Lady Skye?”

Skye hesitated, knowing she had to choose her words carefully. Naturally she could not tell him her true reason for being there for fear he would think she was stalking him. Her purpose had to remain her secret for now. Therefore, she would employ an entirely different excuse to ensure her chance to pursue the earl.

“I need you to find someone for me.”

“Who?”

“My uncle’s long lost love.”

Hawkhurst appeared dubious. “Why the devil do you think I could help?”

“Because you are an expert at solving puzzles and finding missing people. Two years ago when Lady
Isabella was abducted by a Berber sheikh and carried off to the mountains near Algiers, you found her and rescued her, to her immense gratitude.”

When the earl was silent, Skye offered absently, “I will pay very generously.”

That was obviously the wrong approach, for he shook his head. “My services are not for hire.”

“Then do it as a favor for my aunt.”

That argument did not appear to sway him, either.

At his reticence, Skye gave a soft huff of exasperation. “You are a hero, Lord Hawkhurst. You should want to help me.”

Her claim brought a flash of genuine amusement to his features. “I am no hero.”

“You are indeed. And you belong to a secret league of heroes called the Guardians of the Sword. In fact, you are the league’s most renowned member.”

His expression suddenly became enigmatic, but his tone revealed his displeasure that so much had been disclosed about him. “I expected more discretion from Bella.”

“You ought not blame her. I was quite persistent.”

That was certainly true. She had quizzed her aunt at great length about every facet of the earl’s past. Isabella had a long relationship with the Guardians, having first encountered them many years ago through her first husband, a Spanish nobleman. And after knowing Hawkhurst for the past ten years, she thought of herself much as an older sister to him and yearned for his happiness.

“But don’t fear,” Skye added quickly. “She told me little more than the name of your alliance of spies and that it exists as a clandestine branch of the British Foreign
Office. I know, however, that you have a long list of commendable qualities. You are honorable, supremely clever, and a leader of men. Before the tragedy struck, you were a devoted husband and father. And since then, you have risked your life countless times over and saved numerous lives.”

His answer was gruff, almost harsh. “That still does not make me suitable for your task.”

Skye eyed Hawkhurst in frustration. She was not about to admit failure, not when she felt such great urgency to act. His spy career might still be shrouded in secrecy, but her aunt had been completely frank about his unromantic affairs. Hawkhurst soon intended to wed the great-niece of his superior and mentor—a cold marriage of convenience strictly for political purposes.