Some Like It Sinful (Hellion's Den) (13 page)

For the first time since his brother’s murder, Hawksley was not plagued with ruthless nightmares that marred his nights. Nor did he awaken at the crack of dawn battling the restless need to be upon the hunt.

Perhaps not so surprising, he drowsily acknowledged as he breathed deeply of the feminine scent still clinging to his skin. He had devoted hours to teaching his bride-to-be the delights of desire. Wondrous hours that had revealed Clara’s passionate nature and ready wish to please and be pleased.

Even after she had fallen asleep, he had remained awake to watch her.

She appeared so delicate, so fragile. And yet, he was discovering that she possessed more strength and courage than any woman he had ever encountered.

No, not any
woman
, he had corrected himself. Any person he had ever encountered.

He had chosen well.

Near dawn he had gathered her into his arms and had at last fallen into a deep, peaceful sleep.

Now an unwitting smile curved his lips as he reached out to touch the woman who had banished the demons of the night.

“Clara . . .”

His smile faded and his eyes opened as he realized he was alone in the bed. Abruptly sitting up, he glanced about his chamber, belatedly noting the shaft of late-morning sunlight peeking between the curtains.

Damn.

Tossing aside the covers, Hawksley plunged himself into the bath that had long since cooled to a tepid temperature and shaved his heavy whiskers. With the same swift efficiency he pulled on his attire and tugged his damp hair into a queue at his neck.

Why the devil had she not awakened him?

Bloody hell, he had taken her innocence. Surely she must realize they needed to discuss what had occurred last night? To come to an understanding of their future together?

In the process of tying a simple knot in his cravat, Hawksley abruptly grimaced.

What the devil was he thinking?

He knew better by now than to expect the expected from Miss Clara Dawson.

While any other woman might be clamoring for promises of a wedding, or at the very least the assurance that he would take care of her, Clara was no doubt off baking a cake or polishing the silver.

It would never occur to her that he might possess a responsibility for her now.

She had been too long on her own. Too long forced to fend for herself. And too long surrounded by buffoons who had no appreciation for her rare qualities.

Well, no longer.

From this day forward she would have someone to take care of her. Someone who would ensure that she need never be alone again.

Feeling an unfamiliar sense of anticipation, Hawksley let himself out of his chambers and went in search of his bride. It was time she realized that her future was very much settled.

 

 

He at last discovered her in his small library, seated at his desk. She was occupied with a paper upon the blotter, and for a moment he simply allowed himself to drink in the sight of her.

With the sunlight slanting through the window, her hair shimmered with a silver halo and the purity of her profile was thrown into relief.

His angel, indeed.

Feeling a ridiculous urge to strut about like a puffed-up rooster, Hawksley crossed the room to stand directly behind her chair. He brushed a kiss over her bare nape before leaning toward her ear.

“Good morning, kitten.”

With a startled squeak Clara was on her feet and whirling about. At the sight of him her expression abruptly softened.

“Oh, Hawksley, you are awake.”

“So it would seem,” he murmured, pushing the chair out of his way as he stepped toward her.

“I am so glad. I have been working upon . . . oh.” Her eyes widened as his arms lashed about her and hoisted her against his chest. “Good heavens.”

Hawksley smiled with wicked enjoyment as her eyes darkened with pleasure. With ready ease he recalled the memory of her lying beneath him as she cried out her pleasure. Slowly he allowed his hands to trace down the slender curve of her spine, lingering upon the softness of her hips before skimming their way back up. He breathed deeply of her clean scent. She smelled of soap and vanilla and sweet feminine heat. It intoxicated him in a manner he had never before experienced.

Intoxicated and bewildered him, he had to acknowledge.

Lust he understood. It was as familiar as hunger and thirst and pain.

And the reason his manhood was rapidly hardening with determined intent. But he did not understand the tenderness that ached deep in his heart whenever she was near.

There was no urge to roughly conquer and brand this woman as his own as he lowered his head. Instead, with exquisite care he tasted of her lips, savoring her softness as if she were a rare nectar. She shivered even as her arms lifted to wrap about his neck.

He moved to drop light kisses over her cheeks, her temples, and her wide brow. He memorized every plane, every angle of her countenance from the fullness of her mouth to the sweep of her lashes before burying his face in the curve of her neck.

“This is the proper way to greet your lover in the morning,” he murmured against her skin.

He could feel her heart racing. “It is?”

“Most certainly.”

“What of the servants?”

He pulled back to regard her with a lift of his brow. “If you imagine I am about to kiss Dillon or his sister like this, you have lost your wits.”

Her eyes sparkled with amusement and a passion that warmed him to his very heart.

“I meant what if they happen upon us?”

“Then I shall send them away. Or better yet, we could return to my chambers where we will be certain of privacy.” Hawksley stole a lingering kiss. “Why did you leave me?”

“Oh.” Pressing her hands to his chest, she leaned back to regard him with a sudden expression of excitement. “When I wakened I recalled Mr. Chesterfield’s letter.”

Hawksley froze in disbelief. After spending the most incredible night of his life in the arms of this woman, the last thing he desired to hear was the name of another gentleman upon her lips.

“You awoke in my bed thinking of another man?” he demanded in dangerous tones.

Gloriously indifferent to the prickles of danger in the air, she offered a charming smile.

“I wished to discover what he had written.”

His teeth clenched. By the fires of hell. There was something gnawing in the pit of his stomach. Something that he did not care for the least bit.

“It seems that I am not giving you the proper attention if you are able to consider anything but me when you are in my arms,” he growled.

At last sensing his stiff annoyance, Clara regarded him with a faint frown.

“Hawksley, is something the matter?”

“Beyond your fascination with that damnable Mr. Chesterfield?”

Her eyes widened. “Good Lord, are you . . . jealous?”

“Yes, I damn well am.”

She appeared stunned by his blunt confession. He did not know why, he grumpily told himself. He had already physically threatened his two best friends for simply kissing her hand.

“But that is absurd. You know very well I have never even met Mr. Chesterfield.”

He gave a restless shrug. “What does that have to say to anything? You were one to claim to have some mystical, intellectual connection with the man. You were even willing to endure being physically ill so that you could rush to London and be at his side.”

“I was naturally concerned.”

“Now you leave my bed to come and moon over his letter.”

She gave a slow shake of her head as her hand lifted to gently touch his tight jaw.

“Hawksley, I wanted to assist you in your search for your brother’s murderer. I thought the letter might hold a clue.”

“And Mr. Chesterfield?”

“I am worried for him and certainly hope that he is well,” she confessed, her gaze holding his. “But you were right when you said I did not know him as a woman should know a man.”

The tightness in his chest began to ease. “As you know me?”

“Yes.”

With a low moan he kissed her with stark relief. The sooner this woman belonged to him, the better.

“Hawksley?”

Busily nuzzling the curve of her neck, Hawksley silently cursed the prim neckline of the dowdy gray gown. Once they were wed he would ensure that she possessed the sort of elegant wardrobe suitable for a lady of Quality, he assured himself. The sort of gowns that every woman desired.

“Mmm?”

“Do you not wish to know what I have discovered?”

Battling the urge to sweep her in his arms and haul her back upstairs, Hawksley reluctantly dropped his arms and stepped back. The next occasion he had her in his bed, it would be as his fiancée.

“First I believe we should discuss something of rather more importance.”

She did not bother to hide her surprise. “What could be more important than your brother?”

A fortnight ago nothing would have been more important than Fredrick and discovering his murderer. Now, however, Hawksley realized that the beautiful woman had reminded him that he possessed a life of his own. And a future that suddenly seemed worth looking forward to.

“You.”

“Me?”

“More precisely . . . us.”

“I do not understand,” she began, and then strangely her face seemed to pale and something that might have been panic flared through her eyes. “Oh no. No, Hawksley. Do not even think it.”

“I beg your pardon?”

She poked him in the chest with her finger. “You are not going to do something wretchedly noble such as ask me to marry you because of last night. I will not allow it.”

Well.

Hawksley swallowed a rueful laugh.

He had not precisely expected her to flutter or swoon at the thought of becoming his wife. That would be far too predictable. But he certainly had not anticipated the irritation that smoldered about her slender form.

Not about to be put off, he gave a lift of his brows. “Fortunately, I do not take orders from you, Miss Dawson. At least not yet,” he said in firm tones. “As for asking you to marry me . . . well, there is no question that we will wed. I would never have taken your innocence if that was not what I intended.”

If anything her annoyance only deepened. “You did not take my innocence, Hawksley, I gave it to you. And it was not with the notion of manipulating you into marriage.”

His expression softened. “I am well aware of that, Clara. You are incapable of such treachery.”

Her hands landed on her hips, pulling the gray material tantalizingly over the swell of her breasts. Breasts that had fit perfectly in his hands and tasted of...

“Then why?”

His mouth became dry. No, Hawksley, he sternly chastised himself. Not now. Later. Definitely later.

“Why what?” he muttered.

“Why do you wish to marry me?”

His lips twisted; she had only to glance down to know at least one reason that he desired to haul her to the nearest vicar.

“Well, there is the rather obvious fact that I desire you to the point of madness.”

A delicate color touched her cheeks. “Marriage is more than desire.”

“You also fascinate me.” He stepped forward to tuck a curl behind her ear, allowing his fingers to trail along the line of her jaw. “I have never before met a woman like you.”

“That I can well believe,” she breathed.

He gazed deep into her eyes. “And you have given me a reason to live again.”

Her breath caught as she gazed helplessly into his countenance. At last he had touched her vulnerability. She might not wed to ease her own lonely existence or to ensure the security of her future, but she could not ignore her instinctive yearning to be needed by another.

“Hawksley . . .” she husked, her hand touching his cheek before she was sucking in a deep breath and stepping backward. “No.”

He blinked at her abrupt withdrawal. “What?”

“It is not possible.”

“What is not possible?”

“I cannot be your wife.”

Hawksley studied her set expression. What the devil was going through that peculiar brain now?

“Why? I will admit that it does not appear that I have much to offer a bride, but I assure you that you will not want for anything.”

She gave a sudden snort. “Good heavens, it is not that. As if I would care for such a thing. I have no desire for wealth or position. Indeed, I should not accept them if they were offered.”

A faint twinge of unease touched his heart at her disdainful tone. Surely she would not be disappointed when she discovered that her soon-to-be husband was not the penniless gambler she believed but rather a viscount of enormous wealth?

No. It was not possible, he hastily reassured himself. No matter how eccentric, there was no woman who would prefer to beg and scrape for existence when she could have luxury offered on a silver platter.

“Then what is it, Clara?” he demanded, his voice revealing a hint of impatience. “Do you fear I will not make a suitable husband? I may not possess the charm of Santos or the intellect of Mr. Chesterfield, but—”

“Hawksley, I cannot be your bride simply because I could not bear to have you loathe me,” she abruptly announced.

Silence descended as he regarded her in disbelief.

Was she mad? Had her mother managed to drop her upon her head when she was just a babe? Or perhaps the strain of the past few days had made her plunge into insanity.

There had to be some reason she could believe a gentleman who had not only made desperate love to her for hours, but had turned his household upside down to please her, could ever possibly loathe her.

With a determined motion he reached out to take her hands in a firm grasp. He was startled to discover they were actually shaking.