Some Like It Sinful (Hellion's Den) (18 page)

Carefully searching the features that had become as familiar as her own, Clara did not miss the edge of strain about the full lips.

“Did Biddles bring you bad news?” she asked softly.

His eyes widened. “Good God, how . . .” he began, only to give a pleased laugh as she bent down to pluck a lace handkerchief from the floor. “Ah, how thoughtless of Biddles.”

Dropping it upon the desk, Clara offered him a teasing glance. “You are fortunate, sir, that it smells of brandy rather than perfume.”

His beautiful eyes darkened as he took a sudden step forward and wrapped his arms firmly about her waist.

“Would you be jealous, sweet Clara?”

Clara was startled by the sharp, near-blinding fury that flared through her at the mere thought of Hawksley with another woman. What the devil was the matter with her? Such an intense emotion was hardly reasonable. Or even desirable.

It was, however, undeniable.

Hoping that her expression did not reveal the force of her reaction to his simple teasing, Clara managed a small smile.

“I assure you that you would never taste of my shepherd’s pie again.”

He gave a dramatic shiver. “A fate that does not bear contemplating. And one that neither of us need ever fear.” He tugged her even closer, his gaze filled with tenderness. “I want no woman but you.”

Her ridiculous fears were instantly banished as a comforting warmth filled her heart.

“And I want no man but you.” She wrapped her arms about his waist as she smiled with open contentment. “A fortunate thing we are to be wed, is it not?”

“Not a fortunate thing,” he murmured, “a miracle.”

A miracle, indeed. She laid her head against his chest, delighting in the sound of his beating heart.

“Will you tell me what is wrong?”

He stiffened at her abrupt question, then just as she feared he might refuse to share what was troubling him, he heaved a deep sigh.

“Actually, everything is falling into place. Biddles has learned how Lord Doulton managed to get his hands upon the paintings.”

She pulled back to watch his shadowed expression as he succinctly revealed the role of Lord Doulton’s young cousin and the suspicion that two soldiers had been murdered in their sleep while he slipped away with the wagon of priceless treasure.

“Heavens . . . How could any man be so evil?” she breathed in disbelief.

“Greed is a powerful incentive,” he assured her. “It has led more than one man to crime.”

“But to kill with such ruthless disregard.” Clara shuddered. “It is sickening.”

“And at an end,” he said in rough tones. “At least as far as Lord Doulton is concerned.”

Clara stilled at his grim expression, a chill inching down her spine.

“What do you intend to do?”

“I intend to ensure that he pays for his sins.”

Oh no. She knew that tone. It always preceded a gentleman behaving as an utter dolt.

She licked her lips. “Hawksley, you will not . . . do anything foolish?”

A raven brow arched. “Foolish?”

“You know precisely what I mean.” She stepped back from his grasp with a frown. “Please tell me that you do not intend to confront Lord Doulton. I could not bear for you to take such a risk.”

A wry smile curved his lips. “I have already been lectured by Biddles, kitten. He has convinced me to allow the War Office to seek justice.”

“Thank goodness.” She breathed a deep sigh of relief. “I was worried you would take matters into your own hands.”

“It is what I desire.” He held her gaze steadily for a long moment. “But not at the cost of losing you.”

It took a moment for his words to sink in. Then without thought Clara threw herself forward to land heavily against his chest.

“Oh, Hawksley . . . I love you.”

His arms instinctively wrapped about her, but she felt him stiffen in shock.

“What did you say?” he demanded.

As she realized just what she had confessed, an embarrassed heat flooded Clara’s cheeks. Oh, Lord. That was not at all how she intended to reveal her feelings. In truth, she was not at all certain she intended to say the words at all. She did not know much of gentlemen, but she had overheard enough women bemoaning the fact that men tended to be oddly terrified by confessions of love.

“I . . .” She cleared her dry throat. “I believe you heard me quite well.”

She gave a squeak as his hands encircled her waist and he lifted her until they were nose to nose.

“Actually, I fear I must be dreaming,” he murmured. “Say the words again, my angel.”

Well, he hadn’t bolted, she assured herself. Nor had he swooned in horror.

In fact, his eyes held such an aching vulnerability that her fear was swiftly dissolving. Framing his face with her hands, she slowly smiled.

“I said that I love you, Hawksley.”

With a groan he jerked her against his tense body, burying his head in the curve of her neck.

“Bloody hell, you cannot know how sweet those words are to my ear, Clara,” he muttered in a rasping voice. “I have waited a lifetime for you.”

Although deeply pleased by his fervent response, Clara gently cleared her throat.

“Um . . . Hawksley?”

“Yes, my love?” he murmured.

“I fear I cannot quite manage to breathe when you hold me so tightly.”

He gave a choked laugh as he slowly lowered her to the ground, although his arms remained loosely wrapped about her.

“Forgive me, there are times when I forget just how tiny and fragile you truly are.”

She leaned against his chest, placing her ear over the rapid beat of his heart.

“Not so very fragile,” she assured him.

“Fragile and beautiful and utterly mine,” he whispered, kissing the top of her head. “Or you will be mine as soon as I can acquire a special license.”

A surge of pleasure swept through Clara as she leaned back to meet his watchful gaze. “A special license?”

He tensed, as if bracing himself for an unwelcome blow. “Only if it meets with your approval. I did not think you would desire a large, traditional wedding. And to be honest, I am too selfish to wish to wait to make you my wife.”

She gave a slow shake of her head. Surely this must all be a dream? Aging spinsters simply did not have gorgeous pirates tumbling over themselves to make them their bride.

“Are you certain, Hawksley?” she demanded.

His eyes blazed with a sudden fire. “More certain than I have been of anything in my life.”

A whisper of warning that this was all too good to be true fluttered deep in her heart, but Clara sternly brushed it aside.

She wanted to marry Hawksley. She wanted to be his wife and to know that she would never be alone again.

Nothing else mattered.

“Then yes. I would very much like to be wed by special license.”

Pressing a swift, possessive kiss to her lips, Hawksley stepped back with an oddly shuttered expression.

“I promise I will do everything in my power to ensure you do not regret your decision, Clara.”

She gave a faint frown. “What could I possibly regret?”

“I . . .” He bit off his words with an absent shake of his head. “I must meet Biddles at the War Office. Will you wait up for my return?”

“Of course.” She reached out to gently touch his cheek. “Is there something troubling you?”

He conjured a strained smile. “Nothing more than the fear that Lord Doulton will somehow manage to escape justice. The sooner I have this turned over to the authorities, the better.”

Her vague sense of disquiet was not entirely banished, although she told herself she was being a fool.

Of course he was tense. He had waited months to revenge his brother’s death. Now he was forced to depend upon others to ensure Lord Doulton paid for his sins.

It must be a bitter pill for a man with Hawksley’s pride to swallow.

“I will be waiting here for your return,” she promised softly.

“Thank you.” He brushed his lips lightly over her forehead before turning and heading for the door.

On her own Clara sucked in a deep breath.

All would be well, she told herself sternly. Hawksley would see to Lord Doulton and they would soon be husband and wife.

Life was astonishingly perfect.

There was no reason to worry.

No reason at all.

Clara remained in the library even after she heard Hawksley leave the house. She felt ridiculously on edge, and there was an odd comfort in being surrounded by the scent and feel of Hawksley that lingered in the room.

Allowing her hands to trail over the leather-bound books that lined the shelves, Clara smiled wryly. It was rather astonishing just how important Hawksley had become to her happiness. After all, she had known him for such a short time. And in truth there was a great deal of him that remained shrouded in mystery. But she could not deny that it seemed impossible to imagine her future without him in it.

She had reached the marble fireplace when she became aware of the sound of raised voices in the foyer. Coming to a halt, she frowned as she attempted to discern the low rumble of words that echoed through the air.

“Out of my way, you scurrilous cur.”

“Sir, I really must insist that you await Hawksley’s return.”

She could detect Dillon’s familiar growl, but she was quite certain that she had never before heard the first male voice.

As she debated whether it would be wiser to keep her presence a secret or to go to the assistance of the growingly agitated servant, the decision was taken out of Clara’s hands when the door to the library was abruptly thrust open.

Startled by the unexpected intrusion, Clara took an instinctive step back as her gaze swept over the large form.

The first thing she noted was the obvious elegance of the stranger. From the precisely styled gray hair that framed a powerful countenance to the dark coat and black breeches, he spoke of pampered, arrogant wealth. It was an image that was only emphasized by the cold expression upon his bold, male features and hint of disdain in the blue eyes.

Clara instinctively found her muscles tightening. She was all too familiar with such noblemen and their unbearable conceit. They had certainly managed to insult and mock her often enough over the years.

And it did not make matters better to have him regarding her with a curl of his lips that indicated quite clearly he considered her as something that should have been tossed out with the morning rubbish.

“Gads, I might have known Hawksley would have some bit of muslin tucked away,” he drawled in disdainful tones. “He has never possessed the slightest measure of decency.”

“Bit of muslin?” Clara stiffened her spine as her chin tilted to a fighting angle. She did not know who this gentleman might be, but she would be damned if she would meekly allow him to insult her in such a fashion. “Sir, you are offensive.”

He offered a humorless laugh as he stepped further into the room. “You will find that I can be a good sight more offensive if you do not pack your bags and leave immediately.”

She blinked at the abrupt command. Arrogance, indeed, she acknowledged in disbelief. How dare he enter Hawksley’s home and begin tossing about orders?

“That is hardly your decision to make. I assure you that I am here at Hawksley’s invitation.”

“Oh, I am sure you are.” The blue eyes held open scorn as the stranger deliberately made note of her threadbare gown and boots that were several years old. “Hawksley is never satisfied unless he has managed to surround himself with cutthroats, whores, and every other sort of ruffian he can collect from the gutter.”

Clara clenched her hands at her side. It was that or toss a very large, very heavy book at the older man’s skull. Goodness knew she could not possibly miss his inflated head.

“That is enough. I think it would be best if you left this house until Hawksley has returned.”

The arrogant wretch appeared taken back by her cold retort. As if she were a beaten hound that refused to heel when he snapped his fingers.

Then a decidedly unpleasant smile twisted his lips.

“Ah, I begin to understand your reluctance.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“No doubt Hawksley has promised you some sort of payment,” he said as he reached beneath his coat to pull out a small purse. “Very well, I am a man of business. How much will it cost to have you pack yourself off? Five pounds? That is more than generous.”

Clara caught her breath. Never in her six-and-twenty years had she ever been so insulted. Which was saying something considering the innumerable slights, snubs, and cut directs she had endured.

“I do not know who you are or what your connection to Hawksley might be, but I can assure you that you have made a most grievous error,” she gritted in icy tones.

Opening his purse, the gentleman counted out a handful of notes and tossed them to the carpet.

“Ten pounds, and that is my final offer. I suggest you take it before I have you tossed out without so much as a shilling.”

At the moment Clara thought if anyone was about to be tossed out, it was the smug brute standing before her. She might be half his weight and several inches shorter, but she was certainly angry enough to dump him through the nearest window.

“There is no amount of money you can offer me,” she assured him with icy disdain. “I will have you know that I am Hawksley’s fiancée.”

“His . . . fiancée?” Just for a moment stark silence filled the room, and then he suddenly tilted back his head to laugh with insulting humor. “Oh, that is rich.”

“I do not know what you find so amusing.”

“Not even my son would dare to make a penniless tart with no breeding the next Countess of Chadwick.”

It was Clara’s turn to fall silent as she reeled in disbelief.

No.

It could not be.

It simply could not.

“Countess . . .”

His nose flared. “Please do not pretend innocence, it does not become a woman of your ilk. You are obviously a well-educated courtesan who would never be in the company of a common gamester. Your sort always holds out for a titled nobleman. In this instance you managed to snare a viscount. I must compliment you upon your obvious . . . skills.”

Clara barely heard his insults.

Instead she grappled with the horrid, near-mind-numbing possibility.

Hawksley . . . the son of this hideous nobleman. A man who was already a viscount and destined to become the Earl of Chadwick.

“This is impossible.”

“If you mean it is impossible that you would be engaged to my son, I must heartily agree. Even if he were foolish enough to make some rash pledge in the heat of passion, I can assure you that I will see you in hell before I allow him to humiliate his family with the likes of you.”

Clara reached out to grasp the edge of the nearest shelf. Only pride and the refusal to reveal the least hint of weakness before the coldhearted bastard kept her from swooning.

“Dear Lord . . .”

Oblivious to her distress, the Earl of Chadwick pointed toward the discarded notes upon the floor.

“Take the money and consider yourself fortunate you were not tossed out with nothing to show for your efforts.”

Without warning, a fierce fury raced through her blood.

She did not know who was responsible for her raging anger, the evil beast standing before her or the fiancé who had lied to her from the beginning. Or herself for being such a naïve sap.

In truth it did not matter.

She only knew that she was hurting and in need of striking out at someone.

“I would sell myself in the streets before I touched a grout of your wealth,” she assured him with biting contempt. “Do you know, I wondered how Hawksley could bear to turn his back on his own family, no matter what the difficulties that may be between you. Now I comprehend utterly.”

An ugly stain marred the once-handsome countenance. “How dare you?”

“Quite easily.” She moved until she was standing directly before him, determined to reveal that for all his power and social stature, she would not be intimidated. “You are a cold, horrid man who has lost one son and driven away another. You are destined to die alone and unloved. I would pity you if you did not so fully deserve your pathetic fate.”

For a moment the cold fury in his eyes made Clara wonder if he might actually strike her. Then with an obvious effort he took a step back and gathered his well-honed disdain.

“You will never wed my son.”

A bitter smile curved her lips. “At last we come to an agreement. Now, if you will excuse me.”

She swept past him toward the door.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

Clara did not even bother to turn about. “I am about to correct a near-tragic mistake.”

A blessed numbness shrouded Clara’s mind as she calmly returned to her narrow chambers and packed her bags. Logic warned her that soon enough the shock would fade and she would be forced to confront the pain of betrayal and disappointment.

For now, however, she intended to use her momentary reprieve to flee as far as possible from Hawksley. She would not allow him to know just how deeply he had managed to hurt her.

Taking only a small satchel of her most necessary items, Clara put on her bonnet and wrapped her cape about her shivering form. She could only hope that Hawksley would possess the decency to send the rest of her belongings. She certainly could not afford to replace them.

Once ready, she forced herself to walk down the stairs without looking back. What was the point? The memory of every nook and cranny of the house would be forever branded upon her mind.

No matter how much she might wish to pretend she had never entered the Hawk’s Nest.

She breathed a sigh of relief as she reached the foyer without encountering the dreadful Earl of Chadwick. As furious as she might be with Hawksley and his father, she was certain she would later regret blackening the eye of a peer of the realm.

Opening the door, she had nearly reached freedom when there was the sound of hurried footsteps behind her.

“Miss Dawson . . .”

Clara heaved a heavy sigh as she forced herself to turn and regard Dillon’s anxious expression.

“Please, not now, Dillon,” she pleaded.

Something that might very well have been remorse rippled over his battered countenance. As damn well it should, she told herself, refusing to feel the least amount of guilt at his obvious distress.

He had pretended to be her friend when all along he was allowing her to be played a fool by Hawksley.

“Where are you going?”

Her chin jutted to a stubborn angle. “I am going home, where I belong.”

“But it is far too dangerous for you to return,” he insisted.

“No longer. Hawksley will ensure that Lord Doulton is dealt with this evening. I no longer have a reason to remain.”

Dillon chewed his lip at her stiff words, easily sensing the strain beneath her calm façade.

“It is far too late to be catching the stage, miss. At least wait until morning.”

She stiffened at the mere thought. Remain here? Where she would be forced to confront Hawksley and listen to his empty assurances he had never intended to rip her heart out?

Oh no. That would never do.

“I do not care if I am forced to walk, Dillon,” she said fiercely. “I will not stay another moment beneath this roof.”

A hint of desperation settled about Dillon as he twisted his hands together.

“If you will just wait a moment, I will call for the carriage . . .”

“No.” Stepping forward, Clara gave the man a brief hug. She could not be angry with him. This entire fiasco could be laid entirely at the feet of Hawksley. “I will always remember your kindness to me, Dillon. Good-bye.”

Feeling tears beginning to prick in the back of her eyes, Clara hastily turned and hurried for the door before she managed to become a babbling idiot.

At least she could leave with a bit of dignity.

Dignity that lasted until she reached the darkened corner of the street.

Coming to a halt, she glanced about the shadowed buildings that lined the street.

Well . . . now what, she brooded.

She did not doubt that Dillon had been correct when he insisted there would be no stages to be had at such a late hour. And she had no friends or acquaintances to call upon.

Obviously she would have to seek out the nearest hotel.

It was what she had intended to do before ever arriving in London.

Now, if she just knew where the devil one might be found.

Squaring her shoulders, she set off at a brisk pace, keeping her eyes upon the narrow street for a passing hackney.

She would survive this, she told herself grimly. She always survived.

With her head turned, Clara had no warning of the large form that suddenly stepped from behind a large hedge. Nothing but an unexpected whiff of peppermint and cloves.

On the point of turning, she did not even manage a scream when a blinding pain flared through the back of her head. Instead she slid silently to the damp ground, a wave of darkness smothering the panic that stabbed at her heart.

 

 

Hawksley was seated within the sacred inner offices of the War Office when a servant discreetly pressed a note into his hand.

Just for a moment he debated slipping it into his pocket unread. After all, what could be more important than the grim-faced gentlemen seated around the oval table?

Biddles had made good on his promise to assemble the sort of powerful aristocrats, military commanders, and even royal officials they would need to have Lord Doulton facing the noose. More importantly, they had listened to the rather far-fetched accusations without yet having them tossed into Bedlam.

Now was not the time to be distracted.

But even as his fingers closed about the folded paper, an odd premonition seemed to inch down his spine.

It was nothing more than a vague sense that all was not right. But it was enough to have him smoothing out the folds of the paper to read the hastily scrawled message.