The Duke (15 page)

“Well, you are a courtesan, you must be highly accomplished. What else do you do?”

“Nothing you have paid for.” Resting her elbow on the top of the piano, she laid her cheek in her hand with a saucy smile.

“Little cutthroat.” He laughed quietly, but she remained mistrustful of the beguiling gleam of desire in his eyes.

She glanced around the drafty library, trying to spy a distraction. “Do you have a picture of Lady Coldfell?”

His languid expression stiffened automatically, but he didn’t move. “Why?”

“I want to see who it is we are avenging.”

He veiled his eyes behind his long black lashes, and reached into his desk. She rose and walked over to him. Without a word, he handed her a miniature portrait in a small silver case with a gold clasp.

She opened it and beheld the likeness of a serene beauty with red hair, green eyes, and porcelain skin. She studied it, saddened by the world’s loss of a young, vibrant life. “Did Lady Coldfell give you this?”

“Yes.” He quickly took it back from her and locked it again. He avoided her gaze; his strong, square face remained taut. Fingering the locket, he said nothing further for a long moment. “It was a self-portrait, actually. She was quite a gifted artist.”

Bel perched on the side of his desk and studied him. “Did she know you were in love with her?”

“I don’t know.”

“You never declared yourself?”

“Of course not.”

“How sad.”

He shrugged, looking a trifle guilty about having accepted the gift of a married lady’s portrait. If Lucy had been such a chaste and holy being, why had she given her picture to a man who was not her husband or relative? Bel wondered. It was hardly proper. Had it gratified the young countess’s vanity, knowing that Hawkscliffe was in love with her? Had she strung him along, trying to tempt him beyond the bounds of his honor? “What was it about her that captured you?” she asked softly, keeping a close watch on his tense, sun-burnished face and chiseled profile.

He held the closed metal portrait case, still avoiding her gaze as he brooded. “Her simplicity. Her gentleness. Oh, I don’t really know. It was just a dream, you see. I loved her in my head. I live too much in my head, that is my problem. Outwardly... why, nothing happened. Nothing at all.”

“Do you regret that?”

“What good would it have done me to have reached for her? I would only have dishonored us both and hurt a friend.”

“Do you always play by the rules?” she wanted to ask, but she saw her defensive tactic had worked. His mind was off of any amorous impulses toward her and mired in memories of Lady Coldfell.

The sorrow that the topic had brought into his soulful eyes filled her with such remorse that she reached out and stroked his silky raven hair, offering soft consolation. The wavy ends of it curled around the edges of his snowy cravat in back.

He allowed her to pet his head, but he didn’t look at her.

She gave a sigh of nostalgia. “Courtly love. I think it’s beautiful, Robert, even if it was just a dream.”

“A dream is better than nothing.” He placed the metal locket on the desk before him and just stared at it.

“I only wonder why you didn’t build your dream around a woman you could have.”

A faint, bitter smile curved his mouth, but he didn’t look at her. “Perhaps I didn’t want a woman I could have.”

“Why not?”

“Because I
didn’t,”
he said curtly, slicing her a sharp gaze that flashed with warning.

She withdrew her touch, deeming it safe to quit while she was ahead. His stare dropped and shut her out like an iron portcullis, yet she had glimpsed the needy man inside the impeccable duke.

Masking a fond, almost tender smile, she eased down off his desk, “I shall say goodnight, then, Your Grace.”

Automatically he stood and sketched a bow of lordly precision, hands clasped behind his back, his posture gone stiff and starchy again. She nodded and turned to go.

“Think about what kind of equipage would please you,” he ordered in an imperious tone as she walked to the door. “I’m taking you to Tattersall’s tomorrow.”

She turned back to him in surprise. The candlelight from the lamp on his desk flickered across his tanned, rugged face and caressed his powerful form.

She just stared at him for a moment.

Slowly, profoundly, the realization sank into her mind that she was safe here in his care. She knew it. She could feel it. Even if he had flirted with her a little, he had no intention of breaking his word and forcing any advances upon her.

The amazement of her discovery was followed by a draining wave of relief—and then remorse. The man had meant her no harm and she had manipulated him, made him relive painful memories just to hold him at bay.

“I am sorry for mentioning Lady Coldfell,” she forced out, but she couldn’t bring herself to admit it had been a premeditated ploy. She didn’t want him to think her a coward as well as a whore.

“Oh, it’s all right,” he said wearily. “I’m sorry I was short with you.”

Her throat constricted at his simple decency, that he should apologize to her, when she was the one who had hurt him. The man was a godsend. He deserved more from her than this, she thought fiercely, vowing in future to be a better courtesan for him. She would not fulfill the prime function of her race, but a true Cyprian was much more than a bedmate; there were other ways she could make his life happier and more pleasurable. This big, showy house echoed with his loneliness; she could help him, she knew it. He was like her, though he didn’t suspect it—both of them trapped within themselves.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

The shine of tears in her eyes vanished as she looked up, forcing one of her arch, false smiles. “Imagine that—a man who keeps his word. How novel.”

He dropped his chin and sent her a rueful smile. “You’re too young to be such a cynic. Goodnight, Miss Hamilton.”

“Your Grace.” She dipped a quick curtsy to him, a token of respect offered more sincerely than he realized, then she slipped out of the library and headed down the corridor toward the staircase, her emotions in upheaval.

She had memorized the way to her room for fear of getting lost in the mansion. Knight House was a showplace designed to awe those who entered. Every vista down the marbled corridors proclaimed the high pomp and ancientry of the master’s blue-blooded heritage. Everything was in a state of starched, orderly perfection. It was eerie, more like a great mausoleum than a home—as though Robert had entombed himself with Lady Coldfell.

At the top of the stairs she lifted a branch of candles from the fixture on the wall and made her way down the long dark hallway until she came to the beautiful apartment she had been assigned. She opened the door and entered.

Her feet sank into the plush Flemish carpet as she padded in and locked the door behind her. The light from her candelabra flickered over the intricately molded ceiling and the pale, silk-hung walls. She set the candelabra on the satinwood vanity then went into the connecting dressing room to change into her night rail. It was a fine, skimpy thing of pearly silk, no ordinary white cotton shift for the likes of her. She blew out the beeswax candles.

Climbing into the large four-poster bed hung with rich damask draperies, she lay awake awhile, heeding the unfamiliar smells and sounds. She had never stayed in so magnificent a place and probably never would again, once this was over. Knight House, its staff, and master still intimidated her, but now that she knew she was essentially safe under the duke of Hawkscliffe’s protection, the strangeness of her new situation did not seem as threatening as before.

Maybe everything
would be
all right, she thought as the long locked tension in her limbs and shoulders slowly eased, then, for the first time in weeks, she drifted into a sleep without dark, violent dreams.

Hawk was beginning to discover the whole tenor of his life was changing with Miss Belinda Hamilton in it. She kept him in a perpetual state of delighted confusion. The next morning she was in cheerful spirits, seated next to him at the table in the pale-blue breakfast room. The east wall had high, arched windows through which the clear morning light streamed, weaving itself into her flaxen tresses, illuminating the rosy cream satin of her skin.

When Walsh, the butler, rolled in their breakfast on the wheeled cart, she turned to watch in curiosity and Hawk peered over the edge of the
Times,
stealing a covert glance at her. The sweep of her lashes, the mere angle of her nose did strange things to his insides.

“Oh, what have we here? Omelettes? How lovely,” she exclaimed.

“Omelettes with leeks and morels, Miss Hamilton,” the stately man intoned, fairly fizzing with disapproval of the girl.

“Morels?” She laughed gaily and sent Hawk a smile. “I prefer mine with no morals—but you had already guessed that, I’m sure.”

Walsh started to remove her plate. “Beg pardon, miss, the kitchen will make it over—”

“I believe Miss Hamilton was making a pun,” Hawk spoke up, fighting a smile of amusement. He lifted his tea and took a sip, then gave himself up to watching her. He set the
Times
aside.

“A noble omelette, tell your cook.” She stabbed one of the little mushrooms with her fork, lifting it for Hawk’s inspection. “You like yours with an abundance of morals, I wager?”

“Not always,” he murmured as the butler served him his plate and removed the silver warming lid.

Walsh inquired if they wanted anything further, then bowed and withdrew.

“You’re in high spirits today,” Hawk remarked, reaching for the toast.

“Slept like a babe. Such comfortable quarters, I thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Eat up. We have a busy day ahead.”

“I will!”

For some reason the same breakfast that he ate every morning seemed to him today like a feast, perhaps because his companion exclaimed with relish over every bite. The taste of things struck him newly; he supposed he had lost interest in food in recent weeks. Today he ate like a highlander. Besides the golden brown omelettes, whisked to feathery lightness, there was thick, pink, succulent bacon, glorious butter and raspberry preserves on white toast or warm Geneva rolls with a hint of saffron, and slices of fresh pears.

“Your cook is excellent, Robert.”

He nodded, finished chewing, and took a sip of tea. “Thank heavens at least Cook is still here. We may have a bumpy ride for the next few days with the smooth running of the household. I apologize in advance for any inconvenience. It seems Mrs. Laverty has deserted us.”

Belinda’s eyes widened. She set down her fork. “She quit?”

“Not exactly. She has reassigned herself to Hawkscliffe Hall.” He shook his head in irritation. “Temperamental old harpy, but she does a good job and besides, I can’t fire someone who has been with me since I was in the nursery.”

“Well!” she said indignantly, taking a little dab at the corners of her mouth with her napkin in ladylike determination. “Never fear. I will keep Knight House in top order for you in Mrs. Laverty’s absence.”

“Oh, and how do you propose to do that? The staff thinks you’re some kind of lovely witch who has me under her spell. Besides, what does a courtesan know of domesticity?”

“Never you mind,” she said loftily. “Just inform Walsh that Mrs. Laverty’s authority has been transferred to me, and I’ll take it from there. Such work is a mere trifle to me and it’s the least I can do to give you, ah, satisfaction?” she said lightly.

He slanted her a dubious look, heartily ruing having exempted her from his bed, now that she mentioned it, but he kept his regret to himself. “You sound quite sure. Do you really know what you’re doing? I detest a chaotic household.”

She gave him a rather condescending smile and took a demure bite of omelette.

Hawk was too curious about her hidden talents to deny her. He called in Walsh and told him in a stern, warning tone of the domestic changing of the guard.

Miss Hamilton stared straight ahead in serene hauteur, sipping her tea, while the butler stiffened with silent horror at the order, then bowed and exited, charged with the unenviable task of breaking the news to the rest of the staff.

The courtesan sat there unruffled, as though she dealt with unruly servants every day of her life. She could carry herself like a veritable duchess when it suited her. Perhaps the little cardsharp has an ace up her sleeve, he mused, regarding her closely.

After the meal he herded her into his black town coach, which she proclaimed the pinnacle of supreme elegant luxury. The driver and grooms all were clad in sober dark-blue livery, complete with powdered wigs and tricorne hats. Drawn by four black geldings, the town coach had the Hawkscliffe coat of arms emblazoned on the door, with interior seats of soft, ivory-colored leather.

Their first stop was the Bank of England on Threadneedle Street, where he sauntered in with her on his arm and his ivory-tipped walking stick dangling idly from his other hand. Instantly he was surrounded by obsequious clerks who commenced groveling. Belinda and he were shown into one of the assistant manager’s offices, where Hawk directed an account be opened in her name, to which he transferred the initial sum of five hundred pounds, per their agreement.