The Duke (19 page)

Vauxhall wasn’t Almack’s, but their waltz together was glorious nonetheless. Her cheeks glowed and her head felt light with the dreamlike whirl of the dance as Robert swept her over the parquet floor in effortless athletic grace.

Adoringly she gazed up at him, turning and revolving about the floor in his arms until the disapproving world blurred into a smear of meaningless color around them and there was only him, his smile, his eyes.

At midnight they went out hand in hand and found a good spot by the river from which to view the nightly Vauxhall fireworks. Standing behind her Robert wrapped his arms around her waist to keep her snug and warm against the chill of evening, for there was a fair breeze along the Thames. She laid her head back against his chest and gazed at the exploding sky with a contented sigh. She looked up at him and watched the bright colors from the Chinese fire play across his aquiline features in red and silver and blue. The starlight seemed to dance on his lashes.

Even in the town coach on the way home, they both seemed unwilling to give up their charade. It all had felt so good. With the lateness of the hour, Robert took her into his strong, warm arms and held her, letting her drowse with her head on his broad shoulder. Neither of them broke the precious silence, as though one wrong word might clip the newfound bond between them, fragile as a golden thread.

When they arrived at Knight House they lingered at the top of the grand marble staircase, for the time had come to say good night. They gazed at each other longingly and both looked away.

Abruptly, she broke the nervous silence. “I—I think it went well,” she said, her expression earnest.

He gave a stilted nod. “Er, yes.”

“Robert?”

His stare homed in on her, flashing with desire like lightning, but he didn’t move a muscle. He seemed to be holding his breath. “Yes?”

Her heart was pounding. Cowardice checked her.

“I—I had a wonderful time.”

“Good. I mean, that was the idea. Me, too.” He wet his lips and dropped his gaze, standing as rigidly as the gleaming suit of armor in the foyer. “Well—good night, then.”

“Good night, Robert.”

He bowed. She turned and began walking away, stopped and whirled around again. Hands in pockets, he was still standing there gazing after her, looking lonely, wistful, and a trifle forlorn, his cheekbones sculpted by the dim candlelight from the wall branch.

“What is it, my dear?” he asked softly.

“You will still take me to the Fleet tomorrow? Remember? You promised—”

“I never forget my promises, Miss Hamilton. Sweet dreams.”

She offered him a tentative smile then whisked about and hurried to her room before she did something rash.

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The simple straightforward company of men this morning at his club had cured Hawk temporarily of desiring a woman he did not want to want.

His mood was a trifle irritable after another poor night’s rest spent tossing and turning with wanting her. Charade within charade, he thought, determined to go on playing the plaster saint, beyond temptation. In a brisk, businesslike manner, he returned at one o’clock, as promised, to escort her to the Fleet. It was none of his business, but Hawk had half a mind to tell Mr. Hamilton precisely what he thought of his stupid folly.

Belinda had gone out shopping in the morning and had bought her father an assortment of gifts for his comfort, one of which was today’s copy of the
Times.
As Hawk’s town coach rolled down Faringdon Street toward the sprawling prison, she opened the paper.

“Just.. . checking,” she murmured as she scanned the gossip page.

He had noticed that she had been tense throughout the drive as she sat across from him in the coach. She looked as pretty as the spring day in her high-waisted blue gown, light spencer, and white gloves. She paled, quickly shutting the newspaper again and throwing it away from her with a grimace.

“Bad news?” he asked.

“We’re in there.”

He snorted and shook his head. Why did the world care, anyway, who was courting whom? Was there no such thing as privacy? When they arrived at the Fleet, she left the
Times
behind and stepped down from his coach. She hooked her hand through the crook of his arm and lagged behind as they walked toward the great arched entrance.

To look at her ashen face, one would have thought she was being led to her execution. Her gaze climbed up the mighty, stone-block wall while her hands twisted the ribbons of her reticule so tautly that they nearly snapped. On the right the fortresslike walls of the prison yard loomed, spikes set in their tops to prevent escapes. These, too, she studied in shrinking trepidation.

“Come, Belinda, I’m sure there is nothing to fear,” he said rather impatiently. He was not eager for this to take any longer than necessary. The place was unpleasant and he had to be at the House of Lords by two.

She glanced at him. The footman stared blankly ahead, standing behind her, laden with the presents for her father.

“We don’t have to go in if you don’t want to,” he said more gently. “I can send my servant—”

“No. I have to see Papa,” she forced out. “I’m all he has.”

He touched her under the chin, realizing that it must be quite a humiliation for her to reveal her family’s disgrace to him. “Your loyalty is very sweet. I only wonder if he deserves it.”

“He is my father. Of course he deserves it. Robert, you said you would do this with me. Don’t abandon me now—”

“I’m right here,” he said softly, puzzled by her near-panicked countenance. And then it came to him that he was presently undergoing some kind of test, in her eyes. He stared at her, wondering just what was required of him. “I’ll be right there beside you, Belinda. Are you ready?”

“Yes—yes. I owe you for this, Robert.” Her smile was tepid at best as she pulled up her poke bonnet and took his arm again. “Remember, he doesn’t know ... about me.”

“I’m aware of that,” he replied tersely. Lord, how had he gotten himself into this? Never in his life did he imagine that he should have been forced to meet the father of his courtesan mistress. This was surely a bad idea, he mentally grumbled as he led her inside. Demirep or not, she was a gently bred young woman and had no business exposing herself to such a place. Still, he had to admire her sense of a daughter’s duty.

He could feel her trembling slightly. She stayed huddled close to him as they walked in together, clinging to him when they passed the office of the warden of the Fleet. The door was ajar. Belinda was walking on the opposite side of him, her face hidden behind her poke bonnet, but Hawk glanced in curiously at the sound of rough shouting.

A scarred brute—obviously the warden—was dressing down one of his cringing subordinates. He shook his head. What a hellhole, he thought.

A guard led them through various corridors. Everywhere the prison was cramped and foul smelling, chaotic and noisy, with prisoners begging and cursing at them through the bars. Grimly Hawk clenched his jaw and put his arm around Belinda’s shoulders, pulling her closer under his arm, wishing he could protect her from the filth.

On the far end of the corridor they were brought to a more decent ward. His defensive stance eased only mildly when they were led up a flight of stairs to where the more genteel debtors had private rooms.

When they stopped at a solid wooden door before one of the private cells, Belinda pushed back her bonnet. Her face was a sickly shade of white. Hawk pursed his mouth and hung back, not sure if she wanted him to follow her inside or wait. Belinda stared straight ahead. He saw her lift her chin; he saw her plaster on a smile. Something inside of him wrenched at the way her slender shoulders squared.

The jailer opened the door, and her face suddenly beamed.

“Papa!”

She threw out her arms and rushed into the cell with a laugh that sounded oddly brittle. Hawk stepped into the doorway and saw her throw herself into the arms of a white-haired, bespectacled man.

“Lindabel! Oh, welcome back, dear, welcome back! You are looking better than when I saw you last. Must be the French food that agreed with you, hey, hey? So tell me— how did you like Paris?”

For no apparent reason and entirely without warning, she burst into tears. The old man pulled his spectacles up higher on his nose and peered at her. “What is this foolishness, you little watering pot?”

She was quite too hysterical to answer. Hawk decided it was time to take matters into his own hands. He cleared his throat to make his presence known and strode into the room, swept off his top hat and gestured his footman in with the goods.

“Mr. Hamilton, I presume?” He offered the old scholar his hand. “Robert Knight, at your service.”

Her father shook his hand hesitantly, peering up at him. “Mr. Knight, you say? How do you do? Are you a friend of Bel’s, and if you are, can you tell me why the chit’s crying?”

Belinda hung around her father’s neck. “It’s just that I’m so happy to see you, Papa. I missed you so while I was in”—she looked pleadingly at Hawk—“Paris.”

Hawk furrowed his brow and stared at her, then abandoned his attempt to make sense of it. “Your daughter has brought you a few trifles for your comfort, Mr. Hamilton.”

“He’s not a mister, Papa. He’s the duke of Hawkscliffe. He’s very modest. To a fault,” she whispered, sniffling.

“Oh!” Alfred laughed with delight at his error. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace.”

“It is of no consequence.” Hawk knew he was turning imperious and curt, but he couldn’t help but glare at the old scholar for the wretched look on Belinda’s lovely face. What was the man thinking? Illuminated manuscripts over this precious girl?

“I’m sorry,” she sniffled. “You’re right—I’m being quite absurd. I just missed you, you old enchanter. Now have a look at what I’ve brought you.” Wiping her tears away quickly, she moved to the cot where Hawk’s servant had placed the gifts. “See here, Papa? A new pillow and blanket, brandy and some snuff—”

“Do I like snuff, Lindabel? Why, I don’t recall!” He laughed as though his empty head was the funniest thing in the world.

Hawk scowled and turned away.

“I don’t know, Papa, but you can bribe the guards with it, if nothing else.”

“Oh! Right. So clever, my girl! You didn’t happen to bring me any, er ... books, did you?” he asked, fidgeting like a child on Christmas morning.

“Of course I did.”

Father and daughter proceeded to coo over the trio of new books she had brought for him, exceedingly dull treatises on medieval and classical history that made Hawk and his footman exchange a nonplussed look.

At last the old fellow turned to him. “Your Grace, why don’t we open the brandy Bel has brought and give it a nip, hey?”

For his easy, gentlemanly manner, one might have thought they were standing in Hamilton’s study rather than his jail cell.

Hawk smiled blandly. “No, sir, but thank you for the offer.”

“How, er, do you know my daughter, by the by?” he asked almost gingerly.

Finally the man showed a glimmer of sense.

If it were his daughter showing up dressed in finery with a strange man by her side, that would have been the first question on his lips, after perhaps knocking the man to the ground. Hawk drew breath to answer but Miss Hamilton didn’t give him the chance.

“His Grace has been the soul of kindness, Papa. His maiden sister, Lady Jacinda Knight was one of the students I chaperoned to Paris.”

“Ah,” the man replied, smiling cheerfully at Hawk. “How nice.”

Hawk furrowed his brow. He could not recall telling her his sister’s name.

“Bel, my dear,” Alfred continued, “will you be teaching at Mrs. Hall’s Academy again next year?”

Hawk’s left eyebrow shot up.
Teaching
?

Belinda scrupulously avoided his gaze, moving about the room at a fidgety pace.

“I will if there’s a need, Papa. I don’t mind the work, but by next year, we shall surely be back in Kelmscot. I almost have all the money saved.”

“Oh! Right, right. Right you are. Well done, daughter! Isn’t she a clever thing, Mr.—I mean, Your Grace?”

Hawk stared at Belinda, feeling as though he were seeing her for the first time.

As though she could feel him mentally plodding through the nonsensical conversation, unraveling things she’d never told him, she shot him a glance full of mixed warning and plea.

“Did you convey the girls to Paris, Your Grace?” her father asked him hesitantly.

“Of course not, Papa,” Belinda answered for Hawk with a scolding smile, flicking her father’s arm. “His Grace is much too important a man to be carting little debutantes around the Continent.”

With a nervous laugh that sounded nothing like the aloof, impervious star of the demimonde, she turned away again and began making up her father’s cot with fresh linens, spreading the new quilt over it and plumping up the expensive goose-down pillow she had bought.

Hawk watched her with his heart breaking. It would have been easy, so very easy, to go to the magistrate and get her father out of debtor’s prison, but he knew he would not.