Some Like It Sinful (Hellion's Den) (7 page)

BOOK: Some Like It Sinful (Hellion's Den)
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Dusk was falling when she was at last satisfied that the rooms had been properly scrubbed, polished, aired, and arranged in precise order.
Taking a tray of tea and sandwiches to her chambers, she requested that a bath be brought up and devoted herself to washing the lingering traces of the road from her body. It was only when she was in her sensible robe and brushing her hair by the fire in her room that she turned her thoughts to the troubles at hand.
She had not missed Hawksley’s deep, biting grief at the death of his brother, nor his fierce determination to lay blame for the murder at the feet of Lord Doulton. Such strong emotions rarely allowed for logical thought, she had discovered, but she could not wholly dismiss the notion that he might very well have something to his vague suspicions.
After all, the journal did suggest his brother had broken habits of a lifetime after meeting with Lord Doulton. And then there was the unexplainable fact that his lordship had commanded her own death.
Seemingly unconnected events, but enough to earn Lord Doulton a closer inspection.
If nothing else, she had a personal need to discover more of the wretched man. Until she learned why he would send a murderous fiend to ambush her, she would be forced to keep herself hidden away.
Not an entirely unpleasant task at the moment, she had to wryly concede, but one that could not continue for long.
Soon enough she would be expected back in her cottage. She could not risk having questions raised at her absence. Not when it might jeopardize her reputation.
Setting aside her brush, Clara restlessly raised herself to her feet. Although she was weary, she knew it would be some time before she would fall asleep.
She might as well find herself something to read, she decided. It would keep her occupied until Hawksley’s return.
Not bothering with a candle, she carried her tray back to the kitchen and tidied the dishes before heading to the small library she had discovered earlier in the day. Moving down the hall, she passed the small parlor, pausing as a faint tingle of awareness feathered over her skin.
Someone was in the darkened room. Of that she was certain.
Stepping over the threshold, she scanned the darkness until she noted the darker shadow near the bay window.
“Hawksley?” she questioned softly, only to stiffen in wariness as the shadow turned in her direction. “Who are you?”
There was a moment’s pause. “How did you know I was not Hawksley?” a rich, faintly accented voice demanded.
Unafraid, Clara took another step forward. She already suspected the identity of the intruder.
“You do not smell as he does.”
A startled chuckle echoed through the heavy silence. “I beg your pardon?”
“Hawksley does not wear sandalwood, nor does he smoke cheroots.”
“Ah, you are very observant, Miss Dawson,” the gentleman murmured.
“You were at the cottage.”
“Santos. At your service.”
He stepped into the slanting moonlight to perform an elegant bow. Clara was once again struck by his sheer beauty. It was not the powerful, smoldering attraction of Hawksley, but instead an aloof perfection that was more than a tad intimidating.
“The smuggler.”
A dark brow flicked upward at her unwitting words. “So some claim, although rarely to my face.”
Clara grimaced. “Forgive me, I did not intend to insult you.”
He shrugged. “It takes a great deal to insult me,
anjo
.”
“It is just that you do not look like a smuggler.”
“Hmm. I wonder if I should take that as a compliment?” A faint smile curved his lips. “I suppose my vanity must insist that I do.”
Clara swallowed a sigh. She should no doubt have herself muzzled.
“Are you searching for Hawksley?”
“No, I spoke with him earlier.”
She was caught off guard by his ready response. “You spoke with him? Where is he?”
“At Hellion’s Den.”
“Hellion’s Den?”
“A gambling establishment not far from here.”
“He is gambling?” She did not bother to hide her confusion. “I thought he was meeting with a scholar?”
Santos’ lips twitched. “If anyone can assist in acquiring obscure information, it is Biddles. He is rather a legend around London. Hawksley requested that I come here until he was finished.”
“I see.” Her brows drew together as she considered his smooth explanation. Then abruptly she stiffened in outrage. “Oh. Why, that . . . toad. He sent you here to ensure that I did not slip away.”
The man’s amusement only deepened at her accusation. “Actually, I believe he was more concerned with keeping you safe. This neighborhood is not the most suitable place for a young and innocent maiden.”
“Fah.” Her hands landed upon her hips. “Dillon is here, as well as two other servants who appear quite capable of dealing with a French invasion if need be, let alone any stray criminal who might be about. Why would he believe I would have need for more protection?”
He elegantly strolled forward, his hand reaching out to touch a still-damp curl that lay against her cheek.
“I would presume it was for the same reason he felt the need to threaten me with a very nasty retribution if I dared to offer you so much as a smile.”
“What?” She frowned. “But that is absurd.”
“My thought precisely. Gentlemen, however, are rarely reasonable when a beautiful woman is involved.”
Although admiration shimmered in his gaze, Clara was too accustomed to being thought an oddity to accept his interest could be genuine. No doubt he was simply playing one of those sophisticated games that always baffled her.
“I begin to believe that London gentlemen are either blind or daft,” she said dryly.
He gently twirled the curl about his finger. “I should say that we simply possess a more refined appreciation for the rare and unique.”
Oh my. Clara blinked in astonishment. The gentleman’s charm was lethal.
“Do you work for Hawksley?” she abruptly demanded.
His gaze narrowed, as if he disliked the implication he might answer to anyone.
“I work only for myself.”
“Oh.” She wrinkled her nose in an apologetic manner. “But you are assisting him in the search for his brother’s murderer?”
“Yes.”
“Do you believe Lord Doulton is involved?”
She was pleased when he considered her question for a long moment. Clearly he was a man given to thought before action. His assistance would serve Hawksley well.
“I believe he has far more of a fortune than he should have. And that he would kill to keep his newfound wealth.”
She gave a slow nod, ignoring his lingering touch as her mind was consumed with the riddle of Lord Doulton.
“There are not a great many means of gaining a fortune, illegal or otherwise,” she murmured.
“True.”
She met his gaze squarely. “I suppose you would know if he were involved in criminal opportunities?”
His lips twitched, his countenance revealing he was not offended by her delicate question.
“He has no connection to any known smugglers, thieves, or counterfeiters.”
“Ah.” She absently nibbled her bottom lip as she shifted through various possibilities. “Blackmail?”
“A possibility.”
“Yes . . . It does not, however, explain murder,” she had to concede. “You would be far more likely to do whatever necessary to keep your victims alive. They can hardly pay your demands from the grave.” Abruptly Clara became aware of Santos’s soft laughter. “What is it?”
His fingers moved beneath her chin to tilt her face upward for his inspection.
“Hawksley warned me you were most unexpected.”
“Unexpected?” She rolled her eyes upward. “I would rather say he warned you I was completely mad. I have a tendency to become rather fixated when I am working upon a riddle.”
He leaned closer, his eyes smoldering in the moonlight. “A most charming tendency.”
There was the sound of a footfall near the door, and a dangerously soft male voice sliced through the room.
“A step closer, Santos, and I shall have you drawn and quartered.”
Chapter Seven
Hawksley should no doubt have been shocked by the force of his emotions when he entered the room to find Clara practically in Santos’s arms.
He was not one of those ridiculous buffoons who allowed a woman to toy with his affection or play him for a fool. Indeed, more than one mistress had bemoaned his lack of proper sentimental feelings.
Oddly, however, he was not at all startled by the dark anger that could only be jealousy tensing his muscles. Nor by the urge to march across the room and knock the handsome Santos onto his arse.
From the moment this woman had dropped into his arms he had been plagued by a host of unfamiliar emotions. Why should tonight be any different?
With an effort, Hawksley squashed his more violent urges and conjured his nearly forgotten sense of humor. For all his sins, perhaps he deserved to be undone by a tiny angel who preferred mathematical equations to seduction.
Besides which, it had been his own daft notion to send Santos to his house. Whatever the gentleman’s danger to poor Miss Dawson’s heart, he would protect her with his very life.
Strolling forward, he watched as Santos stepped away from Miss Dawson with a lazy smile.
“Ah, Hawksley. I wish I could claim it is a pleasure to see you,” Santos drawled.
Hawksley smiled, but there was no doubting the warning in his expression. “Am I intruding, old friend?”
“If I say aye will you leave?”
Hawksley came to a halt directly in front of the smuggler. “Not even with a pistol held to my head.”
Santos chuckled. “Something that could be arranged.”
“I see that I shall have to be more specific when I request that you refrain from seducing my guests, Santos.”
“I have not seduced her.” The dark eyes slanted toward the frowning Clara. “Yet.”
Hawksley’s features hardened. He was well aware that Miss Dawson appeared a delectable morsel in that damnable sheer robe and silken curls tumbled about her shoulders. What male would not wish to devour her?
The sooner he rid himself of Santos, the better.
“Miss Dawson, will you excuse us a moment?” he murmured, his gaze never straying from his companion. “I wish to have a word with our guest.”
With a laugh Santos clapped his hand on Hawksley’s stiff shoulder. “I fear you shall have to save your dire threats for later, Hawksley. I have a pressing appointment that I dare not miss.” He captured Miss Dawson’s fingers and lifted them to his lips in a practiced motion. “Until later,
meu anjo
.”
“Santos,” Hawksley threatened as his friend swept toward the door, “we
will
finish this conversation.”
The smuggler offered a mocking bow. “I await your convenience with breathless anticipation, old friend.”
Hawksley smiled wryly as Santos vanished in the darkness. As much as it annoyed him to admit it, he possessed a liking for the audacious smuggler. They might come from differing social classes, but they were much alike.
Too much alike, that jealous voice in the back of his mind whispered. At least when it came to a taste for beautiful females.
Turning back to Miss Dawson, he reached out to stroke his hand over her soft curls.
“Santos is a dangerous rake, kitten, and one that will devour you if you do not have a care,” he murmured.
She regarded him with a hint of surprise. “Really, Hawksley, I am not so foolish as to have my head turned by his ridiculous flattery. ’Tis obvious his interest is more in aggravating you than in seducing me.”
As always, Hawksley discovered himself caught off guard by her utter lack of vanity. Was the woman demented?
“By all that is holy, have you never seen yourself in a looking glass, Miss Dawson?” he demanded in exasperation. “You are exquisite. There is not a man who would not wish to seduce you. Myself included.”
She abruptly stepped backward, her hands clutching the folds of her robes together.
“Please, Hawksley, do not tease. It is not at all kind. I am well aware that gentlemen do not find me appealing.”
“Not appealing?”
“One does not reach the great age of six-and-twenty without a suitor and not be aware she is lacking in the sort of attractions men prefer.”
Hawksley felt a flare of fury at the buffoons who had dared to treat her with such disregard. He did not doubt for a moment that she was worth a dozen of them.
“I have heard that every village must have its idiot; it seems that your particular village possesses an epidemic of them,” he growled in annoyance.
She considered a moment before giving a slow shake of her head. “No, ’tis the simple fact that I am . . . not like others.”
“Which is something to be admired.”
A reluctant smile tugged at her lips. “You sound like my father.”
“Obviously a wise man.” Of their own violation his hands curled about her shoulders, pulling her close enough for him to feel the enticing heat of her body. He gritted his teeth as his body readily responded. Unlike the fools she was accustomed to, Hawksley was painfully aware of just how desirable she was. “I am certain he must have told you that you are quite special.”
“Oh yes.” Blithely unaware of the tension sizzling in the air, she gave a faint shrug. “He assured me that being intelligent and unique was something to take pride in. Easy enough for him to claim. He enjoyed the life of a recluse.”
He scanned her pale features. “But you did not?”
She paused a long moment before heaving a sigh. “There is nothing pleasant in sitting in your room and listening to the distant sound of a party you were not invited to. Nor knowing the next morning that some hostess would appear to claim that your invitation must have been lost or overlooked.”
He flinched at the unexpected jolt of pain that clutched at his heart.
“I was right. You live in a village of idiots.”
“No, it was not their fault. Or at least, not entirely.”
His brows snapped together. “What the blazes do you mean?”
“You said yourself that I am an eccentric,” she reminded him simply. “I believe you even claimed me a lunatic. And you were not wrong.”
His hands tightened upon her. By gads, he had never intended to hurt her.
“Kitten . . .”
“You were right,” she overrode his soft protest, her eyes shimmering in the moonlight. “I have never managed to mix easily with others. I do not comprehend the jests that others find so amusing, or possess the talent to dazzle gentlemen with my wit. I even manage to annoy the servants who wait upon me.” She gave a faint sigh. “’Tis not that I have not tried to change. I practice before mirrors and even memorize precisely what I should say when at a party. Unfortunately, it never comes out right. I am like a dancer who is always one step out of beat.”
A voice of foreboding whispered in the back of Hawksley’s mind as he shifted his hands to frame her countenance.
Her words had been calmly spoken, her demeanor more of bewilderment than a plea for sympathy, but they managed to stir wounds long forgotten.
He knew what it was to feel unappreciated and unwanted. To struggle to please only to fail despite his best efforts.
It was a vulnerability within him that he kept sternly protected. Not even Fredrick had been allowed to see into his heart. His brother, like everyone, had believed in Hawksley’s magnificent air of wicked disdain.
For once, however, he ignored the prickling unease that warned of impending danger.
He would not pull away from this woman who had so readily laid her heart bare to him.
“Why should you desire to mix with such obvious dolts? You are better served without them,” he assured her gently.
A hint of sadness settled about her. “Perhaps, but I cannot deny that there are times I wish I were not quite so alone.”
Alone. His eyes slid closed. He was intimately familiar with the sensation.
Or he was as a rule.
Rather to his surprise he discovered that he did not feel alone at the moment.
Not with this woman held in his arms.
He leaned his forehead against hers, breathing in deeply of her feminine scent.
“You are not alone now, kitten, you are with me, and I assure you that I possess the good sense to appreciate your fine qualities.”
She slowly tilted back her head to regard him with wide eyes. No doubt at last sensing the awareness thick in the air.
“Hawksley . . .” she breathed.
A shudder wracked through him. He had warned himself a dozen times on his way back to the Hawk’s Nest that he must remember he was a gentleman. Holding a proper lady against her will was scandalous enough without adding her seduction to his sins.
But no amount of honor could halt the searing urge to know her touch, to feel her lips beneath his own.
“Clara . . . my sweet angel . . . I want to taste of you,” he husked, holding her gaze with smoldering need. “Will you allow me?”
She touched the tip of her tongue to her lips, the unwitting motion clenching the muscles of his thighs.
“Taste?”
“I want to kiss you.”
“Oh.” She gave his plea a moment of consideration. “Why?”
Despite his aching urgency Hawksley could not halt a small laugh. “Not everything has a reasonable explanation, Miss Dawson. Indeed, there are some things that should be left a mystery.”
She regarded him with a somber expression. “Such as kisses?”
“Such as kisses.” He stepped until her soft curves were pressed to his own. Still holding her face in his hands, he lowered his head until he was a breath from her lips. “Give me leave, kitten. I will not steal what should be offered freely.”
Her hesitation could not have lasted more than a heartbeat, but to Hawksley it seemed as if it were an eternity.
“Yes,” she at last whispered.
“Yes.”
With a groan he softly touched her lips, fiercely reminding himself she was an innocent. Certainly there was passion enough beneath her proper manner, but she had no experience with the darker desires. He must take care not to startle her with his hunger.
Unfortunately his silent lecture did nothing to prepare him for the satin sweetness of her mouth. Barely sweeping over her lips, he gasped as a flood of gut-wrenching pleasure surged through his body.
Holy hell. He had expected to enjoy her. A lot. The truth had simmered between them from their first glance.
But this . . . this was magic.
Sliding his fingers into her hair he tilted her head back, allowing himself to slowly savor the taste and feel of her. Over and over he kissed her, outlining her lips with the tip of his tongue and nuzzling the corner of her mouth.
In the darkness she gave a low moan, her body arching instinctively closer to the growing hardness of his own. His breath caught as her arms lifted to encircle his neck, and all too easily he allowed himself to forget the danger to be had in her ready capitulation.
Instead his caresses deepened.
Urging her lips apart, he teased her tongue with his and swept his hands gently down the curve of her neck.
By gads, this must be heaven
, he fuzzily acknowledged, feeling the softness of her warm skin beneath his fingers.
Heaven complete with his own angel.
The robe proved to be a meaningless barrier as he impatiently tugged it open to allow his hands greater freedom to explore her curves. He growled as he encountered the soft thrust of her breasts. They were as sweet and delicate as the rest of her. And utterly perfect.
He cupped them gently, allowing his thumbs to brush over the puckered nipples.
She murmured restlessly against his lips but made no move to pull away. Indeed, her arms tightened about his neck in obvious approval.
Bloody hell, he was on fire. His erection strained painfully against the tight breeches and his hands trembled as if he were an overeager youth rather than a man of sophistication.
More, he needed more. More, more, more.
The word drummed like a litany through his blood as he tore his lips from her mouth and branded an urgent path of kisses down her neck, his arms encircling her waist to raise her off the floor.
With swift strides he was across the room and lowering her onto the narrow sofa. For a breathless moment he simply regarded her with astonishment. In the moonlight her curls shimmered like priceless silver, her features the purest ivory. And most enticing of all were the emerald eyes that shimmered with an invitation as old as time.
Careful to keep from crushing her, he lowered himself on top of her body, giving a groan of satisfaction as his swollen muscles pressed into the curve of her hip.
“Perfect . . . You are so perfect . . .” he muttered, his mouth moving down the line of her collarbone and at last to the softness he craved.
“Hawksley . . .” she breathed in shock as his lips at last closed about the straining tip of her breast.
It was the sound of her voice that made him pause and allowed his niggling conscience to be heard over his pounding heart.
He had only meant to kiss her, it reminded him. Just a taste. Not to take the innocence that did not belong to him.
With a savage curse he battled to gain control of his biting lust. Not an easy task when he knew with a few swift movements he could have himself free of his breeches and thrust deep into her heat.
And it most certainly did not help matters to have her hands clinging to his shoulders as if she possessed not the slightest sense of self-preservation.
What woman with the least amount of wits would trust him to be the one to halt matters before they tumbled beyond control?
A woman utterly unfamiliar with her own passions, a voice reminded him in the back of his mind.
Damn and blast, it was no wonder chivalry had died out.
BOOK: Some Like It Sinful (Hellion's Den)
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