Chapter 1 #2
Her tone was calm. Her aim precise.
So, she knew how to spar.
He wrapped his fingers around hers, ignoring the jolt that followed—one he suspected had less to do with the woman and everything to do with a well-executed plan.
“Who told you about Shadowmere?” He doubted she’d heard her father boast of bedding a desperate widow so she might keep her house. “I’m surprised you can say naked romps without blushing.”
He drew her into the first sweep, holding her so close he could feel the warmth of her, soft, delicate, unmistakably feminine. It had been years since he’d held a woman. Years since he’d let himself feel anything at all.
“Your name tops the list of men to avoid. Shepherds are warned to guard against savage dogs; innocent maidens, against hawks hunting field mice.”
He might have laughed, were this about pleasure. “You call yourself a mouse, Miss Harland, yet you wield injustice like a Roman gladiator.”
The flicker of satisfaction in her blue eyes was brief but unmistakable. “Perhaps you should have chosen your prey more wisely, sir.” She lifted her chin, her mouth softening as if this were a triumph, not the worst moment of her life. “I happen to be rather skilled with a trident.”
Clever.
Who knew the mouse had wit?
“I’ll give you this,” he said, pulling her close enough to make every chaperone reach for her smelling salts. “Whatever guilt I had left, you’ve stripped it clean. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you lured me here just to parade your resilience.”
“You disappoint me, Mr Hawke. Only a fool would invite someone to trample over her reputation before the beau monde.” She studied him. A lesser man might have faltered. “Am I permitted to know what my father has done to warrant such disgraceful behaviour?”
The memory of his mother’s frail body had him firming his jaw, but he’d be damned before sullying her name in the same breath as that degenerate. “His cruelty knows no bounds. The rest isn’t fit for your ears, angel.”
She eyed him curiously. “I might accuse you of the same. You call me angel and claim my ears are delicate, yet you mark me a sinner before all the world.”
“Take solace, Miss Harland. You may find yourself elevated in the eyes of some,” he said, desperate to banish the damned twinge in his chest. The last thing he’d expected was for her to prick his conscience or be mildly entertaining.
“Before tonight, you were invisible. See how women look at you now. As though you possess something they can never obtain.”
She didn’t glance around the ballroom, keen to test the theory. She seemed unfazed by her newfound infamy. “You’re in danger of sounding like an optimist, Mr Hawke, not a man who dwells in shadows. I may not know what my father did, but I know it cost you dearly.”
The comment found a chink in his armour. He’d expected to dance with a fawn, all weak-legged and body aquiver. Instead, she met him step for step, spine straight, chin lifted, a challenge in silk and lace.
“You know nothing about me, Miss Harland.”
“I know you expected me to whimper, to cling to my aunt’s skirts like a frightened child. Yet here we are, waltzing before the beau monde as though you’d written your name on my dance card.”
His instincts had failed him, it seemed.
This maiden had mettle.
His hand slipped lower, settling with deliberate pressure at the base of her spine, a bold touch masked by the rhythm of the dance and the sweep of her skirts. He waited for a gasp, a flinch, for the telltale flush that never came.
“Careful, Miss Harland. Hold your nerve like that, and I might forget which one of us came here to play the villain.”
She looked him in the eye, a task few men achieved. “I expect, once you’re home with your brandy, you’ll still be debating it.”
He laughed, much to the delight of those engrossed in the show. But suspicion flared. She spoke with the confidence of a lover. Perhaps Miss Harland was a perfectionist. Even her ruination must be flawless.
“Perhaps you’ve done me a great service, Mr Hawke.” She cast a glance at the men who hadn’t taken their eyes off her since he’d marked her as his target.
The sight soured his stomach. That they pictured her in their bed brought bile to his throat. He wasn’t jealous. He wouldn’t bed Harland’s daughter if she were the last woman on earth. He just prayed she never arrived at Shadowmere on a degenerate’s arm.
“Not that I’m one to offer guidance,” he said, slipping on sheep’s clothing despite the poor fit. “But find a quiet village, where word of your downfall won’t reach the young pastor. Though I doubt you’d make him a biddable wife.”
She considered it. “Yes, the country air might suit me better than the choking fog in town. Thank you, Mr Hawke, for sparing a moment to consider my welfare.”
“Think of it as a parting gift.”
“Like a rose left on a lover’s pillow?”
“More a diamond parure before I give you your congé.”
She sighed, though her hand slid a little higher on his shoulder. “I suppose I must grow accustomed to rejection. After such a display of gentlemanly prowess, it’s only right you should be my first.”
First. The word lodged like a splinter.
It summoned an unwelcome vision, her body beneath his, innocence yielding to vengeance. He tamped it down like a flame that had no business being lit.
“I pray you take rejection as well as you do ruin.”
It was time to end this farce.
His gaze swept the crowd, hunting for his nemesis, but the bastard was nowhere in sight. The news would have reached the card room by now.
“My father may be struggling to get through the crush,” she said, her perception as sharp as her wit. “Or perhaps he’s on a winning streak and cannot bear to leave the table. Money is everything, after all.”
Not everything. Some days he longed to be a simple farmhand, concerned with nothing but the weather.
“I confess, I wanted to see the horror on his face.”
“The damage is done,” she said with calm resolve. “Will you escort me back to my aunt, or would you prefer I collapse into a heap on the dance floor? I could swagger back alone, play the true scarlet woman. You could tear the neckline of my gown, though it’s one of the few I possess.”
An unwelcome flicker of regret passed through him, one easily buried beneath his determination. Harland hadn’t spared his mother a second thought. This was for her. He needed to remember that.
“It’s your choice, angel.”
“How magnanimous of you.”
“I aim to please.”
“Yet you’ve fallen dreadfully short tonight, Mr Hawke.”
He shook his head, amused. Few had the confidence to imply he was lacking. “You were no one. Now you’re notorious. I think that qualifies as memorable.”
“Not quite memorable enough.”
He should have mocked her, reminded her she was just a mark. Instead, he found himself noticing the slope of her neck, the defiant set of her mouth, the maddening softness of her curves. He could have any woman. Yet this one made revenge feel complicated and an affair almost tempting.
The music faded, the final strains of the violins marking the end of the dance and a plan brought to fruition.
Yet his competent partner took a sudden misstep on the final turn, causing him to catch her about the waist. She reached for him to steady herself, one hand gripping his lapel, the other clasping the back of his neck.
Miss Harland should have graced the stage. If titles were given for theatrics, she’d be royalty. Yet it wasn’t the sudden press of her body against his that sent his world spinning, nor the feel of her sumptuous breasts crushed to his chest.
It was the sweet mouth that settled on his.
Warm. Soft. Deliberate.
And for one impossible moment, he forgot who was ruining whom.