Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
To most, Mr Hawke was a rotten scoundrel, a dangerous degenerate who preyed on the weak, a cunning master of manipulation. To Daphne, he was a light in the darkness. Her saint. Her saviour.
She’d heard the gasps when he entered the ballroom with the confidence of Lucifer come to collect his due. Men clutched their hearts. Some shrank into the crowd, hoping they were invisible. Others tossed back their champagne as if it might be their last.
“God help us all,” Aunt Augusta had muttered.
“Hawke takes no prisoners,” someone added.
Daphne had just stared.
What must it be like to wield such power? To watch the ton cower? To stride through a room with your head held high while people cursed your name? What kind of life bred that sort of pride?
She’d spent sleepless nights praying for a solution to her dreadful predicament. She’d wept in silence, weighed hopeless options, and come within a breath of surrendering to her fate. Never had she imagined salvation would arrive in such a dangerously handsome package.
Yet it wasn’t Mr Hawke’s brooding good looks that made her throw herself at him. It wasn’t why she kissed him now, or clung to him, knowing he couldn’t push her away without ruining his own savage scheme.
She didn’t want to feel the heat of his mouth or hear the hitch in his breath. She didn’t want to taste brandy on his lips or breathe in the maddening spice of his cologne.
She needed but one thing from him.
Ruination.
He played his hand as she’d known he would, with devilish intent, as if this had always been the plan. He clutched her hair roughly, scattering pins across the floor. The hand at her waist slid lower, bunching the silk in his fist, sparking a strange heat in her belly.
Her breasts felt heavy. Her head too light. She forgot there were people in the room, forgot that he was a means to an end. That this mattered.
Then Mr Hawke dragged his mouth to her cheek, her jaw, and the sensitive spot below her ear. “I hope you’ve got thick skin, angel.” His breath sent a shiver skipping down her spine. “Own this moment, and you’ll be the toast of the demimonde.”
She pulled back and met his gaze.
His green eyes softened, perhaps part of his act.
“Never let them see you cry,” he said, releasing her and smoothing her gown. “Play the role. Carry a weapon. When it comes to conquests, you’ll top every man’s list. You could ask for the world, and they’d give it.”
A hundred pairs of eyes watched them, so she smiled. “Thank you, Mr Hawke, for an enlightening experience, and for making this the most memorable dance of my life.”
A muscle in his cheek twitched. Something passed between them: a flicker, a beat, a breath. Then he took her gloved hand, his mouth warm through the fabric as it brushed her fingers.
“Goodbye, angel.”
“Goodbye, Mr Hawke.”
He hesitated, then bowed and led her from the floor.
Her father appeared, his face flushed, half his waistcoat buttons undone, his grey eyes as cold as a winter’s frost.
Mrs Foster scurried after him, lip rouge smudged, her hair wild, as though she’d been caught in a gale.
The sight angered Mr Hawke, and for the first time that evening, she noticed a flaw in his composure. “Evidently, you weren’t playing piquet.”
“What the devil is this about, Hawke?” her father demanded, but didn’t wait for an answer. He shouted to the musicians, who sat frozen in their chairs, instruments braced. “Play something, you imbeciles!”
Daphne had never seen him so at odds.
He turned to Lord Templeton, whose next event would be a crush. “For Pete’s sake, man, insist they dance. Ring the damn supper gong. Do something other than stand there like a preened hen.”
The orchestra launched into a reel, all sharp strings and stomping rhythm. Daphne had the absurd urge to join in.
“You know what this is about,” Mr Hawke said coldly.
She watched her father, waiting for a reaction. He glanced away briefly, but it was enough. He had done something to warrant her degradation.
She bit back a smile, a delicious surge of triumph bubbling in her chest. Who could he blame but himself? What excuse would he offer Mr Irving now?
She resisted the urge to clap her hands in glee.
Unbeknown to Mr Hawke, he had saved her from a fate worse than death. A life of abject misery, where the plan was to see her swollen with child by St Stephen’s Day.
“He insisted they dance,” Aunt Augusta said quickly, eager to excuse the fact that she was the world’s worst chaperone. “Then he kissed her shamelessly in the middle of the floor. We were powerless to stop him.”
Daphne held her breath, waiting for Mr Hawke to correct the mistake. She’d likely feel the crack of a birch for the part she’d played. Still, better that than marry a man thrice her age who smelled of stewed cabbage.
Mr Hawke stared at her father like a wolf on the prowl. “Ruining your daughter was only the beginning.”
That should have been her cue to weep. To collapse into despair. To feel the hopelessness of her situation, the utter hatred for the masterful man beside her.
Perhaps she should reach for her handkerchief and pretend to dab a tear, or appear a little unsteady on her feet.
“What is this about, Father?” That seemed like the appropriate thing to say. She sniffed and coughed lightly. A touch of meekness would do no harm. “Why would a man like Mr Hawke seek me out?”
Her father leaned closer, so close she caught a whiff of Mrs Foster’s sickly lavender scent on his coat. “You tell me, Daphne. I’ve a mind to think this is your attempt to sabotage our plans. If you think playing the harlot will free—”
“Don’t call her that,” Mr Hawke snapped, much to everyone’s shock, for he ran a house of ill repute. “I’m the villain here. Nothing she could have said or done would have deterred me.”
“Mr Hawke seemed intent on taking pleasure in my misfortune,” she agreed, the sudden memory of his mouth on hers warming her cheeks.
Excellent. They’d mistake it for shame.
“This isn’t about pleasure, angel. It’s retribution.”
Her aunt lifted a limp hand to her brow. “Good heavens. He has a moniker for her. Are we to hear of a new apartment in Mayfair? Accounts opened at every famed modiste? A new barouche delivered to the door?”
“I may have no option but to retire to the country. Perhaps even move as far afield as Flanders.”
She might have winked at Mr Hawke, but that would be beyond the pale. Besides, how was he to know she welcomed his attention? The scoundrel had intended to ruin her life.
A sinister shadow passed over her father’s patrician features. “You’ll go where I tell you.” He bared his teeth. Froth gathered at the corners of his mouth. “This charade ends now. We’ll discuss the matter of your exile at home. Irving has a house in Bengal.”
A cold chill swept through her. Bengal.
A place so distant she was unlikely to see home again.
She felt the blood drain from her face.
Surely he didn’t expect Mr Irving to marry her. The man might have overlooked her lack of a dowry, but not the possibility she was no longer chaste.
Mr Hawke didn’t seem to care either way. He tugged his cuffs and brushed imaginary dust from his coat sleeves. “I shall await a dawn summons. You’ll find me at Mivart’s Hotel.”
With that, he strode away, the crowd parting in his wake.
All eyes in the house turned to her, crows keen to feast on the bones of her anonymity. Every distasteful glare was another vicious peck. Whispers rose behind gloved hands and raised fans. They noticed everything.
The small stain on her hem where it had caught the step.
That her breasts were a touch too full for her slight frame.
Yet her first thought was for Mr Hawke. How did one ignore their spite? How did one walk through ruin with confidence carved into their spine?
“I hope you’re pleased with yourself,” her aunt complained. “Judging by the cool reception, I’ll be your companion in Bengal.” She turned to the man who wielded patriarchal dominance like a sabre. “I don’t know what you did to rouse his ire, but we’ll all pay the price.”
“What Hawke thinks I did, and what transpired, are different things entirely. I’m not the only man to pay court to his mother, nor the only villain here.” Her father muttered a curse, a scourge on wicked men. “It was years ago. Had I known the blackguard bore a grudge, I’d have dealt with it then.”
Aunt Augusta scanned the onlookers and swallowed. “We should leave before they descend like a pack of jackals.” She turned to her companion, Loretta, but the woman had already made herself scarce.
Her father gave a wry snort. “Let them look. I’m not leaving until I’m good and ready.”
“What about the dawn appointment?” Daphne asked. “Who will you name as your second?”
She didn’t want him to meet Mr Hawke on the common, but the event seemed inevitable now. No doubt the scoundrel shot with expert precision. And who in their right mind would stop him?
Her father straightened to his full height. “I have no intention of feeding Hawke’s need for vengeance. It’s not as if your honour hangs in the balance. Irving will have you regardless.”
The thought froze her blood.
Had she humiliated herself for nothing?
She wasn’t thinking of the dance, but of the kiss. A stolen moment with a man she should have feared. Yet it had confirmed one thing with painful clarity: she could not marry Mr Irving.
The truth slotted into place with sickening ease.
“So that’s it, then. This is all about money,” she bit back.
What was she but a mere commodity?
At least with Mr Hawke, she’d seized a sliver of power. She’d twisted the scandal to her advantage. There was no advantage in marrying a man who made her skin crawl.
Her father stared at her from beneath his heavy brow. “If I don’t pay the Moseley brothers by month’s end, they’ll have my head on a spike. Then you’ll wish you lived in Bengal.”
She’d rather take her chances with the crooks from Drury Lane. How her father had landed in such a predicament, heaven only knew.