Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Someone must have drugged the London air, lacing it with something that soothed a man’s wrath, clouded his judgement, and stripped him of every ounce of common sense.
Dominic should have been halfway to Kingston by now, rattling through muddy ruts and contemplating supper. Instead, he stood in the grand hall of a Grosvenor Place townhouse, watching Mrs Flavell’s strapping butler rub his palms, eager to divest Miss Harland of her cloak.
Lay a finger on her, and you’ll lose a hand.
He was already planning the butler’s funeral.
“Allow me.” He was behind her before the brute could touch her, a possessive heat stirring in his gut. “As I paid for that gown,” he murmured at her ear, “it’s only fair I’m the first to see it.”
“Careful, Mr Hawke.” The minx tugged lightly at the bow at her throat, teasing him. “A lady might mistake you for a gentleman.”
“There’s no chance of that, angel.”
He slipped the cloak from her shoulders, muscles tightening as his fingers brushed warm skin. Too smooth. Too soft for a man like him.
The need to be inside her hit with brutal force.
“Turn around. Slowly.” Anticipation clawed at him, though he kept his tone measured. “Let me admire the result of my investment.”
She obeyed with maddening grace.
The sight punched the air from his lungs.
He loved her in red. It lit her pale complexion, made her black hair gleam like polished jet, and left her lips looking indecently plump. Too plump for a man trying to behave.
Every wicked word he knew crowded his mind.
He reached into his coat pocket and drew out the ruby necklace he’d bought from Woodcroft’s. Stepping closer, he swept aside the wisps at her nape and fastened it around her throat. The curve of her neck did nothing to improve his self-control.
“The look isn’t complete without this.” It was a lie. She looked complete in old breeches and a dirty shirt, her hair tumbling from flimsy pins.
Her fingers closed over the ruby, but the sparkle in her eyes could dull any gem. “It’s beautiful. Where did you get it? I never heard you leave the hotel.”
He’d had no choice but to escape the suite at the Carroway. Listening to her singing as she bathed in the next room was its own kind of torture. Almost as cruel as staring at the poster bed and imagining what they might do if they stayed the night.
“No need to excite yourself. It’s on loan.”
“Oh.” The light in her expression dulled.
He would’ve done anything to bring it back.
But admitting he’d bought it for her was a step too far.
“Never mind.” She smoothed her hands over the front of her gown. “It was foolish of me to think otherwise.”
Bloody hell.
Now he wanted to empty Woodcroft’s cabinets.
Or break into the Tower and steal a crown jewel.
He cleared his throat. “The manager at the Carroway will return it when he handles the gown and slippers.”
He’d paid the modiste a tidy sum to part with a dress intended for Lady Belmont. It was the only one close to the right size and could be altered within the hour.
“Of course.” She looked down at the marble floor, her disappointment as tangible as the thrum of lust in his blood. “I’m grateful you spared a thought for me.”
Merciful Lord. She’d bewitched him. He could almost feel her hands around his heart, squeezing until it hurt. Truth be told, he thought of her a damn sight more than he should.
He needed to master himself.
Dominic Hawke didn’t moon over a woman like some green lad, not with half of London’s libertines watching from shadowed corners and stairwells.
“You understand what it means if we enter the drawing room?”
It was time for a hearty dose of reality.
She shrugged one shoulder as if resigned to her fate. “It means everyone will believe we’re lovers.”
She paused on that word, and damned if he didn’t cram an hour of imagined sin into those two seconds. He was supposed to be immune to this madness. Cold. Controlled. Yet here he was, burning.
“It means I’ll never grace a respectable ballroom again.” She gave herself a small shake, brushing off the lapse into melancholy. “No matter. My future lies far from London. Finding the truth is all that concerns me now.”
Far from London?
Kingston was less than thirty miles.
“You understand we’ll need to play a role to convince them?” He stepped closer. “You’ll have to touch me—let them think you’re desperate to get me out of these clothes and straddle me in bed.”
Her eyes widened. “Act like I want you?”
Why did her phrasing grate?
“Yes. Can you manage it?”
“I’ll have to follow your lead.”
Good God. He was considered among the best of his sex. It should be no hardship. Most of the women here tonight would unbutton his trousers in the shadows of the maze.
“They must believe I own you. That you’re at my beck and call.” He intended to make the most of the charade, to shatter whatever illusions she still held about him. “It’s the only way to keep lechers at bay.”
She nibbled her lip. A rare glimpse of nerves. He wanted to carry her to the carriage and keep her beside him the entire way home.
Damn this woman.
“Come.” He slid an arm around her waist, bracing himself. “Hold your breath as we pass the salon. Every fool in there is high on opium. Most are half-naked.”
A haze clung to the air, thick with perfume and pipe smoke. Voices murmured in dark corners, some laughing, some panting. The scent of sweat, wine, and something acrid warned this was no place for innocence.
No place for Miss Harland.
“Stay close.” If he didn’t end up in Newgate tonight, it would be a bloody miracle. “Play coy. Don’t act surprised.”
“So, the point of us being here is what?” she asked, eyes fixed ahead as they neared the drawing room. “You still haven’t told me.”
To threaten Templeton. To interrogate those on his list. To cement his place as the bastard everyone feared. Even if he had gone soft in the head.
“To draw out the villain,” he said smoothly.
“The villain who killed my father or hurt your mother?”
“Both.”
She tutted. “I’m still none the wiser.”
“Just pretend you’re in love with me.”
Her head snapped in his direction. “In love or in lust? Make up your mind, Mr Hawke. You’re confusing the issue.”
Had he said love?
He must have inhaled opium smoke.
“Either will do. And for heaven’s sake, don’t call me mister, unless I’ve tied you to the bedpost with leather straps. Hawke is just fine.”
A lull greeted them, like the hush before a kill.
The quartet played Mendelssohn. A piece most people ignored. No one came here for the music. They came to hunt, to feast.
The predators stirred as if waking from a winter’s sleep.
Heads turned. Women took the measure of him. Men watched Miss Harland with the keen attention of gamblers studying the table. A few moistened their lips.
“Hawke,” Miss Harland muttered through her smile.
“It’s all right.” He tightened his grip. Word had spread. He recognised the look of men circling their next conquest. “I won’t let you out of my sight tonight.”
He scanned the room, searching for his prey.
Langridge.
Virginia Passmore.
Templeton.
The last of them lounged on a gold brocade sofa, his mouth at a woman’s ear, one arm slung casually around her shoulders, his fingers grazing the swell of her breast. All while his wife lay in bed at home.
“Faithless cur.”
As if he’d heard his name on the breeze, Templeton glanced over and paled when he met Dominic’s hard gaze. The plan had been to draw him aside at some point in the evening and issue a quiet warning.
That plan changed the moment Templeton’s greedy eyes raked over Miss Harland’s figure.
Dominic seized her hand, pulling her through the crowd.
Templeton stood, clearly panicked. “Please, Hawke. Hear me out.” He raised his hands as if to ward off a blow. “There’s been a misunderstanding.”
“Damn right.” Dominic fought to maintain his usual cool indifference, but he’d not felt a rage like this since—well, it didn’t matter when. “Touch her again and they’ll be picking your limbs off the Thames foreshore.”
Templeton swallowed hard. “From the tone of your note, I thought you were done with her.”
Dominic squared his shoulders, ready to grab the fop by the throat, but Miss Harland took offence before he had the chance.
“Done with me? How quaint, my lord. I wasn’t aware you planned to pass me around like a calling card.” She released his hand and raised her chin in cool defiance. “Let me be clear. I’ll tell Hawke when we’re done.”
Dominic might have applauded and offered a grin as smug as the devil’s. But someone laughed behind him, and he couldn’t afford to lose the upper hand.
“We both know you can’t get enough of me, love.”
She turned, her coy mask firmly in place. “And no woman will ever satisfy you as I do.”
He cursed inwardly.
Because she might be right.
“Can we forget this?” Templeton almost begged.
“Yes. But you’re no longer welcome in my house.”
“You’re banning me from Shadowmere?” Templeton stared like the bailiffs had come knocking. “But I’ve paid to attend the Autumn Masque. Hawke, be reasonable. I’m sure we can resolve this in a gentlemanly fashion.”
“Yes, with pistols or swords?”
“That’s not what his lordship meant.” Miss Harland laid a calming hand on his chest. Doubtless his heart thumped wildly against her palm, a truth he couldn’t hide.
If he couldn’t hurt Harland, he’d settle for this fool.
“Then what did he mean?”
Templeton answered quickly. “That we might agree on a way I can repay the slight. A favour owed still holds value.”
Dominic didn’t have to think too hard.
“Very well. I want a list of my father’s creditors.”
His mother had kept their identities from him. Somehow, she’d managed to settle every debt. He’d long assumed it was the work of her mysterious lover—a man whose name she’d taken to the grave.
It wasn’t until Daventry arrived weeks ago with a letter that the truth emerged. Lord Harland was the coward. The lover who killed her.
“But your father’s been dead for more than ten years.”