Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
The flamboyant lady behind them, bathed in the golden glow of the lantern she held aloft, wasn’t entirely wrong. She resembled Marie Antoinette with her tall powdered wig and extravagant gown, but Daphne couldn’t fault her assessment.
Mr Hawke’s mouth was a delight. Every sinful inch of him made her think and do wicked things.
Lie to me. Say you hated every second.
Never.
The taste of him still lingered, warm and wet on her lips. Her blood still rushed wild through her veins. She ought to berate herself for being weak, but his confession had been a small victory. A rare crack in a man who ruled with iron restraint.
It wouldn’t happen again.
She saw the heat in his gaze chill, the resolve harden his jaw as his hands slipped from her waist and he stepped back.
She should have turned away the moment he touched her. Nothing good came from wanting a man like Dominic Hawke. But the glimpse of vulnerability fed her addiction.
“Mrs Flavell.” He faced her. “Searching for stowaways?”
“You know the rules, Mr Hawke. What if I came to Shadowmere and went romping in the garden without first seeking you out?”
“We weren’t romping,” he snapped.
“Of course not. I suppose Miss Harland had a fly in her eye. A bit of chicken stuck in her teeth. Thank heavens she hadn’t dropped a grape down her bodice. Even chivalry has its limits.”
Mr Hawke rolled his shoulders and straightened his cuffs.
“I meant no slight.” He inclined his head a fraction. “Miss Harland fell. I was overcome with a need to tend her wounds. Nothing to warrant your attention.”
He didn’t sound like the man who’d asked her to dance.
That man had been composed, yes, but warm beneath it.
This man sounded like a stranger, his voice flat and dismissive, as if she were already his greatest regret.
Mrs Flavell’s gaze shifted to Daphne, and she clicked her tongue. “Red, my darling? He’s not even buried. Even I would wear black for a month, and I haven’t an ounce of decorum.”
“I’m trying to avoid sombre colours, ma’am.” Daphne stepped out from Mr Hawke’s shadow. “There’ll be time for mourning if I end up in Newgate. Or the workhouse.”
Mrs Flavell’s bright eyes drank her in, as if she were a curious antiquity in a shop window. “With Hawke as your protector? Highly unlikely. Poor Lord Templeton has been on the pot since you left the drawing room.”
Mr Hawke gave a mocking snort. “He’s lucky I didn’t put him through the window. I should tell his father-in-law what he’s been up to. Let the fool sue me for breach of contract.”
“As much as I enjoy a bit of rivalry, Mr Hawke, no one spoils a good party. At least not while I’m the hostess.”
“Is that our cue to leave?” he countered.
“No, it’s an invitation to stay the night.” Mrs Flavell put the lantern on the ground as though laying down her sword. She reached into her bodice and removed a brass key. “The Egyptian room is empty. I keep it for certain guests.”
“We’re leaving London within the hour.”
Mrs Flavell smiled. “I think you’ll want to stay.”
“Like hell we will.”
Daphne was quick to intercede. “We’re grateful for your hospitality, ma’am, but half the constables in town are out looking for me.”
And by the sound of it, Mrs Flavell expected her to play Cleopatra to Hawke’s Mark Antony. History’s great lovers died for passion. Dominic Hawke found it a terrible inconvenience.
“Peel’s bobbies won’t dare look for you here,” Mrs Flavell said before playing her trump card. “Might a golden nugget of information tempt you to reconsider?”
Mr Hawke’s shoulders tensed. “You’ll not bribe us to participate in your nighttime games. I keep to a strict set of rules, and you damn well know it.”
Rules? The word hung in the air.
Had he just broken one with her?
She watched his face. Cold as a stone effigy. Whatever had passed between them in the garden was already buried. Would he mourn it? She couldn’t say.
Mrs Flavell chuckled. “Rules relating to liaisons? Clearly a passionate encounter in the moonlight doesn’t count.”
Mr Hawke tutted, his patience in shreds. “Tell me what you know. I assume it relates to why I stormed into Templeton’s ballroom and crossed a line no gentleman should.”
“Not quite.” Their hostess gave an amused hum, almost dismissing him. “I knew your mother, Miss Harland. When we attended Thornborough Academy together.” She raised both hands in a silencing gesture. “It hardly seems possible, I know. I don’t look a day over thirty.”
Daphne’s heart skipped a beat.
No one ever spoke of her mother. Her father would turn brittle with rage. And yet the ache remained, sharp as the day she died.
“Stay the night, Miss Harland. And I shall tell you why your mother came here the week before her passing.”
The world fell silent.
The music faded.
The distant laughter dissolved.
Questions flooded her mind. Had the fever not killed her? Had those days of crippling pain and whispered goodbyes been a lie? Had her father’s grief been nothing but an act?
Oh, Mrs Flavell excelled at stirring emotions.
Daphne couldn’t leave, even if she wanted to.
Not now. Not with the past clawing at her heels.
She looked at Mr Hawke, but he barely met her gaze. His frustrated mutter said he already knew what she was about to say.
“Might we stay?”
“We need to be on the road, unless you want to sleep in a gaol cell.”
She felt the familiar tightening in her throat, but couldn’t bring herself to nod and agree. Not this time.
“You leave,” she said. He was probably desperate to put twenty miles between them, to distance himself from the kiss that had curled her toes. “I shall stay the night with Mrs Flavell and find my own way out of London.”
Mr Hawke ground his teeth and scuffed the dirt with his boot. He made the rules. He didn’t deal in propositions. And probably wasn’t averse to kidnapping.
“Don’t make me give you an ultimatum, Miss Harland.”
She said nothing as memories surfaced. Times she’d stood before her father, her choices tossed overboard like unwanted cargo.
Perhaps this was different.
Perhaps her safety mattered.
There was only one way to know.
She closed the small gap between them and laid a hand on his forearm. Tension coiled beneath her palm. “I can’t leave now. But you could stay with me.”
The sky darkened as he stared.
A muscle ticked in his jaw.
He stood like a monument to defiance.
A woman’s playful scream echoed in the night, and he nearly snarled. “We leave at dawn. I shall carry you from this house if you break our bargain.”
Thank heavens.
She wanted to breathe as if she’d held it for a year.
She gave his arm a gentle squeeze, the power beneath unmistakable. “That sounds like the perfect compromise.”
Mrs Flavell clapped as though they were the evening’s entertainment. “Excellent. Will you join the festivities or shall I show you to your room? It’s exquisite. You won’t be disappointed.”
“Is Langridge here?” he said.
“He’s in the smoking room. Why?”
“What about Mrs Passmore?”
“She’s resting. Took two lovers and a bottle of ratafia to the Turkish room and hasn’t surfaced since.”
“If I stay, you’ll give my coachman a bed and send our luggage upstairs,” he said, determined to issue at least one command tonight. “And you’ll ensure Mrs Passmore receives my note.”
“Of course. There’s an escritoire in the room. Write your missive there. Shall I have supper sent up?”
Though Daphne’s stomach rumbled at the suggestion, Mr Hawke refused. “We’ll help ourselves in the dining room. I want a corked bottle of claret. I’ve no wish to wake up drugged and bare-arsed in a bush.”
Not wine, or even the scandalous image of Mr Hawke naked, topped Daphne’s list of priorities. “When might we speak about my mother? I doubt you’ll rise before dawn.”
“I shall pen a note,” Mrs Flavell said breezily. “Samson will see you receive it before you go. Should more questions arise, you’re welcome to return.”
Perhaps she had no intention of sharing anything valuable. Or perhaps this was a ploy to force Mr Hawke’s hand.
He agreed, a point he stressed as they piled veal and minted potatoes onto a plate while two other guests made lewd suggestions about the sausages.
“I hope you know what you’ve cost me, angel.”
Goodness. Could he not call her hoyden? Something sharp and dismissive. Anything that didn’t summon memories of a romantic waltz and a blazing kiss in the garden.
“Your pride?”
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he drew her aside, away from the table and the ravenous guests, his hand firm at her elbow.
He leaned in, voice low. “You’ve made me break my own rules. That’s no small feat.”
The heat of his whisper tickled her ear, sending something tight and traitorous curling low in her belly.
“What rules might those be? A preference for your own bed? A vow to stay dry while your guests drown in sin?”
His thigh brushed hers, deliberate or not, she couldn’t tell.
“To stay in control. To keep emotion locked away where it belongs, because it serves no one but the weak. To resist temptation.”
His breath softened on the last word. Then his gaze dipped to the swell of her breasts. Another fracture in his polished discipline.
“So why agree to stay?”
“You know why.”
She did. She felt it like an invisible shield. He couldn’t walk away and leave her unguarded, no matter how much he might want to.
Voices swelled outside the dining room. A burst of laughter, the scuffle of feet, then a couple spilled through the doorway, flushed and giggling. One clutched a half-empty bottle. The other grabbed it and took a long swig.
Mr Hawke muttered something murderous under his breath and reached for the cutlery, sliding two sets into his coat pocket. “We’ll eat upstairs. I’ve little patience left tonight.”
He was already steering her towards the door before she could reply. Two men on the stairs stepped aside without a word, backs pressed to the wall.
“Stay close,” he said. “Keep your gaze ahead.”
It was easier said than done when curiosity wrestled with caution.