Provocative in Pearls

by Madeline Hunter

  He was doomed.

  That thought entered Hawkeswell’s head while he lay in weightless contentment with Verity in his arms.

  Doomed. He did not give a damn right now, but even the blissful aftermath of the finest climax that he had experienced in memory could not keep the truth at bay forever.

  He took some satisfaction that he had in no way coerced her to experiment tonight. He had promised her anything she wanted before she agreed.

  Only now, anything could be . . . anything.

  Worse, she was aware, he was certain, that she had just discovered a great secret to getting whatever she ever wanted, again and again, for as long as she lived.

  He could not shake the notion that he had just ceded some critical ground in a battle that he was not even sure he was fighting.

  She was wide-awake, but content in her own way. Not the most important way, however. Not the way he needed her content. He would take care of that soon, when he had recovered. Already his body was finding the notion appealing.

  He fingered the strands of pearls, and admired their soft glow above her lovely breasts.

  “What is the favor? The request?”

  She bit her lower lip, and thoughtfully watched his fingers from beneath her lowered lids. “I will not hold you to your promise. It was not freely given.”

  “I was in no way tricked, and do not need any excuses. Now, what is it?”

  “I need your help in something. As a lord, you know people and can obtain answers that I cannot. I need you to help me learn what became of Katy’s son.”

  “Michael.”

  “Yes.”

  “You want me to find Michael.”

  He did not get truly angry, but his mood sharpened and the bliss died. Of course she would want to know what had happened, he told himself. It meant nothing. This Michael was no rival.

  Another voice from deep within, from his soul, reminded him that she had been born for Michael or a man like him, and that she had never really wanted the Earl of Hawkeswell.

  The odd part, the hardest part and even the most surprising part, was just how sad that other voice felt as it acknowledged the truth behind all the pleasure, no matter how glorious it may be in passing.

  A good deal of anger emerged with that admission. More than he expected. It carried pain within its resentment. He looked at the pearls threading through his fingertips, and the snow white of her skin, and her delicate profile, and in his weakness of the moment he could not ignore the source of his reaction.

  Little Verity Thompson, the ironworker’s daughter, had stolen his heart, and he was condemned to love her in vain.

  Doomed. Far worse than he had imagined.

  “Good news or bad—I just want to know what became of him. Even if the truth is that he is dead.”

  “And if he is not? What then? Will you also want me to obtain his freedom, or bring him back to Oldbury?” The anger wanted to roar now, in defiance of his weakness. It wanted to block out the thick sorrow weighing like lead in his chest.

  She turned on her side and looked at his face. “I am sorry I asked it. But it’s not just a matter of Michael. . . . I believe others may have suffered the same fate.” She told him an odd theory about Bertram and Cleobury and others, maybe even Albrighton, making men disappear. When she was finished, she kissed him. “I have no proof, of course. I know it’s unfair to ask this of you.”

  Yet she had. She had trusted that he was better than he was.

  He arranged the pearls, so they were high on her neck. He reached past her to the table that held the glass of port. “I am thinking that I should do for you as you did for me.”

  She frowned as the liquid dripped on her breasts. Her gaze followed the path he made down her body, and reflected growing surprise. She appeared relieved when he stopped at the top of her mound. He set the glass back on the table.

  He swirled his tongue through the port on her breast. “Lie as I did, and just take it.”

  She set her hands behind her head. The position arched her back so her breasts rose high.

  “Spread your legs,” he said. She obeyed, completing the erotic image he had in his mind.

  He gave her pleasure with his mouth and tongue, but he gave himself as much at least. Little anger remained in him now, just a small vestige that imbued the pounding desire with a ruthless edge. He tasted slowly, savoring skin and wine and scent and her cries. He worked his way down, as she had, determined to have what she had agreed was his, especially since he never would possess all that he wanted.

  She startled when he did not stop where the wine ended, but instead kissed her mound. “But you did not—”

  “I did not want to ruin it.” He caressed high between her thighs gently so that the pleasure would defeat her shock. “I promise you will like it.” He lured with his hand as well as his words, using sensation to overcome her misgivings.

  She rocked against his hand and closed her eyes. Instinctively, almost imperceptibly, she parted her legs more. He positioned himself so the musk surrounded him.

  The devil entered him then. He brought her along slowly, teasing her until she groaned. He maddened her until she cried out again and again, and finally begged for more. For relief. For him.

  She came hard, thrashing, screaming. That strained his own control. Howling with a chaos of hungers both physical and darker, he rolled off the bed and pulled her to its edge and set her feet on the ground.

  He turned her and bent her so her bottom rose in offering. She looked back at him, startled again despite the reveries of her release. He didn’t give a damn about that now, only the unbearable effect her erotic position had on him. Teeth gritting, jaw tight, he pushed her back lower until she submitted the way he wanted her, with her arms and head on the bed and her bottom rounded and high, and her vulva visible, pink, and wet.

  He caressed until she shivered with need, then entered her hard. He held her hips and thrust again and again until he released all angers and hungers in his body and soul.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Hawkeswell rode his horse down the Strand, having spent two fruitless days looking for Michael Bowman.

  He had passed many hours in clerks’ offices looking at dusty books of records, only to find nothing. Michael had not been transported; that was clear. Nor sent to the hulks. Nor tried in an assize court. Nor, the best that he could tell, did Bowman stand at the Quarter sessions in Shropshire, Staffordshire, or Worchestershire, although those records were secondary, the complete ones being in the counties themselves.

  It appeared, on the face of it, that the young man had simply taken off to seek his fortune elsewhere. It was an explanation that Hawkeswell would be happy to accept.

  He remained lost in his thoughts as he neared the western end of The Strand. The appearance of another horse near his own flank jolted him alert.

  Bertram Thompson paced his horse into place beside him. Beaver hat high and blue coat crisp, Bertram took the place as though he had a right to be there.

  “I need to talk to you, Hawkeswell. You have not replied to my letters.”

  “I have been ignoring your letters. I would think that my intention not to see you was clear, Thompson. Have you been following me all about town just to waylay me like this?”

  “I had no choice. I have been approached by some gentlemen regarding the works. I am unable to reply to them until you consider their offer.”

  “There has been an offer for the works?” He had no choice but to stop his horse then, and move it to the side of the Strand.

  Bertram followed, smugly satisfied that he had at least managed to make Hawkeswell pause in his tracks. “A very handsome offer.”

  “It is not for sale. I have the use of that property, and its income, but it is still owned by Verity. A judge would want assurance that she freely agreed to sell it before permitting such a thing. I am sure she would never so swear.”

  “The offer is not to purchase the works. It is to lease it.”


  Hawkeswell knew all about leasing land, but was out of his depths when it came to leasing a business. He did not intend to let Bertram know that.

  “How much do they offer?”

  “An average of the income from the last five years, minus fifteen percent. What with the variable demand for the iron now, and the decrease in orders overall, the security of this amount per annum has great appeal.”

  It certainly did. It would have more appeal if the five years being averaged did not include the worst years in the works’ history. Even so, only a fool would not give serious thought to an offer that removed the essential gamble inherent in any business off the table.

  “How long is this lease?”

  “Fifty years.”

  Fifty years of dependable income, unless the new managers were idiots, in which case they would go bankrupt and the lease would be broken. He could not deny the attraction of this offer, and Bertram’s knowing smile said he saw as much.

  “And you, Thompson? What will you do if this occurs?”

  “I’ve other interests to pursue; don’t you worry. I will not mind leaving that house and that hill and all that trouble. Should I be having them draw up the papers, so we can see just what the particulars are?”

  Fifty years. He’d be dead by the time this lease ended. With the security of that income he could take care of his properties and responsibilities with an ease that would never be possible if he had to wait year by year to see what profits were made.

  Of course, Verity would be horrified if he signed such papers. Furious. Her memories, her life, were anchored there, and such a lease would require she sever those ties in ways the current arrangement did not. He could never ask that of her. He did not even want to.

  “There is little point in having them write the papers. We will not be leasing.”

  Bertram’s disappointment expressed itself as an astonished sneer. “No? It is a most handsome offer.”

  “No.”

  “Let me explain in ways you might understand, milord. Say you have farms leased to sheepherders. You get the rent no matter if the sheep live to be shorn or they die.” He gestured broadly, to emphasize how obvious this was, and how he should not have to point it out. “The finances of the country are such that the works may not produce much wool, as it were. Better to let others take the risk on the sheep’s health. It is the only prudent choice.”

  “You imply that I am either imprudent, or stupid. I merely have more faith in English industry than you do. As do the men who made you this oddly generous offer.”

  Bertram pulled his reins and pivoted his horse hard. “You know nothing of such things. I am doomed to be tied for life to an idiot.”

  “Idiot I may be, but I do not see the benefit of paying fifteen percent to obtain proper management. A good man costs far less. Mr. Travis and others spoke well of a young man named Michael. Better to have him back, to aid Mr. Travis so more special work for machines can be taken on.”

  “Damnation, will no one hear me when I say that he is gone? He will not be back. If you insist on putting any faith in that notion, we will all die poor.”

  He seemed very sure of that. Thompson knew that Michael’s disappearance was permanent, Hawkeswell felt certain.

  “I’ll be having the papers drawn anyway and sent to you. I pray that you will seek counsel from men who are more familiar with such affairs and that they talk sense to you.”

  Thompson trotted away. Hawkeswell waited a few minutes, then aimed his own horse in the same direction.

  Verity’s cousin could encourage these men in their pursuit of the works all he wanted, but no lease would be signed. Verity deserved better, and Hawkeswell could not bear to see her sorrow and disillusion if he agreed to this.

  Nor would he seek the counsel of men more familiar with business. He had already been advised on the matter, by a man who almost always won when he gambled, and whose wealth stood as testimony to his family’s unfailing skill at amassing filthy lucre.

  Do not lose control of that works. Such advice, given while Castleford was at least half-sober, could not be taken lightly.

  “It has been some time since you have called on him I privately, I gather,” Summerhays said as he rode beside Hawkeswell.

  “Yes. I also feel stupid making a morning call in the morning. He is sure to burn our ears for this.”

  “There is no choice. If we do not want to wait until Tuesday, we must come early, before he starts . . . doing whatever it is he chooses to do.”

  “Whoring, you mean.”

  “It is more likely that he was whoring last night. There may be women there.”

  “Oh, joy. I cannot wait.”

  “You are asking a favor, Hawkeswell. It won’t do to be too particular.”

  “I am asking for his insights into the darker side of humanity, not a favor. What if he is not even awake yet? Hell, it isn’t even ten o’clock.”

  “If he is not awake, we wait.”

  Hawkeswell stopped his horse. “You can wait. I do not wait. He may be Castleford, but I am Hawkeswell. My family counseled kings when his were nothing more than yeomen hoping to better themselves. Hawkeswell waits on royalty, and no one else. Certainly not parvenus like the house of St. Ives.”

  “My apologies. I meant to say, if he is not yet awake, you can leave and come back on Tuesday.”

  They handed their horses to one of three periwigged grooms in front of Castleford’s house. Hawkeswell gazed up the façade. “Look at this monstrosity. It is bigger than Somerset House, and Prussian from its foundations to its cornices. His grandfather knew no restraint. A trait that runs in the family.”

  “Rather like indebtedness runs in yours.”

  “Thank you, Summerhays, for the reminder that we all have our failings. You cannot know how that improves my humor.”

  A butler bedecked in livery and wig put them in a reception hall, took their cards, and departed. Hawkeswell cooled his heels, certain that Summerhays had erred badly in suggesting they come here to see if Tristan’s besotted brain could see a way out of the logjam that had developed in trying to find Michael Bowman.

  Not that he really wanted to find Bowman, damn it. If he ever did, Verity would probably weep with joy and throw herself into the young man’s arms, and maybe even start an affair forthwith. Her father would bless the illicit union from the grave.

  “What are you snarling at?” Summerhays asked.

  “Fate. Passion. The stupidity of life.”

  The butler returned. The duke, they were informed, would receive them in his apartment.

  Up the palatial staircase they trod. Into a huge sitting room, then through a dressing room of ridiculous size that sported more gold ormolu than was decent for a man. The butler escorted them right into the bedroom and left them standing beside the massive, silken-draped bed.

  Propped up in it on at least twenty pillows, drinking coffee, still naked from the night’s debauch under those sheets, lounged Castleford. Fortunately, no whores were currently with him.

  “Good of you to agree to see us,” Summerhays said.

  “I almost didn’t. I am exhausted. Be quick with it, will you, so I can get some sleep.”

  Hawkeswell peered down at that naked chest and mussed hair. “Do you expect us to stand here in front of your extreme and insulting dishabille like servants, watching you break your fast, Your Grace? Bloody hell, put on some clothes at least.”

  Castleford looked up lazily. He turned his gaze on Summerhays. “What is wrong with him, to get him all puffed up like he holds a bad wind that needs farting?”

  “Fate. Passion. The stupidity of life.”

  Castleford drank some coffee. “In other words, he has fallen in love.”

  “Summerhays, please leave. I am going to strangle our old friend and do not want any witnesses.”

  “Stop being an ass, Hawkeswell. I think it is charming that you are in love with your errant little wife. It is unfashionable, but very touching.”
He set aside the tray, and gestured to some chairs. “Now, why have you disturbed me? It had better be an entertaining reason.”

  Forcing his annoyance to a low rumble, Hawkeswell grabbed a chair and set it near the damned bed. Summerhays did as well.

  “We are wondering if you would turn your mind to nefarious calculations, which is a talent you on occasion exhibited in our distant past,” Hawkeswell said. “Let us assume that men of consequence wanted someone gone. Disappeared and impossible to track. How might they do that?”

  Castleford shrugged. “The easiest way is to kill him, of course. The problem with that is the danger of a body being found. More serious is your use of the word men. Plural. Murder is best done by one person, so there is no accomplice to sing later and get you hanged, or to blackmail you.”

  “Thought about this a bit already, have you?” Summerhays asked.

  “In passing.”

  “And if, for the reasons you give, murder was not the chosen path?” Hawkeswell asked.

  Castleford thought that over. “Ten years ago, I’d have him impressed and shipped to the West Indies. That might not work now. There are too many hands available with the war’s end, and no need for a captain to take on the trouble.”

  “Since we are talking postwar, that is probably out.”

  “In that case, I would stick him on one of the hulks.”

  “There has been no arrest. No trial or conviction.”

  “Those ships are full of corruption of the body, soul, and law. The masters and gaolers can be bought. Imagine that you or I brought a boat alongside at night, and told the gaoler we had a convict with us and passed him up, along with a nice purse. Do you think he would be overly particular about the identity of the fellow, or why a peer had sailed him over without any papers?”