by Gaelen Foley
“What’s happened, Bel?” he asked, panicking.
Hawk saw Belinda lift her chin, looking once more like a marble Aphrodite, beautiful and impervious. “Where’ve you been, Mick?”
“Around—Bel, who is he?”
“He is the duke of Hawkscliffe, my protector. Good day, Captain Braden,” she said coolly.
Hawk pivoted and stalked back to her side, thinking there might be trouble, but Mick only stood there looking flabbergasted. No fight seemed to be forthcoming. Having heard Hawk’s name, Mick’s two companions contrived to peer into a nearby shop window, making themselves scarce.
Just then the town coach rolled to a halt beside them amid a jingle of harness. The groom jumped down to open the door for them. Hawk offered her his hand to assist her inside. She laid her hand atop his, but she would not look at him.
“Bel, wait—” Mick took a step after her but Hawk blocked his path, staring him down in calm warning, his expression steel.
When the lad backed off, looking too bewildered to protest, Hawk stepped up into the coach, took his seat beside her and in a moment they were under way.
Belinda stared out the window, seemingly blind to the world passing by. Her face was an expressionless mask and he knew that she was locked within herself—and that he was locked out. He sat uncomfortably beside her, unsure of what he ought to do.
When they arrived at Knight House she got out quickly, mumbled an excuse, and fled to her room. His shoulders slumped as he watched her pound up the curved staircase.
Should he give her privacy until she had composed herself? he wondered.
Protecting her from overzealous admirers was one matter, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to get involved to the point of giving her a shoulder to cry on. He was frankly unaccustomed to emotional displays, yet it seemed damned cold-blooded to pretend nothing was wrong. Perhaps he should check on her—merely from courtesy. He had no wish to be rude.
Somehow it was an exercise in courage as he climbed the steps and walked silently down the hallway to her door. He listened at it and winced to hear the sound of soft crying. He frowned; he scowled; he fought with himself; and then finally, certain it was a bad idea, he knocked.
“Belinda?”
He waited, but there was no response. Frowning with concern, he turned the knob and pushed the door open about a foot, peering in.
She was lying balled up on the bed, her long blond hair flowing over her shoulders. She didn’t tell him to come in; then again, she didn’t tell him to go away. Torn, he decided that chivalry demanded he offer help. He walked into the room and closed the door gently.
He went and sat on the edge of the bed. Her back was to him. Hesitantly, he touched her silken hair. “Poor sweet,” he whispered. “There, now. It can’t be so bad.”
Her soft crying continued.
He petted her shoulder. “Do you want to tell me who that was?” he asked in the gentlest tone he possessed.
For a long moment she was silent.
“The boy I was to marry.”
Hawk felt the pain in her quiet answer like a physical blow. He closed his eyes and shook his head as she started crying again.
“Everybody gets their heart broken sometime, love. You’re young. You’ll heal.” He leaned back against the headboard then smoothed her hair behind her ear. Her sobs quieted a little as he continued to stroke her hair, his touch slow and tender. “You’ll love again when the right one comes along.”
“I will never love anyone,” she said in a low, desolate voice, keeping her back to him.
“How can you know?” he murmured, aware that her youthful vow of sorrow echoed his own thoughts after Lucy’s death.
“Because when a courtesan falls in love she is destroyed.”
She turned onto her back and gazed up at him, tears clumped on her long dun lashes. He had never seen her look more beautiful.
Quivering with feeling, he could barely find his voice. “Belinda, your heart is too sweet to throw away.”
“Everybody fails me, Robert,” she whispered, staring at him—a young girl without hope, without dreams.
“I won’t,” he said without a second’s hesitation—to his own vast astonishment.
In the silence that followed, he held her stare, wondering if he had just inexplicably promised more than he wanted to give.
But he realized that his lovely young cynic didn’t believe him anyway, though her faint smile expressed gratitude for his good intentions. She sighed, closed her eyes, and nestled her face against his thigh. “You are a kind man.”
Tenderly he reached down and caught her tear on his ringer, brushing it away, his voice oddly gruff. “And you, Miss Hamilton, are too good for that thoughtless soldier boy.”
He watched her fine lips curve in a wisp of a smile, but she kept her eyes closed.
“Robert?” she whispered barely audibly.
“Yes?”
“If I told you there was something—very important to me,” she said haltingly, “something I need to do—would you help me?”
“What is it?”
She opened her eyes. There were shadows in them the color of night. “I have to visit my father in the Fleet, but I’m afraid to go there alone. Will you come with me? Will you take me there tomorrow?”
“Well, certainly. That’s no trouble.”
“It’s not?” she asked, seeming to hold her breath.
“We can go whenever you like.”
He heard her slow exhale of relief. She grasped his hand, threading her fingers through his.
They were silent for a moment, merely being together. He stroked her hair with his other hand, marveling at its softness.
“Robert,” she whispered more urgently this time.
He smiled faintly. “Yes, Belinda?”
She held very still with her hair fanned out over the mattress. She closed her eyes. “I think ... that I want you to kiss me.”
“You do?”
“Softly.” She opened her eyes slowly and gazed at him.
He stared at her. Without a word, he leaned down and brushed her lips in a light, caressing kiss. He barely moved, cradling her head in his hands.
She let out a yielding sigh like silk.
They remained like that for a moment, an eon, a year, until, somehow, he dragged himself back, his senses reeling.
“Is that better?” he whispered, quite thrown off his equilibrium.
“Yes,” she breathed. Her eyes swept open, long lashed and dreamy. “Thank you, Robert.”
He could only stare at her for a moment, drinking in her beauty, then he smiled at the foolishness of it all and chucked her softly under the chin. “I know how to cheer you up. What do you say to an evening at Vauxhall?”
A small, innocent smile broke over her face. She let out a giggle and rolled away from him.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens was not entirely disreputable, but could hardly be called genteel. A kind of gaudy year-round festival, it served as a singular place to see and be seen. Here spirits were rowdy, morals were loose, and courtesans were queens.
The very air seemed to glimmer with excitement and Bel felt frankly intoxicated to stride through the entrance and parade up the Grand Walk on the arm of one of the most eligible bachelors of the aristocracy, even if it was only as his mistress.
She couldn’t stop stealing breathless little glances at him, tall and worldly and suave in his black and white formal clothes. His chin was high and he walked with a casual strut in his step, leading her past the artificial Gothic ruin and the Cascade.
People everywhere turned and stared at them, whispering and watching them pass. How she wanted to make Hawkscliffe proud to be with her! She knew they looked well together—she, a shimmering pale blonde, he, dark and elegant—but he could have made any woman feel beautiful.
She had adorned herself in a style of sophisticated understatement that she knew would please him. Her gown of white gossamer muslin flowed a
round her legs as she walked, filmy as the air. Her sheer crimson scarf draped behind her shoulders, matching the spray of miniature red roses tucked into her high-coiled hair. Beneath her gown, as a kind of irreverent joke, she had donned the professional harlot’s trademark—white silk stockings with a red-clocked diamond at the ankles, accented with gold thread. She was deviously planning on letting the paragon catch a glimpse of them if the moment presented itself. Why not? His life could use a little spicing up.
Just then he touched her hand where it rested on his forearm. “Look.”
She followed his nod. Ahead they could see and hear the bright blast of the balloon ascending from behind the trees that lined the broad walks. They could hear the orchestra’s music tumbling out onto the grass from the pavilion, while paper lanterns lit the main walkways.
She glanced up at him with a brilliant smile and as they gazed at each other, it was as if the rest of the world did not exist, not even Dolph. Then he gave her a small tug and led her toward the bright, noisy main hall. Inside, Robert clasped her hand and began weaving through the throng.
One of the first people they met was Lord Chancellor Eldon, a tough old “Geordie” from Newcastle upon Tyne. Eldon’s intellect and great force of character had gained him a baronetcy and allowed him to rise to one of the highest posts of office in the land, though he was not highborn, the mere son of a coal factor. Having caused a scandal or two himself in his day, Eldon was too powerful to care whom he offended among the Society ladies when he saw Bel.
Knowing the Lord Chancellor’s ruthless views on maintaining the death penalty for minor offenses, Bel had not wanted to like Lord Eldon when she had first been introduced to him by Harriette, but she had been unable to resist his surprisingly warm and affectionate manner toward the people he liked—and he liked her very much, indeed.
Turning away from the appalled Society matrons, he greeted Bel in gruff delight, ignoring Hawkscliffe. She warmly shook his hand, then her protector and Lord Eldon regarded each other warily.
“My lord,” said Robert with a nod.
“Your Grace,” Eldon answered with a bit of a humph. “You’d best take good care of her,” he warned.
“Oh, I will.”
“And you, young lady, will save a dance for me.”
She nodded graciously, fighting a smile. “My lord, it would be my pleasure.”
He could not seem to resist the urge to pinch her cheek. “Such a pretty thing,” he said with a chuckle. “Off you go.”
They moved on through the crowd and Robert leaned slightly toward her. “Now I’m convinced you’ve made a deal with the devil.”
She laughed. “Oh, it’s not what you’re thinking. Lord Eldon is in love with his wife—it’s quaint, actually. We’re just friends.”
“Indeed? Well, I’ve been trying to get your friend’s support on a certain reform bill for the past six months, but the man thinks it’s perfectly fine to hang Englishmen for any manner of petty crimes.”
“Well then, we shall have to give a dinner party, Robert. Let us see if we can’t charm him.”
With a low laugh he slipped his arm around her and pulled her against him, kissing her temple. “Little did I know you’d become my secret weapon in the political arena,” he murmured playfully. “Did I mention you look delectable?”
Her eyes sparkled as she sent him a wily glance. “You’re not half-bad yourself. I shall have to make sure no one steals you from me.”
“I daresay.” He gave his Obaldeston cravat a preening tug in mock vanity. “Where’s Brummell? Let’s get his opinion of my coat.”
She laughed and noticed that his gaze swept the room. His light hold around her waist stiffened slightly, but his tone remained elegantly droll.
“Our mutual friend is here.”
Bel’s heart sank, though she hid her reaction. “I suppose you knew he’d be here?”
“I had a suspicion.”
She snapped her fan open like a shield. “Well, how do you want to play this charade of yours, Robert?”
“You know him better than I do. What do you suggest?”
“What would drive Dolph to distraction?” she mused aloud. The answer came to her at once. “I shall have to pretend to be utterly enamored of you.”
“Pretend?” he exclaimed, feigning hurt, though his eyes danced.
She gave him a flat look. “That is, after all, what Dolph wants most for himself.”
“This might be more fun than I’d anticipated.”
“Enjoy it while you can, Hawkscliffe. It’s only a ruse,” she muttered, grasping his hand. She tugged him over to the group of supper boxes in the dimly lit corner where the Cyprians lounged, laughing, drinking, dining with their protectors, and looking gorgeous in their racy finery.
Chief among the merry crowd were the Three Graces— Harriette, Fanny, and Julia—and the usual gentlemen of their clique—Argyll, Hertford, Colonel Parker, Brummell, Alvanley, Leinster, and his passionate young cousin, the marquess of Worcester, who was hopelessly infatuated with Harriette.
Bel and Hawkscliffe were greeted with resounding good cheer. Their liaison was the talk of the town. When Harriette commanded the others to make room for them in the box, they slid in and ordered supper and wine. As Robert rested his arm on the back of her seat in a protective gesture, she smiled to herself, secretly relishing their charade.
Just then a chorus of friendly hails rose as a man whom she had never seen before joined their company. No woman could have helped but stare at the golden, dazzlingly beautiful young man; his naughty grin lit the pavilion as he came wading through a sea of ladies who doted and teased and propositioned him, slyly fondling him in the crowd as he passed. In his late twenties, he looked for all the world like a cheerful, rowdy young archangel who had tumbled to earth on a gust of wind.
He had a long mane of tawny gold hair pulled back in a queue and was extravagantly dressed in a royal blue velvet coat and skintight white trousers that clung to every muscular line of his legs. Hearty, suntanned, and broad shouldered, he swaggered over with the dashing air of some gallant, romantic highwayman.
Even Harriette blushed when he pinched her cheek in greeting.
“Oh, here we go,” muttered Robert, noticing the young man.
“You know him?”
Scowling, Robert didn’t answer, for at that moment, the golden scoundrel glanced over the heads of everyone else at the table straight at him, let out a loud laugh full of gusto, and started toward them.
“Ha! What’s this? Calamity! Has the sky fallen? Has Hell frozen over? Can it be my stainless brother, here among the sinners? Surely my eyes deceive me.”
“Oh, do shut up, Alec.”
Bel lifted her eyebrows. His brother? The two looked nothing alike—they were like night and day—one black haired, dark eyed, and intense; the other golden, blue eyed, and droll. Still laughing, Alec, as he’d called him, swaggered over and clapped Robert heartily on the back.
“Oh, see how the mighty are fallen,” he pronounced to all present like a born showman.
Everyone laughed, though Robert grumbled and scowled, looking not at all amused. Not nearly finished taunting his elder brother, the rogue leaned down, folding his arms on the back of Bel’s seat.
“Hull-o,” he drawled, quizzing her at close range in open male interest.
Bel raised one eyebrow at him and regarded him in boredom.
He dropped his monocle and turned to Robert with a grin. “So, this is the chit you’ve been squandering our rents on. Your Grace, I detect a definite improvement in your taste. Mademoiselle,” he said with a courtly flourish of a bow, “my hat is off to you. I feared he was a monk.”
She fought a smile. So, this rakish coxcomb thought to give her protector a hard time? Two could play at that game. She draped her arms around Robert’s neck and smiled evasively. “Oh, he’s no monk, trust me.”
His golden eyebrows shot upward as she kissed Robert’s cheek, clinging to him as though he
were the only man in the universe. Then his rakish brother burst out laughing.
“Ahem,” the duke said stiffly, shifting in his seat. She smiled fondly, detecting a slight coloring of his manly cheeks. “Miss Hamilton, may I present my brother, Lord Alec Knight. My baby brother,” he growled with a measure of sarcasm.
“How do you do?” she said absently, not bothering to glance at Lord Alec, whom she instantly sensed was a born flirt, accustomed to stealing feminine attentions from any other man in his vicinity.
Instead she gazed only at Robert, languidly kissing his cheek and neck and ear while he and his brother conversed. Caught up in the charade, she was not sure herself if her seeming adoration was truth or trick. She could feel his pulse quickening in his artery when she kissed his neck. She closed her eyes and smiled sensuously as she gave his earlobe a light, nibbling kiss.
What would it be like if it were real? she wondered. What if she were his real mistress?
She glanced at Harriette—ever practical, ever solvent Harriette—and knew that only a fool would pass up a chance like this without at least trying to hang on to a protector like Hawkscliffe. Why shouldn’t she? They got on well together. She could be of use to him and God knew he could afford her. He had no wife to be hurt by their affair, and she was certainly not looking forward to putting herself back out on the open market when their charade was done. Could he be persuaded?
Toying with his cravat, she nearly insinuated herself onto his lap as she entertained the possibility of making a true conquest of him.
Lord Alec chuckled. “You two look like you’d rather have privacy. Miss Hamilton.” He nodded to her, sent his brother a twinkling grin, and sauntered off to talk to the others.
“Laying it on a bit thick, aren’t you?” Robert muttered to her under his breath.
“Don’t turn starchy on me, Robert. We have to be convincing,” she purred, giggling a little as she caressed his chest.
“You’re very convincing, Belinda. Trust me.”
“How convincing am I, Robert?” she whispered.