by Gaelen Foley
“Belinda, I don’t want you coming back to this hellhole,” he clipped out, giving her a fierce look of command.
Slowly she lowered her head. “Do you think that I want to?”
“Then don’t.”
She hadn’t the strength to argue right now. She had to come back, of course. Her father was in there. For the barest moment it was on the tip of her tongue to simply ask Robert flat out to lend her the money to spring him, but her pride had taken too many blows of late. She was no charity child and his opinion of her was low enough without adding beggary to whoredom.
He paced nearer and stopped a foot or two away, his hands in his pockets. She gathered all of her courage and lifted her chin, coolly meeting his gaze. He studied her keenly. His dark, penetrating eyes seemed to stare right into the morass of her soul.
She couldn’t speak a word or look away.
He shook his head at her, looking exasperated, but his voice was soft. “You should have let me take you out by a different route. You didn’t need to see so much brutality, Belinda.”
She nearly laughed aloud. The innocent. If only he knew. His simple gallant goodness brought tears to her eyes. “My paragon,” she whispered.
“Why do you call me that? It isn’t funny.” He scowled and stepped back from her, looking so stuffy and pompous that she found the strength to smile as the elegant town coach rolled to a halt before them.
They climbed up and she sat beside him, laying her head on his broad shoulder. She knew he was peeved at her, but rather than protesting he shifted to make her more comfortable, putting his arm around her. She closed her eyes, exhausted after her private victory. He had the nicest smell and his arm around her was firm and strong, his hard, muscled shoulder a firm pillow for her head.
You helped me, she thought. You don’t know it, but you gave me the strength to get through it.
“You should listen to me next time,” he grumbled, trying to sound cross.
“I will, darling. Whatever you say,” she whispered with the trace of a smile, thanking God for the man. Just let me stay with you.
CHAPTER NINE
The temperamental English weather had gone unseasonably cold and had unleashed a torrent of rain by the time Hawk stalked out of the House of Lords that night at half past ten, hungry, tired, and grouchy. To make matters worse, he had a deuced headache from arguing through the supper hour with Eldon and Sidmouth and their ultra-Tory cronies, and then he had been too disgusted with their bloodthirsty views to eat.
All the while muddled thoughts of Belinda had churned in his head, troubling and confusing him and weaving themselves in with his starved libido until his brain was one big knot.
Riding home through Westminster he gazed out the window, watching the wind and rain buffet the plane trees as his rocking carriage rolled down the Mall. On a few of the wrought-iron lampposts, the feeble flames had been extinguished, leaving gaps in the lamp row that were as dark as his mulling brain.
This business about Jacinda and Paris and Mrs. Hall’s Academy for Young Ladies—had it been truth or falsity, and could he afford even to care one way or the other?
The thought that a courtesan had been formerly molding the character of his already-headstrong maiden sister appalled him. For Jacinda’s welfare, he had to find out the truth, only he wasn’t sure he wanted to know anything more about Miss Hamilton than he already did.
He was trying, oh, Lord, how he was trying to keep a polite distance between them, not to get involved with her, but he felt himself being dragged helplessly into her orbit as if by some vast, cosmic magnet that women like her wielded and used to enslave rich, titled men like him. It wasn’t bloody fair, that’s what. Frowning out the coach window as the prickling rain blew sideways against the glass, he rubbed his throbbing temples and reviewed what he knew about Miss Belinda Hamilton.
There were troubling gaps in his knowledge. He wondered, for instance, how exactly she had become a courtesan. To have asked would have been shockingly bad form, so he supposed he’d never know unless she offered the information, but that seemed improbable. Unlike every other garrulous female he knew, Miss Hamilton was supremely unforthcoming with facts about herself. She was not telling and he was not asking. And why should he ask her questions about herself? he thought indignantly. There was nothing between them but a practical arrangement, useful to them both.
Yet, as he listened to the rain’s drumming on his coach’s roof, it bothered him to wonder, not for the first time, which of his acquaintances or club mates at White’s had purchased her innocence. Hertford? He was debauched enough—or had she given it freely to that thoughtless soldier boy on his vapid promise of marriage at some future date? he mused as the coach pulled through the gates of Knight House. It is none of your business, Hawk. You don’t care, it doesn’t matter, leave it alone, he said to himself.
Fairly growling in irritation and suppressed lust, he got out and sloshed through the puddles between his halted coach and his front door, half-soaked by the time he stepped into the well-lighted entrance hall. He was barely through the door when Belinda walked toward him from the corridor, graceful and serene.
“Oh, look at you, you poor thing,” she said.
God, she was lovely, he thought with a catch of longing in his throat. She was dressed with subdued elegance in a Manila brown silk gown with a choker of pearls around her creamy neck and her golden hair gathered up in a chignon. She glided toward him, her eyes dark as smoky as sapphires, glittering with sensuality as she swept him with an assessing gaze, taking in his wearied state.
“Welcome home, darling.” She took his leather document box from his grasp and handed it off to the butler who had just closed the door. “Put this in His Grace’s study,” she ordered quietly.
Walsh bowed. “Yes, ma’am,” he conceded, then went to obey.
Hawk stared after his butler, rather surprised at Walsh’s civil tone toward her, then he looked warily at Belinda, instantly sensing that she was up to something. But as he studied her, his heart skipped a beat and his seething questions from the carriage fell into sand that scattered and blew away.
How could mere reason stand against the sensory power of her presence—her willowy walk, her pearlescent skin, her gardenia perfume, the gleam of candlelight on her moist lips from the chandelier above them? She was the most mysterious, alluring woman he had ever seen, devil take her, and it was all he could do to fight the fascination.
She gave him a soothing smile and stepped behind him, gently helping him out of his wet coat. “Let me take this, dear. Have you eaten?”
“I’m famished,” he growled.
“Good. I kept supper warm for you. Come.” She turned and walked coolly down the hallway toward the dining room, her silken dress whispering around her long legs.
Rather baffled by her managing cordiality and the change he sensed pervading his entire household, he ran his hand through his damp hair and followed, too hungry to give it much thought. His mouth was already watering as he took his place at the head of the long mahogany table.
Belinda gave an order to one of the maids, who curtsied then scampered off to do her bidding. Wafting over to the side table where a bottle of white wine was chilling in a bucket of ice, she poured him a glass while Hawk wondered what the devil had happened here while he was gone.
What on earth had she done to his servants? This morning they had thought her a veritable Jezebel, so why tonight were they looking so sharp at her orders?
Bringing him his wine, she noticed his confounded expression and gave him a wry smile. “I called a little meeting of the upper servants while you were out.”
“Pray, did you resort to witchcraft or was it merely bribery?”
“Neither. I simply reminded them of the honor they enjoy in serving at Knight House and how it is not their place to judge their master’s actions, and I said—well, never mind what I said. Suffice to say, they have seen that I am not to be trifled with... Your Grace,” she added
with a demure bow, then she glided back and poured herself a glass.
“Is that is a warning to me, as well?”
Laughing softly, she came back to the table and quietly sat down on the chair to his right. “How was the session?”
“Maddening,” he grumbled as he tore a piece of bread.
“Oh? What happened?”
She listened quietly, resting her cheek in her hand, nodding as, none-too-patiently, he recounted his argument with Eldon and Sidmouth, then complained about his bloody miserable headache. By the time the footmen brought out his dinner, however, he had gotten much of his frustration off his chest and was ready to eat.
When the silver lid was removed from his plate, he discovered one of his favorite dishes—lamb cutlets a la braise with tender, butter-soaked asparagus. Belinda poured him red wine to accompany the meat and he dug in.
She sipped her wine, staring into the tongue of flame atop the candle. “We’ve got to set a date for our dinner party, Robert.”
“Hm?” he asked, devouring his lamb.
“I’ll need a guest list from you. The sooner we have these gentlemen over, the better. I won’t be here forever, after all.” She gave him a veiled smile and took a sip of her wine.
“Do you really expect these bullheaded old men to change their views about the affairs of the state just because you bat your pretty lashes?”
“Changing their views is your job, Robert. I can at least get them to listen to you. It will have to be a dinner for the gentlemen only. Their wives obviously won’t come with me as hostess. For your reputation’s sake, I daren’t invite Harriette and her friends to entertain the men, either, or your house will become known as a brothel.”
“Is this really a good idea?”
“Trust me. Write me a guest list. I’ll take it from there.”
“You scare me,” he muttered.
She chuckled and touched his arm in fond affection. In spite of himself he smiled at her.
For dessert there was raspberry tart and almond cream to enjoy with his snifter of brandy. By the end of the excellent meal he was a new man. He stretched his arms above his head in sated contentment and quickly stifled a great yawn.
Belinda warmly took his hand. “Come, I have a surprise for you.”
He gazed at her, intrigued. “What kind of surprise?”
“If I told you, would it be a surprise, Robert? Now be a good boy and come.”
He picked up his brandy and let her lead him by the hand into the library. A low fire crackled, holding off the night’s unusual chill. He sauntered in, looking around curiously. Another present? he wondered. His mood was greatly improved but his headache persisted.
“I hope you don’t mind the fire. With the weather so miserable, I thought—”
“Fine,” he mumbled.
“Sit in your chair,” she ordered, folding her hands behind her back.
All too gladly he dropped into his large leather armchair by the fireplace. He waited.
“Put your head back and close your eyes.”
He obeyed.
He heard her moving in the room, then it was quiet. A moment later the first slow, tender notes rose from the pianoforte. He opened his eyes and stared at her while she played for him. Obviously she had had the Graf tuned while he was out.
For a fraction of a moment he wanted to be angry at her presumption, meddling in his life, but he could not sustain indignation before the ripple of gladness that moved through him as he recognized the opening bars of “Voi che Sapete,” Cherubino’s sweet and graceful aria from the Marriage of Figaro.
A finishing-school girl’s piece, he thought, smiling to himself as he watched her reading the music in most earnest absorption. She did not sing for him, but he knew the words:
You, who have master ‘d Love s gentle art,
tell me what ails me here in my heart. . .
Strange agitations, trembling desires,
blissful sensations, blistering fires?
Shiv ‘ring will seize me, then burning pain,
then in a moment, freezing again!
I seek for something charming and good,
never encounter d, not understood,
a thing I sigh for against my will,
a thing I fly from, pursuing still,
a thing that haunts me, day and night,
and how perplexing, how sad my plight.
You who have master d Love s gentle art,
tell me what ails me here in my heart.
He rested his elbow on the chair’s arm and propped his chin on his loose fist, watching his mistress and savoring her playing in pure pleasure, more from the sweetness of her intention than for her skill.
This, he thought, was a beautiful gift. He closed his eyes and put his head back as she had directed and let himself unwind.
Life was good.
Her playing ended, but he didn’t open his eyes, thoroughly relaxed at last. The library was a huge, black, echoing hollow behind him as he slouched in the large wing chair by the fire, the rounded snifter of brandy resting in his palm, the stem dangling between his fingers.
The dancing flames cast orange light over his face, steeped in shadow. His waistcoat was unbuttoned. He had been running his fingers through his hair to try to lessen the throbbing headache that plagued him, leaving his hair slightly tousled. His eyelids felt too heavy to lift as he heard the whisper of silk and smelled the wafting scent of Belinda as she approached him.
“How’s the headache?” she asked, her voice soft and intimate in the black vast emptiness of the room.
“Alive and well,” he murmured without moving or opening his eyes. “You play very tolerably indeed, Miss Hamilton.”
“Not nearly as well as you do, I’m told.”
“I’m rusty.”
“Why don’t you play anymore?”
“I haven’t the time.”
He heard her soft sigh. “Our souls need music, Robert, as our bodies need touch.” He felt her take the brandy gently out of his hand, but he did not respond. She nudged his sprawled legs wider apart and stepped between them, bending down to untie his cravat. He opened his eyes lazily and stared at her.
He considered protesting. “Pray, what are you doing, Miss Hamilton?” he asked in a tone of mild curiosity.
“Making you more comfortable.”
“Ah.” He closed his eyes again, enjoying the peculiar sensation of her ladylike fingers plucking free the careful knot of his starchy cravat until, a moment later, she tugged on it and slid it off of him.
She caressed his bared throat lightly then unbuttoned the top of his crisply starched white shirt.
“Better?” she murmured as she ran her hand slowly down his chest.
He made a sound somewhere between a grunt of assent and a groan of need. His heart was pounding and his eyes were closed.
Laying her hand on his shoulder, she casually rounded his chair to stand behind him; he was savagely aware of her. His whole body quivered when she ran her fingers through his hair.
“Pray, what are you doing now, Miss Hamilton?” he asked stiffly.
“Easing your headache, my darling. Relax.”
Vexed with want, he tried to obey as she petted his hair very gently. Had she no idea how she tempted him?
“Where does it hurt?” she murmured. “Here?”
“Mm,” he admitted as she pressed her thumbs into two spots that pounded at the base of his skull. Her thumbs circled in gentle insistence over his bunched neck muscles until they began to loosen by degrees.
Moments passed.
“Belinda,” he said gingerly at length, making his tone courteous for fear that one wrong word would make her stop giving him this glorious pleasure, “all that business at the Fleet today about Paris and your being a finishing-school teacher—was it true?”
Her kneading hands paused. “Robert, my dearest.” Her tone was gently chiding with a hint of drollery. “What makes you think our arrangement entitles you to fu
ll disclosure of the particulars of my past?”
“Where my sister is concerned, your past is my business.”
“Well, never fear, I did not corrupt your sister. Lady Jacinda is quite safe. Though I daresay the girl is impetuous and I hazard to guess it is for want of a mother’s guiding hand.”
“I’ve done my best,” he said defensively.
She laughed very softly and ran her fingers through his hair. “I’m sure you have, darling, in all things. But you are a man,” she added in a meaningful whisper.
“You are evading my question.”
“Very well, if you must know, I taught French, music, history, and deportment at Mrs. Hall’s Academy for a while. It was my final respectable position before—this.”
Hawk closed his eyes and scratched his eyebrow, reigning in his vexation. It was one matter to have a courtesan rubbing one’s shoulders, but a blasted finishing-school teacher was another affair.
“Dolph contrived to have me dismissed,” she continued. “He came every day for a month, trying to see me, and finally convinced the headmistress that he was my lover— that I was neither respectable nor chaste, and a bad influence on the girls. Mrs. Hall concluded I was a threat to the students, that my ‘conduct’ would endanger the moral well-being of my girls, and I was fired.”
“Didn’t you tell her Dolph was lying?”
“Of course. But you know how stodgy Mrs. Hall can be, if you’ve had any dealings with the woman through Lady Jacinda. She was worried about the prestige of the school, but I didn’t want any taint to touch my girls’ reputations before they had even made their debut in Society,” she added. “For their sake, I gave the job up without much of a fight.”
“Then what did you do?”
“I went to Harriette and then I came to you.”
“Ah,” he said, sensing some subtle note in her voice that warned him he had trod onto dangerous ground.
“Now, Your Grace, would you kindly hush and enjoy your massage? Or shall I stop?”
He tilted his head back and smiled ruefully at her. “I won’t say another word.”