by Gaelen Foley
“Good night, Miss Hamilton,” he echoed and stood there, hands in pockets, with the lamplight sculpting his faint wry smile as he watched her walk away.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The earl of Coldfell sat in Hawkscliffe’s drawing room with the other Tory leaders, drinking port. The night of Miss Hamilton’s long-awaited dinner party had come at last. Coldfell wore a taut smile on his lined face, but inwardly, he was a most disgruntled puppet master. His marionettes were not at all dancing to his tune, but soon, they would. Oh, they would.
Tonight he had come merely to observe the situation between Robert and his doxy. He could not believe he had so miscalculated Hawkscliffe’s nature. The fiery young duke should have killed Dolph by now, but here was Hawkscliffe, cozily ensconced with his blond beauty, brazenly indifferent to the shock he had given Society and the scandal surrounding his name out there in the world.
As for his promise to punish Dolph, he seemed to have forgotten the matter entirely. Coldfell could only conclude that the fault lay with this blond enchantress, this belle dame sans merci, who had lured the knight off his vowed quest to avenge Lucy. Hawkscliffe was obviously in her thrall.
As a man who had always had a weakness for beauty himself, Coldfell could not begrudge the fair Bel Hamilton her living. What he did not approve of was the way she had clearly taken charge of Knight House, the servants, and even the duke himself to a degree. She carried herself like his duchess, not his whore, and Coldfell liked it not at all, determined as he was to see his daughter installed as the ninth duchess of Hawkscliffe.
Robert and Juliet would suit very well.
Coldfell knew he had his faults, but if he had one virtue, it was that he was a most protective and doting papa. Before leaving this world he intended to see his only child well married to a considerate husband who would take care of her. Who else but Hawkscliffe could he entrust with his sweet, flawed, fragile daughter? Who else would have the gallantry to wed the cloistered innocent, fully understanding that she was not feebleminded, merely that yellow fever had robbed Juliet in childhood of her hearing?
Unlike the worldly courtesan sharing the duke’s bed, Juliet was an utter innocent in the ways of the world. It wasn’t as though she could have a normal Season. Fate had robbed her of the grand debut that was every highborn miss’s right. She couldn’t dance; she couldn’t hear music. Conversation with people she didn’t know was nearly impossible for Juliet, though she could read lips easily enough with her father and her nurse. She was as shy as a little doe, and as lovely.
With his knight’s chivalry Hawkscliffe would not be able to refuse, especially when he saw Juliet’s blue, wonder-filled eyes and chocolate curls. Coldfell was counting on it. Their firstborn son—his future grandson—would inherit the earldom, then he could go to his grave knowing his daughter and his holdings were in good hands.
Let Hawkscliffe keep his harlot, he thought. It would minimize Juliet’s wifely duties.
Just then the double doors that adjoined the drawing and dining rooms opened, and the stately, white-gloved butler appeared, bowing.
“Dinner is served,” he announced in a dignified monotone.
“Wellington, care to do the honors?” Hawkscliffe offered, presenting his mistress to the Iron Duke with an elegant gesture.
Tall, stoic, and sternly erect of carriage, the great stone-faced general very nearly cracked a smile as he nodded and offered her his arm. “Miss Hamilton, I would be honored.”
She accepted his escort gracefully.
Why, the courtesan was as thorough a conqueror as the general, he thought cynically, watching them go into the dining room.
She was, he admitted, a rapturous beauty. No male, however advanced in years, could have been immune to her charms. Her serene, secretive smile had them all quite fascinated. Eldon especially seemed to dote on her. The Lord Chancellor had sat right next to her on the sofa and probably would have tried coaxing her onto his bony lap if Hawkscliffe hadn’t been there—and perhaps she would have accepted, for a price.
La Belle Hamilton had a sense of style and smooth graceful bearing. Her heavenly body was wrapped in a clinging muslin gown of palest pearl pink. If flame-haired Lucy, with her passion and lust for life had been fire, Bel Hamilton was ice, Coldfell thought, gleaming and multi-faceted, throwing light like a perfect diamond, but he could well imagine that she melted for Hawkscliffe.
Bringing up the rear, the darkly handsome young duke gave the others a smile of reserved, cordial warmth and held out his hand toward the dining room. “Gentlemen, after you.”
Coldfell gave his host an amiable nod as he hobbled past him on his cane and went in to take his place at the table. He noted with an inward snort that the table was excellently laid. The courtesan was a skilled hostess. Every detail had been attended to. Beeswax candles reflected the high polish on every inch of carved mahogany and gleamed in the rococo silverware and the great tiered epergne in the table’s center. Little delicate finger bowls of orange-flower water awaited them on the impeccable white linen tablecloth, and the bewigged, liveried footmen stood at the ready in every corner of the room.
As Hawkscliffe took his seat at the head of the table, he glanced down toward the foot at his mistress, a private little smile tugging at his mouth. Coldfell saw them exchange a look of solid mutual understanding. They worked so smoothly in tandem it was like watching a seamless, graceful dance.
Coldfell glanced furtively from one to the other.
Admittedly, anyone could see that this woman was good for Hawkscliffe. He looked far more relaxed and easygoing than Coldfell had ever seen him in the past; his brown eyes were not so tormented. His mistress knew how to handle him, too, smoothly breaking in with a charming remark back there in the drawing room when Sidmouth had begun to get the duke hot under the collar.
Miss Hamilton, in turn, had been visibly nervous early on when the guests had begun arriving, but Coldfell had seen how Robert’s quiet support calmed her with little more than a gentle touch to her elbow—a touch that bespoke a world of affection and trust. Full understanding hit him hard as he witnessed their wordless, barely perceptible exchange of a glance.
They are in love.
The glow in Robert’s dark eyes and the blush in Belinda’s pink cheeks betrayed them. And the magic that emanated from them was having a contagious effect on the Tory magnates, Coldfell thought, pursing his mouth. Their whole party was in such merry spirits, it was as though Miss Hamilton had slipped some intoxicating powder into the sparkling wine.
As the elaborate first course was carried into the dining room—magnificent platters of goose and broiled trout, venison and succulent veal with countless side dishes like red stewed cabbage and Jerusalem artichokes—Coldfell lowered his gaze. He spread his snowy napkin over his lap and dipped his fingers in the scented water.
Very well, he thought tersely. Drastic measures might need to be taken.
Everything seemed to be moving along smoothly, but Bel was too nervous to eat more than a few bites of the roast turkey in the second course or to do more than pick at the lobster a la braise in the third. In the drawing room her mission had been to cultivate the Tory magnates for Robert, but now that they had moved into the dining room, she was more interested in her writers. One had to have poets at one’s table, after all. Only Whigs talked politics at dinner.
She tried to get Walter Scott to give a hint of what he was working on, but all he deigned to talk about was not his delicious tales of chivalry, but Abbotsford, the grand mock-medieval house he was perpetually building in the Borders. On and on he rambled about the practical matters of building a manor house: timbers, additions, foundations, and turrets, reminding her for all the world of a great Scottish bagpipe, so full was he of gusty hot air, though amiable.
Smiling politely, Bel made a mental note to remember henceforth that novelists were long-winded creatures, then turned hopefully to Robert Southey. Surely the mild-mannered poet laureate would have something insp
iring to say, but he turned out to be the soul of conservatism, a reformed romantic, and when the wine flowed, all he wanted to talk about was not the Muse, but that perverted hack pagan, Byron, whom he despised beyond all things.
Bel met her protector’s gaze down the table and both fought not to laugh at the jealous writer’s spleen. So much for poetry. Robert delicately asked Mr. Southey about his excellent Life of Nelson and a discussion ensued that even the taciturn Wellington joined, proposing a toast. They drank to Nelson.
“Lord Castlereagh,” Bel spoke up, engaging the elegant and handsome Irish-born foreign secretary, “Hawkscliffe tells me you’ve entered a motion in Parliament that a monument be raised to Lord Nelson?”
“Who is more deserving than our fallen admiral?” Castlereagh replied, with a softening of the haunted melancholy she had noticed in his eyes. He was known as an unhappy man, too brilliant for his own good. “I only wish Nelson were here to see how his old friend Wellesley finally finished off Boney for him—oh, forgive me, Your Grace,” he teased the general, newly made duke of Wellington scarcely a month ago.
She smiled at Wellington’s gruff chuckle as the others said, “Here, here.”
“What style of monument is being considered?” she asked.
“Our architects have proposed a great column with Nelson’s likeness at the top.”
“Oh, that would be very grand,” she said with a warm smile. “You will commemorate him in marble as Mr. Southey has made him immortal in prose.”
“It was the man’s deeds that made him immortal, Miss Hamilton. I was merely the scribe,” Mr. Southey said humbly. “So, tell us, what is our fair hostess reading these days?”
“How kind of you to ask. Actually, I have lately found the most astonishing novel. I spend a lot of time in bookstores,” she added, thinking of her many searches for Papa’s beloved tomes, as well. “I found this little anonymously written novel at Hatchard’s. It came out last year. I read the first sentence and could not put it down.”
“Anonymous, eh? Not one of those naughty French books?” Eldon teased her.
“No, my lord,” she scolded while the men laughed.
“What’s it called?”
“Pride and Prejudice.”
“Hmm, sounds political.”
She chuckled. “Not exactly.”
Then she noticed Robert staring at her with an odd, loving little smile and she grew flustered, dropping the subject. She looked away, blushing brightly. “More wine, anyone?”
As the desserts were brought to table, apricot puffs, lemon torte, blancmange, a morello cherry tart, and a whimsical trifle of crushed Naples biscuits adorned with real flowers, Bel noticed the earl of Coldfell staring at her again.
The pale old man had cold, faded blue eyes and knife-hilt cheekbones.
She looked away, cringing inwardly in sympathy for the red-haired beauty in Robert’s miniature portrait. Lady Coldfell could not have much enjoyed her marriage bed. With a gorgeous, virile specimen like Hawkscliffe in love with her, how on earth could she have resisted?
But then, Bel recalled, it was Robert who had resisted. The countess might not necessarily have been averse to a little dalliance.
At length Bel took her cue to withdraw, leaving the men to drink their port and get down to brass tacks. They all stood and bowed as she made her slight curtsy and thanked them for coming. They thanked her, in turn, for the marvelous feast.
From the head of the table, Robert gave her a slight bow of homage, his dark eyes aglow with promise.
The moment she walked out of the dining room, she leaned against the closed door and let out a long breath. She exchanged a silent look of flushed victory with Mr. Walsh, who waited in the hallway, his white-gloved hands folded behind his back. A smile twitched at his dignified face, then Bel hurried to the kitchens to congratulate the French-trained chef and his pastry cook and his assistants whom she had hired for the occasion.
The kitchens were in a state of controlled pandemonium, Cook busily orchestrating cleanup. An endless mountain of copper pots and cast-iron pans, silver and steel utensils had to be washed. Seeing the gargantuan effort that had gone into making her dinner party a success, she gave the whole kitchen staff the next day off.
Only after her generous offer was made did she recall that she had no authority to do so—she wasn’t exactly the lady of the house. Too late. The servants took her word as her oath, cheering and instantly making plans to go to Hyde Park to wander the stalls of the Victory Festival and see the follies that were being readied for the even larger festivities to commence by the Regent’s orders on the first of August. There were Oriental temples, pagodas, bridges. The hopelessly gaudy, hundred-foot-high Temple of Concord was also being erected just a stone’s throw away in Green Park, for the purpose of shooting off fireworks.
She didn’t have the heart to retract her offer. They were all so excited. To be sure, she had overstepped her bounds, but Robert was a kind master to his people. After they had worked so hard, she trusted that he wouldn’t mind.
She discovered Tommy and Andrew playing quietly under the center worktable. Since it was nearly midnight, she took it upon herself to put them to bed. She shepherded them over to wash their faces and brush their teeth; neither boy was much pleased with the novelty of hygiene. Then they changed into their long cotton nightshirts and shimmied down into their cots. Bel read them a storybook from the library while she waited for Robert to finish with the Tory lords. Looking after the children calmed her from the frightening thrill of her decision to deny Robert no longer.
Tonight she was as ready to give herself to him completely as she was ever going to be.
By the time she blew out the candle, silently left the third-floor servants’ quarters and walked downstairs with a small tremor of anticipation in her limbs, the men were all standing in the foyer bidding one another good night.
Coldfell was the last to go. Robert walked him to the door. “I’ll see you at noon, tomorrow, then.”
“Very good. I’ll be expecting you. Thank you again for the dinner, Robert. Charming creature, your Miss Hamilton.”
His smile widened. “Good night, James.”
Coldfell hobbled out to his coach, assisted by his footman.
Robert waved adieu and, when the carriage had gone, quietly shut the door. He turned around, leaned against the closed door, and spotted her standing there, about halfway up the sweeping staircase, watching him. He flashed a white, wolfish smile and pushed away from the door, sauntering toward the bottom of the stairs.
“There she is. My secret weapon,” he said. “My enchantress. Castlereagh and Wellington are won; Eldon and Liverpool have agreed to review my reports, and Sidmouth said if those two support my views, he won’t stand in the way.”
Bel shrieked with glee, lifted her long skirts, and dashed the rest of the way down the steps to him. He caught her at the bottom as she flung her arms around his neck. Laughing heartily, he swung her around in a circle, his arms wrapped around her waist.
“You were wonderful! Miss Hamilton, we are an unstoppable team,” he murmured. “What do you say to world domination? Shall we try for it?”
“I can think of other things I’d rather try with you, sir,” she said with a frisky half smile. “I’ve been dying to get my hands on you all night.”
“Likewise, Miss Hamilton.” Carrying her, he began strolling down the hallway. “I am so impressed with you.”
“I told you so. The dining room, Robert?” she asked quizzically as he turned left into the chamber in question. “Really, you are a most depraved paragon.”
“You barely ate a bite. Yes, I notice these things,” he chided. “Somebody’s got to take care of you. I’ve saved you a special treat.”
“What is it?”
“The morello cherry tart. . . with whipped cream.” He set her down on the table, which had been cleared but for the silver epergne, the cherry tart, and the little bowl of whipped cream, and farther down, a
little pile of unused silverware that awaited Walsh to put it away.
The table was a huge expanse of snowy white linen, and on every wall, the big mirrors reflected the two of them, alone at last, wrapped up in each other.
“Robert, do you expect me to eat with my hands? Go fetch me one of those forks down there.”
“How unimaginative of you, Miss Hamilton,” he murmured, dipping his finger in the whipped cream. He offered it to her with a sultry smile.
With a low, wicked laugh, she accepted hungrily, sucking his finger clean.
He stood in front of her where she sat on the table; she parted her legs to let him move closer. Gently he took her face between his hands and kissed her with slow, drugging depth. As she clung to him, going weak with desire, she knew she had never felt so close to him, still flush with their shared victory.
She sighed with pleasure as he moved lower, kissing her chin, her neck. His hands moved in slow caresses up and down her back and then she felt a small tug and glanced askance at him, realizing he had just unhooked her gown.
“Pray, what do you think you’re doing, sir?” she asked in mock hauteur.
“Having my dessert,” he whispered, peeling her bodice down in front to her waist so that she sat on the edge of the dining-room table bare chested, with nothing but a diamond necklace around her throat.
She braced her hands back behind her and stared at him, waiting. He glanced at the bowl of cream. Then she laughed with lazy desire when he smeared her breasts with whipped cream and commenced licking it off. Her laughter died away as the hot, tugging sensation of his hungry, suckling mouth moved her into ever deeper waves of want.
She wrapped her arms around his wide shoulders, ran her fingers through his silky black hair. Caressing her breasts, he eased her back onto the table, cradling her head with one hand.
His hair tousled from her caresses, he glanced at her with a cocky half smile, whipped cream around his wet, wanton mouth.