by Gaelen Foley
Bel folded her arms over her chest and glared quellingly at him. She would have thrown his ring in his arrogant face if his eyes weren’t sparkling so playfully. She could see he did not intend to let her off the hook.
“Really, don’t you owe these devoted gentlemen a true demonstration of your professional expertise, Miss Hamilton?” he drawled, toying with the ring, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger.
She glanced around uncertainly at her admirers, then glared at him. How dare the blackguard call her skills into question—threaten her livelihood? Little did he know he’d struck a nerve. Her chief worry, after all, was that her suitors, who had been offering such vast sums to take her under their protection, might find out that in fact she was terrified to go into a man’s bed. If she didn’t prove herself here and now, they might begin to suspect.
Most of them were cheering at his suggestion, though the more zealous ones looked genuinely offended on her behalf. The coxcomb would be lucky if he didn’t get himself into a duel, whoever he was. No, she remembered a second later, men didn’t duel over demireps, only over ladies. Her kind had no honor to defend.
Considering her next move, Bel tossed her head in haughty nonchalance and rested her hands on her waist. “The fact is, I don’t give serious kisses to men whose names I don’t even know.”
“Easily remedied,” he said as he flashed her a smile. “I’m Hawkscliffe.”
“Hawkscliffe?” she echoed, staring at him in ill-concealed shock.
She knew of the duke of Hawkscliffe—Robert Knight— fierce young Tory leader on the rise, renowned in government circles for his courage, high character, and unyielding sense of justice. He was not merely a bachelor— he was the catch of the decade, with a hundred thousand pounds a year. So far, no young lady had quite measured up to Hawkscliffe’s exacting standards.
She knew the major points of his family history and the rest of his title, as well—earl of Morley, Viscount Beningbrooke. She knew that Hawkscliffe Hall was a huge Norman keep standing proudly on a rugged hilltop in the Cumbrian Mountains. She knew all this because the intricacies of the aristocracy had been a large part of her girls’ curriculum at Mrs. Hall’s Academy for Young Ladies— where, disastrously, Bel had taught his hellion little sister, Lady Jacinda Knight.
Oh, dear, she thought, glancing uneasily at the rowdy, misbehaving peers all around the table, then looked again at Hawkscliffe. This man, whatever he was, was no friend of Dolph Breckinridge. Somehow this certainty, along with her connection to his little sister, made her feel a bit safer with him, as did his sterling reputation and the brilliant articles she had read by him in the Quarterly Review championing humanitarian views that she heartily applauded.
A girl could do worse.
Careful to hide her sudden interest, she folded her arms over her chest and regarded him in lofty amusement. “Pray tell, what is the Paragon Duke doing here, gambling and trying to coax unwon kisses out of a demirep?”
The men standing around them laughed at his expense, but not maliciously.
“Oh, just entertaining myself,” he replied with a calculating smile. “You know full well that I won a proper kiss from you fair and square, Miss Hamilton.”
“Well,” she said archly, “no doubt you need it.”
Laughter rippled around them at her tart rejoinder, but for the most part, the surrounding lords and dandies hushed themselves, a captive audience, waiting to see if she would kiss Hawkscliffe.
Now that she knew who he was, Bel decided she could not honorably back down. She would never allow herself to be intimidated by a self-righteous, renowned prude. He probably didn’t know anything more about serious kissing than she did.
As she braced her hands on the table and leaned toward him a second time, her heart beat faster with anticipation and curiosity and undeniable attraction; the moment had come to see if anything Harriette had taught her had stuck.
Gently she cupped his clean-shaved cheek in her hand, catching a glimpse of his smoldering eyes before she closed hers, then she caressed his lips with her own, slowly gifting him with a kiss that left the rest of the noisy, clamoring party and the city and the world behind.
His mouth was warm and silky; his smooth skin heated beneath her touch. She stroked his black hair and kissed him more deeply, leaning further over the table. She felt him pull her toward him. His warm hand curled around her nape in firm, gentle possession as she parted her lips and let him taste of her. He responded hotly yet still with restraint, entrancing her with his drugging kiss until she was nigh trembling with pleasure.
At length he brought the kiss to a slow, soft end and released her.
Bel returned to sanity amid raucous cheers, feeling dazed. Her lips were bee-stung, her cheeks glowed pink, and she was breathing rather heavily. Hawkscliffe’s slicked hair was tousled and his starchy cravat was mussed and at the moment, he looked anything but a paragon.
The glance he sent her, potent with desire, made her feel for the first time thrillingly like a real courtesan rather than just a silly, stiff girl pretending. She lowered her head, bit her lip shyly, and glanced at him again.
With a sultry little smile the duke slid his expensive ring toward her. “Take it,” he murmured. “I insist.”
By this gesture, she realized he meant to say that now she had earned it. With a knowing smile, she slid it right back to him.
“Keep it, Your Grace. The pleasure was all mine.”
The men around them burst out laughing but Hawkscliffe merely smiled intimately and watched her walk away with a promise in his eyes that said he would indeed be back.
She had barely reached the other room when she heard him loudly and thunderously applauded by all the other men in the room.
She stole a glance over her shoulder and saw him laughing with easy goodnaturedness as potbellied Lord Alvanley thumped him cheerfully on the back. Perhaps someone had just told him she had never before shown such favor to any of her admirers, for his suntanned cheeks were tinged with a manly blush.
Charmed, she smiled to herself and turned away. The hour was late, so she slipped out of the salon and went to bed before any of her other admirers came seeking a chance to win a kiss of their own. She knew now just whom she wanted.
She was still smiling when her head hit the pillow, but though her heart beat with excitement and newfound hope, she forced herself to ignore the noisy party downstairs, shut her eyes, and willed herself to rest.
The hour was late and it wouldn’t do to look haggard when her future protector came calling.
CHAPTER FOUR
Hawk spent the night alone in his vast carved bed, tossing and turning in the satin sheets and staring up at the velvet canopy in a state of thrilled, thwarted, curious uncertainty.
A courtesan.
He had never kissed a courtesan before, never touched one, nor let one touch him. He had been careful of them. He had his prejudices, true, for a man in his position had to be cautious. And yet... how would it be if she were here now?
He closed his eyes, comforting his desperate solitude with candlelit visions of her, so mysterious and lovely, and all the while, her haughty, maddening little laugh echoed in his ears, taunting him.
He wanted more.
One kiss was not enough. He wanted to explore her every curve, taste her skin beneath his lips. . . . With a silent groan he turned his face to the wall, throbbing with guilty need. He couldn’t stop.
He considered the fine texture of her hair as he dreamed of unpinning it, watching it fall in blond cascades around her shoulders. Then, in his mind’s eye, they undressed each other and he drew her down onto his bed, where she used every inch of her silken young flesh to enchant him with her dream of love. Fille de joie. Pleasure girl. As his body ached and burned for her touch, he knew for a price he could make it happen.
Whatever her price, he could easily afford it. But he didn’t dare.
A woman like that could take him for all that he had and walk awa
y smiling. Or worse, bind herself to him forever with illegitimate children. She was dangerous.
But so damned alluring.
When Sunday morning came, he found that he must have finally slept, for he awoke to the sound of churchbells bonging for services. His mind was clear, his body invigorated, and his whole being eager to get back to Belinda Hamilton’s side before Dolph Breckinridge slept off his hangover and heard about their kiss.
Judging by Dolph’s behavior last night, his reaction to the news would not be pleasant. Hawk intended to be on hand to protect her when the baronet arrived.
Moreover, he had settled upon a solution. Miss Hamilton was obviously the fulcrum by which he could gain untold leverage over Dolph. First, he would have to test her a bit, gauge where her sympathies lay, but if she disliked Dolph as much as she seemed to, it was only a question of luring her under his protection.
The plan taking shape in his mind would mean associating closely with Miss Hamilton in the coming weeks, but by the sane light of morning, he saw no reason why he could not trust himself completely to his rigid self-control. He was the bloody Paragon Duke, was he not? The whole world knew he could easily deny temptation. He would treat La Belle Hamilton with courtesy and pay her for her time, but he would absolutely not get involved that way with a Cyprian.
He forced himself by sheer willpower to wait until afternoon to call on her.
It was quarter past four when he sprang out of his curricle. He left it in the care of William, his able young groom, a tall, red-haired, raw-boned lad of nineteen, then strode up to Harriette Wilson’s door and knocked.
He waited for someone to answer, squinting in the bright May sunshine with the high wind rippling through his hair and playing with the tails of his soft dun tail coat. He glanced at the azure sky, enjoying the freshness of the air and the fanciful array of meringue-puff clouds and the promise of summer splendors soon to arrive.
When a maidservant opened the door, Hawk handed her his calling card and asked for Miss Hamilton. The maid bobbed a curtsy then scurried up the narrow wooden staircase to see if her mistress was prepared to receive visitors. He paced in the small entrance hall, his footfalls ringing with an odd empty echo. It hardly seemed like the same place that had been so thronged last night. His excitement to see the lovely, impertinent, and most delicious Miss Hamilton again was barely mitigated by the twinge of guilt that endeavored to remind him he was only here because of Lucy.
The maid returned and asked him if he would wait a few minutes more. He shrugged and continued pacing, tapping his top hat idly against his thigh, curiously inspecting Harriette’s sedan chair which leaned beside the staircase.
Miss Hamilton kept him, the mighty duke of Hawkscliffe, waiting a full quarter hour before she deigned to allow him up into her rarified company. He didn’t doubt she had no other purpose in the delay than to teach him his place—under her pretty foot. What could he do but sigh and take it? Until he had her under his exclusive protection, the bit o‘ muslin held all the cards. Strangely, her transparent machinations didn’t touch his surprisingly jovial mood. He couldn’t help it. The chit amused him.
When Miss Hamilton finally sent her maid back to lead him up, his heartbeat quickened absurdly as he mounted the steps. The maid took him through the large, now empty salon, past the green baize card table, to the parlor in the back of the second floor. The maid curtsied and left him at the parlor’s threshold.
He stepped closer and found Miss Hamilton arranged in demure perfection on a graceful Egyptian-style couch next to a round table that held a vase burgeoning with fresh-cut hydrangeas. She had a newspaper on her lap while her dainty slippered feet were displayed for him on an embroidered footstool. Even the afternoon sunbeam streaming in through the window seemed artful as it sparkled on her pale blond hair, which today she wore tumbling over her shoulders in flaxen waves and champagne-bright ringlets. All that bound her luxurious tresses in some semblance of order was a pair of ivory combs.
Hawk smiled as the fetching creature pretended not to notice him, letting him have his fill of looking at her. Her walking dress, with a wide scoop neck, was of sprigged muslin in muted yellow. The short puffed sleeves invited him to admire her slender arms. She looked for all the world like a soft, cuddly angel, he thought in asinine sentimentality. Though he knew the whole scene before him was the calculated result of mercenary feminine conquest, he was captivated nonetheless.
“Good day, Miss Hamilton.”
On cue, she looked up, then beamed a warm smile at him. Her eyes shone with fresh brilliance. “Your Grace!”
“I hope I am not interrupting,” he said in a rather wry tone.
“Not at all,” she declared in pleasure, holding out her hand to him like a princess disposed to show favor.
Dutifully he strode forward and took her hand in his own, bestowing the expected kiss on her fingertips. Her large violet-blue eyes shone as she greeted him and if he was not mistaken, his young courtesan beauty was most decidedly blushing.
When he had kissed her hand, she did not let go of his light grasp, but curled her fingers around his and tugged him down to sit on the couch beside her, gifting him with a generous smile. His gaze lingered on her face, drinking in the sight of her.
“I wondered if you would visit me today,” she said almost shyly.
He laughed softly. “You could doubt it?”
She smiled, blushing more brightly. They stared at each other in a charmed, relishing silence. He quite believed his heart skipped a beat.
“What’s that you’re reading?” he asked before he was tempted to catch her up in his arms and kiss her senseless on the couch.
“The Quarterly Review?”
“Really?” Surprised that it wasn’t some mindless serialized Gothic tale, he rested his arm along the back of the couch behind her and leaned nearer to inspect the volume she was reading. He caught a whiff of the soft, clean fragrance of her hair, a wholesome blend of rosebuds, sweet almond, and chamomile. It went straight to his head.
“I’ve just finished reading the most fascinating article entitled ‘A Call for Total International Abolition of Slavery’ by His Grace, the duke of Hawkscliffe. Ever heard of him?”
Startled, Hawk felt his cheeks flush. A wave of self-consciousness washed through him at her interest in his work. “Dull chap, eh?”
“On the contrary, Your Grace, I am finding your essays most expertly done. You are logical in your arguments, forceful in your style, and dare I say quite . . . passionate on your subject. I only wonder that your Tory colleagues aren’t appalled.”
“Why do you say that?” he asked in surprise.
“Some of your views verge on those of the Whigs.”
He stared at her, torn between amusement and indignation. She was only a female, after all. What did she know of politics? “Oh, really?” he said in an indulgent drawl.
“Quite.” She picked up a folded copy of the Edinburgh Review that lay on the table beside her. “You might enjoy meeting Harriette’s friend, Mr. Henry Brougham. I’ve been reading both party’s journals and your opinions on things are remarkably similar.”
Hawk’s left eyebrow rose. He could not decide if he was insulted, shocked, or merely amused to be compared so blithely to his great political rival and nemesis.
Miss Hamilton turned to him innocently. “Oh, do you know Mr. Brougham already, Your Grace?”
“Er, we’ve met.”
All business, she cast the Edinburgh Review aside and flipped through the Quarterly again. “I’ve also been reading your essay ‘Let the Punishment Fit the Crime.’ Your ideas on penal reform are inspired. I don’t claim to understand all the legal nuances, but I respect a man who knows right from wrong. There are so few of you,” she added loftily.
Fighting perplexed laughter and rather embarrassed by her praise, Hawk lifted the journal out of her hands. “Come, Miss Hamilton, the day is too fine to stay cooped up indoors reading dull political essays.”
; “You’re too modest,” she scolded, but her eyes sparkled with pleasure at his invitation. She jumped up and strode off to fetch her wrap, bonnet, and parasol.
Abandoned in the parlor, Hawk couldn’t stop smiling. He dropped his head with a puff of a sigh and raked a hand through his hair, casting about for his equilibrium. By Jove, he hadn’t expected her to be as quick witted as she was pretty.
A few minutes later she returned, ready for their outing.
They bounded down the creaking stairs like high-spirited children and burst outside into the glorious sunshine.
He lifted her up into his curricle then went around to the driver’s seat as William climbed to his post in back. Gathering the reins, he snapped them smartly over the backs of his high-stepping blooded bays.
The horses’ clopping hoof beats rebounded off the neat, flat-fronted houses as his curricle rolled down the cobbled street. Children playing ball in the road scattered as they approached. Once they had cleared the rowdy tangle of youngsters, he urged his team into a canter. Belinda laughed with relish at the speed, her hair flying behind her and whipping around the sides of her bonnet. He grinned, enjoying the rare treat of showing off at the ribbons for a beautiful girl.
The drive to Hyde Park was not long. When they arrived, they found the Ring crowded with mounted riders and open carriages, everyone out for a Sunday drive at the height of the Season. The pace was fast and the park roadways muddy.
He quickly noticed the stares they drew. Young men gawked at Belinda while matrons sent him appalled glares, but this was only the beginning. Word would spread quickly, he knew. Soon everyone—including Dolph—would have heard that he was seen escorting the prize courtesan of the day around Town.
Meanwhile he could only wonder how his fair companion felt when they passed society ladies who cut her dead, or worse, when men who had paid boundless homage to her the night before hurried past in their carriages with their wives and children and pretended not to know her— pretended she didn’t exist. The hypocrisy of it all roused his protective instincts with a fury.