Loving the Hawke (The Seven Curses of London Book 1)

by Williams, Lana

  “Is the landau waiting?” her mother interrupted as she glided into the room. “We will be late if there is any traffic.”

  “Yes, it’s outside. Are the girls ready? I thought we’d follow them in the carriage.” Her father seemed to have forgotten his question. Or perhaps he didn’t care for Lettie’s answer.

  She loved her family but sometimes wondered what it might have been like to be an only child. She had dim memories of a time when she had been the center of attention. When her parents had showered her in love. But with the birth of each daughter, that attention had been spread between them all with less and less for Lettie. Her mother had been quite overwhelmed by the girls, and Lettie had been a natural helper, wanting to please her mother.

  Somewhere along the line, Lettie had become more of a governess and less of an eldest daughter. Even her name was different than her sisters. Her mother hadn’t decided on a flower theme for her daughters’ names until Rose had been born three years after Lettie.

  All of her sisters, except Holly, the youngest, would be attending the Fretwell’s ball. Lettie only wished she could remain home with Holly. An evening with her would be far more fun.

  The landau was so full with gowns and bustles, they could barely budge. Luckily it was a short ride to the ball. Their mother and father arrived behind them.

  As they started up the stairs of Lord and Lady Fretwell’s home in Mayfair, Lettie fell back to walk alongside her father and mother.

  “Father, I wanted to ask...” she hesitated, debating the wisdom of her question, especially in front of her mother.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “I’ve come across a book on which I’d like your opinion.”

  “Another story on the poor, is it?” he asked with a brow raised, just visible beneath the brim of his top hat. “What is the name of it?”

  “The Seven Curses of London.”

  “That sounds like one of those penny dreadful novels,” her mother commented. “Why do you insist on reading such depressing stories? Rose has a lovely book of poetry I’m certain she’d share with you.”

  She’d had this discussion with her mother more often than she cared to recount. While she quite enjoyed poetry and novels, now that she’d read The Seven Curses of London, she felt compelled to take action. The idleness of the rich seemed wasteful to her. If she wasn’t going to marry and have a family of her own, she could at least have a purpose, a cause that mattered. One that would make a difference in someone’s life.

  Yet she didn’t take Mr. Hawke’s warning lightly. Parts of London were certainly dangerous, but she wanted to help. How to take care for her safety but still make a difference was a challenge.

  Her father enjoyed discussing social journalism articles with her. He even donated money to several causes she’d brought to his attention. But that was the extent of his interest thus far. Maybe, just maybe, this new book would compel him to do more. Or at the very least, help her do more.

  “I look forward to it,” he said. “We’ll discuss it at breakfast, shall we?”

  “Thank you, Father,” she said with a smile. They often had the breakfast room to themselves as the rest of the family preferred to rise later. Lettie enjoyed those moments.

  Drawing a deep breath, she braced herself for what would no doubt be a long evening. She stepped away from her father to draw closer to Rose, searching her sister’s visage to make certain all was perfect. Her sister had caught the duke’s eye two weeks ago, much to their mother’s delight. Luckily, Rose confessed to having a growing affection for him as well.

  “How do I look?” she whispered nervously to Lettie as they neared the entrance, her dark eyes shining bright.

  “Lovely.” She squeezed her sister’s gloved hand to reassure her.

  Rose’s blonde hair, creamy skin and even features caught everyone’s notice. She was truly beautiful and had a sweet, outgoing nature that drew men like moths to a flame. Her blush-colored silk gown showed off her slim figure to great advantage while maintaining modesty with a high neckline. With her innate elegance, she would make the perfect duchess if the duke decided to offer.

  Lettie eased back to trail behind her family as they greeted their hosts. A servant came forward to take their cloaks and, all too soon, they entered the ballroom. The cream and gold décor was elegant. Double-tiered crystal chandeliers cast candlelight about the room. Potted palms graced the columns, lending a suggestion of privacy to several alcoves. Music from a string quartet filled the air from the top of the ballroom.

  More people were here than Lettie had anticipated. She preferred larger balls, for it was easier to avoid those young ladies with rapier tongues, especially Lady Samantha Brown, who had become a thorn in Lettie’s side this Season. She and her friends seemed to enjoy taunting her. Somehow, Lettie had become a frequent target of theirs.

  Her family descended the stairs into the ballroom, spreading out to find friends. Her sisters had many, but Lettie’s few friends had married. The limited balls they attended were spent with other couples after briefly greeting Lettie. Since then, she’d been so busy tending her sisters she hadn’t made the effort to make additional friends. Now that her sisters were older and needed her less, it was too late.

  Lettie decided a cup of lemonade was in order. At least then she’d have something to do with her hands before joining the chaperones. She liked watching the couples on the dance floor, the colors of the ladies’ gowns in sharp contrast to the men’s dark suits. Dancing was something she rarely did though she enjoyed it.

  She eased along the side of the ballroom, nodding at a few ladies she knew until at last arriving at the refreshment table. The lemonade was cool and tart.

  “Well, if it isn’t Lettuce.” The nasal tone of Lady Samantha’s voice had Lettie clinching her jaw in response.

  How could she have missed seeing her? She must’ve come up behind her.

  Two other young girls who accompanied Lady Samantha tittered at her jest. Lettie did not. The first time Samantha had said it, Lettie had smiled politely. But no more. She didn’t appreciate any of her comments. Samantha had a sharp tongue and, while Lettie knew she used it in order to feel better about herself, that certainly didn’t make it easier to bear.

  “How are you this evening, Lettuce?” Lady Samantha said again when she didn’t garner a response from Lettie.

  Lettie sighed, deciding she’d best respond in some manner with the hope that Lady Samantha would go on her way and find another target. “If you are speaking to me, my name is Letitia.” She didn’t suggest the woman call her by her nickname. That was reserved for family and friends, and Samantha was neither of those.

  “Letitia? How...lovely.” The pause combined with her tone suggested it was anything but. “What an old-fashioned name. But how is it that all your sisters have such lovely floral names, but you have Lettuce? Or was it Latrine?”

  Lettie knew it reflected poorly on her that Lady Samantha’s words still bothered her so much. But it was a barb that struck true. She did feel separate from the rest of her sisters, her name being one of the many ways.

  If only she had some clever response that would quiet the woman. But alas, clever comebacks were not in her repertoire.

  “I’m surprised you’re not dancing. Two of your sisters are already. Don’t you know how? You poor thing.” The fake look of sympathy on Samantha’s face had Lettie struggling for a stinging retort.

  Her sudden desire for retaliation took her aback.

  One of the ladies with Samantha whom Lettie had never met stepped forward and looked her up and down, her gaze lingering on the oversized bow on the side of Lettie’s gown. “With a name like Fairchild, it seems like you should be one. The family trait somehow skipped you, didn’t it?”

  Lettie felt heat stain her cheeks. She didn’t have the energy or defenses needed to fling insults with any of these women. And she had yet to understand what she’d ever done to earn their derision.

  “Miss Fa
irchild. How lovely to see you this evening.”

  The deep timber of a man’s voice sent shivers down her back. There was something oddly familiar about the voice. Surely any man speaking to her had somehow mistaken her for one of her sisters. She turned slowly to face him.

  The cobalt blue eyes that had distracted her all day now held her gaze with a steady regard.

  Mr. Hawke.

  In evening attire.

  In the same ballroom as she.

  And looking even more handsome than he had earlier in the day. Her heart pounded, the memory of their kiss filling her senses.

  Oh my.

  ~*~

  Nathaniel did not for the life of him understand what was going on here. He’d overheard the conversation behind him, the voice he’d been trying to forget capturing his full attention, forcing him to turn to see if the determined lady from earlier in the day truly stood nearby.

  Why was it that each time he came across this woman, she was in an impossible situation and in need of rescue?

  Yet he could feel only gratitude at the chance encounter as he now knew her name. Miss Fairchild. Letitia. It was perfect. Different. Exotic. Just like her.

  He studied her hair, which provided the perfect frame for her strong features. Warm honey. Not blonde. Not brunette, but the most interesting combination in between. His fingers twitched as he found himself longing to touch it.

  Another odd bow graced her attire, this one at her waist. Why she insisted on wearing those things escaped him. Nor did he care for the dull yellow color of her gown. It hid rather than enhanced her curves.

  Her hazel-green eyes stared up at him in amazement.

  At the very least, his arrival had stopped the ridiculous comments from the ladies surrounding her. He tore his gaze from hers for a moment to glance at them.

  With much effort, he forced what he hoped was a charming smile to his lips. “I apologize for interrupting,” he said as he glanced at Miss Fairchild, “but I believe you promised me this dance.”

  The ladies blinked up at him, their expressions clearly showing their surprise.

  That only annoyed him more. Why Miss Fairchild hadn’t simply walked away was beyond him. She had no need to subject herself to their hateful comments. Where was the spirit she’d so readily exhibited earlier today? This woman appeared to be a mere shadow of that one.

  He shifted, turning his back on the women as he offered his arm to Miss Fairchild. “Shall we?”

  She took his arm hesitantly, as though she wasn’t quite sure what he was about. Neither was he, but he refused to stand by and listen to the petty comments from the silly females any longer.

  As he started toward the dance floor, he realized his mistake. He’d rescued her from one awkward situation only to place her in another. His leg would make dancing embarrassing for both of them if not impossible. The ache in his thigh rarely permitted him to forget his injury but his desire to rescue her had prevented him from thinking this through.

  He slowed his pace as they neared the dance floor, prepared to make his excuses and set her free. A terrible feeling of inadequacy spilled through him, so familiar from his childhood and most unwelcome. He hated it with a passion. “I apologize, but I cannot dance with you.”

  She came to a stop beside him, the brilliant light in her eyes fading. “Of course not. I didn’t truly expect you would.” Yet he could clearly see the words were a lie.

  Then it dawned on him that she didn’t understand why he couldn’t dance with her. “I injured my leg some time ago, and it causes me to limp.”

  “Oh.” She glanced down at his legs. “I noticed that earlier today but thought it was part of your disguise.”

  “Please accept my apology.”

  She glanced over her shoulder at the group of ladies from whom they’d walked away, her shoulders sagging. “’Tis of no consequence. Truly.”

  He followed her gaze and saw how closely those ladies watched them. With a silent oath, he knew he had to do something. He couldn’t allow her to become an even bigger target for their arrows. “Perhaps if we cross to the other side of the floor, it won’t be quite so noticeable.”

  Miss Fairchild didn’t budge. “Nonsense. Walking farther might tire your leg even more.”

  “We must at least pretend to dance or those ladies will not cease their taunts.” He offered her his arm, tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow, and they continued on.

  “If you’d consider allowing me to aid you,” she whispered as she drew to a halt. “We could attempt smaller steps. I believe we’d manage well enough.”

  Now at the edge of the dance floor, she turned to face him, placing her hand on his shoulder.

  Left with no choice, he took her hand in his and held it shoulder height, placing his other hand on her waist. Nerves tingled along his body. He hadn’t attempted to dance since his return, nor had he done so during his time in the service.

  But the practice he’d received in his youth had been firmly ingrained and his foot automatically moved to the side. Miss Fairchild modified her steps to match his and within a few beats of the music, they danced together quite well.

  His nervousness faded as the music filled his senses. Or perhaps it was she who did so. He held her gaze, her amazing eyes riveting him. Now he knew both her name and the color of her hair, both an unexpected gift.

  As she twirled in his arms, her spicy scent caught him once again, causing him to inhale deeper to experience it more fully. He tamped down the desire filling him, reminding himself they were in the middle of a ballroom surrounded by people.

  Her gaze caught his as she turned in his arms, the light in their depths shining brightly once again. The extra pain the movements brought him were more than worth it.

  “May I ask what brings you to the Fretwell’s this evening, Mr. Hawke?”

  He felt a twinge of guilt at her use of his surname rather than his rank. But he decided against explaining it for now. “I am here to keep my brother from leaving.”

  “Oh?”

  “My mother insists it is past time for him to marry but he disagrees. He apparently escapes ballrooms at the earliest opportunity.” His mother had become convinced that his brother, Tristan, needed to take a wife this Season. She’d made it sound as if Nathaniel was her last hope to convince her oldest son to marry and start a family.

  Nathaniel’s task this evening was to make certain his brother danced with at least three eligible debutantes. Thus far, he had failed.

  In many ways, he hoped his brother would marry soon, for that would make it even less important that he had no intention of doing so. A family life was not for him. He’d been far better suited for the military. But now that he’d found a purpose since his forced retirement, he hoped to make a new life for himself.

  His brother was very much like their late father. They shared the same name, the same looks, the same gruff manner. He did not yet know if Tristan had also taken on their father’s beliefs. He sincerely hoped not. Their father had been a difficult man, expecting far too much of his sons and his wife. It seemed they disappointed him constantly. Especially Nathaniel.

  Tristan had been acting oddly since his return. Then again, Nathaniel had been gone for some time and wasn’t certain what might be going on in his brother’s mind. He’d never been close to his brother. Their father had seen to that.

  Despite all his years away in the military and his father’s death three years ago, Nathaniel still felt his father’s shadow over many things he did. He had yet to discover a way to remove it. Perhaps one day, he would speak to his brother about that. But not until he’d determined if Tristan had truly turned into their father.

  He turned a bit too quickly as the dance continued, taking a misstep before catching himself. Miss Fairchild continued to glide smoothly as though nothing untoward had occurred. His admiration of her increased a notch. He’d had the impression of her stubbornness before, but after seeing her at the mercy of those terrible ladies, his sy
mpathies had been aroused. Perhaps she was rather like him—more willing to stand up for others than herself.

  Now he had one more reason to admire her.

  She smiled up at him as the music drew to a close. “That was lovely. Thank you.”

  “I am the one who should be thanking you.” He led her from the dance floor. “Tell me why you were at Blackfriars Bridge earlier.”

  She glanced around worriedly.

  “Ahh,” he said as he realized the reason for her sudden concern. She didn’t want anyone to know where she’d been. He gestured toward a nearby garden door. “Perhaps you’d like to speak in private for a moment.”

  With a nod, she walked with him through the door to the darkness outside. The garden was lit only by the glow from the ballroom windows. No one was in sight, much to his relief. To ensure they had privacy, he drew her to a place in the shadows at the edge of the garden.

  “I find myself quite curious as to your answer,” he admitted. Her presence there didn’t make sense even after he’d had several hours to ponder it.

  “I recently became aware of the many young girls who have no choice but to work in factories or slop-shops, and how difficult their lives are.” She held his gaze, the dim light from the windows glittering in her eyes. “I would like to help in some way.”

  Nathaniel nearly smiled. “If only other members of the ton felt as you did, London would be a different place.”

  “I don’t understand why more people don’t become involved.” She studied him more closely. “How did you come to be at Blackfriars?”

  “I recently returned to England after living abroad for several years. I was taken aback by the changes in London. It seems the gap between those with and those without has widened considerably.”

  “Assistance must be given to help the poor. But how?” The passion that lit Miss Fairchild’s face should’ve been reserved for something other than the poor, but he appreciated it all the same.

  He pulled his wayward thoughts back to her question. “There is no easy solution. Understanding the problem is the first step.”