Some Like It Wicked (Hellion's Den)

by Ivy, Alexandra

  He appeared remarkably unimpressed with her well-rehearsed speech. “And if I tell you that I do not desire your money?”

  “I would say that it is not my money, it is yours. What you do with it is your decision.”

  “Good.” With an unexpected flick of his wrist he tossed the packet back into her lap. “What I want to do with it is give it to you.”

  Her teeth snapped together. She had not forgotten his heart-stopping beauty. Or the manner in which his presence could send delicious shivers over her skin. Or even the male scent that had haunted her dreams for months.

  Somehow, however, she had managed to forget just how easily he could annoy the devil out of her.

  “Why are you being so aggravating about this?” she snapped.

  There was a moment’s pause before he slowly straightened from the desk. In the flickering candlelight his expression seemed uncommonly somber.

  “Because I do not wish to have that fortune, or any other fortune, standing between us any longer.”

  Jane’s heart faltered at the fierce edge in his voice. “I do not understand.”

  Holding her gaze with astonishingly little effort he reached down to knock the money to the ground. Then, while she was still in shock at his bizarre behavior, he grasped her hands and firmly tugged her to her feet.

  “Why did you come to London, Jane?” he demanded.

  She barely heard his low question. How could she? They were standing too close together. Far too close. Her entire body felt scorched by his male heat. And those wicked fingers were brushing up her arms and over her shoulders. She was lucky she could continue to breathe, let alone think.

  “I told you . . .”

  “Rubbish,” he interrupted her stammering, audaciously resting his thumb against the frantic pulse at the base of her throat. “If you desired to return the money you could have easily sent a bank draft, or requested your man of business to offer me the funds. There was not the slightest need for you to come all the way to London.”

  Of course there had been need. Great need. Unfortunately she simply could not recall why at this precise moment.

  “It was because . . . because I . . .”

  His features softened as she struggled to maintain a shred of sanity among the poignant longing that threatened to drown her.

  “Because you desired to see me again?”

  “Why would I desire to see you again?” she whispered.

  His hand shifted to splay at the curve of her back, gently pressing her against the wickedly firm muscles of his thighs.

  “I hope it is because you love me,” he said with astounding simplicity. “Just as I love you.”

  If he had not been holding her so tightly Jane was quite certain she would have toppled to the floor. As it was, she swayed against him in shock.

  “What did you say?”

  He smiled with an aching tenderness. “I said that I love you, Miss Jane Middleton.”

  “But . . . you cannot.”

  His arm about her abruptly tightened. “Oh no. You have attempted to tell me what is in my heart before. On this occasion I will be the one to tell you.”

  Her eyes widened at his stern command. It was utterly unlike the nonchalant, urban rake he usually revealed.

  “Indeed?”

  “Indeed,” he growled. “I love you. I love your indomitable spirit and your unwavering courage. I love your intelligence. I love the manner you find society ridiculous and prefer to be in your library rather than Almack’s. I love your intelligence. I love your scent. And I most certainly love the taste of you.” His eyes probed deep into her own, as if willing her to believe the sincerity of his husky words. “I love you, my sweet shrew, and it has nothing at all to do with your appalling fortune.”

  On this occasion she did not even bother to try and recall to breathe. What was the point when her heart was lodged in her throat and her head reeling?

  It was a dream. A wondrous, unbelievable dream. And one she had no intention of waking from.

  “Oh, Hellion,” she breathed. “I have been so miserable.”

  “Forgive me.” Bending down he rested his forehead against her own. “I was a fool. I was so terrified to admit even to myself that you had become more important to me than life itself that I risked losing you forever.”

  Ridiculous tears nearly blinded her. “I have behaved somewhat foolishly myself.”

  His chuckle brushed over her cheek. “My logical, always sensible shrew? Never.”

  She clutched at the lapels of his coat, indifferent to the fact she was crushing the superfine material.

  “I cannot imagine I could ever have thought I could settle for a dull, comfortable husband.”

  “True.”

  She pulled back to meet his glittering gaze. “Hellion.”

  His expression was unbearably smug. “Well, ’tis obvious even to the meanest intelligence that only a scandalous rake would suit you.”

  Sweet, near unbearable elation filled her heart as she pressed even closer. Not even in her wildest fantasies had she allowed herself to believe he could ever return her love. It had seemed such an impossible dream.

  Now she slowly allowed herself to trust in the happiness that was within her grasp.

  “And of course, a highly successful businessman,” she teased.

  As if sensing the unquestioning faith that was slowly filling her soul, Hellion’s dark eyes abruptly smoldered with a wicked fire. With a swift motion he swept her into his arms and was headed toward a nearly hidden door leading to a second chamber.

  “Hellion, whatever are you doing?”

  His smile was filled with all sorts of wicked intentions. “I am about to negotiate a new proposition.”

  “I see.” An intoxicating heat was flowing through her blood, tingles of pleasure stirring in the most wicked places. “And what would this proposition entail?”

  “Just one thing.”

  “And what is that?”

  He came to a halt as he studied her flushed features with a vulnerable expression.

  “That you love me.”

  Her hand instinctively lifted to rest against his cheek. “I believe that I can meet your terms, Mr. Caulfield,” she said, the fierce love she felt for him evident in her husky voice. “Although, we must officially seal such a bargain.”

  “My thoughts precisely,” he whispered, his steps once again carrying them toward the shadows beyond. “Of course this bargain is to be for quite some duration. An eternity, in fact. I shall have to conjure something quite special.”

  Her fingers lightly outlined the sensuous curve of his mouth. “I trust in you, my love.”

  A strangled groan was wrenched from his throat as he regarded her with eyes shimmering with an immeasurable love.

  “Ah, my beautiful shrew.”

  “My wicked Hellion.”

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  CHAPTER ONE

  It was a typical spring evening in London.

  Damp, foggy, and exquisitely miserable. The sort of weather that should have made any reasonable gentleman consider staying tucked nicely by the fire. Or better yet, of immigrating to India with all possible speed.

  Of course English gentlemen were a rare breed.

  While they might be incapable of tying their own cravats, or removing their boots without a small legion of servants, they would not so much as bat an eye at braving the most formidable weather. Earthquake, flood, or monsoon—nothing was allowed to interfere with the nightly round of entertainments.

  Especially when that entertainment included a few indulgent hours spent at Hellion’s Den.

  Once a coffee shop that had catered to the various artists spattered about the capital, the narrow, decidedly shabby building had been purchased by Hellion Caulfield and Lord Bidwell to create an exclusive gambling club.

  Since its opening last ye
ar it had become a favorite gathering for the gentlemen of Society. Dandies, rakes, rogues, and a sprinkling of hardened gamblers were stuffed into the smoky interior.

  And then there was Rutherford Hawksley.

  No one could claim him a frivolous dandy, nor did rake or rogue entirely suit him. Oh, he was handsome enough to make any woman forget to say no. Quite often they forgot to say anything at all. Drooling and swooning was by far the more likely response.

  Perfectly reasonable.

  His features were lean and perfectly carved. He possessed a long, aquiline nose; a broad forehead; and high cheekbones that gave a hint of exotic beauty to his countenance. His eyes were an Indigo-blue and surrounded by a fringe of black lashes. And as if he were not blessed enough, he possessed a set of dimples that could flash with devastating results.

  But while women had always, and would always, lust after him, and more than a few knew the pleasure of his intimate touch, the past months had wrought a change in the once devil-may-care Hawksley.

  No longer did he tease and charm his way through Society. No longer did he shock London with his madcap dares. No longer was there a ready smile and hint of laughter in the astonishing blue eyes.

  Instead there was a hard edge to his features and a hint of ruthless determination about him that kept the women casting longing glances from a safe distance and wise gentlemen stepping out of his path.

  On this evening he was attired in his familiar black with his long raven hair pulled into a queue with a satin ribbon. In the muted candlelight a diamond flashed on his ear with cold beauty and the scar that ran the length of his jaw was thrown in sharp relief.

  Seated at a private table, he sprawled in his seat with elegant ease. An ease that did nothing to disguise the air of lethal power in his lean form.

  He looked precisely what he was: coiled danger ready to spring.

  Unfortunately Lord Pendleton, who was currently in the chair across the small table, was far too infuriated to appreciate the risk of baiting the young nobleman. In one short hour he had lost three hundred quid. Not such a terribly large sum, but one he could ill afford to hand over—especially since his harridan of a wife had threatened to tell her father of his gambling habits. The clutch-fisted old gudgeon was bound to pull the purse strings even tighter, God rot his soul.

  Tossing his cards onto the table, he glared into Hawksley’s unfashionably dark countenance. His annoyance was not lessened by the fact that the . . . the dastard was utterly impassive despite the stack of vowels piled indecently before him.

  “You seem to be in luck yet again, Hawksley,” the older man growled.

  “So it would seem.”

  “Some might even say unnatural luck.”

  Hawksley narrowed his gaze. He had sensed his opponent’s frustration early in the game. The fool had been well outmatched, but like most noblemen, he had been too proud to admit his incompetence. For such a gentleman it was far preferable to blunder along, somehow hoping that lightning might strike and avert the inevitable disaster.

  Rather like clinging to a horse as it tumbled off a cliff.

  As a rule Hawksley was content to toy with such prey and move on when they began to twitch. Why bleed a poor bloke dry? It only provoked an ugly scene. And besides which, there were always a ready supply of dupes anxious to hand over their allowance. On this evening, however, he did not possess the luxury of time.

  During the past fortnight he had devoted his nights to shadowing a certain Lord Doulton through the fashionable balls, routes, and assemblies of London—not to mention the less fashionable brothels that clogged the Dials. It had left precious little opportunity to earn his livelihood.

  Now he was without money, without credit, and his rent was due. He needed a bit of the ready if he wasn’t to be tossed into the streets of the stews, a fate that did not suit his current plans.

  And the blustering Pendleton had been the perfect pigeon.

  Folding the vowels in his slender fingers, Hawksley tucked them into the pocket of his jacket. “I prefer to think of it as skill rather than luck,” he drawled.

  “Skill?” The older man’s face was becoming an ugly shade of pink, as if his cravat were choking him. “I could name another word for it.”

  “Take care, Pendleton. My temper is rarely dependable and I should take great offense if you were to cast dispersion on my honor.”

  “Arrogant pup, I shall say whatever I damn well please.”

  Hawksley smiled his cold smile. “Only if you happen to be anxious for a dawn appointment.”

  There was a moment of shock at the blunt warning. “Are you threatening me?”

  Hawksley shrugged. He was in no mood to soothe the twit’s wounded pride. He had the man’s money; now he wanted him to leave.

  “Merely clarifying your options, Pendleton. You can accept your loss and walk away with a bit of dignity, or we can meet tomorrow on the field of honor.”

  The pink countenance became puce and then an intriguing shade of purple. For a crazed moment the older man seemed on the brink of utter stupidity. Thankfully the moment passed and he awkwardly rose to his feet. “Fah, you aren’t worth the cost of a bullet.”

  Having devoted a lifetime to disappointing and aggravating others, the insult slid off Hawksley without drawing so much as a wince. “That seems to be a common conclusion among most who know me.”

  “Bloody sharp,” Pendleton muttered even as he backed away with something just short of an all out run.

  Hawksley did not even bother to watch the rather amusing retreat. Instead he silently sipped at his whiskey as he contemplated what to do with the remainder of his evening.

  It was too late to pick up on the trail of Doulton, and in truth he was weary of the fruitless effort. He could always move onto another gambling hell. His luck was in and he could always use the blunt; that, however, held little appeal as well.

  He sipped more of the whiskey.

  If he were being perfectly honest, nothing seemed to hold appeal. Oh, perhaps a luscious armful of willing women. That usually managed to lift a man’s spirits. Unfortunately he had no current mistress and no desire to go to the effort of locating one.

  Bloody hell. He leaned back in the seat. He was weary.

  Weary and frustrated and so sick at heart that there were times when he wanted nothing more than to crawl into his bed and never leave.

  The bleak thoughts were interrupted as a thin, rat-faced gentleman attired in a shocking pink coat and yellow waistcoat slid into the vacant seat across the table.

  A faint smile, genuine on this occasion, tugged at Hawksley’s lips.

  He acquired any number of casual acquaintances since being tossed out of his father’s home and traveling to make his fortune in London, but there were few he actually considered a friend, and even fewer that he trusted.

  Lord Bidwell, better known as Biddles, was one of those few.

  Although now a properly married gentleman with the task of ensuring Hellion’s Den kept him disgustingly wealthy, Biddles had once been England’s most proficient spy. Intelligent, cunning, and possessing the sort of morals that allowed him to climb into the sewers with the best of them, he had done as much as Wellington to save England from defeat.

  His retirement from the War Office had been a decided blow for his country but a blessing for Hawksley.

  Never one to allow his talents to fall into waste, Biddles kept himself entertained by turning his attentions to those closer to home. There was nothing that occurred in London, be it in the most elegant ballroom or the seediest back streets of the stews, that Biddles was not aware of. Which was why Hawksley had turned to him the moment he realized he needed assistance.

  “Ah, Hawk, you are in your usual charming mood, I see,” Biddles mocked as he raised a lacy handkerchief to dab at his pointed nose.

  Hawksley shrugged. “I find it difficult to be charming when I am being accused of cheating.”

  “Then you shouldn’t win so often, old chap
. It makes gentlemen peevish.”

  “It makes me peevish when I cannot pay my rent.”

  The pale eyes narrowed as Biddles regarded him with a shrewd thoroughness. “Difficulties?”

  Hawksley choked back a humorless laugh. He could write an epic on difficulties: a father who detested him; bill collectors yammering at his heels; a title and duties hanging about his neck like a yoke; a murdered brother; oh, and an investigation that had produced precisely nothing. Well, nothing more than a lingering headache and a bad taste in his mouth.

  “No more so than usual,” he retorted in wry tones.

  “You know I always stand prepared to offer assistance if you find yourself in need,” Biddles murmured.

  Hawksley gave the faintest nod. He did know, and it offered him a comfort he rarely found these days. “Not necessary at the moment, although I do appreciate the offer.”

  Biddles gave a small smile. “I believe I have something you will appreciate even more.”

  Hawksley lifted his brows. “Is she beautiful?”

  “I fear it is not a woman.”

  “A pity,” he drawled. “Now that I have a bit of blunt I could use some companionship.”

  “A swift means of not having your blunt for long.”

  He briefly thought of the luscious, dark-haired widow who had been on his scent for the past weeks. And the slender blond actress who had offered all sorts of intriguing possibilities. Either would do.

  “Ah, but what more delightful means of becoming a pauper?”

  Biddles gave a soft laugh. “I must refrain from answering such a leading question. I am a married man after all and I prefer my head not to be placed upon the platter.”

  “Where is your charming wife?”

  The expression of sardonic amusement faded as a frown of annoyance marred the thin countenance. Hawksley noticed that frown quite often when men spoke of their wives. Only one of a dozen reasons he was not wed.

  “She was decidedly pale this morning and I left strict orders that she was to stay home this evening to rest.” Biddles grimaced. “Of course that only ensures that she will be gadding about to every assembly and ball in Town. She possesses a remarkable dislike for orders.”