A look of pure sin rewarded her confession as he leaned forward as if to make a confession of his own. Haley’s heart pounded at the prospect of it, and she began to incline her own face to better hear him when—
Herbert’s hail boomed along the corridor. “Just where I left you! But look, you found a friend without my aid. What a relief!” Mr. Trumble approached with every sign of pleasure at finding Mr. Hawke at her side. They stood to greet him, and Haley had to swallow a miserable lump of guilt at being caught in so foolish a position. She did her best to smoothly replace her glove, praying that Herbert wouldn’t ask about its removal.
“I’ve been striding about looking for a familiar face and now learn that I had only to leave it to the Fates! How are you, Mr. Hawke?” Herbert said, extending his hand.
Galen offered his hand with a friendly grace to counter Herbert’s eager grip. “I am well.”
“Have you seen the exhibits, sir? I’m sure we’d be glad of the company if you care to take the part of chaperone. Miss Moreland’s aunt has left us unaccompanied and we couldn’t—”
“I’m afraid I’ve already seen what I desired most to see, and I have another appointment, or I would gladly do my best to keep you at arm’s length from your lovely fiancée.” Galen’s smile was the essence of charm, but Haley had to bite her tongue at the soft undercut in his words.
Naturally, Mr. Trumble was less astute. “A shame! Next time, eh?”
“Yes.” Galen bowed gallantly, deliberately not looking at her. “There will most definitely be a next time.”
With another nod, he left, and Haley let out the breath she’d been holding as Herbert unwittingly invited the fox to watch the henhouse.
“Well! There’s a gentleman, I warrant!” Herbert’s exuberance shone on his face. “It would be rude to inquire about his clubs, but I’d say he wouldn’t mind it if I mentioned him as an acquaintance when I make my own foray at the coffeehouses.”
She wasn’t sure if she could answer. What kind of gentleman was so forward and stirred a woman’s blood until she was an inner storm of fire and muddled emotions? What kind of gentleman looked at a woman with raw desire when he knew she was spoken for? What kind of gentleman ignored the rules of civility but made her feel as if the rules needn’t apply? I don’t want rules when he looks at me like that.
“Don’t you agree, Miss Moreland?” Herbert prompted when she failed to respond.
“Yes, of course.” Haley did her best to reoccupy the present moment and ignore thoughts of Mr. Hawke. “But you have acquaintances that know you far better and would offer a word on your behalf if you wished it. I’m sure you have no need to mention Mr. Hawke to gain entrance to any gentleman’s club that interests you, Mr. Trumble.”
He shook his head and smiled, patting her hand as if she were a child to be indulged. “You are a dear thing and have been sheltered in the country, quite rightly, from all this nonsense. Men have a better head for these matters, business and introductions and such. A friendship with the son of an earl is no small thing, and I won’t be the man to miss the opportunity.”
“Mr. Trumble, I don’t think it—”
He cut her off, his smile still friendly, but his voice firm. “I won’t have anyone saying I can’t hold my own with those born a notch or two above. I’m not oblivious to the advantages of a blue-blooded wife, but I won’t have anyone doubting that I can’t make ties and connections of my own—and on my own merit!”
The last lingering pleasure she had in the outing dissipated. He’d never spoken so frankly about his ambitions, or her role as a well-bred pawn, but if any part of her had hoped that affection might also play a part in their relationship, he’d just rough-handedly destroyed it. Destroyed it with a smile on his face and a simpering look afterward to make sure I’m not distraught at his tone. Oh, God. “No one will ever say such things, Mr. Trumble.”
“Let’s make an early afternoon of it. I don’t think your aunt would approve of you being out in this crush, and of course, better to make it a brief outing since we are unfortunately on our own, don’t you think?”
“Yes, I think that’s best.” Haley took his arm and allowed him to lead her out of the hall.
I’m not trying to make love to you, Galen had said. Haley wasn’t sure what to think. She’d been off balance through every turn of the conversation, and at each instant where she was sure he’d trespassed, she’d never mustered the momentum to stop him. Instead, she felt more like a restless child trying to play a game without knowing the rules. And now, there was only one thing she knew of Mr. Galen Hawke for certain. I don’t think he’s the kind of man who needs bells.
Chapter 5
Sleep was like an elusive dragon he could just catch sight of but never quite capture. Galen wrestled with the wisps of tantalizing rest that promised restoration only to fall into a maze of images that wounded and bruised his spirit and provided no peace.
“More tea, Galen?”
In the pouring rain, she sat wearing a white linen frock soaked to the point of lust-inspiring translucence. A calm English goddess in the storm . . .
Haley was offering him tea, sitting on a wool blanket with a picnic basket next to her and china plates and silver spread out between them . . . but he couldn’t take the cup because he was holding on to John. And John was dying in his arms.
“No, thank you.” He heard himself answer as if there was nothing out of place. As if cucumber sandwiches and monsoons, blood and embroidered napkins made for the perfect outing.
And then she wasn’t wearing white linen anymore. It was the red gown she’d been wearing the first night they’d met, and she was even more beautiful. “You should eat something sweet, Galen.”
John was moaning, writhing in pain, and Galen had to struggle to hold him still—and then her dress began to change into a river of blood and it filled every plate and cup and soaked everything in sight. And the worst of it was that he couldn’t take his eyes off of her. That he wanted her more than anything else. And John was getting too heavy to hold. John was slipping from his fingers. “I can’t.”
And she was smiling, sitting primly and looking at him, with blood in her hair, and the rain stung his skin and she began to laugh.
He was awakened by his own strangled cry of distress, a rush of shame nearly choking him. He hated this weakness that made him cry out like a child in the dark. It had been a senseless dream, and he was nauseated by the lingering heat of his still stiff cock from the macabre and erotic images of Miss Haley Moreland.
He kicked against the twist of sweat-tangled sheets that trapped his legs and took long, shaky breaths to try to regain his senses. He stood from the bed to distance himself from the visions that haunted him and began to pace, naked as the day he was born, about his bedroom.
Exhaustion gave an edge to his thoughts, but Galen wasn’t sure how a man remedied such things when he dreaded his dreams more than he craved sleep. A glance at the clock on the fireplace’s mantel told him that it wasn’t even midnight. He raked his hand through his hair, marveling at how a woman could present such a puzzle.
He’d studied her that afternoon at the exhibition hall, searching for any flicker of guilt or remorse at the choices she’d made. Instead, she’d dismissed love as a foolish business with a naïve mercenary streak that took a man’s breath away. And when he’d made his advances, she’d been all innocent blushes and clear, sweet looks of curiosity and awakening interest in his presence. He’d flirted outrageously and risked frightening her away, but the reward of experiencing her subtly leaning into his touch had been worth it. And when dear Mr. Trumble had stumbled over to interrupt their tryst, Galen had indulged in a moment of triumph at the flash of pure disappointment in her eyes.
Galen pulled on his robe and made his way over to a small writing desk near the windows. “Time to step out of the shadows, Haley.” He spoke his thoughts aloud as he lit the lamps. “Let’s see if we can’t let your aunt think she’s in on the game.”
He pu
lled out a piece of personalized stationery and began his composition. After only a few moments he was calmed by the mental exercise. The sound of the pen against the paper seemed like a quiet anchor, tying him again to the waking world and dismissing the last echoes of his nightmares.
Dear Mrs. Shaw,
I hope it does not seem too forward to write this note, as I have only recently been introduced to you and your niece. I wished to express my concern at hearing this afternoon that you were not feeling well enough to attend the exhibition with Mr. Trumble and Miss Moreland.
I also wanted to take this opportunity to ensure that my good word has been upheld and that your social calendar has improved. Please send word if you can which invitations have arrived so that I can press again for those that lag behind. You and your beautiful niece are too delightful to pass a London Season quietly, and I am humbly pleased to offer what services I can to your family.
But I would not have you think my interest is intended to forward my own character in a Certain Lady’s eyes. Therefore I must ask that you not mention our correspondence to your niece. I sense that she perceives my help as unwarranted out of delicate sense of pride, but I do not criticize. I admire a lady with such personal pride and would not normally trespass. But as I stated, she seems to be too lovely a girl to miss the best that London has to offer.
Yours respectfully,
Galen Hawke Esquire.
Galen read it over again to make sure he’d struck the right note between discreet politeness and an overt invitation to conspiracy. It was a deliberately clumsy play for a list of Haley’s social appointments, and Mrs. Shaw was no fool. She would have to realize that he could have made discreet inquiries and gotten whatever information he wanted without resorting to writing a letter. But asking for it tipped his hand, and, he hoped, signaled his desire for an ally in the chase.
“And if I read you correctly, Mrs. Shaw, you’re like most women and are more than eager for a little conspiracy of your own.” Galen folded it carefully, adding his personal seal.
“What’s that about conspiracies?”
Galen uncoiled from his chair at the unexpected voice coming from the corner. Michael Rutherford was an imposing figure as he stood unmoving just inside the room, his broad frame unmistakable, even in the shadows.
“Damn it, Michael! You could knock, couldn’t you?”
Michael smiled. “And spoil my only pleasure? Besides, I didn’t want to ring the bell and bother your servants. They deserve a good night’s rest, don’t they?”
“Late for social calls, isn’t it?” Galen tried to disguise his relief at the intrusion, grateful for the diversion. He knew better than to ask how Rutherford had managed to gain entrance to his bedroom without alerting a single soul belowstairs. “Here, take a seat like a civilized caller and stop lurking over there.”
Michael shrugged, then moved farther into the room. “A bit late, yes. I was driving by and saw your light and knew you weren’t sleeping.” He leaned over the unlit fireplace, as if he could still absorb heat from a phantom fire. “I ran into Ashe earlier and he said that he was looking for Josiah. He was apparently confident that Josiah, out of all of us, wouldn’t censure his quest for entertainment.”
“They could both of them benefit from restraint, but I’ll not be the one to criticize. I’m hardly . . . innocent myself.”
“No one is,” Michael conceded, turning back from the fireplace but waving away the offered seat. “So what is this conspiracy you’re planning?”
Galen considered lying for a fleeting moment, but one look in Michael’s icy gray eyes and he knew it was pointless. The man had an incredible knack for discerning insincerity, and frankly, Galen valued his friendship too much to risk it. Bad enough that he’d held back with Rowan . . .
“A small bit of revenge, Rutherford. Nothing more.”
Michael’s look was tinged with skepticism. “Revenge is never a small matter, Hawke.”
“Perhaps you’re right. But in any case, I’m taking care of this personally and didn’t wish to involve the others.”
“Have you been wronged then? Personally?” Michael pressed, taking the seat now in one graceful movement to settle across from Galen.
“I made a promise to John. I’m acting on his behalf.”
Michael leaned back against the padded carved arch of the chair, his look thoughtful. “Really? In what way?”
Galen took a deep breath before he plunged ahead. “Before he died, he asked me to see after his fiancée when we returned. But before I could even begin to seek her out, I saw a notice of her appearance in Town and of her new engagement.”
“I see.”
“Do you? Since we returned and word was sent of his death, it’s not been a year. Not eight months. And yet his true love has decided to kick up her heels and take on another lover without so much as a public sniffle!” Galen felt the anger in him unleashing and gaining momentum. “It’s the worst sort of betrayal, and I won’t stand idly by and watch Miss Moreland dance on his grave.”
“Galen, I’m not sure you—” Michael stopped himself, then went on in a more careful tone. “What could you do? She’s made her choice. Even if you despise that choice, it’s hers to make.”
“Yes, hers to make. But mine not to play the spectator. Not this time, Michael. If Miss Moreland wishes to ignore decency then I don’t see why I can’t do the same.”
“What do you intend?”
“I’ll expose her for the heartless witch she is and let the lady live with her choices.”
“Expose her?”
Galen left his chair to cross over to his desk, retrieving a packet of papers from the top drawer. He brought them back and handed them over to Michael. “Drafts, of course. The artist I commissioned this morning to do the caricature promised to refine it later if I wished, but the text for the article alone should do the trick when the time comes.”
“My God,” Michael exclaimed softly. “You’re going to crucify her in the press.”
“They adore gossip, and this tidbit will be fact by the time I’m finished.” Galen sat back down, the tension in his body unrelenting with his emotions. “She’ll get no less than she deserves.”
“So you say! I’m not sure you can appoint yourself her judge, jury, and executioner, Galen!”
“I didn’t. John did.”
Michael handed back the papers as if they scorched his fingers. “You’ll go too far, Galen.”
“I’ll go as far as I need to, Michael, to set this girl on her heels and make it up to John.”
“John’s dead. I don’t think he cares.”
Galen’s jaw clenched in fury. “I care. I made him a promise to see to her, and by God, I’ll see to her as I wish. This is not your concern anymore, Michael. She was the only thing that John cared about, and she repays him by wearing party dresses and cheerfully breezing through the social season as if she hadn’t a care in world?”
“Like the Lucknow widows? Weren’t there a few tongues wagging at how cheerful they were? Perhaps women react differently sometimes, to death. Perhaps Miss Moreland . . . wants to embrace life instead of dwelling on John’s miserable end.” Michael leaned forward, desperate to convince his friend to change course.
“She isn’t embracing life!” Galen left his seat, unable to sit still any longer. He paced angrily as he spoke. “She’s embracing a fat little troll’s bank accounts! She throws away the heart of the most decent man I’ve ever known, and for what? Money? My God, Michael! I know that London is no stranger to the practice, but—I cannot let it stand, not this time.”
“You could, Galen.”
“I won’t!” he roared back, instantly aware of how it all sounded, especially with Michael’s calm voice in counter to his. He took a step back and let out a long breath to try to decrease the chokehold of anger that made his hands shake. “I can’t, Michael. I know it probably makes me a lesser man, but I think of John and I cannot see any other course open to me.”
Michael stood, carefully unfolding as if wary of making any sudden movements. But when their eyes met, there was no trace of uncertainty. “Your cartoon alluded that she was onto would-be husband number three. Are you throwing young bucks in her path then? Or are you taking a more direct hand in it, Galen?”
Galen held his ground, his silence supplying the answer.
Michael sighed. “And what if Miss Moreland doesn’t fall for the trap? Will you abandon your quest and accept her choice?”
“She won’t fall,” Galen said, his eyes glittering like a predator’s. “She’ll run into my arms. And then we won’t hear arguments about her good character and questionable choices, will we?”
Michael shook his head and began to move toward the concealed servant’s entrance he’d come through. But Galen called after him, and his steps slowed.
“I’m asking for your silence, Michael. Even if you don’t agree with what I’m doing, swear to me that you won’t interfere.”
Michael turned back, assessing his friend. They’d been through so much. But Galen had borne the brunt of their captor’s attentions more than most. Galen had been John’s protector in prison, shielding him whenever he could. Michael suspected it was because John reminded him of the younger brother that Hawke had seen die in their childhood. So after months of torture and starvation, and the strange twists of their escape, John’s death had hit Galen particularly hard.
And now he’d seized on the idea that he could set things right by punishing this girl—for not grieving? For not being faithful to John? For not sharing Galen’s pain? Michael knew it was an unfathomable blend of all those things and a dozen more that Galen couldn’t name.
Easier to hate this woman and distract himself with revenge than accept fate, Michael mused. Every fiber in his being knew that Galen was off in the fog, but fighting him wouldn’t help. And Michael had seen too many battles to invoke one now. I’m just worried you’ll go too far, Galen . . . but even if you’re heading for Hades, I suppose I wouldn’t be much of a friend if I didn’t acknowledge that I’ll still follow and do my best to keep you safe. “I swear I’ll leave you to your game. And as for the rest of the Jaded . . .”
Revenge Wears Rubies Page 7
