Some Like It Sinful (Hellion's Den)

by Ivy, Alexandra

  “Shocking, is it not?” Tossing aside the covers, Hawksley rose to his feet and pulled on his brocade robe. “She is clearly daft to have agreed to my proposal, but there it is. It seems even eccentric angels prefer a rogue to a gentleman.”

  Without warning Dillon had crossed the room to enfold him in a tight hug. “You worthless scoundrel. Ach, you have done well for yourself.”

  Hawksley struggled to free himself before several ribs were sacrificed to Dillon’s enthusiasm.

  “Good Lord, Dillon, you are not about to get sentimental on me, are you?”

  Coming to his senses, the elderly servant gave an embarrassed tug upon his coat as he stepped back.

  “Not bloody likely.”

  “Good. There will no doubt be enough tears, not to mention gnashing of teeth, once my family discovers their wastrel of a son has chosen to wed a penniless miss from the country,” he said dryly.

  Dillon grimaced. Although he had only met Hawksley’s family during the funeral for Fredrick, that had been more than enough for the servant to take them into a rabid dislike. Especially after Lord Chadwick had demanded that the silver be locked away after catching sight of Dillon’s battered countenance.

  “The tears are more likely to be poor Miss Dawson’s when she is forced to meet your puffed-up prig of a father,” he groused.

  “If she does not toss herself from the nearest roof,” Hawksley agreed grimly. “In fact, I have decided that it is best simply to acquire a special license and be done with the business before she has an opportunity to change her mind.”

  Expecting full agreement with his rather brilliant notion, Hawksley was caught off guard by Dillon’s abrupt frown.

  “And deprive her of the lavish society wedding that all women dream of?”

  “All women but my Clara,” Hawksley corrected with an unwittingly tender smile. “She possesses a distinct distaste for drawing attention to herself. I believe she would rather be drawn and quartered as to subject herself to the fuss of a large wedding.”

  “She will have to become accustomed to being nobility eventually.”

  A vague flare of panic fluttered through his heart before he was sternly squashing it.

  No.

  He had just managed to convince Clara to be his wife. He was not about to risk driving her away. The proper moment to reveal his title and wealth would surely present itself. Until then, he intended to use his time binding Clara so tightly to him she could never let go.

  “That is a worry for another day.”

  His fierce tone must have alerted his servant that there was something he was hiding.

  “Hawk?”

  “Yes?”

  His gaze narrowed. “You have told her the truth of yourself, have you not?”

  Hawksley shrugged, his expression guarded. “Perhaps not entirely.”

  “Good God almighty.” The former thief muttered several colorful curses beneath his breath. “You asked a woman to wed you who does not even know your true name?”

  “She knows all she needs to know for the moment.”

  “Fah. She has a—”

  “What she has is enough to concern herself with,” Hawksley said in tones that defied argument. “Not the least of which is a crazed nobleman who wishes her dead. Once Lord Doulton is properly dealt with, I will reveal everything to her.”

  Dillon threw his hands in the air. “You are courting trouble, Hawk.”

  “It is what I usually court, is it not?” he retorted in mocking tones. “Now, may I have my bath before the water ices over?”

  Clearly realizing Hawksley would not be moved, Dillon moved to collect the empty pails.

  “Do as you will,” he muttered.

  “I always do, old friend.”

  Pausing at the door, Dillon offered a sudden smile. “Oh, aye, that you do.”

  After slipping from Hawksley’s bed, Clara had no thought of returning to sleep. Not when her entire body tingled with a restless energy that nearly made her hair stand on end.

  So this was love.

  A smile curved her lips as she attired herself in a faded blue gown and pulled her hair into a tidy braid. It was odd how the poets always portrayed love as a sweet and tender emotion.

  They spoke nothing of the sharp-edged excitement that seemed to be permanently lodged in the pit of her stomach. Or the giddy urge to giggle at the most ridiculous moments. Or prance about as if she were a complete loon.

  For a sensible woman it was all vastly confusing.

  And vastly delightful, she conceded with a faint sigh.

  Perhaps she was being a fool.

  History was littered with the broken hearts of women who believed they had discovered true love, only to be betrayed. But at the moment she could not make herself care.

  She was happy.

  Completely and utterly happy.

  And if she was blinding herself, well . . . so be it.

  For once in her dull, predictable life she was going to take a risk. And damn the consequences.

  Far too restive to simply remain in her chambers, Clara at last went in search of the housekeeper. She needed something to keep her occupied until Hawksley arose and they could make their plans for the day.

  Nearly two hours later she had commanded the boxes in the attic to be neatly stacked to one side and began busily mopping years of grime from the wooden floor. Already she had dusted the rafters clean and scrubbed the walls, and there was a freshness to the air that would please the most fastidious soul.

  Humming beneath her breath, she attacked the cobwebs hiding in a corner with her mop, her distraction great enough that she missed the sound of approaching footsteps. No distraction, however, was great enough, not even death itself, to prevent her from noticing the sudden prickle of awareness that feathered over her skin.

  “I thought I should find you here,” a warm male voice murmured from behind.

  Dropping the mop, Clara turned to discover Hawksley a few feet away, his shoulder propped negligently against the wall and a mysterious smile playing about his lips.

  Her heart did its familiar leap and her mouth went dry. Oh . . . my. Would she ever become accustomed to such potent male beauty?

  She had to hope she would. People would begin to suspect she was touched in the noodle if she were always fluttering and swooning whenever her husband entered a room.

  Husband . . .

  Her heart took another leap.

  “Hawksley,” she at last managed to squeak.

  He slowly glanced about the attic that was glowing in the slanting sunlight. “You really do enjoy this scrubbing business, do you not?”

  Retrieving a dampened handkerchief from the pocket of her apron, Clara wiped her hands clean.

  “Well, it is to be my house as well now, and you know I can not abide a mess.” She smiled rather shyly. “Besides, I would not wish anyone to think that I was not being a proper wife to you.”

  His eyes oddly darkened, almost as if her soft words troubled him. Slowly pushing away from the wall, he moved to stand before her, taking her hands in a tight grip.

  “Clara . . . I would not request you to live in such an establishment once we are wed.”

  She bit her lip at his hesitant tone. Blast. She had forgotten just how fragile his male pride could be. Obviously he was concerned that his home was not worthy of her.

  Well, she would put a swift halt to such nonsense. She would not have him plunging into debt in an effort to keep her in a style that he believed suitable for a lady. Nor would she have him returning to those horrid gambling hells to provide for them.

  She was a simple woman with simple taste. Somehow she had to convince him that all she needed to be happy was him.

  “It does not bother me, Hawksley, truly it does not,” she earnestly assured him. “It is very cozy.”

  “No.” He gave a sharp shake of his head. “It is a crumbling pile of rubbish in a neighborhood not fit for the rats.”

  She could not halt her
chuckle at his dramatic words. “It is not so bad.”

  “My wife deserves better.” His hand cupped her cheek. “She will have better.”

  She swallowed a sigh at his adamant expression. She might not know much about men, but even she could sense a battle when it was brewing.

  “If you prefer we could always live at my cottage,” she hastily offered. “It is not much, but it is sturdy, and with my yearly allowance we should be quite comfortable.”

  Just for a moment she feared she had managed to say precisely the wrong thing.

  Again.

  But even as she wracked her mind for some means of undoing the damage, Hawksley was wrapping his arms firmly about her and resting his cheek atop her head.

  “My God . . . You truly are a most remarkable woman, Clara Dawson.”

  Warm relief flooded through her as she snuggled against his firm chest. She had no notion why this man found her remarkable while all others considered her merely annoying, but she was not about to question her good fortune.

  Especially not when his warm, male scent was making her knees weak and the feel of his arms about her was reminding her just how wondrous it was to have him so close.

  Pulling back, she deliberately smoothed her hands over his broad chest and up to his shoulders, an alluring smile curving her lips.

  “Mayhap I am a bit remarkable.”

  Beneath her hands she felt his heart jolt against his chest, his eyes darkening with a familiar smoldering heat.

  “Clara, are you actually jesting with me?” he teased softly. “I am all astonishment.”

  She wet her lips, delighting as she could feel his stirring erection. She had never thought of herself as desirable before. She found it a rather heady sensation.

  “I am not so very dreary, Hawksley,” she murmured.

  “No, you are beautiful, and intelligent, and incredibly tempting,” he growled, cupping her hips to press them sharply against him. “Too tempting by half.”

  She chuckled softly, her hands slipping down the hard planes of his stomach with a daring she never knew she possessed.

  “Hawksley. Are you always in this mood directly after breakfast?”

  “After breakfast, luncheon, tea, dinner . . .”

  His head lowered to nibble at the pulse pounding at the base of her neck, his fingers already busy with buttons at the back of her gown.

  “The servants.”

  He brushed her mouth with a light kiss. “I locked the door when I entered.”

  “You are quite wicked.”

  Lifting his head he slowly, methodically pulled down the sleeves of her gown.

  “Oh, I have not yet begun to show you precisely how wicked I can be,” he assured her.

  Holding his gaze, she allowed a mysterious smile to curve her lips. She had always been a swift student, and Hawksley had taught her a great deal of passion over the past few days.

  She intended to prove just how much she had managed to learn.

  “Perhaps it is my turn to be wicked,” she murmured.

  Brushing her hand downward, she tugged at the buttons already straining beneath the thrust of his arousal. Then, still holding his stunned gaze, she allowed her fingers to encircle his rigid erection.

  Hawksley sucked in a sharp breath, his fingers grasping her shoulders as if to keep himself upright.

  “Bloody hell.”

  “Do you not like this, Hawksley?” she teased, running a finger up to the moist tip.

  He growled deep in his throat. “Hellfire, if I liked it any more I’m not sure I could bear it.”

  She ran her fingers back down to the base of his manhood, delighting in the feel of his violent shudder.

  “And that? Do you like that?”

  “God,” he groaned, abruptly propelling her back against a newly scrubbed wall as he was hastily lifting her skirts to her waist. “One of these days, kitten, I intend to devote an entire day to seducing you.”

  Her eyes slid closed in pleasure as his clever fingers parted her thighs to employ his special brand of magic.

  “But not today,” she murmured on a sigh.

  “No,” he rasped, his lips brushing hungry kisses over her upturned countenance. “Most certainly not today.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Several hours later Hawksley was seated in his library, while Clara was happily training the maids in the proper method of cleaning the windows. He wanted to protest. It still pained him to think of her performing even the slightest household duty. But accepting that she preferred to feel as if she was accomplishing some task or another, he held his tongue.

  Soon enough she would have a husband and children to keep her thoroughly occupied.

  Children.

  The most ridiculous thrill of anticipation raced down Hawksley’s spine and he gave a disbelieving shake of his head.

  Hellfire. When did this happen?

  When did he become a gentleman who no longer thought of his evenings devoted to gambling and debauchery, but instead tingled at the thought of curling up on a sofa with his wife at his side and silver-haired children with emerald eyes playing upon the floor?

  Madness was the only explanation. Utter madness.

  Aimlessly crossing the room toward the desk, Hawksley abruptly stilled at the faint rustle outside the window. The noise might have been caused by anything. A curious cat. A branch scraping the window pane. A passing servant.

  Hawksley did not pause, however, as he slid silently toward the desk to collect his loaded pistol and then moved to a shadowy corner that possessed a clear view of the window.

  He did not have long to wait as the curtains billowed from a sudden draft and a small, decidedly human form appeared in the room.

  Hawksley lifted the pistol quite prepared to shoot. He would hesitate to pull the trigger if it were his own life at risk, but not with Clara in the house. To keep her safe he would do whatever was necessary.

  He aimed toward the narrow chest, his finger upon the trigger, when he was struck by the blinding pink coat. What sort of self-respecting thief would wear something so ridiculous?

  The answer was, of course, no thief would be seen in such a travesty.

  Only one man would dare.

  Lowering the pistol, Hawksley forced himself to count to ten before stepping from the shadows and confronting his intruder.

  “You do know, Biddles, that one day you will crawl through the wrong window and discover a bullet lodged in your arse?”

  Dusting his hands with a lace handkerchief, Biddles offered him a sly smile.

  “The danger, of course, is half the enjoyment. Windows are always so much more interesting than doors.”

  Crossing the room, Hawksley replaced his pistol in the drawer and leaned negligently against the corner of the desk.

  “It must make it rather interesting when you escort your wife about town,” he drawled.

  “Oh, Anna is always up for a bit of sport.”

  Hawksley gave a bark of laughter. He did not doubt for a moment that the spirited Anna would readily crawl through a window if she chose.

  “She would have to be up for a bit of sport, wed to you.”

  “True enough.” Tossing aside the handkerchief, Biddles stabbed him with a knowing glance. “Let us hope Miss Dawson possesses an equal taste for dashing gentlemen.”

  Hawksley narrowed his gaze. “I beg your pardon?”

  The pointed nose twitched. “You have asked her to wed you, have you not?”

  “How the devil . . .”

  Biddles tilted back his head to laugh with rich enjoyment.

  “Really, Hawk, I am not blind. There are only two reasons for a gentleman to possess that look of vacant astonishment. Either you have just been run over by a carriage or you are in love.”

  “Love? Do not be . . .” The growling words trailed away as Hawksley encountered his friend’s shrewd expression.

  Blast. Who was he fooling? Of course he was in love.

  Why else had he
kept Clara with him even when he could easily have handed her over to the care of Santos? Why else had he used his last grout to hire servants to keep her happy? Why else had he been near sick with tension until she had at last agreed to become his wife?

  At least his madness had a name.

  Watching Hawksley grapple with the stunning truth, Biddles at last arched a brow.

  “Well?”

  “Bloody hell.”

  Biddles moved forward to clap him on the shoulder, a grin splitting his face.

  “I fear that it happens to the best of us. And if it is any consolation, you have chosen well.”

  Hawksley’s slowly smiled. “Yes, I have.”

  Biddles gave his shoulder a squeeze before stepping back. “Now, let us see if we can rid London of Lord Doulton so that you may wed in peace.”

  Hawksley gave a lift of his brows, knowing that smug tone all too well.

  “Ah, you managed to speak with someone within the War Office.”

  Biddles produced a painted fan to waft it gently beneath his nose. “I did. And I happened to pick up a few very interesting details.”

  “What details?”

  The pale eyes glittered. “Did you know that Lord Doulton had a young cousin who was an ensign in the ninety-second Foot?”

  “No.”

  “A tragic story.” Biddles assumed a sorrowful expression. “The poor boy served in both Spain and then France before he was lost during an ambush and his body never recovered.”

  France? Hawksley narrowed his gaze. He was beginning to suspect where Biddles was leading him.

  “Tragic, indeed.”

  “And oddly enough, he was upon a secret mission when he and two other soldiers were attacked by bandits.”

  “What sort of secret mission?”

  Biddles snapped his fan shut. “Guarding a very large wagon filled with priceless artwork bound from Paris to the Vatican.”

  Hawksley nearly choked. He had hoped for some sort of connection between Lord Doulton and the Vatican. He could not have ever have dreamed that it would be so tangible.

  “Damnation,” he breathed. “Do the officials know what happened?”

  “The actual events seem to be suspiciously obscure. The soldiers set out from Paris, but they had only traveled a few days when it appears that they were attacked and the wagon went missing. Unfortunately, two of the soldiers were shot in the back of the head while they slept, and the third had completely disappeared after what appeared to be a terrible struggle.”