The Duke: The Knight Miscellany Series: Book 1

by Gaelen Foley

  Traitor, he said to himself in contempt.

  One of his companions asked him a question, but Hawk had ceased paying attention, for as he watched the mirror again Dolph and Miss Hamilton began to argue. The baronet pushed to his feet, looming over her with a snarl. Still, she sat on her cushioned bench, staring up at him in taunting silence. Dolph began gesticulating wildly. Miss Hamilton’s mouth curved in a slight smile of frosty mockery, at which Dolph shoved his hand into his pocket and flung a handful of coins in her face.

  Hawk drew in his breath, fiery rage erupting through his veins. The young beauty flinched as the coins struck her, one catching her in the chin. The coins scattered all over her lap and rolled onto the floor.

  Hawk whirled around, abandoned his friends without explanation, and began shouldering his way through the drawing room to go to her aid. He blasted his conscience for standing by and merely watching while a suspected rapist and murderer harassed a defenseless woman, demirep or no. He had certainly not expected an outburst of violence from Dolph in a room packed to brimming with Miss Hamilton’s admirers. It appeared no one else had noticed the spectacle unfolding in the alcove, else there ought to have been a general hue and cry to lynch the blackguard.

  Hawk glanced back at the reflection in the glass when the thick crowd slowed his progress. He could see Harriette’s footmen, two big Cockney bruisers, surrounding Dolph in an instant, roughly herding him out. He was so intent on his purpose, shoving through the throng, that he bumped into someone and managed to spill the remainder of his wine on his formal white gloves. He’d forgotten he was even holding the wine. Muttering a curse, he passed off the empty glass to a liveried waiter and quickly pulled off his gloves and abandoned them on the servant’s tray, as well. Heedlessly, he pressed on, then suddenly found himself face-to-face with Dolph, flanked by Harriette’s footmen.

  Instantly, he saw that Dolph was quite drunk.

  “Hawkscliffe!” The baronet clutched Hawk’s lapel with an air of desperation. “They are throwing me out! It’s Belinda! She is driving me mad! You have to help me!”

  He gritted his teeth against a surge of loathing. “What would you have me do?” He was sorely tempted to take Dolph outside and thrash him, but the man deserved so much more than that.

  “Talk to her for me?” Dolph slurred. “Reason with her—tell her she has punished me long enough. All I want is to take care of her. And tell her—” His drink-reddened face hardened. “Tell her if she chooses anyone but me, she will be sorry.”

  The bodyguards snarled at his threat.

  Dolph’s grip on Hawk’s lapel eased as they dragged him away.

  Struggling to collect his fury, Hawk clenched and unclenched his fists by his sides. He pivoted on his heel and shoved his way roughly through the rest of the crowd. Men backed out of his path when they saw him coming, his face darkened by wrath. He arrived at the edge of Miss Hamilton’s alcove just as she finished putting the last few coins that had been hurled at her on a servant’s tray. Her hands were shaking, he saw, and it pained him.

  “Get rid of it, all of it. Take it. Here. Go! Hurry, he’ll be leaving in a moment,” she said in a jittery voice, waving the servant off to return Dolph’s money to him.

  As Hawk stepped closer, suddenly unsure of what to say, Miss Hamilton frowned, reached into her bodice, and pulled out a silver half crown with a look of disgust. She handled the coin as though it were an insect that had fallen down her dress. She suddenly held the coin out to Hawk with an expectant look. “Please give this back to your friend,” she ordered, the vulnerability in her eyes all at odds with her haughty command.

  He grew a little dazzled as he held her gaze. The color of her eyes made him think of wild orchids, but no, they were bluer than that—the soft, deep, violet blue of meadow cranesbill. Shadowed under long dun lashes, her eyes were mysterious, guarded . . . and innocent.

  “Hello?” she called impatiently.

  Taken aback, Hawk held out his hand. She dropped the coin into his palm. He faltered to feel how the metal still held her body’s silken warmth. A second ago, it had been pressed against her breast. His eyes glazed over.

  “Go, won’t you?” she insisted. “He’ll be gone in a moment.”

  He snapped out of his daze. “Certainly, I ‘ll give it to him later. I came to see if you were all right, Miss, ah, Hamilton, is it?”

  “Oh, you’re no help.” She snatched the coin back from him and summoned another of her titled lackeys to deliver it—the fresh-faced young duke of Leinster. She gave him the coin and a caress on his smooth cheek, bestowing a smile as sweet as the breezes of the Blessed Isles.

  “Thank you, Leinster,” she murmured in playful, lilting singsong that Hawk was sure had the siren’s power to mesmerize men. The handsome young Irish lord floated rather than walked away to do her bidding.

  Hawk turned to her again in perplexed fascination, only to find he had lost his chance to speak to her. A couple of dashing youngbloods had swaggered over in front of him to pay their respects, oblivious to what had just happened.

  All signs of Miss Hamilton’s distress had vanished behind her flawless smile. The two youngbloods, with whom she was now blithely flirting, had no idea she had just been practically attacked by Dolph. Only Hawk knew. He stared in fascination.

  Why, she was a consummate actress, he thought. Of course she was, he realized, then scowled, standing like a dolt outside her alcove, half fearing he was out of his depth. Never in his life had he expected to find himself a supplicant vying for the favors of some fine little twenty-three-year-old bit o‘ muslin. Who did she think she was? He, the duke of Hawkscliffe, had come to rescue her and she didn’t seem to give a damn.

  Miss Hamilton rose from her cushioned bench and parted the dandyish pair, flouncing off between them. With her nose in the air, she brushed by Hawk and strode toward the crowd that turned to adore her, calling out her name. She laughed gaily and lifted her arms out to them in an easy, natural acceptance of their worship. The dukes of Rutland and Bedford leaped to her sides and pulled her, all smiles, toward the green baize gaming tables while, to Hawk’s astonishment, his chief political opponent, the gruff old Lord Chancellor Eldon pressed a fresh glass of wine into her dainty hand. The chit had half of Parliament fawning on her.

  Hawk stood there, left behind, as perplexed, routed, and baffled as the two foppish lads. Never in all his memory had a woman on the game sailed right past him as though he didn’t exist.

  Obviously, she had no idea of his lofty name, his power and consequence—oh, shut up, he said to himself. Laughing suddenly for no apparent reason, he followed her.

  Letting Dolph come to the party had been a mistake. She knew that now. She shouldn’t have allowed herself the indulgence of gloating, but she had paid the price for her pettiness, hadn’t she? He had certainly managed to frighten and embarrass her, Bel thought with a shudder, trying to put her stroke of bad judgment behind her and get on with the night.

  Still, she couldn’t help but browbeat herself for overestimating her ability to manage him. Soon after arriving at the party, Dolph had seemed near tears, begging her to hear him out. Crocodile tears, she thought. Rather than cause a scene, she had agreed to talk privately with him in the alcove, but when he had cornered her there, it had quickly escalated into an ugly confrontation. At least, thank God, no one but that tall, scowling man, Dolph’s friend, had witnessed her humiliating moment.

  Still a bit shaken by Dolph’s violent outburst, but with her smile pasted in place, Bel put the baronet and his tall, dark, elegant friend out of her mind and sat down to play her favorite game, vingt-et-un.

  She was not a true gambler, but this simple little game always proved profitable for her. The stakes were in her favor: if Lady Luck let her beat her present opponent, a well-heeled pink of the ton, she would win his jeweled cravat pin worth fifty guineas. If she lost, all that she had to give him was a kiss—but she never lost, perhaps for the simple reason that the gentlemen we
re drinking while she was sober.

  Dozens of men had gathered around the table, cheering her on as she thwarted her opponent in the first of three hands. The young lord stroked his dimpled chin and frowned at his cards.

  Though she watched her opponent, Bel was wholly aware of the tall, saturnine stranger—Dolph’s friend—sauntering over to watch her play. A most august and imposing personage, she thought, studying him from the corner of her eye while she pretended to inspect her cards. Truth be told, she found him just a wee bit intimidating. Striking and cosmopolitan, he appeared in his mid- to late thirties, with the athletic physique and sun-bronzed complexion of an avid sportsman. His coal black hair was slicked back for evening, accentuating the stern, precise architecture of his face.

  He stood with his chin high, his wide shoulders squared. With an imperious air of high reserve, he swept the crowd with a sharp, unsmiling glance. His cravat was starched and impeccable, his formal clothes austere black and white—and he wore them like the colors in which he saw the world, she thought in disdain, heedless of the colorfully dressed dandies all around her.

  Unable to resist, Bel glanced over at him briefly just as he looked at her. He caught her gaze and held it frankly, sending her a faint, sly smile. For a moment, his velvety brown eyes utterly mesmerized her. She took one look into them and felt that she had known him all her life.

  “Your turn, Miss Hamilton.”

  “Of course.” Startled, she jerked back to face her opponent and smiled fetchingly at him while her heart beat rapidly. Arrogant blackguard! she thought, all her awareness focused on the stranger. How dare he stare at her? She didn’t care how attractive he was, she wanted nothing to do with him. He was Dolph’s friend. She knew because she had seen them talking briefly after Dolph had behaved so horribly to her.

  Besides, no man that good-looking could be a bachelor. Life wasn’t that kind.

  “One card, please,” she said sweetly.

  She played her hand and soon gave a bright laugh to find herself the new owner of a shiny jeweled cravat pin. The young fop took his defeat with a grin, knowing he could go to the pawn shop and buy it back again tomorrow if he liked.

  As Bel gave him her hand, he bent and pressed a gallant kiss to her knuckles, withdrawing with a bow. Suddenly, before she could protest, the dark stranger slid into the vacated chair, interlocked his fingers on the table and stared at her in placid challenge.

  Narrowing her eyes, she rested her chin gracefully on her knuckles and gave him a dry smile of disdain. “You again.”

  “What’s your game, Miss Hamilton?” he asked pleasantly.

  “Vingt-et-un.”

  “I understand the prize is your kiss.”

  “Only if you win—which you won’t.”

  A smile tugged at one corner of his beguiling mouth. He slid a thick gold ring off his pinky finger and placed it in front of her. “Will this do?”

  Sitting up straight in her chair, she picked up the ring and examined it skeptically. The ring had an onyx medallion with a gold H emblazoned on it.

  She slid him a calculating glance, wondering who he was and what the H stood for, but she didn’t care to indulge his vanity by asking. No friend of Dolph’s was a friend of hers.

  “A pretty trinket. Alas, I already own a dozen like it.” She gave his ring back to him. “I don’t wish to play you.”

  “Dear me, do I have the look of a cardsharp?” he asked in a cool, cultured baritone.

  “I dislike the company you keep.”

  “Perhaps you are leaping to conclusions—or maybe this is just an excuse?” he suggested with another sly smile. “Perhaps the indomitable Miss Hamilton merely wishes to back down?”

  She sent him a ladylike scowl as the men around them laughed.

  “Very well,” she conceded in a severe tone. “Best of three hands. Face cards are ten points. Aces high and low. You’ll regret this.”

  “No, I won’t.” He placed the ring once more between them, then coolly sat back, slung his arm over the chair’s back, and propped his left ankle over his right knee. He nodded toward the deck on the table. “Deal the cards, Miss Hamilton.”

  “Giving orders, are we?”

  “I am only answering you in kind, my dear.”

  Holding his taunting gaze, she realized he was referring to her earlier command to bring the coin to Dolph. She gave him a sardonic look. “I am your servant, my lord.”

  “Interesting notion,” he murmured.

  Under his penetrating stare she grew uncharacteristically flustered. Her hands trembled slightly, making her clumsy as she shuffled the deck, but at length, she dealt them each two cards, one face down, one face up. She set the pile down and picked up her hidden card, the king of diamonds. With her face-up six, she decided to take a third card, but she looked at her opponent first in inquiry.

  He flicked his fingers, elegantly declining. She turned over a three for herself, hiding a smile of satisfaction as her total came to nineteen.

  “Show me what you’ve got,” she invited him with the mildest trace of flirtation. She couldn’t seem to help it. There was just something about the man.

  He sent her a knowing little smile and turned over a queen and a ten. “Twenty.”

  She scowled, sweeping her nineteen aside.

  She dealt again, more determined than ever to beat the arrogant scoundrel, an impulse that had nothing to do with the small fortune she could get from pawning his fine ring if she won it. He was too smug and domineering by half.

  This time Bel dealt herself a pair of knaves. Twenty. Marvelous, she thought, sure she’d get him this time. “Would you care for another card?”

  “Hit me.”

  “Don’t tempt me,” she murmured, peeling an eight off the top for him.

  “Hell,” he said, tossing his cards down. “Went bust.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she consoled him, her eyes sparkling.

  As he brushed his spent cards aside with a lordly scowl of irritation, she picked up his large ring and slipped it on her finger, pretending to admire it on herself. He lifted his eyebrow at her. With the big ring flopping on her finger, she dealt the final hand. His face-up card was the two of clubs.

  Obviously he would want another card, she mused, strategizing as she examined her own hand, a four face down and a nine face up, for a total of thirteen. She would have to be careful not to overshoot twenty-one.

  She glanced across the table at her enigmatic opponent. He beckoned. She dealt him a five.

  “Another,” he murmured.

  “The four of spades.”

  “I’ll stay.”

  She looked closely at him, trying to read his blank expression, then turned over a third card for herself, a five. This brought her to eighteen. If she took another card, the chances were she’d go bust. Best to play it safe.

  “Show, my dear,” she said archly to him.

  “You first,” he countered with a dark smile.

  That smile worried her.

  “Eighteen.” She turned her last card over.

  He leaned closer and inspected them, then nodded. “A respectable hand.”

  “Well?” she prodded, unable to decide if she was irked or entertained by the man. “Are you going to show your cards or not?”

  “Show! Show!” the spectators clamored.

  He glanced at them then looked down and slid his cards forward one by one, the two, the five, the four, totaling eleven.

  Oh no, thought Bel, her eyes widening.

  He turned over a ten and smiled wolfishly. “Blackjack.”

  “A kiss! A kiss!” the men shouted in uproarious cheer, calling for more drinks.

  Bel sat back, folded her arms over her chest, and pouted for a second, then pulled off his ring and rolled it back to him with a scowl. He gave her an innocent smile.

  Around them the men exclaimed and guffawed and hooted and drank.

  Serenely ignoring them, her tall, arrogant opponent leaned forward and rested h
is elbows on the table, smug as any conqueror. He tapped his splayed fingertips against each other, regarding her in amused expectation. “I await my prize with bated breath, Miss Hamilton.”

  “Oh, very well,” she muttered, blushing. “Let’s get this over with.”

  “Tsk, tsk, sore loser,” he chided softly.

  She stood, braced her hands on the green baize table, and leaned across it to him, aware of the cheering growing to a thunderous volume. Her heart was beating rapidly, but for his part, he appeared thoroughly unrattled.

  Bravely she leaned closer, pausing in hesitation as she hovered in front of him, her lips mere inches from his. “You could cooperate,” she suggested.

  “But why should I, when it’s so much more fun to see you flustered?”

  She narrowed her eyes. Ignoring their raucous audience by a surge of will, she closed the distance between them, kissing him resolutely on the mouth. A moment later, she drew back, glowing pink, and unable to hide the sparkle of triumph in her eyes.

  He studied her skeptically, skimmed his fingers over the table, then drummed them boredly. “I thought you said you were going to kiss me.”

  “I—I just did!”

  “No.”

  “What do you mean? I just did!” She turned from pink to red as the men around them howled with laughter at his matter-of-fact reproach.

  He slid the ring across the table to her again. “Look at this ring. It’s worth ten of your new cravat pins. This is what I put into the pot. You can’t give me a kiss like that and call it fair. Rules are rules, Miss Hamilton. I want a real kiss, unless you want to become known as an unsporting young lady.”

  Her jaw dropped with indignation. “That’s the only kind of kiss you’re getting from me.”

  He scoffed and glanced away, scratching his cheek. “And you call yourself a courtesan.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” she demanded.

  He shrugged, lounging in his chair. “I’ve had better kisses from dairy maids.”

  “Ooh!” cried the men, watching their duel in mounting suspense.