While the bedchamber was not rich by any standard, it was in better condition than he would have expected. “You expected to share this room with your husband, did you not?”
“On occasion,” Alex said. “Which is exactly what I am doing.”
Hawk nodded, hardly daring to believe it. He could be comfortable in this room, with very few adjustments, if only Alex would not expect him to play the husband— Correction, if he had the right, and the confidence in his ability, he would gladly play the husband.
With the manner of an artist evaluating a work of art, Alex regarded him critically. “Your beard is as wild as your mane. I will trim both.”
“You will not.”
“Hawksworth, do you want me to awaken in the night and scream because I have a beast in my bed?”
“You will have a beast in your bed, make no mistake.”
“The one now growling beside me?”
A rather foreign and uncomfortable bubble of mirth caught in Hawk’s throat, making it ache, making him angry. “Indeed.”
“There are beasts, and there are beasts,” Alex said, pointedly, shivering as if in anticipation. Damn.
“Just a little bit?” she cajoled, in the charming way that only Alex could. “I will only cut your hair a little bit. And after traveling all day, I am certain we would benefit from a hot bath.”
“We? One at a time, of course.”
“In a slipper bath? I should say so. As if there is any other—” Her grin shot an arrow of doubt straight to Hawk’s conscience. He was not the rogue of old and he should tell her so.
“There is another way, is there not?” she asked, her ripple of mirth and sparkling interest speeding Hawk’s heart. “Chesterfield promised me,” she tapped her chin, “that he would teach me all manner of entertaining pastimes in marriage. Now I fear there will be no entertainment… unless you teach me.” She released a sigh, heavy with irony, if only she knew it. Or did she?
Hawksworth began to sweat. He had known she would be like this, even about the marriage bed, eager for new experiences, excited, and exciting, drinking of life in huge greedy draughts. Bloody hell.
To protect her from Chesterfield, he had no choice but to remain her husband, Hawk told himself, which eased the constriction about his chest, somewhat, and allowed him to breathe again, barely.
A sad day, he thought, when the Rogue of Devil’s Dyke became the lesser of evils. Imagine a man of legendary prowess being pleased about that.
Imagine him being grateful.
Lo, how the mighty have fallen.
Part of him was relieved, and pleased, and grateful, that he had not broken her spirit, by leaving her to bear such burdens, as he might have done with a less lively individual, but another part was frightened by the very liveliness he admired.
Hawk looked up and caught his breath at the sight of her absently pulling pins from her hair before her mirror—watching him, in the glass, watching her. Her arms raised, her lush and generous breasts all but bared in proud invitation, she presented the ultimate picture of bewitchment, and seemed totally oblivious to the fact.
He should be shot for what he was thinking.
Drawn by her mesmerizing, almost come-hither gaze, her eyes in candlelight the very color and depth of the sunniest south sea, Hawk could not keep from approaching. He moved her hands aside to savor the sensation of his own in her hair, and removed her hairpins, himself. He had no sooner buried his fists, wrists deep, in the silken bounty, than the cinnamon mane tumbled down to her tiny waist and beyond in one long waving sweep.
Why not make her his in every way? They were married after all.
To the beat of his speeding heart, Hawk combed his fingers through the silken treasure, top to tail, literally, stroking her perfect bottom, twice or thrice along the way, almost by accident. The satin against his hands enticed him almost as much as those womanly curves beneath, so deliciously near that his palms itched to explore every gentle swell and graceful hollow.
He was in trouble. Big trouble.
He wanted her. He could not have her.
But he would be forced to lie beside her every night. All night. Sweating. Aching—if today was any indication—both a hopeful, and a dangerous, turn of events.
Alex turned her back on him then, and lifted her hair, presumably for him to undo the buttons down the back of her rose silk gown. Hawk closed his eyes, remembering how good she had felt in his arms yesterday in the carriage, how much he had wanted to hold her in the bed last night. He inhaled the scent of her—violets, woman, softness, and need.
Joy. Willingness. Life. Alexandra.
And just as he bent to place his lips against that spot at her nape begging for his kiss, Myerson called from the dressing room that his grace’s bath was ready.
Hawk stilled, cursed himself roundly, and after undoing the last of Alexandra’s buttons with all due haste, he took the opportunity to flee.
Once inside the dressing room, he shut the door and locked it, certain he would fail at the goal he had set for himself—to let her go. He hoped beyond hope that he would not, because Alex would pay an awful price for all of a lifetime if he failed.
After Myerson left, Hawk undressed and lowered his awkward and scarred body into the warm, lapping, incredibly soothing water. As heat radiated to his limbs and deep into his marrow, sweet and numbing, his screaming muscles calmed and so, too, did his fast-beating heart.
Alex had been right. A bath was just what he needed.
“I was right, was I not?”
Hawk jumped all of a foot, splashing them both, and feeling like an idiot. “How did you get in here?”
“Through the door. How else? I thought you might need my help. I could scrub your back.” There she was, again, that innocent three year old, coaxing him down a forbidden hill with no more than that wide-eyed look.
“Go away.”
“Why?”
The string of oaths Hawk released should have turned her face crimson and chased her from the room.
She grinned. “If you did not want me here, you should have locked the door.”
Hawk closed his eyes, because to see her was to desire her. “I did lock the door.”
At her ripple of laughter, he opened them.
“I know.” She allowed another salacious giggle to escape without a qualm. “The lock is broken. Everything in this house is.” She beamed as she approached the tub.
At the glitter of purpose in her eyes, Hawk reared back.
“Relax,” she said. “My intentions are honorable. I plan only to wash your hair, not to ravish you.”
Hawk sighed, inwardly, remembering ravishment with a great deal of wistful fondness, wishing it were possible, wondering what would happen if… “Be gentle with me,” he said, tired enough to allow the Good Ship Alexandra to stay her course, however fraught the waters with peril.
“Oh, I will.” Like warm, soft toffee, her words melted on her tongue, rich and honeyed with promise.
It was the most glorious experience of his life, Hawk thought, as Alexandra worked his hair in soft soothing strokes, with lots of rich lather, turning the process into a seductive dance.
With her talented soapy fingers, she stroked his neck, his shoulders, a way down his back, a longer way down his front, her slow, creamy, circling strokes teasing his senses and bringing him pleasure with just her touch.
Almost as good as sex, Hawk mused, though after a year and a half, he had about forgotten what that was like. Almost.
When he became aroused, Hawk waited with bated breath, to see if his erection would last, but it diminished, or he nodded off; it was difficult to tell which happened first.
Ultimately, he must really have slept, because he awoke to the sound of clipping, except that he was still in the tub, afraid to move, lest he lose an ear. “Are you cutting my hair?”
“I think so.”
“I would rather you were certain,” he said. “How did you go from washing to trimming in one st
ep?”
“You must be exhausted, because you slept as if you had not slept in ages. I rinsed your hair and trimmed your beard a bit, but you never woke.”
“I did not get much sleep last night.”
“True. Bryceson?”
He was almost afraid to respond. Her very tone made him skittish. “Alexandra?”
“I rather prefer your hair like a lion’s mane, albeit a tamer lion. Would you mind if I only just trimmed that as well?”
Hawk released the breath he had been holding. “Fine.”
“The longer length fits with your beard, I think, and makes you look wickedly piratical. I expect you are too sleepy to plunder and pillage?”
Hawk bit back a new flurry of mirth. “I am sleepy. I do not think I have felt this comfortable or this relaxed since— Very.”
“Come, let me help you step from the tub, so I can help dry—”
“No, I will step out and dry myself off, after you return to your bedchamber.”
“But Bryce—”
Hawk pointed toward the door. “Out.”
“But we were children together. We swam together. Your scars cannot be that bad.”
“They are.”
Like a heartbroken pup, Alexandra turned away.
Hawk caught her hand to stop her as she passed. “Lexy, you have seen enough of my ugliness. Leave me some dignity. Please.”
Alex sighed and grudgingly recovered her spirits. “Well, if you express it that way, what choice do I have?” She shut the door quietly as she left, and Hawk breathed a heavy sigh.
Never having owned a nightshirt in his life, he prudently donned his dressing gown, thinking that medieval armor might prove worthless with the tenacious Alexandra. He grabbed his cane, snuffed the candles, and made his toe-stubbing way to the bed, cursing as he went.
“Serves you right,” Alex said, from somewhere across the room. “Am I to bathe in the dark, then?”
Hawk climbed into the far side of the bed and arranged the covers. “I humbly beg your forgiveness. Relight the candles, if you wish. The light will not disturb my sleep.”
He heard her exasperated huff, and when the candles were lit, she, too, wore only a dressing gown, and that, not well fastened. Hawk both raged and salivated as he watched her delightful breasts, better fit to spring free than in her seductive night rail the night before. And as she stepped into her dressing room, she gave him an amazing glimpse of one long and shapely leg, ankle to thigh, almost by accident.
Despite himself, Hawk imagined her dropping her dressing gown and stepping naked, about then, into the tub in which he had just bathed. If he had not vowed to set her free, he would go and join her, bedamned to his scars, her modesty, or anything else.
But he did not have the right, and no matter his bride’s reassurances, seeing each other through the gauze of wet garments at the age of ten, and seeing each other naked now, were nothing like.
Her innocence might remain intact, despite her denial to the contrary, but his certainly did not.
“I think you should come and wash my hair,” she called. “I washed yours.”
Hawksworth mentally applauded her tenacity and considered the tower room daybed with longing.
Accidentally, indeed.
He had been right, he mused, as he closed his eyes and drifted toward sleep, living again just might kill him. Then again, for the first time since the battle of Waterloo, living again felt rather… hopeful.
Hawk yawned. For a dead man, he had had a tiring day.
Alex was thoroughly disgruntled by the time she climbed into bed beside her husband. She was no expert, but she did not think that marriage beds were supposed to be tedious or dull as ditchwater. Neither did she believe that any of Hawk’s former mistresses had found him unconscious when they climbed into bed with him.
Though she was very much tempted to slip the bedcovers off and examine him at her leisure, she supposed that in fairness to his dignity, she should wait until she was invited, if the blasted day ever arrived.
She must, also, face the fact that Hawksworth had not chosen her as his bride in the truest sense, which might mean that he did not care to touch her, or could not bear to, which made her want to smack him as he slept, the paper-skulled jackanapes.
To be fair, however, ’twas only a little more than a year ago that he had been so badly wounded, he was taken for dead, and he could still be recovering his strength. She had caught the pain in his eyes too often to count, today, though he tried to hide it.
She had not seen the damage to his leg, not yet, at any rate, but the limb might very well be festering still. Leg wounds often did.
When all was said and done, however, even though she was not his choice, Hawksworth was her first and only choice. In addition, they were already married—till death do them part. But life could seem a very long time, if one was feeling neglected and… needy.
If Hawksworth did not plan to seduce her, then, perhaps, she should try and seduce him.
If only she knew how.
She supposed there were worse schemes than to seduce one’s own husband. Though seduction seemed too good for him, considering his reason for marrying her, and the fact that he waited so blasted long to let her know he lived. Punishment seemed a better choice.
Just thinking about his offenses made her angry all over again. And sad, and hurt, and… devil it, she wanted him to know how much he hurt her. She wanted him to feel her pain.
What she should do, Alex thought, turning yet again in her formerly comfortable bed, was make him worship her, as she had always worshipped him, to the point that she might pay him back in kind.
Let him ache to have her and see her walk away.
To do that, she would have to make him think she wanted him, until he wanted her as desperately. Then, when she was certain of his adoration, she could tell him of her cold-hearted plan to even the score between them. Better yet, she would get one of her friends, or his, to do the telling.
Let him see how that felt.
Then she could walk away.
NINE
ALEX SAT UP IN THE BED, for it seemed, at once, obvious and clear, that only after Hawk understood how much he had hurt her would they be free to go forward with their marriage on an equal footing. In which case, seducing him just might turn out to be the smartest plan she had ever hatched… and she had hatched several noteworthy schemes in her time.
She would do it, she thought, as she lay back against her pillows. As soon as she figured out how one went about conducting a seduction, she would begin a captivating campaign.
Alex smiled in the darkness, wishing she knew who she could ask about seductions in general.
When Chesterfield had embraced and kissed her, sometimes at length, he would tremble and close his eyes, as if against pain, and tell her he wanted her. When she questioned him, he promised after their wedding, he would teach her everything about married love, to set her as afire for him as he was for her.
If she had married him yesterday, she might now be receiving her second lesson.
Alexandra knew from her lack of regret she must be in a bad way, for she did not pine for Chesterfield or his lessons. No, she had rather lie needy beside Hawksworth till the end of her days, than be set afire in Chesterfield’s arms even once.
She rolled to her side to regard her husband, his marred but no less striking features lit by the moon. He may no longer be perfect of face, but no woman capable of drawing breath would be able to resist his air of masculine danger and denied vulnerability. Especially not she, who had been unable to resist him at his arrogant worst, or best, however one considered it.
Then again, had there not always been something of a hurt-boy vulnerability about him, which had simply risen to prominence with his scars from the war?
Lord, had nothing changed? She loved him. She wanted to protect him, to heal his hurts.
She desired him.
His topaz eyes still shone more than the jewels themselves, esp
ecially when he gazed at her pensively or furiously, as if he wanted nothing more than to set her over his knee—the delicious way he appeared when she said she would live in sin with Chesterfield.
Alex shivered.
At the inn along the way, when Bryce left her to go upstairs and refresh himself, she noticed he was as small of waist, as broad of shoulders, and as firm of bottom as ever—good form for a man, in her estimation. And in his black brocade dressing gown tonight, which formidable sight stole her breath, as he snuffed the candle, she could not help think him the most tantalizing rogue she ever hoped to make her own.
She tried to touch his leg with her foot, just then, but she could not quite reach. Sliding surreptitiously closer, so as not to awaken him, she stretched and tried again, but encountered his dressing gown.
Moving closer still, Alex slid her toes beneath the brocade silk and touched his bare foot.
He stirred.
She stilled, her heart beating as fast as a careening carriage.
After a minute, she moved her seeking foot further upward, a bit past his ankle and toward his calf.
Bryce moaned. Alex warmed. This could work.
Afraid to go further, lest she rouse the self-proclaimed beast, she was cheered nonetheless by the possibility of seduction as a form of vengeance, which came very near—in her mind—to eating one’s sweetmeats and keeping them, too.
With a smile on her lips, Alex slipped as near Bryce as she dared, without disturbing him, to savor the simple joy of sleeping beside the man she loved.
She longed for him to hold her; again, as he did in the carriage, but perhaps her forwardness put him off. Perhaps he had rather be the seducer. It was something to think about, she supposed, perhaps.
Right now, however, unable to resist temptation, Alex reached over to place her hand against his chest, atop the blanket.
To her surprise, at the contact, Bryce swept her into his arms, clasped her tight and spoke her name.
Scandalous Brides Page 7
