How To Seduce A Pirate (The Hawkins Brothers Series) (3 page)

His features
darkened like thunderclouds. Perhaps she had crossed a line with her flippant
response. But she was already up to her neck in boiling water.

“Have you lost
your mind?” he growled, eyes flashing. “
I
pose for you?”

“I hired a male
model to draw. And Madam Barovski directed me to your room.”

“She directed
you to another room. You sneaked into mine.”

Holly widened
her features in her best imitation of horror. “You are
not
the model I
hired? Oh, Mr. Hawkins, I am ever so regretful.” She was sorry. Very sorry,
indeed. “Cleary there has been a grave mistake.”

“I don’t give a
damn about your mistake or apology, Miss Turner. But if you ever produce
another painting with my likeness, you will regret it.”

At that moment, the
music ended and her cantankerous partner escorted her off the dance floor. Without
another glance, he turned and stalked away.

Abandoned at the
refreshment table, all eyes pinned on her, Holly sensed that familiar
strangulation at her throat.

Where had Mr.
Hawkins left her? Figuratively, of course. Would he reveal her notorious identity
in revenge? Would his brother, the Bow Street Runner, apprehend her for
breaking an indecency law?

She was well
aware of the chances she took each time she presented and sold a nude. What
would become of her now? Her poor sister?

Holly couldn’t
allow matters to rest on such unstable ground. After checking to make sure her
sister was safe, she withdrew from public scrutiny and quickly skulked after
Mr. Hawkins.

CHAPTER
3

Quincy stormed
from the ballroom. He’d never been so infuriated with anyone in all his years,
especially a woman. He adored the fairer sex. Hell, he’d charmed and seduced
them since he was thirteen.

But Miss Holly
Turner provoked him beyond measure. He fisted his palms to contain his fury—and
his lust. He couldn’t believe how hard he was for the conniving wench. He had
never wanted to both throttle
and
bed a woman. And the opposite passions
wrecked havoc on his innards.

He reached his
coach and entered the parked vehicle. He had told the driver to wait for him at
the front entrance, for he’d no intention of staying at the ball. He’d achieved
his purpose: to put a stop to any more illicit art featuring his arse.

As he proceeded
to close the door, lithe fingers wedged between the frame and he almost crushed
the appendages.

“Ouch!” cried a
feminine voice.

“Bloody hell.”

He pushed opened
the door and found Miss Turner massaging her hand. Without another thought, he
grabbed her wrist and hauled her into the coach, slamming the door.

“What the devil
is the matter with you?” he demanded.

“I need to speak
with you in private,” she said, taking the opposite squab.

“And if you’d
been seen?”

“I took care no
one was spying. We
must
talk.”

The desperation
in her voice cooled some of his temper, but none of his lust. The gas lighting
from the street seeped into the carriage and rested across her face, bathing
her fair skin and elfin features in a hazy glow. She had a pure and innocent
beauty, like an unspoiled country girl. Even her gown and jewels couldn’t take
away her earthly charm, and he found himself captivated by her soft sweetness.
How could such a fair, unassuming creature be the infamous Lord H?

His blood burned
to have her alone in the vehicle, and the impulse to hold her again overwhelmed
him. As she continued kneading her fingers, he took her injured hand in his. She
gasped. He ignored her protest and slowly removed one glove, stroking her slender
fingers from joints to phalanxes, palpating for fractures. How could such fine,
dainty fingers create such sinful art?

He arched her
hand toward the window, illuminating her polished nails. Not a speck of paint
stained her flesh. And yet she had painted him. She had seen him for no more
than two minutes, but she had memorized his features, his muscles, his arse in
wretchedly suburb detail.

The blood in his
veins burned hotter. Miss Holly Turner had seen him in the raw. Rather unfair
he’d not had the same pleasure.

“Ahem.”

The moment she
cleared her throat, he released her hand.

“The bones are not
broken,” he said.

She quickly
stuffed her hand back inside her glove. “I’m pleased to hear that.”

“But your
fingers will be sore for a few days.” He crossed his arms over his chest and
leaned against the squab, resisting the temptation to touch her again. He was
bloody daft. “What are you doing here, Miss Turner?”

“I would like
your assurance, Mr. Hawkins, that you will not reveal my identity as Lord H.”

“And why should
I give you such assurance after the trouble you’ve caused my family?”

“I made a
mistake. I truly believed I had entered the room of my hired model. I—” She
hesitated, as if she’d more to confess, then resumed, “I have a sister, Mr.
Hawkins. She is only seventeen and tonight is her debut in society. I don’t
want scandal to ruin her chances of making a respectable match.”

“Touché.”

“I regret the
embarrassment I caused your own sister. Truly, I do. Oh, Mr. Hawkins, surely
you can understand my motivations? Wouldn’t you do anything to protect your
sister?”

He would, indeed.
And he sensed the woman’s manipulation. But he had no counterargument. He had
already sacrificed his former way of life to safeguard his sister’s reputation.
He could not reproach Miss Turner for doing the same.

“I paint to
support myself and Emma,” she said. “I’m not a heartless wench, as you might suspect.
I intended no harm with the painting.”

He studied her
from across the seat, her wide eyes and lovely full lips. There was naivety
there, as well as sensuality. Cleverness. Even cunning. How had she found
herself in this predicament? From what he’d gleamed, she was an orphan. Her
late father a viscount. Had he squandered the family fortune, leaving her
penniless?

Even more
pressing, what was she hiding from him? She had hesitated a moment ago about
her “mistake.” But how had she entered the wrong bedroom at the gaming hell?

“How did you
come to my room, Miss Turner?”

“I—I was told to
go to room nine. You were in room nine.”

“I was in room
six.”

She flushed.

“You cannot
read, Miss Turner?”

“Of course I can
I read,” she shot, indignant. “The number was upside-down.”

He rasped, “What?”

“I think, I
mean.” She scrunched her dress between her fists. “I think the number was
upside-down.”

“You
knew
you were in the wrong room?”

“No, I swear . .
. Not at first.”

Quincy heard his
pulse pounding in his ears. “How could you make the work public? What if I was
married? Or a politician? Or a bleedin’ duke?”

“I would never
be so reckless, so indifferent. I believed you a sailor, that no one in society
would ever recognize you.”

“A heartless
wench, indeed.”

“No.” She
thumped her fist in her palm, then winced. “It was a mistake. An accident.”

“A fortuitous
accident for you, Miss Turner. A grave one for me. Get out.”

“What?” she
whispered.

“Get out of my
coach.”

“But this isn’t
my fault.”

“It’s mine, I
suppose?”

Her trembling fingers
went to her temples, rubbing them in circular motions. “This is all getting
away from me.”

“Aye, your
charade is unraveling.”

“I came to
propose a truce.

“Bully to that,”
he snapped. “Why are you still in my coach?”

“Oh, deuces!
This would not have happened if you weren’t so unnaturally beautiful.”

He stiffened. “I
beg your pardon?”

Her hands went
to her gaping mouth, but then she curled her fingers and fixed her eyes on him
with plain heat. “What am I, an artist, to do when confronted with the perfect
male subject? Walk away?”

Quincy stared at
her, incredulous. She was actually blaming
him
for the disaster, the shifty
wench. She wanted to study him, did she? She thought him the perfect male
subject?

“Well, Miss
Turner, far be it from me to stand in the way of your artistic pursuits.” He
plucked her from the opposite squab, saddling her in his lap. “Take your hands,
your eyes . . . your lips and study me until you’re satisfied.”

He brought her
flushed mouth down over his. Her seductive lips opened, and she damn well took
him up on his offer, raking her fingers through his hair and circling his
throat, devouring him.

Blimey, she was
insatiable. The harder he kissed her, the harder she kissed him in return. He
had never met a woman with such unrestrained passion, and a flame ignited in
his soul. An unfamiliar flame. Lust, aye. But something more. A need. A need
for . . . He wasn’t sure. He had no word for the curious sentiment. A part of
him reached toward the peculiar light. Another part warned him to steer clear
of it, that it would burn him alive.

Quincy wrenched
away from her, struggling for air. His muscles trembled. Where the hell had all
his senses gone? “I accept your truce.”

She voiced hoarsely,
“What?”

With great
effort, he returned her to the opposite squab, his heart ramming against his
chest like a raging bull caged in a stall.

“I will not
reveal your identity as Lord H.”

“Oh.”

She gathered her
own rampant breath and thumbed her loose hair behind her ears. Her disenchanted
expression made him want her even more. It was madness.

Sweet madness.

Quincy opened
the coach door. “Goodnight, Miss Turner.”

Her first step
quivered before she regained her bearing and descended the vehicle, murmuring,
“Goodnight.”

As soon as she
cleared the door, he slammed it closed and hammered on the roof, the driver
taking off at breakneck speed.

CHAPTER
4

“What am I to
do?” She traced the contour of his cheek bone, her fingertips slipping over his
chin and down the center of his throat. She murmured, “So unnaturally
beautiful,” before she took his lips into her wicked mouth—and he let her.

He weaved his
fingers through her lush, unruly red hair and cupped the back of her head,
holding her tight, pressing her more firmly against his body. Heaven, he
thought. Pure heaven.

His muscles
hardened at the salacious thrusts of her mouth, at her intimate exploration of
his lips. He opened for her and welcomed her probing tongue with the excitement
of a virginal youth, trembling with green want.

How could she do
this to him?

How could she
take him back to a time when he’d no experience with women? And she an innocent
herself? But somehow she had opened a door long closed to him. And he walked
through it with renewed hope . . .

A fist jabbed
him in the shoulder.

“Wake up, pup.”

Quincy grunted
as the enchantment shattered and he found himself back in his bedroom, nursing
a superb headache. He had taken opium paste in the form of sugar coated
capsules to suppress his hellish nightmares; to forget every secret he had to
keep and every reputation he had to protect; to forget the profound desire he
had for one impudent wench.

To forget
himself.

Slowly he rolled
to the side of the bed and sat on the edge, elbows on his knees, a blanket covering
his groin. He always slept in the nude.

William stood
over him, arms akimbo.

“What the hell
do you want, Will?”

“What happened
at the ball last night?”

Raking his
fingers through his mussed hair, Quincy yawned. “I confronted Lord H. She won’t
be making any more portraits of me.”

“Anything else?”

Quincy focused
his bleary eyes on his brother, the man’s tight expression indicating he was
waiting for more news. “No. Nothing else.”

“
Lord H
didn’t stumble from a coach with the Hawkins family crest, her hair askew, her
face flushed?”

“Shit.”

Quincy slumped
his face in his hands. She had been seen. The wench had been seen—with him.

“You really have
no self control.”

At the
condemnation in his brother’s voice, Quincy stiffened. To be denounced for an
affair without the fun of actually having one was unrighteous. “She came to
me
.”

“Aye, I know.
All women throw themselves at your feet. How can you resist any of them?”

Damn Holly!
She’d had the audacity to blame him for the painting’s creation, and now she’d botched
every other area of his life, for even under the opium’s sedate effects, Quincy
knew where the conversation with his brother would end—with his doom.

“The duke’s gone
off to obtain a special license. We sail in three days, so the wedding will be
the day after tomorrow—unless you’re resigning your post aboard the
Nemesis
?”

“No!”

“Fine. The day
after tomorrow it is. It will be a simple affair, family only, no fancy wedding
clothes. A church ceremony. A wedding lunch. And it’s over.”

Over, indeed.
“Will, I can’t—”

“Aye, you can. And
you will. Do you understand what you’ve done? Miss Turner is the daughter of a
late viscount. She is gentry. You will make this right, even if I have to plant
a pistol in your back and stand behind you at the altar.”

“She did this,” hissed
Quincy. “She did this on purpose to trap me into marriage.”

A poor
viscount’s daughter with a younger sister in need of a wealthy match. Wouldn’t
it be grand if she snagged a fool with connections to a duke and duchess?

“Well, if you’re
so easily trapped, then you deserve your fate.”

Quincy fisted
his palms at his brother’s unfeeling remark. It was all logic and cool
headedness with William. He had no heart. He had no understating of passion and
how it bewitched the mind. He had never known such an outbreak of ecstasy or
its potentially ruinous effects.

Quincy seethed
between clenched teeth. “I won’t marry the wench.” He would not let her steal
his likeness
and
his life.

“Then leave,”
said his brother.

“What?”

“Leave this
house, leave my ship, leave England. And never return.”

For a second, Quincy’s
heart stopped pumping. A coldness came over him; the ice pierced him right to
the bone. “You would banish me?”

“You banish yourself
if you choose to disgrace Miss Turner and her teenage sister, making them
pariahs. This isn’t the sea, Quincy, and you’re not a pirate anymore. You can’t
take what you want, consequences be damned.”

William stalked
from the bedroom without another word, without even a gesture of encouragement or
support or compassion.

Quincy cursed
his stonehearted brother, willing a tempestuous wench to one day storm his
orderly life and wreck it to bits.

But his anger quickly
shifted back to Holly, and the coldness returned, rooted itself deep in his
heart.