How To Seduce A Pirate (The Hawkins Brothers Series) (4 page)

CHAPTER
5

Holly ignored
the stinging heat from the wood burning stove as she threw sketch after
charcoal sketch into the snapping flames. She had to clear out her art studio, a
converted potting shed at the rear of the cottage. In light of the scandal
she’d caused, she had no choice but to sell the little house on the outskirts
of London and move with her sister to France or Switzerland. Perhaps salacious
gossip would not follow them to the Continent.

After burning a
large pile of female nudes, she came across her drawings of
him
. Her
heart throbbed and her fingers trembled as she gazed into his mesmerizing eyes,
hooded under dark brows. She had sketched him from memory, and her memories of
him had been dreamlike in nature. Soon she had realized her previous portraits
had been rigid, anatomical studies.
His
painting had been her first
truly inspired work.

A lump welled in
her throat until she had the most unladylike urge to scream. She slipped his
likeness into the fire, sheet after detailed sheet of his eyes, his lips, his
muscular shoulders, his naked backside, until only one illustration remained.

For a moment,
she considered keeping the last pictorial of him but quickly dismissed the fancy
and tossed it into the consuming flames. She watched the charred paper curl and
blacken and finally turn to ash, much like her life.

Holly heaved a
deep breath. After years of seclusion, hoping for the day when she and her
sister might return to the folds of the upper crust, she had ruined everything
by chasing after Mr. Hawkins. She should have found another, more appropriate
time to beseech his discretion, but she had feared so many things. What if he
refused to ever see her again? What if he went straight from the ball to the
gossip sheets and revealed her identity as Lord H?

Ironically, her
identity as the erotic artist remained a secret. But now the whole world
believed her the man’s mistress.

She took another
deep breath to calm her pounding pulse. A benevolent gentleman might do the
honorable thing and ask for her hand in marriage, saving her reputation, but
Mr. Hawkins had confessed he only pretended to be a gentleman. Besides, almost
two days had passed since the shameful incident without a single word from him.

Holly had no
hope.

Pushing aside
her grief, she next found a melancholy rendering of her mother. She traced the
outline of the woman’s fine profile with her fingertips, her lips quivering
with longing. How she missed her mother’s encouraging voice and high spirits.
Her sparkling, effervescent laughter and tight, comforting embraces.

It had pained the
viscountess beyond measure, quitting society and all its privileges after the
disgraceful death of their father. A few loyal friends, like Lady Brimsby, had
written to the woman with news and other babble, but the estrangement from the
glittering world she had known and loved had broken her heart. And like a
songbird trapped in a cage, their mother’s musical voice had turned mournful,
then silent. Even the companionship of her daughters had not been enough to assuage
her sorrow. She had simply withered away and died.

Holly set aside
the drawing of her mother as a keepsake. Her soul swirled with both dark and
bright memories, lost hopes, then renewed faith. The welter reached its zenith
when she came across the last image in the pile.

Her lips pinched
as she stared at the sophisticated portrait of her late father, David Turner,
Viscount Cavendish, with his neatly trimmed beard and well manicured moustache.
She had captured the kindness in his eyes and his love for pleasure in the old
sketch. But the longer she studied the image, the more her fingers squeezed the
paper until it creased and distorted his tender face.

“Stop, Papa!
Stop this instance!”

Her father
lifted his defeated head. “I cannot stop, Holly. Not until I’ve restored
everything that I’ve lost.”

“If you do not
stop now we will all perish.”

“Holly, trust
me. I will make things right.”

“No,” she cried.
“I do not trust you anymore, Papa.”

The viscount had
adored his family—but not as much as he’d adored gambling. While there was
nothing uncommon about a wealthy lord wagering at the card table, Holly’s
father had taken the pastime to an extreme, losing the family fortune. He had
then committed an even greater transgression by taking his life and abandoning his
wife and children in poverty.

She would never
forgive her father for his reckless, selfish behavior. He had wrecked all their
lives. And now, perhaps fittingly, Holly had soiled the already tainted Turner
name, for her sin was now her sister’s sin. Her misfortune, Emma’s misfortune.
And their lives were about to change in dramatic fashion. Again.

Holly threw the
likeness of her father into the fire and closed the iron door with a thick wool
rag. She then collected a sharp knife from the nearby table, prepared to slash
every canvas in the studio.

She started.

In the
doorframe, a shoulder against the wood, arms folded across his wide chest was
Mr. Hawkins. He was dressed in riding attire, his wind-whipped locks loose
around his sensual face, his smoldering eyes on her with great intent.

She resented her
inescapable response to his presence, the shivers that rolled down her spine,
the palpitations of her heart, and she gripped the knife even harder in her
fist.

His gaze dropped
to the blade. “Planning murder, Miss Turner?”

“Of a sort.”

She walked over
to the nearest canvas, removed the drape and stabbed the unnamed image. She
twisted her wrist and sliced the canvas over and over again until the portrait
was unrecognizable.

She then skirted
toward another, unfinished painting. “What are you doing here, Mr. Hawkins?”

As she carved
the second canvas, she sensed his movements at her backside and stiffened.

“I’ve come to
tell you we’re getting married.”

Holly paused,
her heart in her throat. Had she heard the rake right?

Slowly she
turned around, the knife still in her quivering hand. “What?”

“I trust you
will be sensible about the matter, Miss Turner.”

Holly opened,
then closed her lips. He had come to propose? “Now?”

“I beg your
pardon?”

“You’ve come to
propose
now
? Not yesterday? Not the night the scandal broke?”

He shrugged. “I
wasn’t in a rush to tie a noose around my neck.”

Her grief, fear
and humiliation, cramped inside her for almost two days, escaped her throat in
a gasp or cry or croaking shriek, she wasn’t sure. She dropped the knife and
stared at him, incredulous.

“My
brother-in-law, the duke, has procured a special license,” he went on in the
same flat vein. “We’ll be married tomorrow.”

“How could you
do this?”

He glowered at
her. “Do what?”

“Make me wait? I
thought you had forsaken me? I thought I would have to leave England, uproot my
sister.”

“It was only
fair under the devious circumstances.”

“What devious circumstances?”

“You trapped me
into marriage,” he growled, his eyes alight. “If you suffered for it a few
days, I’m delighted.
I
will have to suffer for it a lifetime.”

He thought she
had trapped him? On purpose? “I would
never
do such a hateful thing?”

“If you insist,
Miss Turner.”

“I do insist. I have
integrity, Mr. Hawkins.”

He gathered his
stormy features and resumed his uniform tone. “Our wedding will be a simple
affair. My sister will collect and escort you to the church. She will also host
a private luncheon at her home in Mayfair.”

“I did
not
trap you, Mr. Hawkins. If I wanted to snare a man, I would not have chosen a
rake who only ‘pretended’ to be a gentleman. I would have picked a real
gentleman, someone I was sure would propose.”

He eyed her,
dubious. “You’ve put a lot of thought into snaring a hapless man, haven’t you?”

“Ugh!”

“Are you being
unreasonable, Miss Turner? Are you refusing to marry me?”

“No!” With less
heat in her voice, she said, “I am most sensible about the matter. I just don’t
want you to think so poorly of me . . . if I’m to be your wife.”

“You are to be
my wife.” His voice dropped an octave. “Do not think otherwise.”

She shivered at
the unbending steel in his voice. “But why—?”

“I would do
anything for my sister.”

As would Holly.
If only her reputation had been ruined, she would carry her shame alone and
move across the channel to start a new life. She would flout convention and
refuse the man’s offer of marriage. But she had her sister to protect. If there
was an honorable way to restore her name, and thus her innocent sibling’s,
Holly would take it—however unfair to Mr. Hawkins.

“I understand,”
she said. “Your sister is most gracious, considering the embarrassment I caused
her with my painting.”

“She doesn’t
know you are Lord H.”

Holly balked.
The man had promised to guard her secret identity from society, but she had assumed
he’d at least tell his sister. Otherwise . . .

“Why does your
sister believe we’re marrying in such haste?”

“She thinks I’ve
seduced you, of course.”

“But you haven’t
seduce me, Mr. Hawkins.”

He had bewitched
her, aye. Tormented her dreams But seduction? The one time he’d truly tempted
her with his seductive ways was on the night they’d first met at the gaming
hell. Holly would never forget their short time together, the way he had looked
at her with such longing, the way he had teased her with his playful charm.

She shuddered at
the memory. How would it feel to be seduced by him again? To be seduced by her
husband? Her blood warmed at the inviting thought. She imagined a future time
when he didn’t shoot daggers at her with his eyes, but caressed her with
passionate want. And she found her flesh tingling with anticipation and hope.

Bemused, she
asked, “Why would you let your sister think such a thing?”

“She expects it
of me,” he returned with indifference. “And better she thinks ill of me than my
wife. She’ll forgive me in time. She always does.”

Holly’s chest
cramped again. He would carry the brunt of her disgrace, even at the loss of
his sister’s good opinion of him? She realized then how little she knew about
her future spouse. He was more gallant than she’d imagined. 

“But there is
one caveat I insist upon, Miss Turner. You are not to carry on as Lord H, is
that clear?”

She nodded. In
truth, she was relieved to retire the pseudonym. It had preserved her and her
sister in times of want, but it had also carried a dangerous risk of discovery
and persecution.

For the first
time in her adult life, Holly realized she was safe. From poverty. From exile.
From arrest. Her legs wavered as the burden lifted from her shoulders, and she
grabbed an easel for support.

Mr. Hawkins
crouched and retrieved the knife from the floor. Blade in hand, he handed her
the handle. “I’ll leave you to finish what you’ve started. Good day, Miss
Turner.”

She took the
knife from him and watched his towering figure depart. As soon as he’d saddled
his horse and galloped away, she dropped to the ground and released her tears.

CHAPTER
6

Quincy stood
beside the tall window, nursing his fourth glass of wine. He surveyed the small
wedding party of nine, making merry in his sister’s dining parlor. He had hoped
the wine would take effect and dull his senses, but he was too accustomed to
the drink. He needed opium to stifle the growing ache in his gut.

Edmund slapped
him on the shoulder. “Congratulations, pup.”

Quincy glowered
at his disagreeable brother and bit out, “Thank you.” He wasn’t in a
celebratory mood, and Edmund knew it. Still, his abrasive kin insisted on the
felicitous pretense.

“She’s a fine
lass,” said Edmund. “Amy’s taken a shining to her.”

Quincy eyed his
wife, laughing with Lady Amy, the woman of Edmund’s heart. As if sensing
Quincy’s stare, Miss T—Mrs. Hawkins looked away from Lady Amy and met his gaze,
her leaf green eyes shining, then quickly lowered her reddish lashes,
uncertain, perhaps even insecure. Her strawberry-flaxen locks were twisted and
pinned in whimsy, tiny white flowers nestled amid the curls, while her dress, a
sunset rose with lace trimmings, made her lips glow all the more pink.

She was
fetching, he mused. And he felt an involuntary spasm in his chest. He had not
expected to admire his wife on their wedding day—on the day she had taken away
his freedom.

Quincy returned
his attention to the window, downing the last of the wine, signaling the
footman for another glass. “Lady Amy isn’t privy to my wife’s true character.
She might not take such a shining to her then.”

“Amy has sharp
instincts. If she likes Holly, then she’s a fine lass. Or are you suggesting
Amy’s ‘true character’ is also based on her sordid past?”

At the unmistakable
growl in his brother’s voice, Quincy raised a hand in peace. Lady Amy was the
daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Estabrooke. She was currently married to
the Marquis of Gravenhurst, their betrothal arranged at her birth. She had
tried to break the betrothal contract to be with Edmund, but fate had not been
kind to the star-crossed lovers. She had wed the marquis, as destined, though
her husband was a monster. If not for Edmund, the marquis would have murdered
Amy on their wedding night. The fiend had disappeared, and despite Edmund’s
best efforts to locate the marquis and charge him with Amy’s attempted murder,
Gravenhurst remained at liberty.

Quincy
remembered the moment he had stood beside Edmund outside the Estabrooke townhouse,
watching the wedding party toss rose petals at the newlyweds. The despair etched
across his brother’s face had pierced his own heart. The couple seemed doomed
to be apart. But another twist of fate had rekindled their hope. It was
discovered the marquis had married a barmaid long ago in a drunken stupor,
making his marriage to Lady Amy unlawful. With evidence of bigamy in hand, the
Consistory Courts in the Doctors’ Commons had no choice but to grant Amy an annulment,
even with Gravenhurst in hiding. The legal process might take several more
months, but soon, one day, the couple would be married.

“No,” said
Quincy, accepting a fifth glass of wine from the footman. “I don’t believe Lady
Amy’s true character is based on her sordid past. I admire her, you know that.”

Edmund humphed
in approval. “Then there’s no reason to suspect you won’t be happy with your
wife. Her past as Lord H doesn’t mean she isn’t a fine woman.”

After another
hardy thump on the shoulder, Edmund moved off, and William took his place.

“You did the
right thing, Quincy.”

Quincy frowned.
“I’m pleased you approve, old man.”

His brother
ignored the caustic remark. “We sail at first light. Will that be a problem?”

“Why should it?”
he queried, taking another gulp of wine.

“It’s your
wedding night. Your wife might not appreciate your hasty departure and
subsequent long absence.”

“Do not trouble
yourself with my
wife
. I’ll be aboard the
Nemesis
at dawn.”

William remained
silent for what seemed an uncomfortable stretch of time, and Quincy was about
to tell his older brother to bugger off, when he offered:

“I hope you and
Holly will be happy together.”

As William
walked away, Quincy glared after him, unconvinced the man’s good wishes were
genuine.

The bloody
parade of salutations continued with his brother-in-law, Damian, the Duke of
Wembury, who approached him, glass in hand. “A toast.”

“To what?”

Damian chuckled.
“Your wife, of course.”

Quincy
maintained his frown as he clinked glasses with Damian. He had formed a
friendship with the reformed “Duke of Rogues.” Damian had saved his life many
years ago in a pub brawl. And even after he had married Mirabelle, Quincy had
accepted the man as kin. His three older brothers had yet to fully welcome the
duke into the family. Or admit that he truly loved their sister with unbound
passion. But Quincy hadn’t the blind spot his brothers possessed when it came
to romantic love. Whenever one of his sibling’s had fallen under cupid’s spell,
Quincy had been the first to see it.

His ribs suddenly
throbbed as his heart pounded ever harder and he dropped further into
inescapable doldrums. Something inexplicable pressed on him, and he hadn’t the
word for the disturbing sensation.

“Quincy, a word,
please.”

He hardened at
the tart sound of his sister’s voice. With a sigh, he turned and confronted the
duchess, her golden brows pinched together, her umber eyes alight. According to
his eldest brothers, Mirabelle was the spitting image of their mother, while
the rest of them resembled their father.

Quincy had no
portrait of his mother, but he’d often looked at Mirabelle and imagined the
woman’s likeness. She had died in childbirth to him. His arrival into the world
had caused his family much sorrow. His father had grieved for his wife until
the end of his years. James and William, nineteen and seventeen at the time of
her death, had reared the rest of them, ages newborn to four, until they’d
grown of age.

Quincy had
unsettled all their lives with his birth. At times, he even suspected his kin
resented him for it. How could they not?

He peered more
deeply into his sister’s eyes. She, too, had almost died while giving birth to
her second child, a son. At the gruesome memory, talons of fear gripped his
heart. The crisis had turned his world on its ear. Ever since her near death
two years ago, Quincy had chased the dragon to escape his own hellish guilt,
for he couldn’t shake the feeling that he had killed his mother—and wrecked all
his siblings lives.

Mirabelle
softened her furrowed brow. “Are you all right, Quincy?”

“Aye.” He
glanced away. “You’d like a word?”

“I hope to see
the last of your romps and mischief,” she said with less edge in her voice. “I
trust you will look after Holly and her sister, as is proper.”

“I appreciate
your faith in me, Belle.”

Damian tipped
his glass. “I think I’ll sample the cake.”

As soon as her
husband strutted off, Mirabelle sighed. “I didn’t mean to suggest you were
irresponsible.”

He quirked a
brow.

“All right, I
did. But I also know you’re a good man, Quincy. I hope you will settle happily
in your new position as husband.”

If one more
person wished him happiness in marriage, Quincy would crush the glass in his
hand. “Thank you, Belle.”

She sighed again
and joined her husband at the dessert table. For a blessed moment, Quincy had
peace. But it wasn’t long before his ears burned again.

“I must
congratulate you, Quincy.”

His
sister-in-law, Sophia, walked over to him, smiling and removing her gloves.
Born and raised on the island of Jamaica, she was a strong, spirited woman who
matched his eldest brother, James, in every way. The couple had married sixteen
months ago, and it was something of a sensation that the most forbidding of all
his siblings had actually wed—and was content.

“If James were
here, I’m sure he would do the honors,” she said.

Captain James
Hawkins was currently aboard the
Bonny Meg
, named after their mother,
Megan. The mighty schooner had once plundered the high seas under the rule of
the infamous pirate, Black Hawk. But like the rest of his kin, James had
retired his fearsome epithet and now sailed the
Bonny Meg
as a merchant
vessel.

“If James were
here, he’d break my legs,” quipped Quincy, “and you know it.”

Her exotic brown
eyes burnished with laughter. She had an infernal sense of humor, much like her
husband.

“Then perhaps
it’s a good thing you posed nude
and
seduced an innocent lass while he
was at sea.”

“A boon,
indeed,” he grumbled.

The woman
laughed, a throaty sound. “I’m not so bothered by your winsome ways. I’m a
pirate’s daughter, remember? I’ve done worse.”

She winked and
skirted off, and Quincy was glad to know at least one member of his family
wasn’t going to box his ears over his “winsome ways.”

Once more,
Quincy glanced at his wife, now ensconced with her teenage sister in a tête-à-tête.
Their wedding had been simple. The duke and duchess had escorted the bride to
the church. Edmund had served as groom’s man, young Emma as bride’s maid. The
ceremony had been somber, thus respectable. A wedding announcement would appear
in tomorrow’s broadsheet, saving everyone’s reputation.

Quincy had done
his duty. And in so doing, he had given away his freedom, his future . . .

His heart
spasmed again, and he finally recognized the nameless sentiment that afflicted
his soul: loss. He had lost the opportunity to find love. Unlike the rest of
his siblings, he would never have the chance to choose his spouse—and be happy.

He had given far
too much to his new bride. And he vowed right then he would give her nothing
more.

Ever.