Some Like It Sinful (Hellion's Den) (9 page)

“So I have discovered,” Hawksley retorted dryly.

“Mayhap I can convince my sister to come and lend a hand for a few weeks. Before she was pensioned off she was the housekeeper for Lord Tierney, and you know how fussy he was.”

Hawksley gave a swift nod. He was familiar with Lord Tierney and his notable obsessions.

“Perfect. Tell her that we shall have need of her as soon as possible.”

“I’ll go fetch her now.”

“While you are out I shall also need you to procure two gowns for Miss Dawson.”

Surprisingly, Dillon’s features abruptly hardened with a grim expression.

“She ain’t the sort of woman to be accepting gowns from gentlemen,” he growled.

Hawksley grimaced wryly at the unmistakable warning. How the devil could Clara claim she possessed no ability to charm the opposite sex? Since he had taken her from the carriage, she had managed to bewitch every man foolish enough to cross her path.

“I am well aware that Miss Dawson is a lady,” he assured his servant. “But if she is to leave this house, she will need to be suitably disguised. I would suggest a few of those black crepe gowns that widows always feel the need to drape themselves in and a heavy veil.”

“Oh . . . aye. I shall see what I can discover.”

With a rueful shake of his head, Hawksley turned to retrace his steps back to the woman who had already managed to storm her way into his life.

Gads, first he was playing the cavalier and now he was hiring servants to please her finicky nature.

If he did not watch himself, he would end up with a leash about his neck.

His steps briefly faltered as the disturbing thought flared through his mind. Then just as swiftly he was dismissing it as ridiculous.

Fah. He was in absolute control of the entire situation.

Absolute control.

Clara squirmed uncomfortably on the leather seat of the carriage.

She had never considered what those poor Egyptian mummies must suffer through. Of course, they at least were dead before they were put through such torture.

She, on the other hand, was very much alive and swathed from head to foot in enough black crepe to encircle a woman three times her size, not to mention a wide bonnet with a thick veil that made breathing far from a certain thing.

At least she would not be traveling far enough to test her stomach in the closed carriage. And better yet, Hawksley had not broken his promise, she acknowledged, stealing a pleased glance at the man seated at her side.

Most gentlemen in his position would no doubt have insisted that a lady had no business being part of a murder investigation. They would claim that they were only attempting to protect her when in the back of their minds they would be certain she would only be a nuisance.

But not Hawksley.

He believed in her strange talents.

He believed in her.

The knowledge sent a warm flutter through her stomach.

Regarding the fiercely beautiful profile, Clara barely noted when the carriage rolled to a halt. It was only when Hawksley turned to consider her with a tight smile that she realized they had arrived.

“This is the address. Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

“Remember, you are my cousin from Devonshire who has recently suffered the loss of your husband and are in town to settle his affairs.”

Her lips curled into a smile. He had drilled her on her part for the past hour.

“I shall not forget.”

“And you are not to lift your veil for any reason.”

She rolled her eyes heavenward. “How many times must I promise you I will not?”

Clearly realizing he was being a tad ridiculous, he offered a rueful grimace. “Very well.”

Pushing open the door to the carriage, he stepped onto the road and lowered the stairs. Eager to at last discover something of Mr. Chesterfield, Clara twitched aside her heavy skirts and hurried down the stairs.

Unfortunately, she had neglected to take into account the thick veil and predictably missed the first step. With a cry she discovered herself plunging into Hawksley’s waiting arms.

For a moment she simply leaned into his chest, breathing deeply of his intoxicating scent as he held her close. Despite the urgency of their task, it seemed a very nice place to linger. Hawksley seemed to agree as his arms briefly tightened, then with obvious reluctance he steadied her and dropped his arms.

“Careful, kitten.”

She gave an impatient tug on the veil. “Blast. I can barely see through this ridiculous thing.”

“Which means that no one else can see through it either.”

“That will certainly ease my mind when I break my neck,” she said dryly.

He gave a soft chuckle as he firmly pulled her arm through his. “Just hold on to me, I won’t let you fall.”

Together they stepped through the narrow gate and approached the townhouse.

Although respectably situated in Cheapside, the residence possessed little to recommend it. The gardens were shabby, the shutters peeling, and the front knob unpolished. Not at all what she had expected from her intelligent, methodical Mr. Chesterfield.

Perhaps sensing her surprise, Hawksley cast her a sideways glance as they stepped onto the stoop and he used the knocker. Clara shrugged, forcing herself to concentrate upon matters at hand as the door was pulled open to reveal a wiry, nearly bald butler with a sour expression.

“Yes?”

“We are here to see Mr. Chesterfield,” Hawksley announced.

The butler narrowed his beady eyes. “Mr. Chesterfield ain’t at home.”

“We do not mind waiting.” Hawksley took a smooth step forward. “If you will show us to—”

With a surprisingly swift motion the servant shifted to block the doorway. “I fear you misunderstand, sir. Mr. Chesterfield has left London.”

Beneath her fingers Clara could feel Hawksley’s muscles tense. “Left London, you say? Where has he gone?”

“He had family business to attend in the north. If you would like to leave a card, I will see that—”

Realizing that the butler was on the point of shutting the door in their face, Clara rapidly searched her mind for a means of entering the house. Not only was her concern for poor Mr. Chesterfield increasing by the moment, but she knew that Hawksley was desperate to discover some connection to his brother within.

If she did not take matters in hand, the dangerous pirate was quite capable of forcing his way in.

“No, that will not do at all,” she stated in tones that would have done a duchess proud. “I traveled a great distance to meet with your master. He was transcribing a rare manuscript for my lately departed husband. His mother and I are anxious to have it returned.”

The sour expression soured further. “Manuscript? I ain’t knowing of any manuscript.”

“It must be within.” Clara allowed herself a strategic pause before clutching at Hawksley’s arm. “Unless . . . dear Lord, what if he has taken off with it? We must go to Bow Street at once. That is my only inheritance.”

Something that might have been amusement flashed in the blue eyes, but with a readiness that Clara admired, he swiftly followed her lead.

“Of course, dear cousin. We shall inform the authorities immediately.”

“Here now, there’s no call to do anything rash,” the servant blustered. “Mayhap I can search the master’s study and find the manuscript.”

Clara met his offer with a disdainful sniff. “Fah. You are merely providing your master with more time to escape with his ill-gotten treasure.”

“Quite right.” Hawksley leaned forward in a threatening fashion. “I must insist that we be allowed to search the study for ourselves.”

There was a tense moment as the servant grimly attempted to choose between the lesser of two evils.

It was no doubt the air of violence that shrouded the looming Hawksley that at last swayed the balance. He was an intimidating beast under the best of circumstances. When he chose to use the full force of his will he was downright unnerving.

“Come in, then.” Turning on his heel, the man led them through a small foyer and up a flight of stairs. Stopping at the first door on the left, he threw it open and regarded them with a petulant impatience. “This be it.”

Both Hawksley and Clara paused in distaste upon the threshold. The narrow chamber was quite simply a mess.

Books, papers, magazines, and a healthy dose of pure rubbish managed to clutter every shelf and table. Clara might have thought that someone had broken in and created the destruction if not for the thick layer of dust that coated the clutter.

Her stomach clenched at the mere thought of entering the room, let alone touching anything. There could be anything under the grime.

Bugs, mold, creepy ancient creatures.

Glancing down at her horrified expression, Hawksley gave her fingers a sympathetic squeeze before pulling her across the threshold.

“I will begin with the desk, my dear, if you wish to sort through the piles near the window.”

With grudging steps she crossed toward the stacks of books on the window seat. Once there, however, she could not force herself to touch the crumbling manuscripts.

She would as soon put her hand in a viper pit.

Holding her skirts off the floor, she gave a loud cough in the butler’s direction. “Mr. Chesterfield is not a very tidy gentleman, is he?”

The servant stiffened in offense. “True genius rarely concerns itself with such mundane matters.”

Hawksley gave a bark of laughter as he rummaged among the papers. “Clearly you have never been in the companionship of true genius. I assure you that tidiness is a matter of utter necessity.”

“Sir—” the butler began to protest, only to be interrupted by Clara.

“Good heavens, I shall be a mess,” she muttered, stiffening her spine. If she could not assist Hawksley in one manner she would find another. “I must have an apron if I am to work among such filth. Kindly collect me one from the kitchen.”

“Nay, I’ll not be leaving strangers alone in my master’s study.”

“Very well, I shall go and fetch one myself.”

With firm steps Clara marched back toward the door, meeting Hawksley’s warning frown with a reassuring smile.

“Hold on here.” The butler wavered as she neared the door, clearly debating whether to chase after her or keep a suspicious watch upon the threatening form by the desk. Like most men he concluded that a mere woman could not poise any true danger, and he threw up his arms in defeat. “Damnation.”

Heading down the hall, Clara reached the stairs and with a furtive glance over her shoulders turned to head up the steps. Mr. Chesterfield might very well have taken leave of London to deal with family matters, but her instincts refused to accept that it was anything so simple. She very much feared that the man was in danger.

Finding the private bedchamber by the process of elimination, Clara sucked in a deep breath and shoved open the door.

She discovered that the cramped room was passingly tidy with an attempt to hold back the encroaching dust; still, she was relieved that she had on a pair of thick gloves as she gingerly began her search.

Near a quarter of an hour later she acknowledged that she had pressed her luck as far as she dared, and slipping from the chamber, she hurried down the stairs and back into the study. She had barely stepped over the threshold when the butler came hurrying toward her, his expression suspicious.

“I thought you had gone to get an apron?”

“I could not find one that was not as filthy as the rest of the household,” she informed him coldly.

Strolling from the desk, Hawksley placed her hand upon his arm. “It does not matter, my dear. I can find no evidence of your manuscript.”

“It seems that we shall have to go to the authorities after all.”

The butler paled at the threat. “Nay . . . I . . . I will find your bloody manuscript.”

“And how could we possibly trust you?” Clara demanded.

“Perhaps we should give him the opportunity to search, my dear,” Hawksley murmured, his gaze holding hers. “It would be a pity to make a fuss if it is simply misplaced.”

Easily sensing what he desired of her, Clara gave a slow nod. “I suppose I can wait a day or two.”

“When you find the manuscript, you may send word to the Hawk’s Nest,” Hawksley commanded.

The butler did not bother to hide his relief. “Aye.”

With an arrogant nod of his head, Hawksley led her out of the gloomy townhouse into the pale spring sunlight. In silence they crawled back into the carriage.

Only when the door was shut and they were clamoring down the cobbled road did Hawksley abruptly tilt back his head to laugh with rich enjoyment.

“Bloody hell, kitten, you were brilliant.”

“I must say, I surprised myself,” she admitted.

He reached out to grasp her hand, his smile warm. “Biddles himself could not have done better, and that is saying something.”

Clara felt her countenance warm with startled pleasure. She was not at all accustomed to such praise.

“Did you learn anything in the study?”

“I discovered that before he left London, Mr. Chesterfield was researching papal records and the history of the Vatican.”

“Perhaps not utterly surprising for a church historian, but still intriguing,” she murmured.

“My thoughts precisely.” Tossing his hat on the opposite seat, he turned to face her squarely, his diamond earring flashing in the dim shadows. “Now tell me where you disappeared to.”

“I went to Mr. Chesterfield’s bedchamber to be certain that he had truly left London.”

“What did you find?”

“Much of his clothing has been taken from the room, as well as his shaving kit, which indicates that he did indeed leave on a trip, but I found these on his desk.” Digging into the pocket of her voluminous skirts, she produced a fine gold pocket watch and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses.

Taking them from her hand, Hawksley gave a lift of his brows. “Glasses and a pocket watch? Hardly unusual objects to find in a bedchamber.”

“Yes, but a gentleman leaving town for several weeks would never leave them behind.”

He pondered the objects in his hand a long moment, clearly attempting not to leap to conclusions.

“It could be that he possesses more than one pocket watch and pair of glasses.”

The thought had crossed Clara’s mind as well, only to be dismissed when she noted the undoubted craftsmanship of the watch.

“Mr. Chesterfield did not appear to have the sort of funds that would lend itself to having several gold pocket watches. And even if he did have more than one, he would surely have taken care to place this one in a safe rather than leaving it lying upon his desk where a servant might take off with it.”

“Perhaps his trip was unexpected.” His fingers slowly closed about the watch and glasses as he stabbed her with a glittering gaze. “Or someone decided to make him disappear.”

A pang shot through her heart at the mere thought. From what she knew of Mr. Chesterfield he had been a quiet, scholarly gentleman. He would be no match for someone wishing him violence.

“But surely the servants would have reported to the authorities if he had gone missing?” she protested.

He grimaced, his expression revealing he was all too familiar with darker side of human nature.

“Not if they were paid well enough by someone who wished his absence to remain a secret. If Mr. Chesterfield did not have close family, it might be weeks or even months before his absence was noted.”

“That butler did seem quite uneasy at having us poking around.” She bit her lip, her stomach rolling with dread. “Dear Lord.”

Pocketing the objects she had taken from Mr. Chesterfield’s chambers, he gave her fingers a reassuring squeeze.

“We know nothing yet, kitten. For now I think it best we assume he is still alive.”

Sucking in a deep breath, she gave a nod of her head. He was right. It would not help Mr. Chesterfield to leap to conclusions.

Until they had positive information they must presume that he was still alive. And perhaps in need of their assistance.

“What do we do now?”

He silently considered their options as the carriage swayed and rattled its way through the crowded London streets. With the windows shut and the heavy curtains firmly pulled, they might have been utterly alone in the world.

As the silence lingered, Clara discovered herself becoming disturbingly aware of the warmth of his thigh pressed close to her own and the sheer power of his presence. She knew that there were far more important matters to concentrate upon. Her body, however, seemed determined to play traitor.

“I believe I will call upon Biddles and see if he will be kind enough to have Mr. Chesterfield’s servants followed,” he at last murmured.

Clara licked her lips, which seemed strangely dry. “Why?”

“I wish to know where they might be going and who they might be meeting with. If Mr. Chesterfield is in hiding, they might very well be carrying him supplies and information. Then again, if they are in league with Lord Doulton, then they might lead us to the bastard.”

“An excellent plan,” she agreed, albeit in strained tones. It
was
an excellent plan. Unfortunately, her brain was not functioning nearly so well as she might wish.

Reaching up, he deliberately grasped the end of her veil and pushed it back, his eyes darkening.

He slowly stilled, as if he could actually sense her tingling awareness. And perhaps he could, she wryly acknowledged. She was quite certain she had raised the temperature in the carriage by several degrees.

“Why, thank you, Miss Dawson, I did assure you that I have my moments.”

“You told me I was not to raise my veil,” she reminded him softly.

Yanking off his gloves, he tossed them aside and reached to remove hers. Only then did he lift his hand to trace the line of her jaw.

“But you did not raise your veil . . . I did.”

The tingles became more pronounced. “That hardly seems fair.”

His nose flared as his gaze lowered to her mouth. A nerve in his jaw twitched, as if he were waging a mighty battle.

“Neither is the manner you have bewitched me, kitten,” he husked. “’Tis monstrously unfair.”

His tension brought a faint frown to her brow. “Hawksley?”

“Ah, Clara, I promised myself I would not do this.”

“Do what?”

“This . . .”

Framing her face, Hawksley slowly lowered his head. Clara’s heart came to a perfect halt as the lips neared. Oh, thank God. Thank God.

Then, a breath away he paused, and she instinctively realized he was offering her the opportunity to pull away.

It was what she should do, no doubt. After last eve she could no longer plead ignorance as to what a mere kiss could lead to. But even her much vaulted logic was impervious to the fierce pleasure his touch could offer.

And why should she deny herself, she silently demanded?

For six-and-twenty years she had quietly endured the rude slights and direct cuts by gentlemen. She had pretended that she did not yearn to feel the warmth of a man’s arms about her or to experience the secret delights that other women took for granted.

Now, this beautiful, wonderful pirate desired her.

Her. Miss Clara Dawson, aging spinster and village oddity.

Logic and common sense be damned.

She wanted him. He wanted her.

What else mattered?

Suddenly frightened he might come to his senses and turn away, Clara threw her arms about his neck and tugged his head downward.

Just for a moment she thought he might resist her silent plea, and a familiar sinking sensation rushed through Clara’s stomach. No, not again. Surely she was not to be rejected yet again.

She had thought Hawksley different.

Special.

Then with a rasping sigh Hawksley dropped his head downward and claimed her mouth in a kiss that seared away any lingering doubt as to his willingness. Catching her breath at the jolt of sizzling excitement, she clutched at his neck, her eyes sliding shut as she savored his demanding touch.

This was what she wanted. What she had wanted since the first moment she had laid eyes upon him.

His kiss deepened, his tongue stroking over her mouth.

“Let me taste of you, kitten,” he whispered.

Uncertain what he desired, Clara tentatively parted her lips and stiffened in surprise when his tongue plunged into her mouth.

Oh my. This was . . . delicious.

With a moan she arched forward, her tongue touching his to match the slow, steady rhythm. If someone had told her about such a thing she would have shuddered in horror. And she did shudder, only horror had nothing to do with it. Instead an intense flare of anticipation clutched at her.

She wanted to be closer to him. To feel the heat of his bare skin next to her own.

Once again seeming to read her mind, he shifted to wrap his arms tightly about her. She heard him growl deep in his throat and then suddenly he was plucking her off the seat.

Never breaking the kiss, he turned her in his arms, tugging her until she was straddling his legs, her knees bent and the thick dress hiked up well past her knees.

Clara abruptly pulled back to meet the smoldering blue gaze. In such an intimate position she could easily feel the thrust of his hardened erection. It pressed firmly against her cleft, creating a rash of thrilling sensations.

Holding her gaze Hawksley allowed his fingers to trail down her spine, easily slipping the buttons loose from their hooks.

“Am I frightening you?” he whispered in ragged tones.

“No.” Her fingers trailed through the raven hair, delighting in the satin tresses. He was so unbearably gorgeous. So perfect. “I like your touch.”

He gave a husky chuckle. “A good thing, considering that I cannot seem to keep my hands off you.”

As if to prove his point he gave her gown a sudden tug, pulling it off her shoulders along with the thin shift beneath. He seemed to freeze as he regarded her bared breasts, an odd expression upon his countenance. Then with exquisite care he cupped the small mounds in his hands, simply holding them for a long moment before his head dipped and his lips closed over one tip.

Clara’s eyes slid shut as she felt his tongue rasp over the sensitive nipple, coaxing it to a hard peak. Dear Lord, the pleasure was nearly unbearable. It was a struggle to recall to breathe as he tugged and teased her with merciless expertise.

“Does this please you?” he murmured, stroking his mouth to tantalize her other breast.

She moaned, besieged by a dark longing she did not understand. Shifting on his lap, she pressed herself against the jut of his manhood.

“Do not stop,” she pleaded.

“Do you wish more? Shall I teach you of passion?” he muttered, his voice thick.

She clutched at his shoulders. “I am not certain I can bear more. I feel as if I might shatter.”

He leaned back, his lids half lowered and a dark flush upon his cheeks.

“Will you trust me?” he demanded, easily holding her bewildered gaze.

She gave a slow nod, rather surprised to discover that she did trust him. Perhaps it was not utterly logical, but there was something about him that assured her that he would never deliberately harm her.

“Yes.”

He smiled as he lifted a hand to lightly trace the line of her swollen lips. Distracted by his touch, she barely noted his other hand slipping beneath the heavy folds of her skirts. It was not until his fingers brushed the bare skin of her thigh that she gave a sudden jump.

“Hawksley?”

His eyes flared as he cupped the back of her head and drew her head downward to accept his fiercely hungry kiss.

Clara paused before eagerly returning his kiss, her momentary unease forgotten. He obviously knew what he was about, she acknowledged fuzzily. Indeed, he seemed quite an expert. And she was wise enough to always concede to an expert. No matter what the subject.

Running her hands over the hard planes of his chest, she felt his fingers continue their soft journey. Aimlessly tracing patterns on her tingling skin, he moved ever higher. And higher.

And . . . dear heavens.

He easily swallowed her scream as his fingers swept the line of her cleft, pressing between the lips to seek her damp heat.

Her fingers dug into his chest as he gently stroked her, tiny bursts of fire shimmering through her as he brushed over the very source of her pleasure.

Wrenching her lips free she buried her face in the curve of his neck, her breath coming in short gasps.

“Hawksley . . . there is something . . .”

“I know, my sweet,” he murmured, his lips brushing her temple.

“I do not know what to do,” she muttered.

He chuckled softly. “For once you need do nothing. Allow me to pleasure you.”

Unable to help herself, she asked the question trembling on her lips.

“Why?”

He paused in surprise. “Why what?”

“Why me?”

Thankfully, he did not laugh at her absurdity. Instead his lips softly nuzzled her cheek.

“There is no logic to such things, kitten. I desire you because I desire you.” She moaned as his finger resumed its steady caress, his thumb pressing against her tender nub as his finger slid into her with infinite care. “You. Just you.”

“Oh.” A sharp-edged pleasure was spiraling through her, tensing her muscles. She had to move. She could not halt the instinct to tilt her hips forward to meet his steady stroke. There was something awaiting her. Something beckoning just out of reach. “I can bear no more,” she gasped.

“Trust me,” he whispered, his head dipping to capture a straining nipple in his mouth.

Her entire body went rigid as her body posed at the edge of a chasm. The world receded as she arched backward and gasped. Then with an explosive force the tension fragmented into a hundred shards of pleasure.

Utterly stunned by powerful climax, Clara flopped onto Hawksley’s broad chest.

“Oh . . . my.”

“Oh my, indeed.” Gently removing his hand, Hawksley smoothed the skirts over her legs and wrapped his arms about her.

Unable to help herself, Clara snuggled against his warmth. She felt sated. Wondrously sated. But there was more. She felt a connection to this man. As if when she was near him, she was not so terribly alone.

It was something she had not felt in a very long time, and a small ache clutched at her heart.