Hawksley gave a low chuckle. “You are a dangerous little man, Biddles.”
“I do try. Until later, my friends.” With a flamboyant bow toward Clara, the nobleman turned on his heel and disappeared through the door.
Hawksley sensed when Clara moved to stand close to him. It was in the manner his skin suddenly prickled and his heart picked up speed. Just for a moment he closed his eyes and allowed her presence to soak into him. There was something quite satisfying in simply having her near, he discovered with a jolt of surprise. As if she completed him.
With a shake of his head at his odd fancy, he turned his gaze to discover her regarding him with a quizzical expression.
“Do you believe Biddles will discover anything of worth?”
He smiled wryly. “Trust me, if there is anything to be discovered, Biddles will soon have it ferreted out. No one can keep a secret when he is about.”
There was a brief pause as she searched his countenance with a curious gaze.
“He seems a rather unique choice of companions,” she at last admitted.
A wicked smile curved his lips as he reached out to tug a silver curl. “Surely by now you should know I prefer the unique and the unusual?”
Her eyes darkened, as if touched by his low words, but before Hawksley could take proper advantage of her momentary weakness, she was firmly stepping back.
“We must decide what we shall do next. Perhaps we could find someone to take a look at your brother’s vowels and—”
“Later,” Hawksley firmly interrupted, his glance shifting toward the window. For the first time in a long time he wished to simply enjoy the day. With this woman. “For the moment there is something I desire you to see.”
“What is it?”
“I shall show you.” Hawksley held out his hand. “Will you join me?”
She hesitated just a moment, as if debating the wisdom of giving in to his request. And then with a rather odd smile she placed her fingers into his hand.
“Yes, Hawksley, I will join you.”
With undeniable curiosity Clara allowed herself to be led into the kitchen, where Hawksley gathered a large basket of apples and oranges. Then with a mischievous grin he regained command of her hand and led her up the narrow staircase.
A part of her longed to protest at his secretive manner. She was a woman who disliked the unexpected. Indeed, she preferred a detailed schedule for every moment of her day. Structure, she had discovered, ensured that her life would remain steady and predictable without the tedious problems that seemed to plague those more impulsive souls.
“An ounce of prevention was worth a pound of cure” were words she took deeply to heart.
Still, she could not deny a sense of pleasure in watching Hawksley as he urged her to follow him. He was far different from the grim pirate who had stolen her from her carriage. There was a new ease about him and a wicked playfulness that she would never have expected.
Against her will, a faint twinge of hope touched her heart. Was she responsible for the change in him? Was it possible that she truly had the ability to offer him happiness?
Reaching the last narrow flight of stairs that led to the attics, Clara sternly attempted to rein in her fanciful thoughts. She was a pragmatic woman. Wishing for something did not make it so.
Of course, a small voice whispered in the back of her mind, she was not utterly infallible. Perhaps she should not be so hasty to dismiss his claim that he needed her in his life.
She might not be the most beautiful, or charming, or wealthy woman in England. But there was surely no other who would be more devoted to ensuring his utter contentment.
“Here we are.”
Rather thankful to have her tangled broodings interrupted, Clara firmly turned her attention to the gentleman who was standing beside the open door to the attic.
“Really, you are being most mysterious, Hawksley,” she informed him with a faint smile. “Whatever are you about?”
“If you will remain patient a few more moments, you will see for yourself.”
Allowing herself to be pulled over the threshold, Clara came to an instinctive halt, her hands reaching to pull up her skirts least they touch the dusty floor.
“Good heavens, what a mess,” she muttered, glancing about the tumble of trunks and boxes that were stacked about the cramped space.
Hawksley chuckled softly as he slung an arm about her shoulders. “Not now, kitten. Later you may return to clean and scrub and arrange to your heart’s content. This way.”
Nearly itching with the need to charge off to gather a pail of soapy water and a rag, Clara instead forced herself to keep pace with the gentleman at her side. He had promised she could return later, she reassured herself. And it was not as if the disorder would disappear before she could get her hands upon it.
Instead she regarded what seemed to be a narrow door across the way.
“What an odd place for a door.”
“The gentleman who built the house was an old sailor,” Hawksley explained as he steered her to the door and pulled it open. “When he was at home he wished to keep a careful watch upon his ship. You are not afraid of heights, are you?”
She smiled wryly. “Surprisingly, no.”
“Good.” He stepped onto a small, square balcony with a wrought-iron railing before tugging her out to join him. “What do you think?”
Clara’s lips parted in pleased surprise as she glanced over the bustling docks and the Thames that glittered in the distance. From such a height the unpleasant smells and raucous noise of the waterfront were undetectable, allowing Clara to thoroughly enjoy watching as the ships were loaded and unloaded with lively chaos.
“It is a beautiful view,” she murmured, her gaze shifting to the shallow boats and barges that drifted down the river.
“Quite beautiful,” he agreed, his voice oddly husky.
Turning her head, she caught him regarding her with a smoldering gaze. A dangerous excitement slithered down her spine. Dear heavens. He was so absurdly handsome with his raven hair ruffled by the breeze and his perfect features silhouetted by the late-morning sunlight. And then there was that hard, muscular body. A body she knew more than lived up to the promise offered by the tailored black coat and breeches.
He was quite simply delectable.
Who could blame her for the sharp desire to tackle him to the ground and have her way with him?
Giving a choked cough at her outrageous imaginings, Clara hastily attempted to distract herself.
“I still do not understand why you insisted we bring a basket of apples and oranges to enjoy the view.”
With a shake of his head, as if he had been as lost in his own thoughts, he leaned against the iron railing and pointed toward a dirt yard just beyond the hedge.
“Look there.”
Much to Clara’s amusement, she noted a dozen young urchins who were racing about the hard dirt, all of them scrambling to kick at a leather ball.
“What are they playing?” she demanded, her lips curving as they all suddenly piled upon one another with a loud whoop.
“Actually, I have come to the conclusion that it is a game they have invented all on their own. It seems to involve a great deal of rolling about in the dirt, shouting, and scraped knees.”
The mob untangled from one another and Clara noted several lads who could not be more than five or six. Even at a distance it was obvious they were filthy, with ragged clothing and no shoes.
“Where do they all come from?”
Hawksley shrugged. “The East End is crawling with such imps. Most of them abandoned or simply forgotten by their families.”
Her heart gave a twinge of sympathy. Having lived her life in the country where neighbors cared for one another, she was unaccustomed to such callous disregard.
“How sad.”
“Yes, their lives will be a constant struggle for survival,” he murmured, an odd expression upon his countenance. “But not for now. At the moment they are utterly happy.”
Startled at his words, Clara turned to study his profile as he watched the children play.
“You sound almost envious.”
“Listen.”
“To what?”
“Their laughter,” he murmured. “Have you ever visited an aristocratic estate and heard children enjoying themselves with such unabashed joy?”
“I have hardly spent a great deal of time upon any estate, aristocratic or not,” she retorted dryly. “My invitations always seem to become misplaced.”
“Consider yourself fortunate.” Without warning, he turned to regard her with a glittering gaze. “There is nothing more stifling than a load of pompous fools all prancing about in an effort to prove that they are more important than one another.”
About to agree with his sharp disdain for the upper orders, Clara felt a whisper of unease in her heart.
“You sound as if you have spent a great amount of time among the aristocracy. I did not presume your family would be so well connected.”
Chapter Fourteen
Hawksley stiffened as he realized his unwitting revelation. Damn, damn, damn. When the devil would he learn that he need consider every word he uttered in the presence of this woman?
There was no such thing as casual conversation when it came to Miss Clara Dawson.
“My father possessed a highly developed sense of his own self-worth. One he was constantly determined to share with his sons,” he hedged, not willing to outright lie to the woman he intended to wed. “Neither Fredrick nor I was allowed to associate with anyone that he considered beneath us. I was whipped more than once for having dared to join in games with the village children.”
Thankfully, beyond her shrewd intelligence his angel also possessed a soft heart, and she was swiftly distracted at the thought of his father with a whip in his hand.
“That is horrid.”
Hawksley smiled wryly. “He thought that he was saving me from myself.”
“And instead he only drove you away,” she said softly.
He made the mistake of glancing into her eyes and promptly found himself lost in the tender depths.
Hellfire, a man could spend an eternity gazing into those eyes.
“Yes,” he murmured, his hand reaching to lightly touch her face.
In silence they stood close upon the sun-drenched balcony, each savoring the perfect moment as they simply appreciated being together.
And then, as with all perfect moments, they were rudely interrupted by a sudden chorus of whistles and calls.
“Oy, guv. Over here, guv.”
Reluctantly returning to reality, Hawksley shifted his gaze to the herd of lads who had forgotten their game as they waved their arms in his direction.
“They seem to desire your attention,” Clara murmured.
Hawksley smiled ruefully even as he silently damned their rotten timing.
“No, they desire these.” Reaching down, he retrieved the forgotten basket and with practiced ease he began to toss the apples and oranges down to the boys below. The sound of excited whoops filled the air as the lads darted to catch the rare treats. Leaning against the railing, Clara chuckled at their antics and Hawksley handed her one of the oranges. “Would you care to join me?”
Taking the fruit, she carefully judged the distance to the barren yard.
“I am not certain I can toss an orange that far.”
“You managed to toss that rock a goodly distance last eve,” he reminded her with a wicked grin. “Just try not to drop them on your toes.”
Astonishingly she stuck out her tongue in a teasing manner. “Beast.”
Hawksley tilted his head back to laugh as she reared back her arm and tossed the orange to the impatient imps, managing to skim it just beyond the hedge.
“There, I told you you could do it,” he encouraged her, handing her an apple.
Together they swiftly dispensed the last of the fruit, and dropping the basket, Hawksley watched in pleasure as the older children carefully doled out the prizes, taking care to ensure that even the youngest of the lads received their bounty.
Their obvious concern for one another never failed to astound him. Despite the fact that many of them no doubt went to bed with empty stomachs, they possessed a natural instinct to protect what they considered their family.
Slowly becoming aware of Clara’s steady gaze upon him, he turned to catch an odd expression upon her countenance.
“What is it?” he demanded.
“You.”
He lifted his brow in puzzlement. “What about me?”
“You genuinely enjoy those children.”
He pretended a nonchalance, but as usual she had read him with precise ease. He did enjoy coming to the balcony and watching their play. They reminded him of the child he had once been. The child that his father had never appreciated and always attempted to change.
“They are rather entertaining for filthy urchins.”
“No, it is more than that,” she said firmly, then tilting her head to one side, she met his gaze squarely. “You should be a father.”
He gave a choked cough at her words. “Good god, kitten, tossing apples to stray children is considerably different from being a father.”
She reached out to touch his arm. “I am not referring to your habit of tossing apples, Hawksley. I mean that you truly appreciate children. Most gentlemen in your position would call for the Watch to have them hauled away, but you come up here to simply listen to their laughter.”
He lowered his gaze to where her pale fingers lay against the black material of his jacket. As always he was struck by her sheer delicacy. The force of her considerable will made it easy to forget just how tiny and fragile she truly was.
Unable to resist, his hand shifted to cover hers. A strange combination of tenderness and fierce desire surged through him at her nearness.
“I suppose I have never given much thought to having a child,” he confessed.
Her expression softened with sympathy. “Not surprising after your experience with your own father.”
He drew in a slow deep breath as he allowed his gaze to drift over her slender form. In his mind he imagined her growing thick with his child, her hands gently rubbing her rounded belly.
It was an image that should have terrified him, no doubt. But instead a sense of absolute wonder filled his heart.
A child. His child. With this woman.
Yes. It was right.
“Actually, I believe it has more to do with the fact I never met a woman whom I desired to be a mother to my children,” he informed her, shifting to sweep her off her feet and cradle her close to his chest. “Not until now, that is.”
Her eyes widened as her arms instinctively encircled his neck. “Good heavens, Hawksley, what are you doing?”
Stepping through the door to the shadowed attic, he paused to regard her with open yearning.
“I want you, Clara.” He gave a slow shake of his head. “No, it is more than want. I need you,” he admitted with stark honesty. “May I make love to you?”
Her eyes readily darkened, but she could not prevent a small grimace. “Here?”
He chuckled as he promptly headed for the nearby stairs. “Perhaps we could find someplace a little tidier.”
She snuggled into his chest, her expression dreamy. “That would be nice . . .”
Nice? A smile tugged at his lips as he easily moved down the stairs and toward his nearby chamber. He had never thought of taking a woman to his bed as nice.
Pleasurable. Satisfying. And always transitory.
But with Clara it was nice. She offered more than a temporary ease to his sexual needs. When he touched her it filled him with a sense of wonder that no other woman had ever offered. And the desire to hold her close long after his needs were satisfied.
Entering his chamber, he firmly shut the door and carried her to the bed. With care he lowered her onto the blankets, his desire blazing to life at the sight of her tumbled silver hair and flushed cheeks.
She was so beautiful. So exquisite.
And his.
Reverently he settled himself beside her, stroking his fingers through her satin hair.
“I could lie here next to you forever,” he husked in low tones.
She smiled faintly. “I fear you would soon become bored.”
“Bored?” He offered a wicked chuckle as he shifted to tug free the ribbons on her bodice. “I assure you, kitten, becoming bored is the very last worry upon my mind.”
Her breath caught as he tugged down the sleeves of her gown and then the thin shift beneath to reveal her beautiful breasts.
“This seems rather . . . decadent to be doing in the midst of the day,” she murmured with a faint blush.
“Mmm . . . the decadence has only begun, kitten,” he whispered as he dipped his head down to take a rosy nipple into his mouth.
Her sweet moans filled the room as he slid his tongue over the hardened nub, making his own blood race with sharp-edged excitement.
He wanted to make love to her for hours. To stretch out her pleasure until she was pleading for release.
Unfortunately, he had only to touch her for his own body to become as randy as a school lad in his first throes of passion. With a low groan he yanked down the bothersome clothing that impeded his touch, leaving her attired in nothing more than her stockings and sensible boots. Ridiculously, the sight only inflamed his desire, and trailing his lips down her stomach, he wrestled to rid himself of his own clothing.
Oh, Hawksley, you are in a bad way,
he told himself, nibbling at the satin skin of her hips and thighs.
A woman’s scent shouldn’t make a hardened rake’s head spin. Nor should his shaft be hard and aching with the need to thrust into her simply because she was near.
Lowering himself farther, Hawksley burrowed himself between her parted thighs, gently parting her folds to stroke his tongue into her damp heat.
“Hawksley.”
Clara’s soft cry echoed through the room as her fingers sank into his hair. He laughed softly as he continued his intimate caress, skimming his hands up her stomach to toy with her straining nipples.
Within moments she was arching off the bed as she moaned in pleasure.
“Oh . . . please . . . Hawksley . . .”
“Yes, kitten.”
Finding her center of pleasure, Hawksley gently sucked and stroked the tender nub. He experienced a heady sense of satisfaction as she writhed beneath his touch, her fingers yanking at his hair. She made no effort to attempt and disguise her enjoyment of his touch. Or to make him plead for her favors. She was as sweetly honest about passion as she was about everything else in her life.
“Dear heavens,” she gasped, then suddenly she stiffened, and with a rasping cry she reached her climax.
With a lingering kiss upon her inner thigh, Hawksley pressed himself upward, entering her with one smooth thrust.
His teeth ground together as her tightness clamped about his erection.
Oh . . .
God. She felt so damnably good. As if she had been made just for him.
Burying his face in her hair, he greedily inhaled her female scent.
“I will never tire of you, kitten,” he whispered in her ear. “Never.”
Her arms wrapped about him as Hawksley steadily stroked himself into her heat. She was soft and welcoming and everything he desired in a woman.
Keeping his pace steady, he reached down his hand to find her pleasure point, teasing her back to full arousal. Her nails clenched his back and her breath quickened in response.
Pulling back, he reveled in the emotions playing over her delicate features. She had never appeared more lovely, with her lips slightly parted and her eyes smoldering with desire.
All too quickly the tension built within him. As much as he wanted to prolong the exquisite pleasure, he was unable to halt the gathering climax.
Lifting himself onto his hands, he pressed himself ever deeper, listening to her soft pants as her hips lifted to accept him. Her hands shifted to grip his surging hips, pulling him ever deeper as together they exploded in searing delight.
Sucking in a rasping breath, Hawksley collapsed on top of her, shuddering as a warm peace enfolded him.
This was how a man was meant to make love to a woman, he told himself with a contented smile.
It was how he intended to make love to this particular woman for the rest of his life.
Hours later, Clara absently toyed with the food upon her plate.
In many ways she was utterly content. What woman would not be, she wryly acknowledged. A day spent in bed with Hawksley was surely the stuff of dreams.
As a lover he was passionate, tender, and surprisingly playful. She could not recall when she had laughed so much as she had lying in his arms.
But while she cherished the moments she spent with Hawksley, she could not deny that there was a growing restlessness in the back of her mind.
She could never be fully at ease when there was a puzzle to be solved.
Certainly not with a puzzle as important as discovering the identity of Fredrick’s murderer.
Unaware of the lazy blue gaze that kept close track of her growing distraction, Clara was startled when Hawksley abruptly broke the silence.
“Is there something wrong with your trout?”
With an effort she forced her thoughts back to the small dining room, and more importantly back to the handsome gentleman sprawled in the seat opposite her.
A faint amusement raced through her as her gaze lingered over the chiseled features and broad form. With his raven hair pulled to his nape and his earring glinting in the candlelight, he looked deliciously wicked.
Goodness, what woman in her right mind could have taken her mind off him for a moment? Especially a woman who could never have dreamed in her wildest fantasies she could attract his attentions?
It was little wonder she had been left firmly upon the shelf.
“Oh no, it is perfect,” she protested. “Mrs. Black has proven to be very skilled in the kitchen.”
A raven brow flicked upward. “There must be some reason you are not eating.”
She grimaced, well aware she could hide nothing from his piercing gaze.
“I was thinking of Lord Doulton.”
“Yes, well, that is enough to make anyone lose their appetite,” he growled, his features tightening at the mere mention of the man’s name. “Were you thinking anything in particular?”
She blew out a frustrated sigh. “I was simply attempting to straighten things out in my mind.”
“Were you successful?”
“Not particularly,” she confessed. She hated the feeling that she had overlooked something important. Something that might very well help Hawksley. “What I need is paper and a pen.”
There was a short pause as he regarded her in a searching manner. Then with an elegant motion he was on his feet and pulling out her chair for her.