“There’s bad blood in every family, Miss Hurstman,” Hawk replied, meeting that look. “Wasn’t it your paternal grandfather who tried to stake his daughter in a game of hazard?”
Clarissa was astonished and alarmed to see Miss Hurstman silenced, and she leaped into the conversation. “So are you fixed here for a few days, Major?”
He turned to her, his expression warming. “I am, Miss Greystone. I anticipate a great deal of pleasure from it.”
Clarissa didn’t think she mistook his meaning, and she turned away to hide a smile. He was here to hunt her. She still wasn’t sure if she should let herself be caught, but the pursuit promised extraordinary pleasure.
She had promised the first dance to dashing Captain Ralstone, and forbade herself to regret it. She couldn’t dance every dance with the major. She had to confess to being relieved, however, when he led out Lord Amleigh’s wife rather than some other unmarried woman.
Jealousy? That was ridiculous.
She made herself pay full attention to Captain Ralstone during their dance, but this had the unfortunate effect of increasing his confidence. By the end of the set, his comments were becoming a little warm, and his manner almost proprietary. She was delighted in more ways than one to move off with Major Hawkinville in preparation for the next set.
“Ralstone is a gazetted fortune hunter, you know,” he said, as they strolled around the room.
“And you are not?” It popped out, and she immediately wished it back.
His brows rose, but he didn’t immediately answer. Eventually he said, “My father owns a modest property, and I am his only son.”
She knew she was red. “I do beg your pardon, Major. I had decided to put off affectation and behave naturally, but I see now why it is unwise.”
She was rewarded with his smile. “Not at all. I would be delighted if you would be natural with me, Miss Greystone. After all, as we see, it dispels misunderstandings before they can root.”
“Yes,” she said, but she didn’t think his talk of natural behavior related entirely to dispelling misunderstandings.
He covered her gloved hand on his arm. “Perhaps we can begin by using first names with each other, just between ourselves.”
She glanced down at their hands for a moment. He wore a signet ring with a carved black stone, and his fingers were long, with neatly oblong nails.
She smiled up at him. “I would like that. My name is Clarissa.”
“I know. And mine is George, but no one uses it. You may if you wish, or you may call me Hawk, as most do.”
“Hawk? A somewhat frightening name.”
“Is it? You are no pigeon to be afraid of a hawk.”
“But I am told that you investigate everything, and forget nothing.”
He laughed. “That sounds tiresome rather than frightening.”
“Then what about the fortune hunting? Are you hunting me, Hawk?” She longed to have everything honest between them.
He touched her necklace where it lay against her throat, sliding a finger slowly beneath it. “What do you think?”
Clarissa wasn’t sure whether to swoon or be outraged.
“And be assured,” he murmured, lowering his hand, “if I capture you, my little pigeon, you will enjoy it.”
She escaped by looking around at the company and fanning herself. “It is not pleasant, you know, to be prey, no matter how benign the hunter.”
“Bravo,” he said softly. “Well, then, you will have to be a predator, too. I think I will call you Falcon.”
She looked back at him. “Ah, I like that.”
“I thought you might.”
But then she realized that he had brought them to a halt and was gazing into her eyes. Fortune hunting, she realized, could take many subtle forms. He was trying to mark her as his. She probably should not allow it, but it was too exciting to decline.
“Electricity,” she said.
“Definitely. You have experienced that mysterious force?”
“At school. We had a demonstration.”
“Education is wonderful, is it not?”
It was perhaps as well that the warning chords sounded then for the next dance, for Clarissa wasn’t sure what she might have done. The simplest fortune-hunting technique, she realized, would be to compromise her.
She must certainly guard against that, but she could certainly enjoy this.
It was only a dance.
Clarissa tried to remind herself of that, but she had danced with a man so rarely. The dancing master at the school hardly counted. Last year in London, she had attended two balls, but on both occasions she had been on Lord Deveril’s arm and had danced only with him. She wasn’t sure if her lack of partners had been because of her own lack of charms or because of Deveril.
And here she was, dancing with a man who seemed able to generate electricity without any machine at all!
It was a lively country dance that gave little opportunity for talk, but that didn’t matter. It would be an effort to be coherent. The movements allowed her to look at him, to smile at him, and to receive looks and smiles in return. They held hands, linked arms, and even came closer in some of the moves. She began to feel that she was losing contact with the wooden floor entirely…
When it came to an end, she fanned herself, trying to think of something lightly coherent to say. Suddenly she found herself in a cooler spot, and realized that he had moved them into the corridor outside the ballroom.
She half opened her mouth to object, to say that she would be looked for by other partners, or by Miss Hurstman, for that matter, but then she closed it again.
What next?
She couldn’t wait to find out.
The corridor—alas?—was not completely deserted, but as they strolled along it he captured her fan, sliding the ribbon off her wrist, and began to ply it for her. The cool breeze was not adequate competition for the additional heat swirling inside her.
“What are you doing, Hawk?”
His lips twitched. “Hunting?”
“Pray, for politeness’ sake, call it courting, sir.”
“Courting? I have much practice at the hunt, but little at courtship. How should we go on?”
She put on a mock flirtatious air. “Poetry would be welcome, sir. To my eyes. To my lips…”
“Ah.” He ceased fanning, but only to capture her gloved hand and raise it to his lips. “Sweet maid, your lips I long to kiss / To seal to mine in endless bliss / Let but your eyes send welcome here / And I, your swain, will soon be near.”
His lips pressed, and she resented her silk gloves, which muted the effect. “A sweet rhyme, but it comes rather easily to you, sir.”
His eyes lit with laughter. “Alas, it is commonly used. Written on a scrap of paper and slipped to a lady.”
“Not always with proper intentions? Tut, tut! Let me think what I can contribute.”
Her hand still in his, she recited, “O noble man, tall, chaste, and bold / So like a gallant knight of old
/ Turn on me once, lest I expire / Those sapphire orbs filled with manly fire.”
He laughed, covering his face for a moment with his free hand. “Manly fire?”
“And sapphire orbs,” she agreed. “Though I feel obliged to confess that the original was obsidian.”
“Ah. That probably explains the ‘chaste’ too.”
Clarissa blushed, though heaven knows she’d not expected him to be inexperienced. “He was one of my friend’s brothers, and I was twelve. It’s a very romantic age, twelve.”
“And you’re so old and shriveled now.”
She looked into his teasing eyes and quickly, before she lost courage, drew his hand to her lips for a kiss.
Warm skin, firm flesh and bone. A hint of cologne and… him.
Remembering that they were not alone, she hastily dropped his hand, grabbed her fan, and fanned herself frantically.
“It is hot, isn’t it?” He put a hand at her elbow and moved her sideways.
Into a room.
She stopped fanning, though she was certainly no cooler. It was a small withdrawing room set with armchairs, and with copies of magazines and newspapers available. At the moment it was deserted.
He made no attempt to shut the door. If he had, she thought she would have objected despite her riveted fascination.
To be compromised would be disastrous, she tried to remind herself, but a part of her simply didn’t care.
That part seemed to be the one in control. And the door, after all, was wide open.
“Major?” she said as a light query.
“Hawk,” he reminded her.
“Hawk.” But she blushed. The word seemed wicked, here, alone.
He touched her lips. “You only have to fly away, my dear.”
She met his eyes, her heart thundering. “I know.”
He took her hand and drew her across the room. When he stopped, she realized that they were no longer visible to anyone in the corridor.
But the door was still open…
Then he raised her chin with his knuckles, and kissed her.
It was a light kiss—a mere pressure of his lips against hers—and yet it sent a shiver of delight through her.
Her first kiss!
But then she stiffened. Not her first. Deveril had been her first. A memory of vomit made her pull back.
He stood absolutely still. “You do not like to be kissed?” Then, perceptively, he added, “Deveril?”
Her silence was all the answer he needed. “What a shame he is already dead.”
“You would have killed him for me?”
“With pleasure.”
He was serious. And he was a soldier. The idea of having a champion, a man ready to defend her with his life, was even more seductive than kisses. It was too soon, ridiculously too soon, but she wanted this man.
“Lord Deveril was murdered, I understand,” he said. “I don’t suppose it was you, was it?”
The seductive mist froze into horror. “No!”
He caught her arm before she could run away. “It was a joke, Falcon, but I see it’s no matter for humor.
” The touch turned into a caress. “You must forgive a soldier still rough from the war.”
She was struck dumb by fear of saying the wrong thing, and by the tender pleasure of his hand against her arm, her shoulder, her neck…
“If I were persuaded into marriage with a person I disliked,” he said, “and had unpleasant kisses forced upon me, I would do away with the offender.”
“But you’re a man.”
“Women are capable of violence too, you know.”
Lulled, relaxed, she said, “Yes. Yes, they are.”
As soon as the words escaped, she knew she had finally said too much. It shouldn’t matter. It was of no significance to him. But she had said too much.
Making herself be calm, she moved away from his touch, wondering whether to spill more words to cover what she’d said. No. “We must return to the dance. As I said, Major, I do not plan to create a scandal.”
Even to her own ears it sounded brittle.
He merely said, “Of course.” But as they moved toward the door, he put his hand on the small of her back. She felt it there through silk—possession and promise.
She had overreacted. He’d been joking, teasing.
And, as she’d decided before, her future husband would not want the truth about Deveril’s death to come out. Perhaps it was her sacred duty to marry him!
As they moved into the corridor, he linked their arms again. “You mustn’t let one man have such a victory over you, Falcon. You are entitled to enjoy kisses, and kisses are not so very wicked.” He waited until she looked at him, then added, “I hope you will soon let me show you how pleasant they can be.”
She was tempted to move back out of sight for an immediate demonstration, but she made herself be sensible and return to the ballroom. For one thing, she had another partner waiting. For another, she needed time and peace to think this all through.
A hollowness ached in her, however. Harmless as it had been, she should not have said that about a woman and violence. Nor should she have panicked at a joke about her killing Deveril.
Could she not engage in simple conversation without perilous shards of truth slipping out?
She danced one later set with the major, and it was the supper dance, but she made sure that afterward they stayed with a group. He didn’t seem to mind. He was, she was sure, a very patient hunter, and if he felt confident, it was hardly surprising.
As they returned home, Miss Hurstman said, “I warned you, Clarissa, about slipping off into anterooms.”
Foolish to hope that the dragon had not noticed. “It was hot in the ballroom.”
“That is the usual excuse. If you’d been gone any longer I would have found you.”
Clarissa sighed. “I’m sorry, Miss Hurstman, but Major Hawkinville was a perfect gentleman.”
It wasn’t really a lie.
“So I would hope, but have a care. I have no doubt he has an eye on your fortune.”
“Nor do I.” The coach drew up in Broad Street and they climbed down. “But tell me, Miss Hurstman, which of my partners tonight did not?”
Althea exclaimed, “Clarissa!” but Miss Hurstman, consistently honest, made no rebuttal.
Althea would have liked to chatter about the evening, but for once Clarissa claimed a headache and even accepted a little laudanum in the hope that it would still the whirling doubts and questions in her head.
It worked, but in the morning all the doubts and questions were still there, along with the acceptance of a simple fact. Hawk Hawkinville was winning. She was beginning to fall in love with him.
As they sat at a late breakfast the next morning, a note came from Lady Vandeimen inviting Clarissa and Althea to walk with her. Miss Hurstman made no objection and remarked that Maria Vandeimen would be a strict chaperone. “She was spun off her feet by a handsome opportunist once.”
“A fortune hunter?” Clarissa asked.
“There are different types of fortunes.”
“What was hers?”
“Her blood. Celestin had money and wanted the entree. But it wasn’t her, you see. It could have been anyone of high enough birth.”
Clarissa nodded, understanding the warning. “Yes, I see.”
As expected, when Lady Vandeimen arrived, she was accompanied by her husband, the Amleighs, and Major Hawkinville.
Hawk.
And the question was, Did he simply want money, or was there something of her about it?
Clarissa was not at all surprised when Althea ended up walking with the Amleighs, leaving her to Hawk’s escort. Nor could she regret it. One thing was certain— she could not make any kind of decision without learning more about Hawk Hawkinville, and the lessons were perfectly delightful.