“Did you get his name?” Fi pressed.
“Sure. ’E said it were John Smith.” Hutchings snorted. “Or maybe it was Jones.”
Fiona removed a coin purse, dangling it to jog the pimp’s memory. “You don’t recall anything else about this man?”
“No…but I know someone who might.”
“Who?”
Hutchings held out a beefy palm.
“The name first, if you please,” Fi said.
He grunted. “While Sarah mostly kept to ’erself, she was friendly wif one o’ the other dancers. Vera Engle.”
“May we speak to her?” Pippa asked.
“Thing is, Vera left for Derbyshire last week. Said she ’ad to take care o’ a sick uncle…who knows, maybe she ’as an inheritance too. Wouldn’t that be somefin?” Hutchings slapped the desk. “Two o’ my girls, heiresses.”
Fi held onto her patience. “When will Miss Engle be back?”
“Got the schedule ’ere somewhere.” He fumbled through a pile of papers on the desk. “Ah, ’ere it is. Vera’s slated for the Sirens o’ the Sea revue a week from today. I can tell ’er to expect you when she returns.”
Rising, Fi tossed the coin bag onto his desk. “Thank you for your time.”
Fourteen
Hawk savored dessert, a confection of silky custard and fluffy meringue, with a sense of satisfaction. There was something gratifying about dining at home with one’s wife. In recent years, he’d become accustomed to taking supper on a tray in his study. While he did not mind solitude, he far preferred Fiona’s charming company, especially after a long day filled with Quorum business.
After von Essen’s information had led to dead ends all around, Hawk and his colleagues had been at a standstill. Then Trent had picked up a rumor that the Sherwood Band had distributed more money, and the team had split up to chase down leads on supposed recipients of the gang’s largesse. They hadn’t turned up any new clues yet, and the surveillance would continue on the morrow.
Hawk let the dark business fade to the back of his mind. It wasn’t difficult; the meal, which had included sole meunière, duck with fig sauce, and buttered asparagus, was a delicious diversion and his companion even more delectable. Fiona was a vision in a gown of pale-blue taffeta that showed off her creamydécolletage, rounded bosom, and narrow waist. She’d pinned a corsage of cornflowers between her breasts. Her bright hair was draped in long, sensual curls over her right shoulder, more flowers blooming behind her ear.
She was fire and ice, and he burned just looking at her. Burned remembering the feeling of being inside her, the decadent squeeze of her pussy around his cock. In truth, memories of their coupling had distracted him throughout the day—even during his mission, which was irregular to say the least. He was a man known for his intellectual prowess and focus. In the past, after he’d satisfied his sexual appetite, he’d quickly returned to his normal, cool-headed state.
His wedding night had had a different effect. Instead of satiating him, fucking his bride had made him hungrier for her. It brought to mind Shakespeare’s description of Cleopatra:other women cloy the appetites they feed, but she makes hungry where she most satisfies.Consequently, Hawk had been battling a cockstand throughout supper and not just because of Fiona’s physical attractions. Her charming playfulness, quick wit, and merry laughter quickened his blood with longing.
Although chitchat had never been his forte, Hawk found his new countess easy to talk to. Fiona had asked about his day, and since he could not speak of Quorum business, he’d told her about his other hobbies. The genuine interest in her eyes had prompted him to describe his calculation machine. In his experience, his research tended to bore glamorous young ladies to tears, yet Fiona had seemed engaged. She’d asked intelligent questions that sparked several intriguing ideas. Her attention energized him, made him feel less stodgy and old.
When he’d asked about her day, he’d been amazed by all the domestic projects she already had underway. Her indignant recounting of her meeting with the “shady Mr. Sheeve” had made his lips twitch. He wondered if she knew how adorable she was with her spitfire personality and take-charge attitude. With wry amusement, he decided that she probably did.
He liked that Fiona did not pretend to be modest about her appeal. Her honesty was as rare as her ambition and drive. While she could have relied on her looks to get by in life, she clearly did not. Her many accomplishments—from dancing to alleyway rescues to household management—showed an exuberant and achievement-oriented spirit. Case in point: after setting their house in order, she’d apparently pranced off to do some genteel volunteering with her friends.
He couldn’t help but notice the contrast between his past and present. Suppers with Caroline had been steeped in silent, unrelenting tension. Drained by her illness, she had found social interactions exhausting and triggering of her megrims. She had gradually started taking meals in her bedchamber. He was ashamed to admit that he’d been relieved.
Fiona, however, sparkled. There was no better word to describe her luminescent poise. No wonder she’d conquered Society. Her enchanting company reassured him that this union would be different from his last. He did not need to be on guard for emotional volatility. Did not have to be braced to deal with sudden tears, stony silences, or suffocating despair. Fiona could take care of herself and did not need things from him that he could not give.
She did, however, inspire specific needs in him. As he watched, she gave her dessert spoon a delicate lick that made an image blaze in his head: her pink tongue trailing up the length of his cock. It wasn’t the sort of thing a man could expect of his wife, yet he couldn’t help but wonder if Fiona would be open to exploring oral pleasures. If she would let him gamahuche her…if she might be bold enough to return the favor.
Beneath the table, his napkin tented.
Easy, fellow. This is supper, not foreplay.
Despite his rampaging lust, he had decided against visiting Fiona’s bed this eve. First and foremost, she was likely sore from last night and needed time to recover. Recalling the traces of blood on the towel he’d used to tend to her, he felt a surge of possessiveness. She was his now, for better or worse, and he would take care of her as best he could.
Which led to his second reason: he ought to show some husbandly restraint. A gentleman did not foist his attentions upon his lady every single night. The last thing he wished to do was wear out his welcome. He would wait a few days before visiting Fiona’s bedchamber again; if her delightful response last night was any indication, she ought to be open to a weekly bedding.
Or even twice weekly,he thought wistfully.
