For a clever man, he’d overlooked the obvious.
“Have you considered that your own actions might have been the catalyst? What if the man you’re seeking is part of the ton and knew my father could expose him?”
Mr Hawke had saved her life by storming into the ballroom. But the cost to her father had been steep. Whatever the cause, it was her father’s wickedness that got him killed.
“The sins of Shadowmere began long before I hosted decadent parties.” He extended his hand, more a challenge than an invitation. “We’re standing here because your father’s cruelty knew no bounds.”
She slipped her hand into his, ignoring the sudden rise in her pulse. “Yes, but you can’t discount the possibility someone else is involved.”
He glanced at their joined hands, then at her. “We’ll discuss it later, at the party. It will keep your mind from the guests’ lewd antics.”
She blinked. The party was sooner than expected.
“Mr Ramsey said the Autumn Masque is next week.”
“It is. But I’m calling in a debt.” Mr Hawke tightened his grip on her hand, drawing her dangerously close.
Her breath caught. She hated that he could do that with a single step.
“You owe me, Miss Harland. We’ll enjoy the delights of town before returning home tonight.”
She should have asked,What party?
But it was the way he saidhomethat sent her thoughts scattering like birds in a sudden storm. He made it sound as if they were married, had a past, a future, and something deliciously dangerous in between.
“I have nothing to wear,” she managed, but based on the devilish look in his eyes, she doubted it mattered. “We’d be fools to linger in town. Not with eyes on every street.”
He seemed to take pleasure in her mild distress. “We’ll party where no one dares to look. Among the demimonde. We won’t stay long.”
The man was a walking contradiction.
“I thought you despised sybarites.”
“I do. But we have one more task before we leave.”
She was afraid to ask what it was.
That wasn’t entirely true. She was more intrigued than afraid.
“Won’t people wonder why we’re together?”
“Why would they?” The rogue drew her hand to his lips, his gaze holding hers as his mouth brushed her knuckles, sending every nerve in her body sparking to life. “Everyone thinks you’re my mistress. Let’s give them what they crave.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Someone must have drugged the London air, lacing it with something that soothed a man’s wrath, clouded his judgement, and stripped him of every ounce of common sense.
Dominic should have been halfway to Kingston by now, rattling through muddy ruts and contemplating supper. Instead, he stood in the grand hall of a Grosvenor Place townhouse, watching Mrs Flavell’s strapping butler rub his palms, eager to divest Miss Harland of her cloak.
Lay a finger on her, and you’ll lose a hand.
He was already planning the butler’s funeral.
“Allow me.” He was behind her before the brute could touch her, a possessive heat stirring in his gut. “As I paid for that gown,” he murmured at her ear, “it’s only fair I’m the first to see it.”
“Careful, Mr Hawke.” The minx tugged lightly at the bow at her throat, teasing him. “A lady might mistake you for a gentleman.”
“There’s no chance of that, angel.”
