He should have mocked her, reminded her she was just a mark. Instead, he found himself noticing the slope of her neck, the defiant set of her mouth, the maddening softness of her curves. He could have any woman. Yet this one made revenge feel complicated and an affair almost tempting.
The music faded, the final strains of the violins marking the end of the dance and a plan brought to fruition.
Yet his competent partner took a sudden misstep on the final turn, causing him to catch her about the waist. She reached for him to steady herself, one hand gripping his lapel, the other clasping the back of his neck.
Miss Harland should have graced the stage. If titles were given for theatrics, she’d be royalty. Yet it wasn’t the sudden press of her body against his that sent his world spinning, nor the feel of her sumptuous breasts crushed to his chest.
It was the sweet mouth that settled on his.
Warm. Soft. Deliberate.
And for one impossible moment, he forgot who was ruining whom.
CHAPTER TWO
To most, Mr Hawke was a rotten scoundrel, a dangerous degenerate who preyed on the weak, a cunning master of manipulation. To Daphne, he was a light in the darkness. Her saint. Her saviour.
She’d heard the gasps when he entered the ballroom with the confidence of Lucifer come to collect his due. Men clutched their hearts. Some shrank into the crowd, hoping they were invisible. Others tossed back their champagne as if it might be their last.
“God help us all,” Aunt Augusta had muttered.
“Hawke takes no prisoners,” someone added.
Daphne had just stared.
What must it be like to wield such power? To watch the ton cower? To stride through a room with your head held high while people cursed your name? What kind of life bred that sort of pride?
She’d spent sleepless nights praying for a solution to her dreadful predicament. She’d wept in silence, weighed hopeless options, and come within a breath of surrendering to herfate. Never had she imagined salvation would arrive in such a dangerously handsome package.
Yet it wasn’t Mr Hawke’s brooding good looks that made her throw herself at him. It wasn’t why she kissed him now, or clung to him, knowing he couldn’t push her away without ruining his own savage scheme.
She didn’t want to feel the heat of his mouth or hear the hitch in his breath. She didn’t want to taste brandy on his lips or breathe in the maddening spice of his cologne.
She needed but one thing from him.
Ruination.
He played his hand as she’d known he would, with devilish intent, as if this had always been the plan. He clutched her hair roughly, scattering pins across the floor. The hand at her waist slid lower, bunching the silk in his fist, sparking a strange heat in her belly.
Her breasts felt heavy. Her head too light. She forgot there were people in the room, forgot that he was a means to an end. That this mattered.
Then Mr Hawke dragged his mouth to her cheek, her jaw, and the sensitive spot below her ear. “I hope you’ve got thick skin, angel.” His breath sent a shiver skipping down her spine. “Own this moment, and you’ll be the toast of the demimonde.”
She pulled back and met his gaze.
His green eyes softened, perhaps part of his act.
“Never let them see you cry,” he said, releasing her and smoothing her gown. “Play the role. Carry a weapon. When it comes to conquests, you’ll top every man’s list. You could ask for the world, and they’d give it.”
A hundred pairs of eyes watched them, so she smiled. “Thank you, Mr Hawke, for an enlightening experience, and for making this the most memorable dance of my life.”
A muscle in his cheek twitched. Something passed between them: a flicker, a beat, a breath. Then he took her gloved hand, his mouth warm through the fabric as it brushed her fingers.
“Goodbye, angel.”
“Goodbye, Mr Hawke.”
He hesitated, then bowed and led her from the floor.
