He was already steering her towards the door before she could reply. Two men on the stairs stepped aside without a word, backs pressed to the wall.
“Stay close,” he said. “Keep your gaze ahead.”
It was easier said than done when curiosity wrestled with caution.
At the top, the corridor pulsed with creaks and breathy moans, the perfume so cloying she had to stifle a cough. One door stood ajar.
Inside, a man lounged naked on a velvet chaise while two women fed him strawberries. One laughed as she licked the juice from his chest.
“Keep moving.” Mr Hawke didn’t break stride.
Daphne meant to. But a woman looked up, and for abreathless moment, she could have sworn it was Mrs Foster, her father’s paramour.
No. It couldn’t be.
Not unless she’d found a new lover in a week.
Mr Hawke drew a key from his coat and swiftly unlocked the door markedNefertiti’s Palace, ushering her inside with the efficiency of a man eager to shut the world out.
“The lady in that room—” she began, stopping short when Mr Hawke locked the door behind them. “Good heavens.”
It wasn’t being alone with him in a bedchamber that had her heart thundering like a racehorse at the gate. Or that robbed her of all sensible thought. Some women might sell their souls to be this close to him.
The room was a decadent echo of a pharaoh’s tomb. Gold and lapis-blue columns framed the bed. Hieroglyphs covered the walls. The air held the tang of myrrh and spiced wood.
It was a room made for seduction.
Everything in it whispered yes.
“Hellfire.” He set the plate on the nightstand and dragged a hand through his hair. “You know how to punish a man, Miss Harland.”
This was her punishment as much as his.
The attraction was inconvenient.
“We’ve kissed, Mr Hawke. You should call me Daphne.”
“I prefer to remind myself you’re chaste.”
“Because you already broke one rule?”
“Because I don’t intend to break another.”
She chuckled to herself as she set her plate on the side table by the hearth. Since when had she become an irresistible temptress? One capable of bringing this man to his knees.
“Mrs Flavell clearly thought you needed convincing.” She lifted the sheer gold nightgown draped over the dressingscreen and held it against her. “This would hardly keep out an autumn chill.”
Mr Hawke didn’t look at her at first. He stared into the fire like a man reciting commandments to himself. When his gaze slid her way, the flecks in his green eyes glowed like embers.
“That woman is an expert in torture. Shall I strip off my shirt so you can lash me with your allure, Miss Harland?”
“No need. I’ll sleep in my clothes tonight.”
“You can’t.” He cursed. “That dress goes back to the modiste in the morning. There’s already dirt on the hem. Your shift will suffice.” He threw the cutlery onto the bed and scanned the room. “I’ll sleep on the floor. Or that chaise.”
She felt a flutter of relief, and a strange pang of regret.
“We’re adults, Mr Hawke. I’m not going to ravish you if that’s your fear. I’m not the one who craves intimacy.”
