How To Seduce A Pirate (The Hawkins Brothers Series) Read online

  How To Seduce A Pirate

  Alexandra Benedict

  ROMANCES BY Alexandra Benedict

  The Hawkins Brothers Series

  Mistress of Paradise

  The Infamous Rogue

  The Notorious Scoundrel

  How to Seduce a Pirate

  The Too/Westmore Brothers Series

  Too Great a Temptation

  Too Scandalous to Wed

  Too Dangerous to Desire

  The Fallen Ladies Society

  The Princess and the Pauper

  Stand Alone Romance

  A Forbidden Love

  AND COMING SOON

  How to Steal a Pirate’s Heart

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  How to Seduce a Pirate

  Copyright © 2016 Alexandra Benedikt

  ISBN-13: 978-1499162806

  ISBN-10: 1499162804

  Cover Photo Copyright © PhotoCD/Bigstock.com

  Excerpt from How to Steal a Pirate’s Heart

  Copyright © 2016 Alexandra Benedikt

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  www.AlexandraBenedict.ca

  For my readers,

  who would not let me forget

  about these dashing rogues.

  Thank you for your support

  and encouragement.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  Excerpt: How to Steal a Pirate’s Heart

  Fun Stuff!

  About the Author

  PROLOGUE

  London, 1826

  As the snowfall thickened, Miss Holly Turner hastened her booted steps, finally reaching the front door at number twenty-seven. She rapped on the wood, glancing from side to side. The street was deserted on Christmas Eve. Still, her fingers trembled. If discovered at the notorious gaming hell, her reputation would be ruined. But she needed to take the dramatic measure. She wasn’t in a position to make the unusual arrangements herself. She needed assistance. And the impervious Madam Barovski was the reputed hostess of the ton, capable of satisfying even the strangest request.

  As soon as the barrier opened, Holly whisked inside the elegant townhouse. Her eyes darted toward the principal rooms. Empty. She sighed. She had insisted upon the utmost discretion, and Madam Barovski had vowed her patrons would be engaged in the upstairs bedrooms at such a late hour. Even so, Holly maintained her long cape and hood, concealing her identity.

  “Good evening, Miss,” greeted the older woman, her features a composition of unflinching banality.

  “Good evening,” murmured Holly. “Is everything prepared?”

  “As you requested, Miss.”

  Upon the assurance, Holly reached inside her carpetbag and removed a draft, handing her hostess the agreed upon sum. The woman accepted the banknote, slipping it between her breasts.

  “This way, Miss.”

  At the top of the stairs, Madam Barovski stopped and pointed down the hall. “Room nine.”

  And with those cursory words, the gaming mistress descended the spiral staircase and disappeared from sight.

  Of course she wasn’t going to accompany Holly. The less the woman witnessed the better. Still, Holly would’ve preferred a chaperone.

  She looked down the darkened passageway, her heart pounding, and took a cautionary step. The floorboards blessedly didn’t creak, and she quietly passed the other rooms, searching for number nine.

  Holly winced when she heard the crack of a whip and a man groan in agony—or was it ecstasy? Skirting along, she soon arrived at the designated chamber.

  The brass number glinted in the dim gaslight, and her heart boomed even harder. After a measured breath, she pressed the latch and pushed open the barrier.

  The room was piping warm, rich in red tones and scintillating under firelight. Holly entered the forbidden world and set down her carpetbag, quickly shutting the door behind her. Feeling safe at last, she lowered her hood and gasped at the figure in the bed.

  The young man rested on his stomach, his muscular arms wrapped around a white pillow. The chamber was heavy with candles, and she watched the flickering glow play across his naked spine. Her eyes travelled to the small of his back and the slight curvature of his firm buttocks, but she saw no more of his nakedness, his lower body covered by a linen sheet.

  Heavens, he was beautiful. More beautiful than Holly had imagined. A pulsing sensation drummed through her, her nerves tingling with unexpected life. She had never been so aware of her own skin, gooseflesh spreading across her limbs in prickling arousal.

  Her breath quickened as she lifted her gaze to the man’s handsome features. A curl of sable black hair dangled over his smooth brow. She noticed just a shadow of facial hair caressing his jaw and chin. His lips, so lush, whirred as he breathed deep and steady, fast asleep.

  Soon she detected the sweet scent of opium in the room. He had indulged in the smoke. Was he nervous, like her? Nonsense, she thought. He was accustomed to such services. She was the novice here. And she had best get to work. She hadn’t much time before dawn.

  After another thorough assessment of his robust physique, her eyes returned to his slumbering face—and she found him alert.

  Holly started at the pair of smoldering blue eyes fixed on her. He studied her in the same sensational manner, moving his gaze down the length of her body and back up to her eyes, making her shudder with unwanted delight.

  “What’s your name, lass?”

  His voice, thick and sensual, peeled away her inhibitions, and her breath hitched before she whispered, “Holly.” Surely there was no harm in revealing her first name. She would never see him again after tonight.

  A smile played in his eyes. “My very own Holly for Christmas. Madam is most generous.”

  Holly sensed trouble. His flirtation had a disarming affect on her, dashed her concentration. She had to grapple with her own tongue to set him back in his place.

  “She is indeed,” affirmed Holly. After all, her hostess had procured an outstanding masculine specimen. There was no contention there. “But I’m not here for your pleasure. You are here for mine.”

  He chuckled, a low rumble, and she found the sound a disturbing pleasure.

  “Very well, Holly. How would you like me?”

  “Just as you are.”

  His position was perfect, in truth. She picked up her carpetbag and crossed the room, settling in an armchair beside the hearth.

  “You can hardly touch me from over there, sweet.”

  Heavens, he was going to make the experienc
e a thorny one with his wicked words. “I’ve no intention of touching you.”

  He frowned. “Then what do you intend to do with me?”

  “Sketch you, of course. Now keep still.”

  Holly removed her sketch book and charcoal pencil and started working on his form. Her first male nude! She had only ever painted the female body. But this . . . this had to be worth the risk.

  “Listen, sweet, if you’re not going to have a bit of real fun, then get out so I can sleep.”

  She furrowed her brow. “I’ve paid good money for your time and silence.”

  The impudent rake. Hadn’t Madam told him about her strict request? No conversation!

  “What the devil are you talking about?” he snapped.

  He started to rise from his drowsy slumber.

  “Get back into the bed,” she ordered, her voice cracking with panic.

  But he stood up, naked, fully erect, glorious—and frightening beyond words. Holly dropped her jaw. Heavens!

  He growled, “You paid for me?”

  Holly blinked, then grabbed her belongings, sensing something was very amiss. “Madam said—”

  “That witch is selling me?”

  He took a thunderous step toward her.

  With a shriek, Holly bolted from the room, the number nine swinging on the door as she dashed away. And it was in that moment she realized the number nine was not the number nine, but the number six upside-down. A nail must have come loose and fallen to the ground, the six swinging down to look like a nine.

  Oh, no! She had made a horrible blunder. And someone had seen her! Not the paid prostitute she’d hired, but another man.

  Holly rushed pell-mell out of the gaming hell.

  CHAPTER 1

  London, 1827

  Quincy Hawkins lathered a scone with butter and jam. As the last of his brothers to rise, he was breaking his fast alone in the dining parlor. He preferred the solitude. He wasn’t sure when the strife with his older siblings had started, but their tedious reproofs of him had grown tiresome of late.

  After devouring the scone, Quincy reached across the table for the morning broadsheet and quirked an amused brow at the sensational headline: Lord H Crosses the Line of Decency!

  The Lord Byron of the painted world, Lord H produced erotic art, his work exhibited underground, showing only in illicit establishments and selling for neat sums. No one knew the artist’s true identity, though he was rumored to live in France.

  Quincy had seen a few of the man’s pieces go up for auction, though he personally thought them rather tawdry, lacking any real sensuality; the sort of work a sexually inexperienced buck might find provocative. Certainly unworthy of all the public fuss.

  But it seemed an indecency law had been broken. His middle brother, Edmund, a Bow Street Runner, was actually on the hunt for the elusive artist and his so-called scandalous work. Again, Quincy didn’t understand the hullabaloo over naked breasts. He certainly adored them, but they weren’t entirely hidden from society. The antiquity department at the British Museum was full of much lovelier nymphs.

  As he bit into a second pastry, the butler entered the room, carrying a large silver tray stacked with gobs of letters. A hundred, at least! The servant set down the curious missives, most tied with ribbon and sprayed with heady perfume. Gads, the smell!

  “What the devil’s going on, Benson?” he mumbled, mouth full of jam and bread.

  “This morning’s post, sir.”

  A ridiculous amount of mail, thought Quincy. And why had Benson delivered it to the dining parlor and not the study?

  “Well, pass it along to William. You know he takes care of the family’s affairs.”

  His older brother, William, governed the bachelor roost since their eldest brother, James, had married and moved to Mayfair.

  “They are all addressed to you, sir.”

  Quincy balked.

  As the unflappable butler left the room, Quincy licked his fingers before he flipped through the monstrous piles of letters. There was no mistaking what Benson had said—every letter was addressed to him.

  “What’s all this, pup?”

  Captain William Hawkins entered the dining parlor, a deep frown etched across his brow. He had the same intimidating height and muscular build as each of his brothers, but unlike the rest of the tempestuous brood, he was the most sensible of the lot. Truly, Quincy had never seen him lose his temper.

  “I’m as confounded as you, old man.”

  His brother’s frown darkened at the epithet. William had just turned forty years of age. And if Quincy was still the “pup” at age twenty-three, then his sibling was deservedly the “old man.”

  Quincy snatched a couple of letters, tearing off the frilly ribbons and breaking the wax seals. Skimming the feminine penmanship, he discovered a series of lusty proposals: some asked for a private dance at the next ball, others invited him to a secret rendezvous, and others still suggested an outright affair.

  An irrepressible grin tugged at his lips. “It seems my sexual prowess is gaining acclaim.”

  William scowled.

  Funning aside, Quincy was bewildered. What had happened to warrant the hoard of sexual offers?

  William assumed a seat at the opposite end of the table and crossed his arms. “Well, if your ‘sexual prowess’ isn’t taking up too much of your time, I want to know if you’re prepared for our upcoming journey?”

  After a long hiatus, he and William were scheduled to set sail in less than a week and resume their duties as privateers in the Royal Navy’s African Squadron.

  A year ago, William had been shot aboard ship, chasing a British slaver. The bullet to the chest had almost killed him, and it’d taken him near a year to recover and regain his strength.

  “I’m prepared,” said Quincy. “I even purchased a new monaural stethoscope along with a few more books on anatomy—in case you get shot again.”

  At the gibe, William’s usually staid features twisted in what resembled fury. For a man who controlled his emotions at all times, it was a remarkable sight.

  But it still riled Quincy, his absence aboard the Nemesis that day. If he had been there, he would have treated his brother’s wound with the surgical skills he’d amassed over the years, and William would not have been butchered by the inexperienced tars aboard ship. His brother would have healed sooner. And he damn well wouldn’t have come so close to death. But Quincy had been banned from that tour, accused of being too “ill,” too attached to opiates to serve on a ship.

  His brother just didn’t appreciate the poppy and its healing effects. Quincy had once had trouble with the drug, taking too much at one time. But he knew better now. In properly measured doses, the compounded paste cured almost every ail, including insomnia—and crippling nightmares.

  William studied him with a dubious expression, perhaps pondering if Quincy was capable of making the Atlantic crossing. But after a year on land, Quincy was restless with the desire to return to sea. He was joining the tour—even if he had to stow away.

  He was needed, too. He wouldn’t let another slaver take aim at William or the rest of the crew. How could his galling brother forget Quincy had been reared on a schooner since he was a pup? He lived and breathed the life of a seaman. And while he might be the youngest of his brethren, he’d experienced as many battles and storms and near hangings as any of them.

  A series of offbeat thumps resounded in the passageway. Someone carried a cumbersome object and was bumping into every piece of furniture along the way.

  Soon his brother Edmund appeared, his arms outstretched as he maneuvered a massive canvas draped in red velvet. He dumped the painting on the ground, leaning it against the wall.

  “What is that?” asked William, his black brows pinched together.

  A breathless Edmund combed a hand through his mussed hair. “The most recent painting by Lord H.”

  “The erotic artist?” William exchanged bemused glances with Quincy. “Shouldn’t you surrend
er it to the magistrate?”

  “Hell, no!”

  Quincy chuckled. “Turning pirate again, are you?”

  For ten years, the Hawkins brothers had sailed the high seas as pirates. But after their beloved sister had married a duke, the four had retired their marauding ways and settled into the routine existences of respectable gentlemen.

  “I didn’t steal it,” returned a surly Edmund. “I bought it.”

  He fished out a scrap of paper from his great coat pocket and handed William the bill.

  “Blimey! This costs more than the house.” As William’s face turned a burning red, he demanded, “Why the hell did you buy it?”

  “Because of this.”

  Edmund seized the velvet drape and tore it off the canvas.

  They all three stared at Quincy’s naked arse.

  William first recovered from the blow, groaning and slumping his face in his palm. “You posed nude? How could you do this, Quincy?”

  Quincy remained rigid, glaring at the wretched oil. It was him, all right, stretched out across a bed, naked, a white sheet covering his legs and only a small part of his arse.

  But how? When? Who had painted it?

  “I couldn’t confiscate the painting without also turning it over to the authorities,” said Edmund, “so I bought it and told the magistrate it’d sold before I could apprehend it.”

  “Did you have to pay a bleedin’ fortune?” from an aghast William.

  “I didn’t have a choice. There was a frenzy of bidding, and I had to get the pup’s arse out of public view.”

  Quincy would otherwise be flattered at the “frenzy of bidding” for his naked arse, but not under the circumstances. He finally marshaled his limbs into movement and approached the oil, analyzing the background. Dark red curtains. A fireplace near the foot of the bed. Candles. There was something gut wrenchingly familiar about the scenery, and he shut his eyes for a moment, groping through his hazy reflections.

  “I can’t keep hauling you out of scrapes, Quincy.”