How To Seduce A Pirate (The Hawkins Brothers Series) Page 2

  He turned toward Edmund, his muscles hardening. “Who bloody well asked you to be my keeper?”

  Edmund scrunched his fists. “You clearly can’t take care of yourself. The opium’s completely smoked your brain.”

  “Damn it, I didn’t pose for that!” cried Quincy, pointing at the oil. “I’ve never even met Lord bloody H.”

  As he studied the brush strokes in greater detail, a memory surfaced of a smoky bedroom alight with candles, a warm bed on a winter’s eve and . . . a woman. No, he thought, flustered. Impossible.

  “Enough.” William stepped between them, arms outstretched. “Keep your heads. Both of you.”

  Quincy’s heart hammered. He grabbed his pulsing skull as he remembered a vixen with strawberry-flaxen hair, light green eyes and pink, kissable lips.

  He remembered more and more the night he had first met her, her cheeks flushed with heat, her breath rampant with arousal. He’d hardened at her sinful innocence, her obvious want. He’d thought her a comely wench come to pleasure him. But she had come for her own pleasure . . . with her sketch book.

  Bullocks.

  “Did you even think of Belle?” charged Edmund. “And what this would do to her reputation?”

  Quincy would never hurt his sister, Mirabelle, the Duchess of Wembury. He would sooner cut his own throat than cause her any pain.

  He stepped away from the miserable artwork. His brothers glowered at him with obvious condemnation, now convinced he really was the irresponsible, skirt chasing, opium fiend in need of a keeper.

  “At least we have the painting.” Edmund sighed. “It’s over.”

  “Have you seen this morning’s post?” William gestured toward the reeking piles of perfumed letters. “You weren’t the only one who recognized Quincy in the painting. Word of his ‘sexual prowess’ has traveled fast.”

  Quincy fisted his palms. He was going to kill Lord H.

  CHAPTER 2

  The Honorable Miss Holly Turner stepped into the ballroom wearing a burnished gown of gold taffeta, her locks pinned and curled in an elegant crown around her head and garnished with a ruby comb.

  It had been seven years since she’d entered the glittering world of high society. A selfish part of her hoped she had not been forgotten. During her first season, she’d held the eye of every eligible bachelor, and she’d adored the flattering attention. But the scandal that had ravaged her father had forced her into seclusion, and her youthful heyday had passed.

  With the passing of time, though, the gossip had also died. And now there was hope for her younger sister, Emma, to make a respectable match.

  Holly looked over at her seventeen-year-old sister, adorned in white and wide-eyed as a dove. She felt the girl’s fingers digging into her arm and smiled.

  “Don’t fret, love. You’ll be the toast of the town.”

  Emma simpered. “I’m sure I’ll forget every etiquette lesson, every dance step. Oh, Holly! What if no one asks me to dance?”

  “Hush, Emma. Your dance card will be filled. Soon you’ll need another and another still. Don’t let your nerves spoil your wonderful evening. Look. Here comes our hostess.”

  The Countess of Brimsby approached the ladies with a broad smile. She had invited the sisters to her annual spring ball at Holly’s behest and in honor of their late mother, her once cherished friend.

  “Holly, my dear.” The matron cupped her shoulders and kissed her on each cheek, officially marking her re-entrance into society. “You are as lovely as your mother.”

  “Thank you, Lady Brimsby.”

  “And you, Emma, how tall you’ve grown.”

  Emma offered a very presentable curtsy.

  “Well done, my dear. Why, you’ll have every young beau at your command, just as your sister once had.”

  Holly winced. Lady Brimsby had not said anything untruthful; Holly wasn’t the freshest bloom in the garden anymore. Still, the unwitting remark stung worse than a bee.

  “Come, girls, let me introduce you to all the eligible men.”

  It wasn’t long before Holly’s prediction had come true. Emma attracted the notice of many well-to-do gentlemen, and her dance card indeed overflowed with handsome suitors. She spent most of the night twirling across the dance floor, much to Holly’s relief.

  Holly herself received a few charming glances but quelled the impulse to encourage the courtiers. She was Emma’s chaperone. And while Holly would love to dance, she needed to keep a close watch over her vulnerable sister.

  As the night wore on, the air stifled. Holly couldn’t step outdoors to escape the crush, not even for a moment, too afraid to leave her sister unattended. Instead, she headed toward the refreshment table and collected a glass of iced water. Just holding the chilled glass between her hands doused some of the stuffiness in the room.

  “Might I have the next dance?”

  She stiffened. Her heart pumped faster at the sound of that seductive male voice. She would never forget that voice. She had heard it even in her dreams.

  There was really nowhere for her to hide, much less run. She was trapped. And she didn’t want to imagine what awaited her if she confronted that voice—and the man it belonged to.

  But she couldn’t stand with her back to him either. The warmth from his body heated her spine, and she shivered with dread. How had he found her? Would he out her at the ball? In front of the ton? On her sister’s important night? Heavens! Could she prevent another scandal in any way?

  Wait! She was imagining the worst possible scenario. Perhaps he didn’t recognize her? Perhaps he just wanted to dance with an eligible lady? He had been asleep and drowsy with opium on the night she’d first met him. How much could he truly remember about her?

  But what was he doing at the ball? Was he gentry? No. No. She’d made inquiries into his mysterious identity. He was not a lord, she was sure. And yet . . .

  Her mind swirled with a thousand thoughts. It was time to learn the truth.

  Hand shaking, she set down the iced water, hauled in a deep breath, then turned with a polite smile.

  Her heart slammed against her chest as a pair of livid blue eyes penetrated her soul. Heavens, his eyes. The bluest blue. She had never seen him in full light and hadn’t realized just how black his wavy hair was or how finely sculpted his features were without the trace of a beard. And tall. Ever so tall. With the same wide, muscular shoulders any artist would beg to study—or any lover would beg to touch.

  Holly sensed her temperature rising, her throat growing parch. Strangely, the brilliant light from the ballroom detracted from his bewitching physique. He was still as sinfully handsome as she remembered—even when steaming mad—but he was a man to be admired under candlelight, in the shadows, in the time between dusk and dawn.

  “I don’t believe we’ve met,” she said, voice strangled. She lifted her gloved hand for a customary buss on the knuckles. “The Honorable Miss Holly Turner.”

  His touch was both tender and strong, and she felt an involuntary spasm in her belly—and heard warning bells in her ears.

  “I believe we’ve met before, Miss Turner.”

  At his husky voice, she shuddered. The man still possessed the same disarming affect on her with his low timbre. And when his sensuous lips caressed her hand, scorching her flesh right through the satin fabric, unbidden pleasure skittered down her spine.

  “In fact,” he whispered in a throaty vein, “I believe we know each other very well.”

  Holly’s heart pounded ever harder. How much could she deflect as nonsense, the misconceptions of a half asleep, intoxicated man?

  He murmured, “Intimately well.”

  A heady memory welled to the forefront of her thoughts—a naked man towering above her. So strong. So virile. So erect.

  She was blushing, she knew. She couldn’t restrain her body’s response to his both charismatic and dangerous presence. Worse, curious eyes were turning toward them. Why? Was it really so unthinkable Holly might attract a suitor? She might be
a spinster, but she was only five-and-twenty, hardly an old maid. And no one knew her identity as Lord H. Or that she had painted the stranger in front of her. So why all the nosy stares?

  Holly could feel an anxious pressure on her throat. She mustered her bravado. She had to protect her sister. She had to disentangle herself from the Adonis before gossip spread. “I’m afraid you are mistaken, sir.”

  She tried to pull her hand away. His grip tightened.

  “I think not, sweet.”

  Oh, no! He had called her that on the night they’d first met. He did remember the details of their brief encounter. How many, though?

  “Shall we dance?”

  Flustered, she croaked, “I’m not inclined to dance.”

  “A shame.”

  He escorted her onto the dance floor, maintaining an unbreakable hold of her hand. If she struggled, she’d receive even more intrusive attention from the onlookers. Heavens, requital had come!

  He wrapped a muscular arm around her waist, holding her close, much too close. His fingers spread across her backside in a guarded embrace, and for a moment her memory slipped into the faraway past.

  She found herself a debutant again in the arms of the season’s most sought-after beau. All the mooning, coy, flirtatious winks of the feminine sex failed to attract his notice. He had eyes solely for her. She alone was worthy of his passionate attention.

  In smooth steps, he guided her in a graceful waltz.

  “Might I assume I paid for that dress and those jewels with the fortune I forked up to retrieve my naked arse?”

  Holly gasped at his outright, crude language in the middle of the dance floor. Her foolish reverie shattered as she desperately searched her immediate surroundings. Had anyone overheard the exchange? But his voice had been low enough to disappoint the eavesdroppers. Couples strained their ears toward them, but none expressed shock at his outrageous inquiry.

  “Sir, I—”

  “Quincy,” he interrupted. “Quincy Hawkins.”

  His name jarred her to the bone. She had preferred to think of him as a dream. But he was real. And he posed a very real threat to her newfound position in society. She needed to know as much about him as possible, to appease him, to take the hellfire out of his eyes.

  He was rich, she reflected, wearing the most fashionable togs. And he had enough money to purchase her—his?—painting. But he’d mentioned no title. A boon, there. She was unfamiliar with his family name. And yet, she’d been absent from society for so long. He might be the latest young buck on parade. He appeared a couple of years her junior. She had likely missed his entrance into society. He had probably arrived shortly after her departure.

  But she had been so sure he wasn’t a gentleman. Her subtle inquiries into his identity had confirmed him a sailor. A sailor! Her source had clearly lied to her.

  “Mr. Hawkins, you are a gentleman, and I—”

  “I’m not a true gentleman, Miss Turner. I only pretend to be one for the sake of my sister.”

  “Your sister?”

  “The Duchess of Wembury.”

  Holly groaned.

  “And you, Miss Turner, have embarrassed my sister with your infernal artwork.”

  Worse and worse. A rake might be flattered by the amorous attention he’d received from the painting, but a rake protecting his sister? His duchess-of-a-sister?

  Holly was doomed. She recognized his sister’s title. Her husband, the Duke of Wembury, had been known as the “Duke of Rogues” in Holly’s time. If nothing had changed in all these years, Holly had just embroiled herself with one of the most wicked family’s in England!

  Suddenly all the obtrusive stares made dreadful sense. Holly was dancing with the man in the painting—the painting that had all but abased the Duchess of Wembury.

  Lightheaded, Holly grasped Mr. Hawkins in a firmer hold. Oh, why had she auctioned the painting of him? Why had she ever painted him in the first place?

  It had never been her intent to do either, not after she’d realized her error in mixing up the rooms at the gaming hell. But his image had haunted her. And after several restless weeks, she’d expressed his likeness on canvas, hoping to release herself from his inexplicable hold.

  But unleashing her creativity had only made him more desirable. Mr. Hawkins possessed an enigmatic allure. Soul. Mystery. And a story. Who am I? he had called from the canvas. Come closer and find out . . .

  He had captured her breath. And she’d reasoned he’d capture the breaths of others as well—wealthy others. She’d been right on that count. The sum his likeness had fetched had finally provided her with the means she’d needed to launch her sister into society and provide her with a respectable dowry.

  Now, Holly might lose everything on that gamble.

  “Mr. Hawkins, there’s been a terrible misunderstanding.”

  “I think not, Lord H.”

  Again she looked to see if anyone had overheard him. Thankfully, no.

  “How did you discover me?” she whispered. If he had learned of her clandestine identity, might others discover it as well?

  “A very forthcoming Madam Barovski.”

  “No, she would never reveal such a secret. Her reputation would be ruined. And trust, once lost, is irrecoverable. She’d lose all her patrons.”

  “Very astute, Miss Turner. But what if I had a brother, say a Bow Street Runner, who threatened to bring down her entire establishment if she didn’t reveal the wench who’d come into my room on Christmas Eve?”

  Holly scowled at the word “wench.” Her paintings had sustained her and her sister in times of poverty. No one wanted art from a woman, much less serious art, and so she’d painted nudes incognito, resorting to disreputable tactics, like hiring prostitutes as models. It infuriated her to be considered a “wench” for the work she’d performed to survive.

  “And might Madam Barovski betray one client to save all the others?” he murmured.

  “She might, indeed,” grumbled Holly, silently cursing Madam Barovski. And then an idea struck her. “Aren’t you being a hypocrite, Mr. Hawkins?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I paid for your services. You might have changed your mind about posing for me when you chased me from the room, but that’s no reason to upbraid me or intimidate me with exposure. If you didn’t want the attention, you should not have agreed to the transaction.”

  His features darkened like thunderclouds. Perhaps she had crossed a line with her flippant response. But she was already up to her neck in boiling water.

  “Have you lost your mind?” he growled, eyes flashing. “I pose for you?”

  “I hired a male model to draw. And Madam Barovski directed me to your room.”

  “She directed you to another room. You sneaked into mine.”

  Holly widened her features in her best imitation of horror. “You are not the model I hired? Oh, Mr. Hawkins, I am ever so regretful.” She was sorry. Very sorry, indeed. “Cleary there has been a grave mistake.”

  “I don’t give a damn about your mistake or apology, Miss Turner. But if you ever produce another painting with my likeness, you will regret it.”

  At that moment, the music ended and her cantankerous partner escorted her off the dance floor. Without another glance, he turned and stalked away.

  Abandoned at the refreshment table, all eyes pinned on her, Holly sensed that familiar strangulation at her throat.

  Where had Mr. Hawkins left her? Figuratively, of course. Would he reveal her notorious identity in revenge? Would his brother, the Bow Street Runner, apprehend her for breaking an indecency law?

  She was well aware of the chances she took each time she presented and sold a nude. What would become of her now? Her poor sister?

  Holly couldn’t allow matters to rest on such unstable ground. After checking to make sure her sister was safe, she withdrew from public scrutiny and quickly skulked after Mr. Hawkins.

  CHAPTER 3

  Quincy stormed from the ballroom. He
’d never been so infuriated with anyone in all his years, especially a woman. He adored the fairer sex. Hell, he’d charmed and seduced them since he was thirteen.

  But Miss Holly Turner provoked him beyond measure. He fisted his palms to contain his fury—and his lust. He couldn’t believe how hard he was for the conniving wench. He had never wanted to both throttle and bed a woman. And the opposite passions wrecked havoc on his innards.

  He reached his coach and entered the parked vehicle. He had told the driver to wait for him at the front entrance, for he’d no intention of staying at the ball. He’d achieved his purpose: to put a stop to any more illicit art featuring his arse.

  As he proceeded to close the door, lithe fingers wedged between the frame and he almost crushed the appendages.

  “Ouch!” cried a feminine voice.

  “Bloody hell.”

  He pushed opened the door and found Miss Turner massaging her hand. Without another thought, he grabbed her wrist and hauled her into the coach, slamming the door.

  “What the devil is the matter with you?” he demanded.

  “I need to speak with you in private,” she said, taking the opposite squab.

  “And if you’d been seen?”

  “I took care no one was spying. We must talk.”

  The desperation in her voice cooled some of his temper, but none of his lust. The gas lighting from the street seeped into the carriage and rested across her face, bathing her fair skin and elfin features in a hazy glow. She had a pure and innocent beauty, like an unspoiled country girl. Even her gown and jewels couldn’t take away her earthly charm, and he found himself captivated by her soft sweetness. How could such a fair, unassuming creature be the infamous Lord H?

  His blood burned to have her alone in the vehicle, and the impulse to hold her again overwhelmed him. As she continued kneading her fingers, he took her injured hand in his. She gasped. He ignored her protest and slowly removed one glove, stroking her slender fingers from joints to phalanxes, palpating for fractures. How could such fine, dainty fingers create such sinful art?