How To Seduce A Pirate (The Hawkins Brothers Series) Page 4

  He thought she had trapped him? On purpose? “I would never do such a hateful thing?”

  “If you insist, Miss Turner.”

  “I do insist. I have integrity, Mr. Hawkins.”

  He gathered his stormy features and resumed his uniform tone. “Our wedding will be a simple affair. My sister will collect and escort you to the church. She will also host a private luncheon at her home in Mayfair.”

  “I did not trap you, Mr. Hawkins. If I wanted to snare a man, I would not have chosen a rake who only ‘pretended’ to be a gentleman. I would have picked a real gentleman, someone I was sure would propose.”

  He eyed her, dubious. “You’ve put a lot of thought into snaring a hapless man, haven’t you?”

  “Ugh!”

  “Are you being unreasonable, Miss Turner? Are you refusing to marry me?”

  “No!” With less heat in her voice, she said, “I am most sensible about the matter. I just don’t want you to think so poorly of me . . . if I’m to be your wife.”

  “You are to be my wife.” His voice dropped an octave. “Do not think otherwise.”

  She shivered at the unbending steel in his voice. “But why—?”

  “I would do anything for my sister.”

  As would Holly. If only her reputation had been ruined, she would carry her shame alone and move across the channel to start a new life. She would flout convention and refuse the man’s offer of marriage. But she had her sister to protect. If there was an honorable way to restore her name, and thus her innocent sibling’s, Holly would take it—however unfair to Mr. Hawkins.

  “I understand,” she said. “Your sister is most gracious, considering the embarrassment I caused her with my painting.”

  “She doesn’t know you are Lord H.”

  Holly balked. The man had promised to guard her secret identity from society, but she had assumed he’d at least tell his sister. Otherwise . . .

  “Why does your sister believe we’re marrying in such haste?”

  “She thinks I’ve seduced you, of course.”

  “But you haven’t seduce me, Mr. Hawkins.”

  He had bewitched her, aye. Tormented her dreams But seduction? The one time he’d truly tempted her with his seductive ways was on the night they’d first met at the gaming hell. Holly would never forget their short time together, the way he had looked at her with such longing, the way he had teased her with his playful charm.

  She shuddered at the memory. How would it feel to be seduced by him again? To be seduced by her husband? Her blood warmed at the inviting thought. She imagined a future time when he didn’t shoot daggers at her with his eyes, but caressed her with passionate want. And she found her flesh tingling with anticipation and hope.

  Bemused, she asked, “Why would you let your sister think such a thing?”

  “She expects it of me,” he returned with indifference. “And better she thinks ill of me than my wife. She’ll forgive me in time. She always does.”

  Holly’s chest cramped again. He would carry the brunt of her disgrace, even at the loss of his sister’s good opinion of him? She realized then how little she knew about her future spouse. He was more gallant than she’d imagined.

  “But there is one caveat I insist upon, Miss Turner. You are not to carry on as Lord H, is that clear?”

  She nodded. In truth, she was relieved to retire the pseudonym. It had preserved her and her sister in times of want, but it had also carried a dangerous risk of discovery and persecution.

  For the first time in her adult life, Holly realized she was safe. From poverty. From exile. From arrest. Her legs wavered as the burden lifted from her shoulders, and she grabbed an easel for support.

  Mr. Hawkins crouched and retrieved the knife from the floor. Blade in hand, he handed her the handle. “I’ll leave you to finish what you’ve started. Good day, Miss Turner.”

  She took the knife from him and watched his towering figure depart. As soon as he’d saddled his horse and galloped away, she dropped to the ground and released her tears.

  CHAPTER 6

  Quincy stood beside the tall window, nursing his fourth glass of wine. He surveyed the small wedding party of nine, making merry in his sister’s dining parlor. He had hoped the wine would take effect and dull his senses, but he was too accustomed to the drink. He needed opium to stifle the growing ache in his gut.

  Edmund slapped him on the shoulder. “Congratulations, pup.”

  Quincy glowered at his disagreeable brother and bit out, “Thank you.” He wasn’t in a celebratory mood, and Edmund knew it. Still, his abrasive kin insisted on the felicitous pretense.

  “She’s a fine lass,” said Edmund. “Amy’s taken a shining to her.”

  Quincy eyed his wife, laughing with Lady Amy, the woman of Edmund’s heart. As if sensing Quincy’s stare, Miss T—Mrs. Hawkins looked away from Lady Amy and met his gaze, her leaf green eyes shining, then quickly lowered her reddish lashes, uncertain, perhaps even insecure. Her strawberry-flaxen locks were twisted and pinned in whimsy, tiny white flowers nestled amid the curls, while her dress, a sunset rose with lace trimmings, made her lips glow all the more pink.

  She was fetching, he mused. And he felt an involuntary spasm in his chest. He had not expected to admire his wife on their wedding day—on the day she had taken away his freedom.

  Quincy returned his attention to the window, downing the last of the wine, signaling the footman for another glass. “Lady Amy isn’t privy to my wife’s true character. She might not take such a shining to her then.”

  “Amy has sharp instincts. If she likes Holly, then she’s a fine lass. Or are you suggesting Amy’s ‘true character’ is also based on her sordid past?”

  At the unmistakable growl in his brother’s voice, Quincy raised a hand in peace. Lady Amy was the daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Estabrooke. She was currently married to the Marquis of Gravenhurst, their betrothal arranged at her birth. She had tried to break the betrothal contract to be with Edmund, but fate had not been kind to the star-crossed lovers. She had wed the marquis, as destined, though her husband was a monster. If not for Edmund, the marquis would have murdered Amy on their wedding night. The fiend had disappeared, and despite Edmund’s best efforts to locate the marquis and charge him with Amy’s attempted murder, Gravenhurst remained at liberty.

  Quincy remembered the moment he had stood beside Edmund outside the Estabrooke townhouse, watching the wedding party toss rose petals at the newlyweds. The despair etched across his brother’s face had pierced his own heart. The couple seemed doomed to be apart. But another twist of fate had rekindled their hope. It was discovered the marquis had married a barmaid long ago in a drunken stupor, making his marriage to Lady Amy unlawful. With evidence of bigamy in hand, the Consistory Courts in the Doctors’ Commons had no choice but to grant Amy an annulment, even with Gravenhurst in hiding. The legal process might take several more months, but soon, one day, the couple would be married.

  “No,” said Quincy, accepting a fifth glass of wine from the footman. “I don’t believe Lady Amy’s true character is based on her sordid past. I admire her, you know that.”

  Edmund humphed in approval. “Then there’s no reason to suspect you won’t be happy with your wife. Her past as Lord H doesn’t mean she isn’t a fine woman.”

  After another hardy thump on the shoulder, Edmund moved off, and William took his place.

  “You did the right thing, Quincy.”

  Quincy frowned. “I’m pleased you approve, old man.”

  His brother ignored the caustic remark. “We sail at first light. Will that be a problem?”

  “Why should it?” he queried, taking another gulp of wine.

  “It’s your wedding night. Your wife might not appreciate your hasty departure and subsequent long absence.”

  “Do not trouble yourself with my wife. I’ll be aboard the Nemesis at dawn.”

  William remained silent for what seemed an uncomfortable stretch of time, and Quin
cy was about to tell his older brother to bugger off, when he offered:

  “I hope you and Holly will be happy together.”

  As William walked away, Quincy glared after him, unconvinced the man’s good wishes were genuine.

  The bloody parade of salutations continued with his brother-in-law, Damian, the Duke of Wembury, who approached him, glass in hand. “A toast.”

  “To what?”

  Damian chuckled. “Your wife, of course.”

  Quincy maintained his frown as he clinked glasses with Damian. He had formed a friendship with the reformed “Duke of Rogues.” Damian had saved his life many years ago in a pub brawl. And even after he had married Mirabelle, Quincy had accepted the man as kin. His three older brothers had yet to fully welcome the duke into the family. Or admit that he truly loved their sister with unbound passion. But Quincy hadn’t the blind spot his brothers possessed when it came to romantic love. Whenever one of his sibling’s had fallen under cupid’s spell, Quincy had been the first to see it.

  His ribs suddenly throbbed as his heart pounded ever harder and he dropped further into inescapable doldrums. Something inexplicable pressed on him, and he hadn’t the word for the disturbing sensation.

  “Quincy, a word, please.”

  He hardened at the tart sound of his sister’s voice. With a sigh, he turned and confronted the duchess, her golden brows pinched together, her umber eyes alight. According to his eldest brothers, Mirabelle was the spitting image of their mother, while the rest of them resembled their father.

  Quincy had no portrait of his mother, but he’d often looked at Mirabelle and imagined the woman’s likeness. She had died in childbirth to him. His arrival into the world had caused his family much sorrow. His father had grieved for his wife until the end of his years. James and William, nineteen and seventeen at the time of her death, had reared the rest of them, ages newborn to four, until they’d grown of age.

  Quincy had unsettled all their lives with his birth. At times, he even suspected his kin resented him for it. How could they not?

  He peered more deeply into his sister’s eyes. She, too, had almost died while giving birth to her second child, a son. At the gruesome memory, talons of fear gripped his heart. The crisis had turned his world on its ear. Ever since her near death two years ago, Quincy had chased the dragon to escape his own hellish guilt, for he couldn’t shake the feeling that he had killed his mother—and wrecked all his siblings lives.

  Mirabelle softened her furrowed brow. “Are you all right, Quincy?”

  “Aye.” He glanced away. “You’d like a word?”

  “I hope to see the last of your romps and mischief,” she said with less edge in her voice. “I trust you will look after Holly and her sister, as is proper.”

  “I appreciate your faith in me, Belle.”

  Damian tipped his glass. “I think I’ll sample the cake.”

  As soon as her husband strutted off, Mirabelle sighed. “I didn’t mean to suggest you were irresponsible.”

  He quirked a brow.

  “All right, I did. But I also know you’re a good man, Quincy. I hope you will settle happily in your new position as husband.”

  If one more person wished him happiness in marriage, Quincy would crush the glass in his hand. “Thank you, Belle.”

  She sighed again and joined her husband at the dessert table. For a blessed moment, Quincy had peace. But it wasn’t long before his ears burned again.

  “I must congratulate you, Quincy.”

  His sister-in-law, Sophia, walked over to him, smiling and removing her gloves. Born and raised on the island of Jamaica, she was a strong, spirited woman who matched his eldest brother, James, in every way. The couple had married sixteen months ago, and it was something of a sensation that the most forbidding of all his siblings had actually wed—and was content.

  “If James were here, I’m sure he would do the honors,” she said.

  Captain James Hawkins was currently aboard the Bonny Meg, named after their mother, Megan. The mighty schooner had once plundered the high seas under the rule of the infamous pirate, Black Hawk. But like the rest of his kin, James had retired his fearsome epithet and now sailed the Bonny Meg as a merchant vessel.

  “If James were here, he’d break my legs,” quipped Quincy, “and you know it.”

  Her exotic brown eyes burnished with laughter. She had an infernal sense of humor, much like her husband.

  “Then perhaps it’s a good thing you posed nude and seduced an innocent lass while he was at sea.”

  “A boon, indeed,” he grumbled.

  The woman laughed, a throaty sound. “I’m not so bothered by your winsome ways. I’m a pirate’s daughter, remember? I’ve done worse.”

  She winked and skirted off, and Quincy was glad to know at least one member of his family wasn’t going to box his ears over his “winsome ways.”

  Once more, Quincy glanced at his wife, now ensconced with her teenage sister in a tête-à-tête. Their wedding had been simple. The duke and duchess had escorted the bride to the church. Edmund had served as groom’s man, young Emma as bride’s maid. The ceremony had been somber, thus respectable. A wedding announcement would appear in tomorrow’s broadsheet, saving everyone’s reputation.

  Quincy had done his duty. And in so doing, he had given away his freedom, his future . . .

  His heart spasmed again, and he finally recognized the nameless sentiment that afflicted his soul: loss. He had lost the opportunity to find love. Unlike the rest of his siblings, he would never have the chance to choose his spouse—and be happy.

  He had given far too much to his new bride. And he vowed right then he would give her nothing more.

  Ever.

  CHAPTER 7

  Holly sat beside her sister in the carriage, rattling along the pebbled road. From under her lowered lashes, she peeked at her strapping husband, sitting in the opposite squab. He gazed out the window, impervious. He hadn’t said a word during their journey to her cottage. Emma had prattled about the day, how pretty everyone had looked, how delicious the food, but even she had grown reticent. And now the small party of three travelled in total silence.

  Holly wasn’t sure what to make of the lull. Was her husband fatigued? Angry? Anxious about their wedding night?

  Her fists scrunched, Holly unfurled her stiff fingers and released a tense breath. She was certainly nervous about the wedding night. She had never been with a man. And to be with this man? She had already seen him naked—every part of him—and her heart sounded like heavy bell tolls at the intimate thought of being with him . . . being one with him.

  She removed her gloves, her fingers moist beneath the fabric. Her lungs cramped and she seemed starved for air, panting. She tried to hide her unraveling disposition, but her sister sensed her distress and rubbed her arm.

  “Are you well, Holly?”

  “I’m fine,” she whispered, her voice strained.

  Her husband turned toward her at the remark, his eyes inscrutable under the growing darkness. But she felt his sharp focus on her. He remained quiet, though, and soon returned his attention to the bucolic landscape.

  The drive from London had taken over an hour, and it was dusk by the time they reached the little house in the country.

  Quincy stepped out of the vehicle first and extended his hand, supporting the ladies as they descended the carriage.

  The maid and gardener, a married, childless pair, emerged from the house and greeted the newlyweds. The young farm hand, Robert, was also there and quickly assisted the driver with the luggage.

  Holly glanced at her husband. “Are you hungry? I had a light supper prepared for our return.”

  “No,” he said softly. “It’s been a long journey. I’d rather stretch my legs in the garden.”

  He offered her a curt bow before disappearing between the neatly trimmed hedges and rose bushes.

  She tensed at his abrupt departure. Why hadn’t he offered her guidance? A simple hint as to wha
t she should do next?

  After an indecisive moment, Holly entered the house. She instructed the maid to put away supper, then directed her husband’s belongings to her bedroom. Emma and Robert exchanged blushing glances. The maid and gardener exchanged knowing ones.

  Holly’s own cheeks warmed as she hurried up the crooked stairs to her chamber, unwilling to endure their ribbing humor. She slipped inside her room, and after the baggage had been delivered, closed the door, releasing another buried breath.

  The duchess had offered her and Quincy quarters for the night, but her husband had declined the invitation, perhaps uncomfortable at the thought of spending his wedding night under his sister’s roof. He could not return with her to his bachelor residence in St. James’s. It was wholly improper. And so they’d travelled back to her cottage, a consequence of their madcap marriage. There had been no time to prepare new living arrangements in the city, a wedding tour or even a trousseau. In the coming weeks, there was much to plan and organize.

  But first, the wedding night.

  The bedroom had been carefully readied: fresh linens, a warm fire, burning lamps. Holly inhaled the soothing fragrance of jasmine, the yellow flowers cut fresh from the garden and sitting in a vase on the window sill.

  Right, she thought. It’s time.

  Gathering her nerves, she sidestepped the luggage and entered the adjoining bathing room. A small tin tub had been filled with water, now lukewarm, but Holly was too frazzled to care about the temperature. She divested her garments and quickly washed. She then slipped into a white night rail and covered herself with a wrapper. She loosed her hair, removed the tiny flowers and combed the curls. Finally, she sat on the edge of the bed. And waited. And waited.

  After several more fruitless minutes, she approached the window and gazed into the dark garden, illuminated by soft moonlight. It was hard to tell between the trees and shrubs if a figure stood amidst the bramble. As she scouted the terrain, her eyes soon spotted a man’s tall build. He remained fixed beside the garden gate, his hands at his backside, wanting to escape?