Revenge Wears Rubies (19 page)

Haley’s maid stood patiently waiting for her mistress to signal that she was ready to undress, but Haley finally waved her away. “I’ll manage, Emily. Go on to bed, and by all means, linger in the morning if you wish. You’ve been kept up late enough to earn a morning of leisure.”

“Thank you, Miss Moreland!” Emily curtsied with a cheerful grin. “It’s kind of you!”

Emily left and closed the door softly behind her, and Haley was alone at last. She stood, unmoving in the center of the room, a woman in the eye of an emotional storm. Long, silent seconds unfurled until everything inside of her finally calmed and a single quotation from a poem by Keats she’d once read repeated in her mind.
Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music—do I wake or sleep?

In dreams, she knew, there could be a boldness that would never withstand the harsh light of day, and so a part of her longed to claim that it had all been an illusion, that she’d fallen asleep in that temple on those cushions and had every excuse for all that had taken place. But if it was a dream, then another, newly awakened part of her protested, because it robbed her of her courage and denied her new, fragile hope that Aunt Alice had been right in encouraging her to risk more for a chance at a greater happiness.

Either path seemed fraught with danger. But then a new idea struck her.

Herbert would expect to touch her as Galen had. He would be her husband. He would go as far and further.

Haley closed her eyes, repulsed and sickened by her impending nuptials in a way she had never been before. Because there was nothing of the electricity and fire between them . . . and now that she’d tasted true passion with Galen Hawke . . .

Every look Galen gave her, his every touch was not about polite courtship or cautious civility. If she gave into her growing need for him, he would consume her body and soul and there would be no turning back.

But to not take the risk suddenly seemed an impossible course.

Alone in his library, Galen sipped a cup of green tea and watched the fire in the fireplace begin to die. Bradley had insisted on starting one to add a little more warmth and cheer to the room, and then given him that look that said he had a firm opinion on a certain lack of cheer from his employer.

Galen sipped the hot tea and considered why Bradley put up with him for all his wretched qualities.
He’s a mother hen trying to coddle a tiger! If the man didn’t move so fast, he’d risk—

“Mr. Hawke, beg your pardon.” Bradley appeared in the doorway, his posture absolutely perfect, but his shirt wasn’t quite tucked in, revealing his rush and unreadiness to make announcements at one o’clock in the morning.

“I thought you went to bed, Bradley! For God’s sake, man! You don’t have to hover and offer me cakes at this hour!” Galen snapped, feeling more than a little surly after the events at Bellham’s. He put his teacup on the mantel and then waited to hear what in the world would have stirred Bradley to disturb him.

“There is a young lady who has come to call,” Bradley replied. “I’d have insisted on turning her round, but she . . . She was quite polite.” It was a lame explanation, but Galen suddenly had an inkling of an idea of exactly who could put Bradley into such a flushed state of imbalance.

“Show her up, Bradley. And then by all means, go to bed.”

Bradley radiated disapproval but hurried to fetch the “polite young lady” from the foyer where he’d asked her to wait. One did not leave a lady of genteel breeding to stand on a darkened stoop at such an unheard of hour, and Galen could hear him muttering as he went to carry out his duties.

His resolution not to take things any further was instantly forgotten. Haley appeared in the doorway, still wearing her ball gown, and he almost swore under his breath at how stunningly beautiful she was, so calm with those remarkable eyes reflecting back the glow of the fire.

“It is . . . late for a social call, Miss Moreland.”

She nodded and reached up to slowly remove a single gilt hairpin. “Is it?” She dropped the ornament to the carpeted floor and took a step toward him.

“Won’t your family be looking for you?”

She shook her head, and then another silver flower followed to tumble at her feet. “My father would sleep through a round of cannonade this evening, and I have the feeling that Aunt Alice wouldn’t alert anyone, even if she did bother to check my room.”

“What a forward-thinking woman, your aunt.” He exhaled, mesmerized as yet another glittering tiny pin fell and her mahogany hair began to cascade slowly over her shoulder. “And your servants? Won’t they talk?”

As she reached up again, she innocently arched her back and he was treated to the remarkable silhouette of her breasts lifted up, accenting the lines of her figure. Two more flowers fell, and the rest of her curls fell in a silky curtain down her back, to her waist. “Our roles are reversed, Mr. Hawke. I thought it was usually the woman who presented obstacles and objections?”

After all his scheming, Galen knew he was conquered.

“Miss Moreland? If you came to command me to exile to the ends of the earth, you—”

“I came to . . . finish what we started.”

He froze, wanting to absolutely ensure that he hadn’t somehow misunderstood. “Don’t—torment me. This isn’t a simple game, Miss Moreland. What happened in that garden . . . you’ve already risked your reputation and your engagement. Coming here, alone, at this hour, I don’t think you realize what you’re doing. And I’m not—I’m not going to make a single promise of restraint if you so much as take one more step.”

“Mr. Hawke—”

“Be sure.”

“You are an unconventional person, Mr. Hawke. And I . . .” She pulled out the last of the silver flowers from behind one of her ears, dropping it slowly on the carpet at his feet. “I cannot seem to remember convention when you are near.”

He stared at the shiny little ornament for a moment, his heart racing at the prospect of her actions. “A mutual problem we share, Miss Moreland.”

She reached up again, with unsteady fingers, to push her hair back from her face. “I have spent too many years being practical, Mr. Hawke. Too many years trying to be something I suspect I never was. So I hope you’ll forgive me if I am . . . clumsy at this.”

She took a single step forward.

His eyes locked onto her face, amazed at the serene calm on her delicate features despite the shy trembling of her hands. She was the embodiment of grace, and he felt like a pagan about to kneel and beg her for every sensual favor that a goddess could grant. “Consider yourself forgiven.”

He lifted her into his arms in one swift movement that elicited a small squeak of surprise from her as she lost her satin shoes in the process, and he carried her against his chest directly out of the library and out into the hall toward the stairs.

“I . . . I could walk,” she offered shyly, her arms gripping his neck and shoulders for balance.

He ignored her, unwilling to admit that he didn’t trust himself to release her—that he didn’t trust himself to do anything beyond carting her delectable person into his bedroom and burying himself inside of her until he couldn’t think anymore.

He practically kicked open the door to his bedroom, and had a small measure of satisfaction when it slammed shut behind him by way of sheer momentum. Her eyes had grown a little wary from his brooding silence and the speed of her arrival in this inner sanctum of his life, and Galen reminded himself that there was nothing to be gained in a hurry that couldn’t be enjoyed even more at a slower pace.

He kissed her, a thorough, tender exploration that lay claim even as he carried her toward the giant four-poster bed that dominated one end of the chamber. As her posterior settled against the pillows, he lifted his head to allow her to realize exactly where she’d landed.

Her eyelashes fluttered open and she bit her lower lip. “I’m . . .”

“Second thoughts?” he asked, praying she didn’t realize that he was probably not capable at this point of letting her go.

She smiled, a vision looking up at him with the most innocent and potent invitation in her eyes. “You have never kissed me indoors before, Mr. Hawke.”

He smiled as well, a flood of relief robbing him of some of his tension. “And was there a remarkable difference?”

She shook her head. “Only a lack of a breeze, or inclement weather . . .”

“I’m hurt you would have noticed such a thing, Miss Moreland,” he teased, lowering his lips back toward hers. “I shall have to try a little harder to distract you.”

He kissed her again, this time lingering over the silky confines of her mouth, while his fingers began to trail down over her body, assessing the layers of feminine clothing and seeking to find ways to reach the sweet flesh underneath. Unlike in the garden, he had no desire to work around women’s fashion but burned to see her without a single stitch on her body and to feel every inch of her against him.

He found the tie of her laced bodice beneath her hair and pulled the curls back to kiss the base of her neck there, between her shoulder blades, wetting her skin with his tongue and then deliberately blowing against it to send a shiver down her spine. Galen loosened the bow, and then in a trick as old as London itself, he simply ran his fingers across and under the laces to free their hold just enough to let him slide out the cording as he pleased.

At last, he pulled back to bring her forward onto her knees, allowing him to gently tug the bodice off her shoulders and remove her arms so that he could lift the gown up over her head in an easy sweeping maneuver so that it lightly landed at the foot of the bed.

The undergown followed suit, and he surveyed the delightful puzzle of stays and petticoats, crinoline and underpinnings that now faced him. Haley was clearly trying not to laugh but openly enjoying his efforts since they were highlighted by shocking caresses and fiery kisses. “I could . . . do this myself.”

He grunted, playfully sliding a hand up her outer thigh to follow the firm curve of her bottom. “Such independence, Miss Moreland! You’re spoiling my concentration.”

She laughed, but the soft peals ended quickly when he pushed her down against the bed and made quick and efficient work of her undergarments until she was breathlessly left with nothing but her semitransparent cotton chemise and her stockings.

Galen surveyed her for a moment, a wicked gleam in his eyes, as the last layer teased him, opaquely draping across the curves of her body, hinting at the triangular shadow of curls between her legs and the darker tips of her nipples. He caught the first hint of the scent of her arousal, and his cock tightened almost to the point of pain. Galen started to unbutton his shirt and then his fingers slowed as he realized that her courage had faltered slightly and her eyes were tightly closed.

“Do you intend to keep your eyes closed the entire time, Miss Moreland?”

“Haley.”

“Pardon me?” he asked softly, smiling at the quick, witty workings of her mind, even under such circumstances.

“It’s English law. If we’re discussing whether it’s proper to look or not . . . you have to use my Christian name.” She spoke with her eyes still shut tight, until Galen laughed and the sound of it made them flutter open in curiosity. “Are you laughing at me, Mr. Hawke?”

“No, Haley.”

“Oh,” she sighed. “That sounded so much better than I’d expected.”

“Pardon?”

“My name. I like the sound of my name when you say it.”

The heat in his eyes surged, and he knelt on the bed next to her. “Is it so easy to please you? Is that possible, Haley?”

“I’m afraid so. Were you . . . hoping for more demands?”

He shook his head. “I was about to stop hoping at all. But let’s readdress this business about closing your eyes. I have an idea.”

“And what would that be?”