The Duke (47 page)

“Yes, you are, deep down. But even if you have changed—” He smiled and chucked her gently under the chin, “I’ll still adore you like I did when you were nine.”

She smiled at him fondly. “You threw a worm on me when I was nine.”

“Evidence of my devotion.”

Devotion. . .

The very word made her unsteady. She forced a smile, tears threatening. “I’ll need to think this over.”

“Take your time. I’m here for you, anything you need. Good night, Bel.” He bent and kissed her hands, then gently released her and marched out.

It had been two weeks since he had seen her at the opera. Three, since she had abandoned Hawkscliffe Hall and stormed out of his life. Hawk had gone through the preceding days in a fog of desolation.

After escorting his sister and her companion back to Town, an endless round of meetings and committees ate up his time. He attended them all, going through the motions with his usual aloof, cordial reserve.

“Hawkscliffe is back,” everyone said, and they meant more than his return from the country.

The men at the club toasted his health as his star continued to rise. The Patronesses welcomed him back into the fold. Though disappointment at his rumored nuptials appeared universal among the female half of the ton, women had taken to sighing when he walked past. It seemed his admirers were touched to the core by his gallant choice of poor, gentle, lovely Lady Juliet Breckinridge. Taking the flawed beauty for his bride had sealed his fame as a knight in shining armor.

He felt like hell. He felt like a fraud and his soul was dying.

Every time he saw Coldfell, he had the strange, brooding, angry feeling that he had unwittingly sold himself to the devil.

He got through each meaningless, dragging day by pretending with all his might that Belinda Hamilton didn’t exist. It was difficult when Knight House echoed with images of her everywhere he turned. There was no escape from the whisper of her memory in every room. She was in his blood, under his skin, haunting him like a pitiless ghost. The smell of her still clung in his clothes, the taste of her still lingered on his tongue, and sometimes when he tried to fall asleep, he could still almost feel her touching him and he hurt so badly that he wanted to die.
Forget.

He would forget.

Every day when he strode into White’s he braced himself for the blow, knowing that one of these days, the gossip was bound to reach him about whom she had chosen for her new protector. But thankfully his club mates were careful not to talk about her around him.

All but one. Lord Alec returned from some house party where he had been languishing in his usual decadence for some time. His blue eyes blazing with anger, he walked into White’s, strode straight over to where Hawk sat studying a primer of German phrases for his Austrian trip, silently forming the awkward words on his tongue.

Alec braced his hands on the table and glowered at him. “You’re an idiot. Do you know that? An idiot, you pompous ass.”

With his chin angled downward over his book, Hawk slanted him a dark warning look.

“You killed for her. You would have died for her. I saw how you were together. She’s the one, Hawk, and you let her go. For what?”

He didn’t answer.

“I know why, you imbecile. One word—fear. Go after her.”

“No.”

“Why?” he cried.

“She left me. What am I supposed to do?”

“Whatever it takes! Anything is better than just sitting there like some cold, righteous prig! Do you want me to talk to her for you?”

“No. Jesus, Alec, keep your voice down.” He glanced around at the stares of his club mates. “As you can see, I’m trying to work here, so would you leave me the hell alone?”

“Alone is exactly what you’re going to be, Your Grace— and exactly what you deserve. You know something? She’s better off without you. Because you, my friend, are just like your cold-hearted father.” Alec shoved away from the table and stalked out.

When he was gone Hawk looked blankly at the page of German phrases. As he sat there slowly rubbing his mouth in agitation, he felt an indescribable panic rising in him. His pulse roared in his ears.

He observed himself closing the book before him. He slid a piece of fine linen paper toward him and dipped his quill pen in the inkpot to his right. His hand trembled as he paused, searching for the words in his reeling brain, then wrote:

Notice of Carte Blanche

By my signature is hereby granted full fiduciary authority to the holder of this certificate, Miss Belinda Hamilton. All debts incurred herewith should be forwarded to me at Knight House, St. James’s Square. Signed this 12th day of September, 1814.

Hawkscliffe
 

He dripped a dab of wax below his name and pressed his signet ring into it. When the wax hardened he folded the note and put it in his waistcoat. Then, filled with a strange sense of careful detachment, he rose in measured control from his chair. The next thing he knew he was in his curricle, driving hell-for-leather through the streets of the City, whipping his horses to Harriette Wilson’s house.

He jumped out of his carriage in front of the Cyprians’ door and pounded on it. When the mean-looking footman answered, he stood in amazement as the servant told him Miss Hamilton was no longer there.

Harriette came down and after much pleading on his part, coldly gave him Belinda’s new address.

Though the worst of her inner scars were healing, Bel still got nervous whenever she had to walk through the city streets after dark. Tonight she had stayed later than usual at the children’s relief house. She set out walking with the intention of flagging down a hackney coach, but none passed her. Fortunately it was only a little past twilight when she rounded the corner past Russell Square, walking swiftly toward the boardinghouse.

Looking down the street ahead of her, she suddenly stopped in her tracks. Parked out in front was a sleek, black, shiny town coach that she knew all too well. Her heart leaped up into her throat. Her head suddenly felt light.

Somehow she forced herself forward. She caught a whiff on the balmy evening air of Congue snuff; she heard his deep, cultured baritone giving an order to William on the box, and her heart lurched again.

He s come back for me! He s going to make it right
—

She picked up the skirts of her simple cotton dress and strode faster for fear that having found her not at home, he was leaving. She began to run.

“Robert!”

At once he stepped around the coach and blocked her path, starlight gleaming on his black hair. His face was shadowed, his eyes luminous, so dark with mystery that they appeared almost coal black. He seemed taller than she remembered, bigger and more splendidly dressed, more magnificent.

More intimidating even than on the first night they had met.

She slowed to a walk and approached him in awe, humbled all over again by his lordly grandeur. His broad shoulders were tense.

“I have been waiting for you,” he said, his tone short, imperious, as though in reproach.

I’ve been waiting so long
for you,
she thought, her heart beating crazily. She couldn’t believe he had come. Had he had a change of heart? She barely dared hope. “I was out.”

“May I ask a moment of your time?”

“Of course.”

He gave a curt slice of a nod. “Thank you.”

“This way.”

William sent her a bolstering smile as they passed. Bel led Hawkscliffe through the gate and up the stairs to her lodgings. Inside her sitting room she lit the table lantern, illuminating her modest but homey quarters.

As the light rose she turned to Robert and drank in the sight of his drawn, taut face. His mouth was a firm, grim line and there were shadows under his dark, tumultuous eyes. She dropped her stare, pained by the change in him and a fleeting memory of the feel of his bare skin against hers.

On that last day at Hawkscliffe Hall he had glowed with healthy vitality and excitement. Now he was stiffer than ever, brooding and remote as he turned away, his impeccably gloved hands clasped behind him. “You are well, I trust?”

“I’m fine. Yourself?”

“Never better,” he growled.

“How are Jacinda and Lizzie?”

“Back at school.”

“How did you find me?”

“Through Miss Wilson. Why, are you in hiding?” he asked in a razorlike tone.

“No. What do you want?”

He looked away. “I am here because I did not foresee the need—” He faltered. “My new position requires a good deal of politicking and entertaining which my wife-to-be is quite incapable of carrying out, due to her disability. I require a hostess.” He turned and stared forcefully at her. “Come with me to Vienna.”

Disappointment burst like the Vauxhall fireworks in her solar plexus. So, he was still set on his course. Lady Juliet was still his wife-to-be.

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” she forced out.

He clamped his jaw shut and tore his frustrated gaze away, fairly steaming. The haughty, wary look he gave her clashed with the desperation in his eyes.

“I’m not about to make a fool of myself over you, Belinda Hamilton. Now, we’ve both had time to step back and think this over. Perhaps you lost your temper in the country when you walked out on me. I’m willing to overlook that but, by God, I will not crawl for you. Come back to me and let us be as we were, no questions asked. I’m willing to give you this, if it will soothe your vanity.” Reaching into his waistcoat pocket, he pulled out a folded piece of parchment.

He handed it to her with a glower, but as she passed a suspicious glance over his aquiline features, she could have sworn she read fear in the depths of his eyes.

“What is it?”

“Open it.”

“Giving orders again. Very well,” she muttered loftily under her breath as she unfolded the single sheet of paper and read it.

Hawk watched her read it with his heart in his throat. He was terrified of her reaction. It was all he could do to hold himself back from pleading with her on his knees to come back to him. His stare greedily consumed every lovely, familiar curve and plane of her face as she read and reread his missive.

I need you,
he told her silently.
I’m dying without you.

She took a deep breath on which, he knew, hung his fate. The orchid blue flash of her eyes dazed him when she glanced up and met his brooding stare.

“Carte blanche?”

He nodded, frightened because there was a hard note in her voice that he did not understand. “It’s what you wanted from the start. It means I trust you as I trust myself,” he wanted to say, but somehow he could not.

“Didn’t Harriette tell you that I am no longer a demirep?”

Suddenly alarmed, he furrowed his brow. He recalled Harriette mentioning something along those lines, but it had passed through one ear and out the other in his wild haste to win Belinda back.

“She didn’t tell you?”

“Yes, but—this is
me
asking for you, Belinda. Not Worcester or Leinster or God-knows-who. Surely you will come back to me. I—make you happy.”

“Look around you, Robert,” she exclaimed angrily, sweeping a gesture at the humble room. “Does this look like a harlot’s boudoir to you? Am I dressed in finery? No. You see? I did what you said, in the end. I’m just an ordinary woman now, living a private and independent life, and I happen to like it. You have your earl’s daughter and your glorious name to comfort you; I have my work with the poor children. You don’t need me anymore and as you can see, I don’t need you.”

“I do need you,” he uttered wretchedly.

She held up the paper in a hand that trembled slightly. “And this is how you show it? You offer to buy me? Who’s idea was this? Lord Coldfell’s?”

He swallowed hard. “Take it, Belinda. Nothing I’ve won means a damned thing without you.”

“I am no longer willing to be anybody’s whore, Robert. Not even yours,” she replied and with that, she tore his carte blanche up into a dozen tiny pieces and threw it in his face.

Hawk stared at her, rather dazzled, as the shreds of paper fluttered to the floor around his polished Hessians like so much confetti.

Belinda lifted her chin and marched to the door of her apartment. She opened it for him and waited for him to exit, but all that he could do was stare as it slowly dawned on him that she was in earnest.

He studied her in shock, feeling as though he were seeing her for the first time, devoid of the gaudy trappings of her former trade, bereft of the icy facade that she no longer needed. This was who she had been before Dolph Breckinridge had singled her out for his prey, he thought, amazed.

“Please go, Your Grace.” She stood there, proud and strong, healed because he had loved her and shining like an angel in her anger, hair of gold gleaming in the lamplight.

“Bravo, Miss Hamilton,” he wanted to say. But he just stared at her in awe and thought,
I will love this woman for as long as I live.