First things first, she told herself briskly. First luncheon and then a spot of snooping.
Like the rest of the house, the kitchen was narrow and without more than the basic necessities. There was, however, a nicely stocked pantry, and rolling up her sleeves, Clara soon found herself happily distracted in the pleasure of kneading dough and slicing vegetables.
Two hours swiftly passed, and removing the apple tarts from the oven, Clara was in the process of determining whether her shepherd’s pie was in need of another few moments when a harsh voice suddenly rasped behind her.
“What the devil are you doing?”
With a startled squeak Clara spun about to glare into the dark, impossibly handsome countenance.
“Sir, you nearly made my heart fail,” she chastised, attempting to keep her gaze focused upon the glittering blue gaze. Not an easy task when she longed to fully appreciate the exotic beauty of his male features and the long raven hair that was pulled to a tail at the nape of his neck. Attired entirely in black with the diamond flashing with cold brilliance upon his ear, he appeared a dangerous, elegant predator. Even more unnerving was the smoldering power that seemed to overwhelm the cramped space. It was rather like being caged with a stalking panther, she inanely concluded. “Do not sneak up on me in such a fashion.”
Not at all put off by her scolding, her captor folded his arms over his chest.
“I asked you a question.”
She gave a pointed glance about the kitchen. “One I assumed needed no reply considering it is perfectly obvious what I am doing.”
“I did not bring you here to play servant. Where the hell . . . blazes is Dillon?”
Clara frowned, not quite certain why he appeared so irate. Of course, she often wondered why those about her seemed irate, she acknowledged with a faint sigh. She possessed a rare talent to annoy without even trying.
“I am not playing servant and I have no notion where Dillon is,” she retorted tartly. “Hopefully he is out purchasing proper beeswax so that he may polish the furniture, which does not seem to have had a good waxing for some time.”
He ignored her pointed comment with his usual arrogance. “If you were hungry, he would have made you something. In fact, I commanded him to do so.”
“He did offer, but I prefer to make my own meals. Cooking is a particular hobby of mine.”
“Hobby? Proper ladies do not consider cooking as a hobby.”
“This proper lady does.”
He continued to glare at her for a long moment until at last his lips began to twitch with that humor she found so disarming.
“Very well, Miss Dawson. I will have to admit I have never smelled anything so delicious coming from the hands of Dillon, although I will throttle you if you dare tell him I said so. He is rather proud of his dubious skills,” he murmured, stepping around her to pull open the oven door. “Ah, shepherd’s pie, my favorite. I hope you intend to share your efforts?”
Clara refused to acknowledge she might be pleased by his obvious flattery. Or to even consider the notion that she might have gone to such effort to impress this wicked pirate.
That would make her . . . well, nothing short of pathetic.
Instead she forced herself to meet the teasing gaze with a stern expression.
“I might be convinced.”
“Ah . . .” A worrisome smile curved his mouth as he straightened and moved toward her. Too late Clara recognized the dangerous glow in his eyes and hastily backed away. She did not halt until she had bumped into the wooden counter, but even then he continued forward until he was nearly pressed against her. Without warning his hands landed on the counter on either side of her hips, effectively trapping her. “What will it take, my kitten?” he husked softly, his gaze slowly sliding over her pale features. “I have several skills of my own. Many of which I would be quite happy to share with you.”
She clenched her hands together, staunchly battling the urge to reach up and test the hardness of his broad chest.
Oh, Clara, you are treading in waters that are far beyond your depth, she warned herself.
However innocent she might be, she could not pretend that the dark, fluttering excitement lodged in the pit of her stomach was anything but sensual awareness.
Unfortunately, she could not seem to stir up the proper sort of dismay for her traitorous reaction.
Wetting her lips, she did her best to ignore the tingling sensations and instead forced herself to concentrate upon more pressing matters.
“I desire to know your name,” she at last demanded.
A raven brow arched. “My name?”
“It is awkward enough to be trapped with a stranger without at least knowing his identity.”
There was a short pause, almost as if he was somehow reluctant to confess his name. Then with a twist of his lips, he gave a resigned shrug.
“Hawksley.”
She frowned, sensing that he was deliberately hiding something from her.
“Is that your true name?”
“Yes.” He shifted until his thighs brushed her own. A magical fire flickered through her blood. “Anything else?”
She swallowed heavily, astonished her skirts did not burst into flames.
“I wish to know why you are interested in Lord Doulton and why you have brought me to London.”
He narrowed his gaze as he blatantly shifted his attention to the uncertain line of her mouth.
“I will agree to reveal a portion of my interest in Lord Doulton,” he conceded slowly, “but only over a very large slice of shepherd’s pie.”
“I will not be fobbed off,” she warned, her voice strangely breathless.
“Or?”
“Or you shall not have one bite of the apple tarts.”
He gave a husky laugh as his dark head swooped down to gently nip at the lobe of her ear. “You do not play entirely fair, Miss Dawson, but I am too hungry to quibble. Allow me to change my coat and I will return.”
His lips stroked the line of her jaw before he was abruptly pulling away and striding from the kitchen.
Still leaning against the cabinet, Clara gasped for air.
Oh . . . my.
Until Hawksley had stormed into her life, she had always presumed that passion was one of those fussy emotions that she could never quite feel as she ought. After all, she had known gentlemen throughout the years. Perhaps not suitors, but friends and acquaintances.
Certainly none of them had managed to make her face flush and her body tremble.
But Hawksley . . .
Well, at least she now knew beyond a shred of doubt that she was more than capable of experiencing desire.
Whether that was a good or bad thing had yet to be decided.
Chapter Six
“Good God. This is ambrosia.”
Leaning back in his seat, Hawksley regarded his slender angel with astonishment. He supposed he should not be surprised that he had just enjoyed one of the finest meals ever set before him. Miss Dawson was clearly a woman who demanded the highest standards in whatever she did. Whether it was baking a tart that would melt in the mouth, or driving a man to Bedlam.
Still, he found himself continually caught off guard whenever in the presence of this woman.
Perhaps it was the fact that she appeared so fragile, he inanely acknowledged. She looked as if she should be lying upon satin pillows with a gown of gossamer lace. Not marching through life with the skill and determination of a seasoned general.
As if sensing his ridiculous imaginings, his companion set aside her napkin and tidily folded her hands in her lap. She regarded him with the same expression his governess used to conjure when about to wring an unwilling confession of his latest sin.