“I have not seduced her.” The dark eyes slanted toward the frowning Clara. “Yet.”
Hawksley’s features hardened. He was well aware that Miss Dawson appeared a delectable morsel in that damnable sheer robe and silken curls tumbled about her shoulders. What male would not wish to devour her?
The sooner he rid himself of Santos, the better.
“Miss Dawson, will you excuse us a moment?” he murmured, his gaze never straying from his companion. “I wish to have a word with our guest.”
With a laugh Santos clapped his hand on Hawksley’s stiff shoulder. “I fear you shall have to save your dire threats for later, Hawksley. I have a pressing appointment that I dare not miss.” He captured Miss Dawson’s fingers and lifted them to his lips in a practiced motion. “Until later, meu anjo.”
“Santos,” Hawksley threatened as his friend swept toward the door, “we will finish this conversation.”
The smuggler offered a mocking bow. “I await your convenience with breathless anticipation, old friend.”
Hawksley smiled wryly as Santos vanished in the darkness. As much as it annoyed him to admit it, he possessed a liking for the audacious smuggler. They might come from differing social classes, but they were much alike.
Too much alike, that jealous voice in the back of his mind whispered. At least when it came to a taste for beautiful females.
Turning back to Miss Dawson, he reached out to stroke his hand over her soft curls.
“Santos is a dangerous rake, kitten, and one that will devour you if you do not have a care,” he murmured.
She regarded him with a hint of surprise. “Really, Hawksley, I am not so foolish as to have my head turned by his ridiculous flattery. ’Tis obvious his interest is more in aggravating you than in seducing me.”
As always, Hawksley discovered himself caught off guard by her utter lack of vanity. Was the woman demented?
“By all that is holy, have you never seen yourself in a looking glass, Miss Dawson?” he demanded in exasperation. “You are exquisite. There is not a man who would not wish to seduce you. Myself included.”
She abruptly stepped backward, her hands clutching the folds of her robes together.
“Please, Hawksley, do not tease. It is not at all kind. I am well aware that gentlemen do not find me appealing.”
“Not appealing?”
“One does not reach the great age of six-and-twenty without a suitor and not be aware she is lacking in the sort of attractions men prefer.”
Hawksley felt a flare of fury at the buffoons who had dared to treat her with such disregard. He did not doubt for a moment that she was worth a dozen of them.
“I have heard that every village must have its idiot; it seems that your particular village possesses an epidemic of them,” he growled in annoyance.
She considered a moment before giving a slow shake of her head. “No, ’tis the simple fact that I am . . . not like others.”
“Which is something to be admired.”
A reluctant smile tugged at her lips. “You sound like my father.”
“Obviously a wise man.” Of their own violation his hands curled about her shoulders, pulling her close enough for him to feel the enticing heat of her body. He gritted his teeth as his body readily responded. Unlike the fools she was accustomed to, Hawksley was painfully aware of just how desirable she was. “I am certain he must have told you that you are quite special.”
“Oh yes.” Blithely unaware of the tension sizzling in the air, she gave a faint shrug. “He assured me that being intelligent and unique was something to take pride in. Easy enough for him to claim. He enjoyed the life of a recluse.”
He scanned her pale features. “But you did not?”
She paused a long moment before heaving a sigh. “There is nothing pleasant in sitting in your room and listening to the distant sound of a party you were not invited to. Nor knowing the next morning that some hostess would appear to claim that your invitation must have been lost or overlooked.”
He flinched at the unexpected jolt of pain that clutched at his heart.
“I was right. You live in a village of idiots.”
“No, it was not their fault. Or at least, not entirely.”
His brows snapped together. “What the blazes do you mean?”
“You said yourself that I am an eccentric,” she reminded him simply. “I believe you even claimed me a lunatic. And you were not wrong.”
His hands tightened upon her. By gads, he had never intended to hurt her.
“Kitten . . .”
“You were right,” she overrode his soft protest, her eyes shimmering in the moonlight. “I have never managed to mix easily with others. I do not comprehend the jests that others find so amusing, or possess the talent to dazzle gentlemen with my wit. I even manage to annoy the servants who wait upon me.” She gave a faint sigh. “’Tis not that I have not tried to change. I practice before mirrors and even memorize precisely what I should say when at a party. Unfortunately, it never comes out right. I am like a dancer who is always one step out of beat.”
A voice of foreboding whispered in the back of Hawksley’s mind as he shifted his hands to frame her countenance.
Her words had been calmly spoken, her demeanor more of bewilderment than a plea for sympathy, but they managed to stir wounds long forgotten.
He knew what it was to feel unappreciated and unwanted. To struggle to please only to fail despite his best efforts.
It was a vulnerability within him that he kept sternly protected. Not even Fredrick had been allowed to see into his heart. His brother, like everyone, had believed in Hawksley’s magnificent air of wicked disdain.
For once, however, he ignored the prickling unease that warned of impending danger.
He would not pull away from this woman who had so readily laid her heart bare to him.
“Why should you desire to mix with such obvious dolts? You are better served without them,” he assured her gently.
A hint of sadness settled about her. “Perhaps, but I cannot deny that there are times I wish I were not quite so alone.”
Alone. His eyes slid closed. He was intimately familiar with the sensation.
Or he was as a rule.
Rather to his surprise he discovered that he did not feel alone at the moment.
Not with this woman held in his arms.
He leaned his forehead against hers, breathing in deeply of her feminine scent.
“You are not alone now, kitten, you are with me, and I assure you that I possess the good sense to appreciate your fine qualities.”
She slowly tilted back her head to regard him with wide eyes. No doubt at last sensing the awareness thick in the air.
“Hawksley . . .” she breathed.
A shudder wracked through him. He had warned himself a dozen times on his way back to the Hawk’s Nest that he must remember he was a gentleman. Holding a proper lady against her will was scandalous enough without adding her seduction to his sins.
But no amount of honor could halt the searing urge to know her touch, to feel her lips beneath his own.
“Clara . . . my sweet angel . . . I want to taste of you,” he husked, holding her gaze with smoldering need. “Will you allow me?”
She touched the tip of her tongue to her lips, the unwitting motion clenching the muscles of his thighs.
“Taste?”
“I want to kiss you.”
“Oh.” She gave his plea a moment of consideration. “Why?”
Despite his aching urgency Hawksley could not halt a small laugh. “Not everything has a reasonable explanation, Miss Dawson. Indeed, there are some things that should be left a mystery.”