“Yes, I have need of you.”
A shudder raced through him and she regarded him with darkened eyes.
“Hawksley?”
“Damn,” he cursed his unfamiliar weakness.
“What is it?”
He briefly closed his eyes, battling the fierce urge to pick her up in his arms and carry her off to his chambers.
“’Tis not only Lord Doulton you need fear, kitten,” he warned her in a thick voice. “I am not at all certain that you may trust me.”
She pulled back to frown at him with obvious disbelief. “That is absurd. I would trust you with my life.”
His smile was without humor. “And what of your virtue? Do you trust me with that?”
She grew motionless as she considered his stark words. At first Hawksley feared he might have frightened her with his honesty, and a pain clenched his heart. The last thing he would ever desire was for this woman to lose her faith in him. Astonishingly enough, he realized that her trust was more important to him than her passion.
Just another assurance that this woman had him utterly daft.
“Do you wish me to be honest?” she whispered.
Oh Lord. Even as he struggled to breathe, her eyes began to smolder with a dangerous fire. A fire that seared straight through him.
“Of course.”
“I have begun to suspect that virtue is highly overrated for a female of my age and temperament,” she murmured, deliberately pressing herself against his hard body.
Hawksley’s heart halted at her stunning confession. A confession that he did not need to be hearing. At least not when they were all alone in the dark with nothing to prevent him from claiming her. Nothing but his own badly battered chivalry.
“Clara . . .”
“You once asked me if I wished to be your mistress, and I have given the matter a great deal of thought.”
Actually feeling his control slipping from his grasp, he gazed helplessly into those beautiful emerald eyes.
“You have?”
“Yes.”
He groaned, his fingers tightening upon her cheeks. “Bloody hell. I need to—”
Without warning Clara tossed her arms about his neck. “Do you not wish to know what I have concluded?”
Feeling her pressed tightly against his stirring body, Hawksley clenched his teeth in agony. Hellfire. Surely he had done nothing to deserve such torture? Well, perhaps he had. Still, it did not seem entirely fair considering there were any number of gentlemen who had no doubt done far worse.
And then, without warning, he remembered Biddles’ simple words.
“Then make her your wife . . .”
At the time Hawksley had been too shocked to even consider the ridiculous suggestion. Not in all his thirty years had he given serious thought to binding his life irrevocably with a woman’s.
Why should he?
His brother held the title and responsibilities of producing the necessary heir. And of course, Fredrick also held the family fortune that would ensure that his bride was not forced to live in a shabby house on the edge of the stews.
Hawksley had no need for a bride and nothing to offer even if he did desire one.
Now, however, he could not entirely scrub the tantalizing thought from his mind.
Married. To his angel.
Why not?
She fascinated him in a manner he had never before experienced. Her swift wits, her unique intelligence, her kind heart, and her breathtaking beauty. She certainly would never bore him.
And perhaps most importantly, she had accepted him precisely as he was.
From the beginning, she had seen him at his very worst. And yet in all their time together, she had done nothing to try and mold him into something he could never be.
It was a hell of a lot more than most people who claimed to love him had ever given.
Just for a moment the image of his father’s face rose to mind. He grimaced at the thought of informing the proud, pompous nobleman that his unwanted heir was determined to marry a woman with no wealth, no position, and none of the usual social graces.
No doubt he would be horrified.
His grimaced turned to a slow, satisfied smile.
There might not be any means of turning his back upon the responsibilities that had been thrust onto him, but there was no reason he could not thoroughly enjoy his father’s utter fury when he discovered Hawksley had wed a woman he would consider thoroughly unworthy to eventually become the Countess of Chadwick.
Aye . . . He gazed down at her sweet, beautiful countenance. His wife, his future countess. Suddenly he felt as if a heavy burden had been lifted from his shoulders.
There would be no more aching battles to contain the desire that gnawed within him. No more nights spent alone in his bed. No more facing life without a partner at his side.
It all seemed astonishingly simple. And right.
With a groan he wrapped his arms about her and buried his head in the scented softness of her hair.
“Clara, you are certain this is what you want?” he muttered.
Her arms tightened about his neck, nearly strangling him in the process.
“Yes, Hawksley, I am certain.”
Chapter Twelve
The words had barely tumbled from Clara’s lips when she discovered herself scooped up in a pair of strong male arms and carried down the short hall.
With the same swift movements, Hawksley had her in his shadowed chambers and tumbled onto his bed.
Despite her sharp anticipation, she could not help but chuckle as she heard him muttering low curses while he struggled out of his clothing.
“Hawksley?”
“You would not be laughing if you knew how desperately I desire you, Miss Dawson,” he growled, the sound of ripping fabric echoing through the darkness before he was abruptly upon the bed beside her and gathering her into his arms. “God, at last.”
All amusement faded as Clara felt the naked heat sear through her thin clothing.
Dear heavens, he was hard. Hard . . . everywhere.
A blush touched her cheeks as his erection pressed into her thigh. She had never so much as caught a glimpse of a naked man, let alone had one sprawled half on top of her.
Oddly, however, she experienced no fear as she allowed her hands to tentatively stroke down the curve of his back. The satin heat of his skin made her breath catch in her throat. Who could have known the feel of a man could be so incredible?
“I am not certain what I should do,” she murmured.
“Mmm . . .” His breath brushed her temple as he nuzzled her skin. “Just touch me, kitten. I have dreamed of your hands upon me since I first saw you.”
Emboldened by the husky need in his voice, she skimmed her hands lower, smiling at the sensation of his rippling muscles that clenched beneath her fingers. He moaned as she reached the lean hips, thrusting his swollen staff against her leg.
“This is about to end before it begins,” he muttered, abruptly flipping on top of her and pinning her hands above her head.
Her protest at having her delicious exploration brought to an end was halted as he covered her mouth with a fierce, demanding kiss.
Clara closed her eyes, nearly overwhelmed by the raw hunger she could feel humming through him.
Suddenly the barrier she had always felt in his touch was gone. There was no hesitation as he swept the clothing from her body with experienced ease, no hesitation as his lips brushed down the line of her neck and latched onto the aching tip of her breast. No hesitation as a hair-roughened leg pressed between her thighs to rub at her sensitive cleft.
Clara gasped as she arched upward, assaulted by a flood of unfamiliar sensations.
“Hawksley,” she breathed, tugging her hands loose so that her fingers could tangle in his hair.