No. It was not possible, he hastily reassured himself. No matter how eccentric, there was no woman who would prefer to beg and scrape for existence when she could have luxury offered on a silver platter.
“Then what is it, Clara?” he demanded, his voice revealing a hint of impatience. “Do you fear I will not make a suitable husband? I may not possess the charm of Santos or the intellect of Mr. Chesterfield, but—”
“Hawksley, I cannot be your bride simply because I could not bear to have you loathe me,” she abruptly announced.
Silence descended as he regarded her in disbelief.
Was she mad? Had her mother managed to drop her upon her head when she was just a babe? Or perhaps the strain of the past few days had made her plunge into insanity.
There had to be some reason she could believe a gentleman who had not only made desperate love to her for hours, but had turned his household upside down to please her, could ever possibly loathe her.
With a determined motion he reached out to take her hands in a firm grasp. He was startled to discover they were actually shaking.
“That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard,” he said, holding her gaze as he steadily pulled her toward him. “Why would you even think such a thing?”
She bit her bottom lip at his soft question. “Because I always manage to annoy and irritate those about me. I do not mean to do so. Indeed, I rarely even realize that I am doing so until they are angry.”
He gave a slow shake of his head, silently cursing those who had so wounded this poor woman.
“Clara, there are none of us who do not annoy and irritate others upon occasion.”
Her lashes lowered to hide the beauty of her eyes. “Not as I do, Hawksley. You claim to find me fascinating, but soon enough my eccentricities will have you wishing me in Hades. It is inevitable, and I do not intend to remain here long enough for that to occur.”
His lips thinned. “For God’s sake, my father found me so annoying he demanded I leave his home. Not even you can make that claim, kitten. Obviously we are perfectly suited.”
He heard her catch her breath at his brutal confession, her expression abruptly softening. “Oh, Hawksley.”
Always swift to take advantage of the slightest weakness in his opponent, Hawksley had her in his arms and pressed to the rapid beat of his heart.
“Marry me, Clara. Be my wife.”
He watched the play of emotion over her sweet countenance. Longing, uncertainty . . . and fear.
“I think it would be best if we discuss this after we have discovered the truth of your brother’s murder,” she at last muttered.
Hawksley squashed his fierce surge of impatience. He wanted her agreement to his proposal. Hell, he wanted to haul her to the nearest church and be done with the business.
Unfortunately, he knew enough of Clara to realize that she could not be coerced or bullied. Until she accepted that she was all he desired in a bride, she would balk.
Obviously, it was his duty to prove to her that they were meant to be together.
A notion that, now he considered it, held a certain amount of appeal, he accepted with a slow smile. There were many means of convincing a passionate young lady just how desperately he was in need of her.
Cupping her chin in his hand, he tugged her face upward to meet his smoldering gaze. “You will not leave? You promise to stay here with me?”
There was a tense pause before she gave a slow nod of her head. “I promise.”
Hawksley released the breath that he did not even realize he was holding. She would stay. She would never break such a promise.
And in the end she would be his wife.
With an effort he lowered his arms and stepped back.
“Very well, tell me what it is you have discovered.”
Chapter Thirteen
Clara moved to the desk to retrieve the letter she had been studying for the past three hours. Outwardly she managed to appear her usual efficient self, while silently she recited the multiplication table, forward and then backward, in an effort to calm her rattled nerves.
Wife.
Hawksley’s wife.
Cripes. What the devil was he thinking? She had not yet accustomed herself to the earth-shattering notion that she was his mistress. And now he flummoxed her with a marriage proposal.
A warm, aching pleasure flared through her before she was sternly squashing the sensation.
No.
Hawksley was simply not thinking clearly. He saw her as a lonely spinster with no family and no one to care for her. And there was the added guilt of having taken her innocence.
It was his nature to rescue her.
She would never allow him to make such a sacrifice. Not when it would in the end make him miserable.
All too soon he would come to his senses. And then he would thank her for having refused his proposal.
In the meantime, it was vital that she hide her own foolish emotions. Emotions that she refused to contemplate. Not when they were perilously close to love.
Swallowing back the most ridiculous urge to cry, Clara firmly squared her shoulders and returned to Hawksley’s side. She was relieved to discover her hands were steady as she held up the sheets of paper.
“As you see, I have made the calculations,” she said, pointing toward the tidy line of formulas and sums.
Hawksley grimaced. “Bloody hell, it makes my brain ache to even look upon them.”
She wrinkled her nose at his obvious horror. It was a common enough reaction. There were few who shared her love for complicated equations.
“Actually they are quite simple. You see, the formula for the first is—”
“Please, I beg of you, kitten, no mathematics or calculations before breakfast. Or for that matter, before luncheon or dinner,” he pleaded.
“Very well,” she conceded with a low chuckle. Shuffling the papers, she revealed the poem she had discovered hidden within the numbers. “This is the translation:
‘A man must take risk and even harm
When seeking a bride of wit and charm,
If you will have me, my precious love,
I shall bring you riches from heaven above.’”
Hawksley made a strangled sound deep in his throat. “Hellfire, what drivel. You cannot mean to tell me you had your head turned by such rubbish?”
A blush touched Clara’s cheeks. She had to admit she was rather shocked by the strange poem. Mr. Chesterfield had on occasion complimented her intelligence or offered suggestions that they someday meet.
This, however, was something quite different.
“He never before sent such a thing,” she confessed. “I cannot imagine what he was thinking.”
His expression hardened as he glared at the paper. “I can tell you precisely what he was thinking. I should know, after all. He was asking you to marry him.”
Her blush deepened. “Ridiculous.”
The blue gaze lifted to stab her with a sardonic glitter. “I will allow you to be the expert when it comes to equations. I, however, must insist on being the expert when it comes to a man who is desperate to take a wife,” he retorted dryly. “You are clearly the bride of wit and charm.”
She grimly ignored the pain that stabbed through her heart. Not long ago she might have dared to hope that Mr. Chesterfield would make her a suitable husband. Now she very much feared she would never be satisfied with less than a wicked pirate.
“Even if that is true, what of the rest of the poem? It makes no sense.”
He gave a lift of his shoulder. “Does any poetry?”
“Mr. Chesterfield was a very . . . literal sort of gentleman,” she pointed out, giving a shake of her head as her gaze skimmed over the strange words. “‘A man must take risk and harm.’ It must have some meaning.”