“And how is that?”
“Like a starving hound sniffing about a bone.”
Hawksley wrinkled his nose. Gads, it was a fortunate thing he had never been forced to rely upon his acting skills to keep a roof over his head. They would all be living in the gutter.
“Hardly the most flattering comparison, but no doubt accurate.”
“You should be ashamed of yourself,” Dillon growled.
“Actually I am inordinately proud of myself.”
The servant took a sharp step forward. “Why, you randy—”
“’Tis not often that I realize what is good for me and what is not,” Hawksley overrode the angry words. “In truth, I have always possessed a tedious habit of preferring dross to gold. On this occasion, however, I was quite wise enough to comprehend that Miss Dawson is by far the best thing that has ever entered my life.”
Perhaps sensing he was being roasted, Dillon regarded him with suspicion. “That she is.”
“Which is why I am to make her my wife.”
A suitably shocked expression touched the lined countenance. “Wife?”
“Shocking, is it not?” Tossing aside the covers, Hawksley rose to his feet and pulled on his brocade robe. “She is clearly daft to have agreed to my proposal, but there it is. It seems even eccentric angels prefer a rogue to a gentleman.”
Without warning Dillon had crossed the room to enfold him in a tight hug. “You worthless scoundrel. Ach, you have done well for yourself.”
Hawksley struggled to free himself before several ribs were sacrificed to Dillon’s enthusiasm.
“Good Lord, Dillon, you are not about to get sentimental on me, are you?”
Coming to his senses, the elderly servant gave an embarrassed tug upon his coat as he stepped back.
“Not bloody likely.”
“Good. There will no doubt be enough tears, not to mention gnashing of teeth, once my family discovers their wastrel of a son has chosen to wed a penniless miss from the country,” he said dryly.
Dillon grimaced. Although he had only met Hawksley’s family during the funeral for Fredrick, that had been more than enough for the servant to take them into a rabid dislike. Especially after Lord Chadwick had demanded that the silver be locked away after catching sight of Dillon’s battered countenance.
“The tears are more likely to be poor Miss Dawson’s when she is forced to meet your puffed-up prig of a father,” he groused.
“If she does not toss herself from the nearest roof,” Hawksley agreed grimly. “In fact, I have decided that it is best simply to acquire a special license and be done with the business before she has an opportunity to change her mind.”
Expecting full agreement with his rather brilliant notion, Hawksley was caught off guard by Dillon’s abrupt frown.
“And deprive her of the lavish society wedding that all women dream of?”
“All women but my Clara,” Hawksley corrected with an unwittingly tender smile. “She possesses a distinct distaste for drawing attention to herself. I believe she would rather be drawn and quartered as to subject herself to the fuss of a large wedding.”
“She will have to become accustomed to being nobility eventually.”
A vague flare of panic fluttered through his heart before he was sternly squashing it.
No.
He had just managed to convince Clara to be his wife. He was not about to risk driving her away. The proper moment to reveal his title and wealth would surely present itself. Until then, he intended to use his time binding Clara so tightly to him she could never let go.
“That is a worry for another day.”
His fierce tone must have alerted his servant that there was something he was hiding.
“Hawk?”
“Yes?”
His gaze narrowed. “You have told her the truth of yourself, have you not?”
Hawksley shrugged, his expression guarded. “Perhaps not entirely.”
“Good God almighty.” The former thief muttered several colorful curses beneath his breath. “You asked a woman to wed you who does not even know your true name?”
“She knows all she needs to know for the moment.”
“Fah. She has a—”
“What she has is enough to concern herself with,” Hawksley said in tones that defied argument. “Not the least of which is a crazed nobleman who wishes her dead. Once Lord Doulton is properly dealt with, I will reveal everything to her.”
Dillon threw his hands in the air. “You are courting trouble, Hawk.”
“It is what I usually court, is it not?” he retorted in mocking tones. “Now, may I have my bath before the water ices over?”
Clearly realizing Hawksley would not be moved, Dillon moved to collect the empty pails.
“Do as you will,” he muttered.
“I always do, old friend.”
Pausing at the door, Dillon offered a sudden smile. “Oh, aye, that you do.”
After slipping from Hawksley’s bed, Clara had no thought of returning to sleep. Not when her entire body tingled with a restless energy that nearly made her hair stand on end.
So this was love.
A smile curved her lips as she attired herself in a faded blue gown and pulled her hair into a tidy braid. It was odd how the poets always portrayed love as a sweet and tender emotion.
They spoke nothing of the sharp-edged excitement that seemed to be permanently lodged in the pit of her stomach. Or the giddy urge to giggle at the most ridiculous moments. Or prance about as if she were a complete loon.
For a sensible woman it was all vastly confusing.
And vastly delightful, she conceded with a faint sigh.
Perhaps she was being a fool.
History was littered with the broken hearts of women who believed they had discovered true love, only to be betrayed. But at the moment she could not make herself care.
She was happy.
Completely and utterly happy.
And if she was blinding herself, well . . . so be it.
For once in her dull, predictable life she was going to take a risk. And damn the consequences.
Far too restive to simply remain in her chambers, Clara at last went in search of the housekeeper. She needed something to keep her occupied until Hawksley arose and they could make their plans for the day.
Nearly two hours later she had commanded the boxes in the attic to be neatly stacked to one side and began busily mopping years of grime from the wooden floor. Already she had dusted the rafters clean and scrubbed the walls, and there was a freshness to the air that would please the most fastidious soul.
Humming beneath her breath, she attacked the cobwebs hiding in a corner with her mop, her distraction great enough that she missed the sound of approaching footsteps. No distraction, however, was great enough, not even death itself, to prevent her from noticing the sudden prickle of awareness that feathered over her skin.
“I thought I should find you here,” a warm male voice murmured from behind.
Dropping the mop, Clara turned to discover Hawksley a few feet away, his shoulder propped negligently against the wall and a mysterious smile playing about his lips.
Her heart did its familiar leap and her mouth went dry. Oh . . . my. Would she ever become accustomed to such potent male beauty?
She had to hope she would. People would begin to suspect she was touched in the noodle if she were always fluttering and swooning whenever her husband entered a room.
Husband . . .
Her heart took another leap.
“Hawksley,” she at last managed to squeak.
He slowly glanced about the attic that was glowing in the slanting sunlight. “You really do enjoy this scrubbing business, do you not?”