Retrieving a dampened handkerchief from the pocket of her apron, Clara wiped her hands clean.
“Well, it is to be my house as well now, and you know I can not abide a mess.” She smiled rather shyly. “Besides, I would not wish anyone to think that I was not being a proper wife to you.”
His eyes oddly darkened, almost as if her soft words troubled him. Slowly pushing away from the wall, he moved to stand before her, taking her hands in a tight grip.
“Clara . . . I would not request you to live in such an establishment once we are wed.”
She bit her lip at his hesitant tone. Blast. She had forgotten just how fragile his male pride could be. Obviously he was concerned that his home was not worthy of her.
Well, she would put a swift halt to such nonsense. She would not have him plunging into debt in an effort to keep her in a style that he believed suitable for a lady. Nor would she have him returning to those horrid gambling hells to provide for them.
She was a simple woman with simple taste. Somehow she had to convince him that all she needed to be happy was him.
“It does not bother me, Hawksley, truly it does not,” she earnestly assured him. “It is very cozy.”
“No.” He gave a sharp shake of his head. “It is a crumbling pile of rubbish in a neighborhood not fit for the rats.”
She could not halt her chuckle at his dramatic words. “It is not so bad.”
“My wife deserves better.” His hand cupped her cheek. “She will have better.”
She swallowed a sigh at his adamant expression. She might not know much about men, but even she could sense a battle when it was brewing.
“If you prefer we could always live at my cottage,” she hastily offered. “It is not much, but it is sturdy, and with my yearly allowance we should be quite comfortable.”
Just for a moment she feared she had managed to say precisely the wrong thing.
Again.
But even as she wracked her mind for some means of undoing the damage, Hawksley was wrapping his arms firmly about her and resting his cheek atop her head.
“My God . . . You truly are a most remarkable woman, Clara Dawson.”
Warm relief flooded through her as she snuggled against his firm chest. She had no notion why this man found her remarkable while all others considered her merely annoying, but she was not about to question her good fortune.
Especially not when his warm, male scent was making her knees weak and the feel of his arms about her was reminding her just how wondrous it was to have him so close.
Pulling back, she deliberately smoothed her hands over his broad chest and up to his shoulders, an alluring smile curving her lips.
“Mayhap I am a bit remarkable.”
Beneath her hands she felt his heart jolt against his chest, his eyes darkening with a familiar smoldering heat.
“Clara, are you actually jesting with me?” he teased softly. “I am all astonishment.”
She wet her lips, delighting as she could feel his stirring erection. She had never thought of herself as desirable before. She found it a rather heady sensation.
“I am not so very dreary, Hawksley,” she murmured.
“No, you are beautiful, and intelligent, and incredibly tempting,” he growled, cupping her hips to press them sharply against him. “Too tempting by half.”
She chuckled softly, her hands slipping down the hard planes of his stomach with a daring she never knew she possessed.
“Hawksley. Are you always in this mood directly after breakfast?”
“After breakfast, luncheon, tea, dinner . . .”
His head lowered to nibble at the pulse pounding at the base of her neck, his fingers already busy with buttons at the back of her gown.
“The servants.”
He brushed her mouth with a light kiss. “I locked the door when I entered.”
“You are quite wicked.”
Lifting his head he slowly, methodically pulled down the sleeves of her gown.
“Oh, I have not yet begun to show you precisely how wicked I can be,” he assured her.
Holding his gaze, she allowed a mysterious smile to curve her lips. She had always been a swift student, and Hawksley had taught her a great deal of passion over the past few days.
She intended to prove just how much she had managed to learn.
“Perhaps it is my turn to be wicked,” she murmured.
Brushing her hand downward, she tugged at the buttons already straining beneath the thrust of his arousal. Then, still holding his stunned gaze, she allowed her fingers to encircle his rigid erection.
Hawksley sucked in a sharp breath, his fingers grasping her shoulders as if to keep himself upright.
“Bloody hell.”
“Do you not like this, Hawksley?” she teased, running a finger up to the moist tip.
He growled deep in his throat. “Hellfire, if I liked it any more I’m not sure I could bear it.”
She ran her fingers back down to the base of his manhood, delighting in the feel of his violent shudder.
“And that? Do you like that?”
“God,” he groaned, abruptly propelling her back against a newly scrubbed wall as he was hastily lifting her skirts to her waist. “One of these days, kitten, I intend to devote an entire day to seducing you.”
Her eyes slid closed in pleasure as his clever fingers parted her thighs to employ his special brand of magic.
“But not today,” she murmured on a sigh.
“No,” he rasped, his lips brushing hungry kisses over her upturned countenance. “Most certainly not today.”
Chapter Sixteen
Several hours later Hawksley was seated in his library, while Clara was happily training the maids in the proper method of cleaning the windows. He wanted to protest. It still pained him to think of her performing even the slightest household duty. But accepting that she preferred to feel as if she was accomplishing some task or another, he held his tongue.
Soon enough she would have a husband and children to keep her thoroughly occupied.
Children.
The most ridiculous thrill of anticipation raced down Hawksley’s spine and he gave a disbelieving shake of his head.
Hellfire. When did this happen?
When did he become a gentleman who no longer thought of his evenings devoted to gambling and debauchery, but instead tingled at the thought of curling up on a sofa with his wife at his side and silver-haired children with emerald eyes playing upon the floor?
Madness was the only explanation. Utter madness.
Aimlessly crossing the room toward the desk, Hawksley abruptly stilled at the faint rustle outside the window. The noise might have been caused by anything. A curious cat. A branch scraping the window pane. A passing servant.
Hawksley did not pause, however, as he slid silently toward the desk to collect his loaded pistol and then moved to a shadowy corner that possessed a clear view of the window.
He did not have long to wait as the curtains billowed from a sudden draft and a small, decidedly human form appeared in the room.
Hawksley lifted the pistol quite prepared to shoot. He would hesitate to pull the trigger if it were his own life at risk, but not with Clara in the house. To keep her safe he would do whatever was necessary.
He aimed toward the narrow chest, his finger upon the trigger, when he was struck by the blinding pink coat. What sort of self-respecting thief would wear something so ridiculous?
The answer was, of course, no thief would be seen in such a travesty.
Only one man would dare.
Lowering the pistol, Hawksley forced himself to count to ten before stepping from the shadows and confronting his intruder.
“You do know, Biddles, that one day you will crawl through the wrong window and discover a bullet lodged in your arse?”