Annette Blair - Scandalous Brides

“His grace will not want his hair cut,” Hawksworth said. “And you would not be doing the cutting, if he did.”

“The bath, please, Myerson,” Alex said. “And thank you.”

Hawk followed Alex into a well-appointed bedchamber. The curtains and counterpane, like the upholstery on the two wingback chairs by the hearth, were covered in the deep turquoise velvet of Alex’s eyes. Pillows of gold brought the color, the very room, to life.

Upon her dresser sat a Roman pottery vase, one of the childhood treasures they had unearthed near Devil’s Dyke, though this one had always been Alex’s favorite. Colored pale tan to deep blue-gray, and looking as if someone had combed a staff of shallow half-circles in the clay before firing, the vase lent an air of reality to Hawk’s illusory sense of homecoming.

While the bedchamber was not rich by any standard, it was in better condition than he would have expected. “You expected to share this room with your husband, did you not?”

“On occasion,” Alex said. “Which is exactly what I am doing.”

Hawk nodded, hardly daring to believe it. He could be comfortable in this room, with very few adjustments, if only Alex would not expect him to play the husband— Correction, if he had the right, and the confidence in his ability, he would gladly play the husband.

With the manner of an artist evaluating a work of art, Alex regarded him critically. “Your beard is as wild as your mane. I will trim both.”

“You will not.”

“Hawksworth, do you want me to awaken in the night and scream because I have a beast in my bed?”

“You will have a beast in your bed, make no mistake.”

“The one now growling beside me?”

A rather foreign and uncomfortable bubble of mirth caught in Hawk’s throat, making it ache, making him angry. “Indeed.”

“There are beasts, and there are beasts,” Alex said, pointedly, shivering as if in anticipation. Damn.

“Just a little bit?” she cajoled, in the charming way that only Alex could. “I will only cut your hair a little bit. And after traveling all day, I am certain we would benefit from a hot bath.”

“We? One at a time, of course.”

“In a slipper bath? I should say so. As if there is any other—” Her grin shot an arrow of doubt straight to Hawk’s conscience. He was not the rogue of old and he should tell her so.

“There is another way, is there not?” she asked, her ripple of mirth and sparkling interest speeding Hawk’s heart. “Chesterfield promised me,” she tapped her chin, “that he would teach me all manner of entertaining pastimes in marriage. Now I fear there will be no entertainment… unless you teach me.” She released a sigh, heavy with irony, if only she knew it. Or did she?

Hawksworth began to sweat. He had known she would be like this, even about the marriage bed, eager for new experiences, excited, and exciting, drinking of life in huge greedy draughts. Bloody hell.

To protect her from Chesterfield, he had no choice but to remain her husband, Hawk told himself, which eased the constriction about his chest, somewhat, and allowed him to breathe again, barely.

A sad day, he thought, when the Rogue of Devil’s Dyke became the lesser of evils. Imagine a man of legendary prowess being pleased about that.

Imagine him being grateful.

Lo, how the mighty have fallen.

Part of him was relieved, and pleased, and grateful, that he had not broken her spirit, by leaving her to bear such burdens, as he might have done with a less lively individual, but another part was frightened by the very liveliness he admired.

Hawk looked up and caught his breath at the sight of her absently pulling pins from her hair before her mirror—watching him, in the glass, watching her. Her arms raised, her lush and generous breasts all but bared in proud invitation, she presented the ultimate picture of bewitchment, and seemed totally oblivious to the fact.

He should be shot for what he was thinking.

Drawn by her mesmerizing, almost come-hither gaze, her eyes in candlelight the very color and depth of the sunniest south sea, Hawk could not keep from approaching. He moved her hands aside to savor the sensation of his own in her hair, and removed her hairpins, himself. He had no sooner buried his fists, wrists deep, in the silken bounty, than the cinnamon mane tumbled down to her tiny waist and beyond in one long waving sweep.

Why not make her his in every way? They were married after all.

To the beat of his speeding heart, Hawk combed his fingers through the silken treasure, top to tail, literally, stroking her perfect bottom, twice or thrice along the way, almost by accident. The satin against his hands enticed him almost as much as those womanly curves beneath, so deliciously near that his palms itched to explore every gentle swell and graceful hollow.

He was in trouble. Big trouble.

He wanted her. He could not have her.

But he would be forced to lie beside her every night. All night. Sweating. Aching—if today was any indication—both a hopeful, and a dangerous, turn of events.

Alex turned her back on him then, and lifted her hair, presumably for him to undo the buttons down the back of her rose silk gown. Hawk closed his eyes, remembering how good she had felt in his arms yesterday in the carriage, how much he had wanted to hold her in the bed last night. He inhaled the scent of her—violets, woman, softness, and need.

Joy. Willingness. Life. Alexandra.

And just as he bent to place his lips against that spot at her nape begging for his kiss, Myerson called from the dressing room that his grace’s bath was ready.

Hawk stilled, cursed himself roundly, and after undoing the last of Alexandra’s buttons with all due haste, he took the opportunity to flee.

Once inside the dressing room, he shut the door and locked it, certain he would fail at the goal he had set for himself—to let her go. He hoped beyond hope that he would not, because Alex would pay an awful price for all of a lifetime if he failed.

After Myerson left, Hawk undressed and lowered his awkward and scarred body into the warm, lapping, incredibly soothing water. As heat radiated to his limbs and deep into his marrow, sweet and numbing, his screaming muscles calmed and so, too, did his fast-beating heart.

Alex had been right. A bath was just what he needed.

“I was right, was I not?”

Hawk jumped all of a foot, splashing them both, and feeling like an idiot. “How did you get in here?”

“Through the door. How else? I thought you might need my help. I could scrub your back.” There she was, again, that innocent three year old, coaxing him down a forbidden hill with no more than that wide-eyed look.

“Go away.”

“Why?”

The string of oaths Hawk released should have turned her face crimson and chased her from the room.

She grinned. “If you did not want me here, you should have locked the door.”

Hawk closed his eyes, because to see her was to desire her. “I did lock the door.”

At her ripple of laughter, he opened them.

“I know.” She allowed another salacious giggle to escape without a qualm. “The lock is broken. Everything in this house is.” She beamed as she approached the tub.

At the glitter of purpose in her eyes, Hawk reared back.

“Relax,” she said. “My intentions are honorable. I plan only to wash your hair, not to ravish you.”

Hawk sighed, inwardly, remembering ravishment with a great deal of wistful fondness, wishing it were possible, wondering what would happen if… “Be gentle with me,” he said, tired enough to allow the Good Ship Alexandra to stay her course, however fraught the waters with peril.

“Oh, I will.” Like warm, soft toffee, her words melted on her tongue, rich and honeyed with promise.