could trust. Someone she could kiss without revulsion. Someone gentle and noble and good.
When I meet him, she thought, I’ll know.
CHAPTER THREE
contents - previous | next
It was Saturday night after the opera and the Cyprians’ fashionable little townhouse was crammed nearly to the breaking point as Hawk made his way through the throng, feeling self-conscious and out of place.
The party was a garish kaleidoscope of feverish color and raucous laughter. He scanned the overheated salon for Dolph Breckinridge as he was jostled along through the inebriated, mostly male crowd. Somewhere a window must have been opened, for a cool, almost imperceptible ribbon of air threaded in through the crowd to trail against his cheek like a trace of sanity. He needed it at the moment.
He’d had no idea that when Dolph had spoken so longingly of his ladylove, this
Belinda,
that he had been talking about a demirep, for God’s sake. Nor had he expected to come back to Town and learn that half of male London had made a bid for the girl. Three full pages of wagers were logged in the betting book at White’s concerning who would win the incomparable Miss Hamilton for his ladybird.
Her kind had no morals, but Miss Hamilton, uniquely, could be said to possess
a
moral: She refused all offers from married men, Hawk had heard at the club. Such nicety of feeling, he thought dryly.
Gossip about Dolph’s making a fool of himself in the street that day over the girl had traveled quickly. Hawk had known the moment he’d heard about the incident that she was the key to getting his enemy under his thumb.
There was only one problem, however. Hawk knew nothing about demireps and how they liked to be wooed, for their philosophy of profit from lovemaking had always rather revolted the romantic nature that lurked beneath his straitlaced exterior.
All he knew was that it wasn’t the simple matter of flashing a fat purse before their eyes: Cyprians were not typical prostitutes. They had reputations of a sort to maintain, whims to be catered to, vanities to be stroked. A man was supposed to enjoy the chase and the hoops the elite courtesans made them jump through to win their favors.
Games and absurdity, he thought in disgust, heaving an impatient sigh under his breath. Even if this Miss Hamilton was as lovely as everyone claimed, he could never respect a woman who was no more than a glorified whore. Still, though his dignity was rather put off by it all, he was fixed enough in his quest to play along. He tried to look relaxed, but could scarcely hide his lordly disdain for the place and its resident harlots. His mother would have fit right in here, he thought in contempt.
Just then, he happened across a trio of his acquaintances, who promptly exclaimed with hilarity to find him in this house of lust. They clapped him on the back and pressed a drink into his hand. Feeling sheepish, Hawk drank with them, barely heeding their half-drunken ramblings. Furtively scanning the room, his gaze suddenly happened across a large gilt-framed mirror over the fireplace. In it, he saw Dolph Breckinridge.
Coldfell’s nephew was tucked away in an alcove on the far end of the salon. At first, Hawk could not see the woman he had cornered there. Then Dolph dropped to his knees in pleading, and Hawk glimpsed her face.
His eyes widened; he froze; he stared. Abruptly, he tore his stunned gaze away before anyone suspected he was spying. His heart was pounding.
My God, she is an angel.
He forced a taut smile at his friends, gripped his wineglass so hard he nearly snapped the stem, and listened not at all to his companions’ boasting about their success at Gentleman Jack’s boxing studio.
A prickling sensation raced down his spine. He slanted another covert glance at the mirror and beheld the silvery gold vision of the elegant young courtesan, ruling from her alcove like a virgin queen of some arctic country. Celestial and yet sensual, Miss Hamilton stared
When I meet him, she thought, I’ll know.
CHAPTER THREE
contents - previous | next
It was Saturday night after the opera and the Cyprians’ fashionable little townhouse was crammed nearly to the breaking point as Hawk made his way through the throng, feeling self-conscious and out of place.
The party was a garish kaleidoscope of feverish color and raucous laughter. He scanned the overheated salon for Dolph Breckinridge as he was jostled along through the inebriated, mostly male crowd. Somewhere a window must have been opened, for a cool, almost imperceptible ribbon of air threaded in through the crowd to trail against his cheek like a trace of sanity. He needed it at the moment.
He’d had no idea that when Dolph had spoken so longingly of his ladylove, this
Belinda,
that he had been talking about a demirep, for God’s sake. Nor had he expected to come back to Town and learn that half of male London had made a bid for the girl. Three full pages of wagers were logged in the betting book at White’s concerning who would win the incomparable Miss Hamilton for his ladybird.
Her kind had no morals, but Miss Hamilton, uniquely, could be said to possess
a
moral: She refused all offers from married men, Hawk had heard at the club. Such nicety of feeling, he thought dryly.
Gossip about Dolph’s making a fool of himself in the street that day over the girl had traveled quickly. Hawk had known the moment he’d heard about the incident that she was the key to getting his enemy under his thumb.
There was only one problem, however. Hawk knew nothing about demireps and how they liked to be wooed, for their philosophy of profit from lovemaking had always rather revolted the romantic nature that lurked beneath his straitlaced exterior.
All he knew was that it wasn’t the simple matter of flashing a fat purse before their eyes: Cyprians were not typical prostitutes. They had reputations of a sort to maintain, whims to be catered to, vanities to be stroked. A man was supposed to enjoy the chase and the hoops the elite courtesans made them jump through to win their favors.
Games and absurdity, he thought in disgust, heaving an impatient sigh under his breath. Even if this Miss Hamilton was as lovely as everyone claimed, he could never respect a woman who was no more than a glorified whore. Still, though his dignity was rather put off by it all, he was fixed enough in his quest to play along. He tried to look relaxed, but could scarcely hide his lordly disdain for the place and its resident harlots. His mother would have fit right in here, he thought in contempt.
Just then, he happened across a trio of his acquaintances, who promptly exclaimed with hilarity to find him in this house of lust. They clapped him on the back and pressed a drink into his hand. Feeling sheepish, Hawk drank with them, barely heeding their half-drunken ramblings. Furtively scanning the room, his gaze suddenly happened across a large gilt-framed mirror over the fireplace. In it, he saw Dolph Breckinridge.
Coldfell’s nephew was tucked away in an alcove on the far end of the salon. At first, Hawk could not see the woman he had cornered there. Then Dolph dropped to his knees in pleading, and Hawk glimpsed her face.
His eyes widened; he froze; he stared. Abruptly, he tore his stunned gaze away before anyone suspected he was spying. His heart was pounding.
My God, she is an angel.
He forced a taut smile at his friends, gripped his wineglass so hard he nearly snapped the stem, and listened not at all to his companions’ boasting about their success at Gentleman Jack’s boxing studio.
A prickling sensation raced down his spine. He slanted another covert glance at the mirror and beheld the silvery gold vision of the elegant young courtesan, ruling from her alcove like a virgin queen of some arctic country. Celestial and yet sensual, Miss Hamilton stared
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