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She drew a deep breath, one so profound that his eyes were drawn to her very ample bosom. He still wanted her, she knew it. Why this ridiculous marriage? Why had he left his bride in Yorkshire?
They were sipping their champagne when Lyonel strolled by.
“Quite a crush,” he said, lazily surveying Lady Bellingham’s ballroom. “Your servant, Lady Constance, Hawk—but not your servant, old fellow.”
Constance wondered if she would try for Saint Leven. It was her second Season, and she knew her parents wanted her to make a push to attach an appropriate gentleman. He was handsome, she thought, and seemed pleasant enough. She listened with half an ear to the gentlemen’s conversation, pausing, her eyes widening when Lyonel said, “I should think Frances would much enjoy herself here. Does she enjoy the scandalous waltz, Hawk?”
Frances. So that was the bride’s name! Lord Saint Leven had met her?
“I don’t have the foggiest notion,” said Hawk, trying his best to frown Lyonel down.
To his relief, Lord Bellamy minced up at that moment to claim his dance.
“Silly fop,” said Lyonel, watching the baron lead Constance into a country dance.
“Please drop that damned eyepiece of yours, Lyonel, it reminds me of Frances in her spectacles.”
“Miss her already, do you, my boy? And this only your second day, er, night, in London.”
“What I miss,” Hawk said, “is Amalie. If you will excuse me, Lyon, I’m off to Curzon Street. Amalie, unlike others, is awaiting me, with great sweetness, no doubt.”
“Sweetness,” mused Lyonel. “What an odd way of putting it. Do enjoy yourself, old fellow.”
Hawk had every intention of enjoying himself immensely. When he arrived at Amalie’s very charming house on Curzon Street, a house he’d allowed her to select and furnish, at his expense, of course, he was greeted by her pert little French maid, Marie.“
“Madame is expecting you, Monseigneur.”
Hawk felt himself becoming aroused even as he strode up the stairs to her bedchamber.
Amalie was lounging in the center of her pink frilled counterpane, her favorite book open on her lap. Ah, Diderot, she was thinking, a man of talent, a man of wit. She heard Hawk’s footsteps, and quickly stuffed Diderot’s thin volume under her pillow.
She’d missed him, no question about that. She wondered if his father had died. Hawk had been distraught when he’d left London for his father’s estate. She should have read the Gazette, but she found it boring, much preferring her countrymen’s elegant writing.
He appeared in the doorway, beautifully handsome, his large body filling her very feminine bedroom.
“Mon faucon!” Amalie cried, and jumped off her bed. She was immediately enfolded in his strong arms, her face pressed against his shoulder.
“I never get used to being a hawk in French, Amalie,” he said, his hands moving down her back to her hips. He breathed in the sweet scent of her—female and attar of roses. A heady combination. “I want you, now,” he said, his voice deepening.
She moved against him and felt his hard manhood straining at his breeches. “You do indeed, mon amour,” she whispered, and stood on her tiptoes to kiss him.
“And you, Amalie? Do you want me?”
That made her cock her head to the side. “What a question ridicule!”
She felt his hand slip inside her peignoir, his deft fingers stroking down her belly until he touched her intimately.
“Ah, how nice,” Hawk said, feeling her warmth, her wetness.
“What do you expect, mon faucon? Coldness?”
“I don’t know,” he said, and lifted her easily into his arms. Frances would have been cold and dry and stiff.
He was undressed so quickly that Amalie had little chance to admire his beautiful body. Then he was on the bed beside her, drawing off her pink silk peignoir.
“God, I’ve missed you,” he said, burying his face in her breasts.
“And I you,” she whispered, gently clasping him to her.
