Page 42 of Anastasia and the Duke
She kept her head down, as she rushed along the path, hoping to escape by the far gate. She was so determined not to be seen, that she did not see the figure that jumped from a bench as she approached and walked straight into him.
"Oof," she cried, as she collided with a male chest, one so broad and strong that she almost ricocheted off it.
"I was hoping to bump into you," a low male voice drawled, "But not quite so literally."
Hawkfield.
Hannah took a step back and looked up to find the duke smiling mischievously down at her.
"Your Grace," she said, touching a nervous hand to her bonnet.
"Miss Blackmore," he replied, his eyes on her face and not her dowdy costume, "You've been avoiding me."
It was a statement, not a question.
"To be out once when I called was unfortunate" he continued, his tone wryly amused, "Twice a tragic coincidence, a third time--however--made it clear that you have no wish to see me, and I would like to know why."
"Why?" Hannah gave a laugh, though she could understand why the duke--who could have any number of willing women--was confused as to whyshedid not want him. She eyed him mulishly, as he stared down at her, confident and arrogant, but with a slight hint of vulnerability in those blue eyes she adored.
"Because you are mad," she said, with a note of finality, "Stark raving mad and fit for Bedlam. Yes, there is an attraction between us. And, yes, you are a very nice kisser. And, also yes, you are a very handsome man--but you are mad. Mad to even think you want to marry me."
"A very nice kisser?" Hawkfield raised a brow, his generous mouth showing his displeasure at her insipid choice of adjective.
Hannah blushed as she recalled both the kisses they had shared. On reflection, nice did not truly convey the passion and sinful skill with which the duke had kissed her.
"Perhaps you need a further demonstration of my talents, Miss Blackmore," he mused, taking a step towards her, "So you might be convinced that my skills are more than merely nice."
Hannah was rooted to the spot, transfixed by the wicked grin which played upon his lips. She glanced around the park, which was--for once--empty, while tall trees offered them a cloak of privacy, should she submit to his proposal.
"Your Grace," she croaked, her voice sounding husky and not like her own.
"Oliver," he corrected her, as he reached his hand out to take hers.
He tugged her gently towards him, and Hannah did not resist. When she was close enough, he gently stroked her cheek with his free hand, before pulling her even closer.
In seconds, his lips were upon hers--warm and demanding, but tender and sweet all at once. He tasted like fresh, summer berries, she thought, as he claimed her lips most competently.
"Tell me that was merely nice," he rasped, as they finally broke apart.
Hannah, who felt as though her legs were made of water, took a moment to recover herself before she answered.
"Of course it was more than nice," she cried, taking a step back from him, "But what you want is impossible. I cannot be your wife, Oliver; I am not worthy of either your love nor your title."
"You keep saying that," he growled, stepping forward to make redundant the space she had tried to put between them, "But you are more than worthy of both. I promise you, that no matter what, I will love you."
Unconditional love, what woman wouldn't be swayed by such an offer? Hannah ached to allow herself to believe his promise. How easy life would be, if she had his strong body to lean upon for support.
A shriek of joy pierced the air and Hannah turned to catch sight of a governess escorting three unruly charges through the gates of the park.
"I must go," she said, nervously tugging at her bonnet, which had come askew during their embrace.
"Think upon what I said," Hawkfield answered, his tone more reserved than before, "I only ever say what I mean, Hannah. I hope that you know me to be a man of my word."
On that, slightly hurt, note, Hawkfield took his leave, striding towards the gates without so much as a backwards glance at her. Hannah felt wretched as she watched him leave; her refusal to believe him had nothing to do with not trusting him, it was because he was offering for her blindly.
Perhaps he truly will still love you if he finds out the truth, a voice in her mind whispered, as she began to make her way towards Audley Street. Could he? This question pressed on Hannah as she traced her way back to the mews behind number thirty-three. She had always been reluctant to trust anyone, preferring instead to rely on herself. If she had to place her trust into anyone's hands, Hawkfield would be the person she would pick.
A small frisson of excitement blossomed in Hannah's chest, as she realised that, somehow, the duke had broken through her barriers. If she explained to him her situation, before she acted on any silly plan, then perhaps--
