Part One:
Another Misthaven season opens with what promises to be a grand and titillating affair. The ton is abuzz with speculation that the new Duke of Ironhook may be in attendance at Lord Nemo's ball this evening. Acquiring the title, the lands, and the family fortune after his older brother's death this past winter, second born of the illustrious Jones family, Killian Jones, has quite the legacy to live up to. No doubt the Mamas are gathering as much information as they can as to His Grace's likes and dislikes, so they might coach their daughters accordingly. So, allow me to offer one small drop to wet the whistle of the throng. This author has it on good authority that should His Grace make an appearance at tonight's crush, he'll do so donned in hues of red and black.
Let us now move on to some of the notables and curiosities also entering Society this season…
Emma stopped reading along with the gossip sheet when her eyes spotted her own name, but that didn't halt her friend Ruby's recitations of the page. Whomever the clandestine author was, they certainly knew far more than most of Misthaven probably would have preferred. Certainly more than Emma would have preferred.
"Entering Society for her first season, despite her advanced age, is Miss Emma Swan, ward to the Viscount Nolan's family and considered by many to be estimated as a sister in the Viscount and Viscountess' eyes," Ruby prattled on. "Gifted with a respectable dowry after the Dowager's passing, Miss Swan's financial worth and uncommon good looks will surely make up for her rumored prickly disposition in the eye of more than one fortune seeking suitor."
"Prickly? Uncommon good looks? Advanced age?" Emma repeated exasperatedly. "I'm all of twenty!"
"And many ladies are already well married and on their first or second child by your age," Mary Margaret, the Viscountess, reminded her while running a hand over her protruding belly, proving her point.
"Ruby is nineteen, yet I see no snide comment in Lady Priscilla Candlewyck's rag about her advanced age," Emma protested.
"This is not Ruby's first season," Mary Margaret replied.
"Although, one way or another it shall be my last," Ruby forlorned. "Which Candlewyck seems to have ferreted out as well."
The three women's heads fell back into the page, a series of gasps letting loose before hands covered mouths in a scandalized and commiserating fashion.
Among the perilous in search of a match this season, is Miss Ruby Lucas. After having no luck in securing herself a husband during her debut season, the poor creature had to sit out last year's marriage market while in mourning of her parents. This author has it on good authority that she has not the funds to finance any subsequent seasons, and therefore must make herself a match, lest she end up a spinster with no one but her Granny for companionship here after.
"That is it," Emma clipped out, snatching the pages from her friend and sister-in-law's hands. Wadding them up she tossed them into the fireplace. With her hands braced against her hips she watched with a sense of satisfaction as the spiteful words flared up the chimney before turning to ash beneath the grate. "I think we have indulged in such nonsense long enough," she declared, resuming her seat upon the settee.
"It is not all nonsense," Mary Margaret warned. "While many will go about the matter of obtaining a match in a respectable fashion, let us not forget that desperate times can call for desperate measures, and even more desperate tactics by the more unsavory members of the ton."
Emma knew full well what sort of tactics Mary Margaret spoke of. Her husband, David, the Viscount, had nearly been entrapped to wed another woman when he happened upon her crying in a secluded section of a garden two seasons ago. Before he could excuse himself from the woman's presence, they were caught alone together. He was saved from having to issue a proposal in order to spare the woman from ruin when the suitor she had been shedding tears over later asked for her hand.
"You will both do well to remember that at tonight's ball," Mary Margaret continued on. "There are boundaries, and you must heed them. Not every member of Society is as noble as the Viscount. Some will attempt to purposefully lure you into compromising positions in order to force your hand, while others will have no qualms in settling the matter of their honor over pistols rather than propose. You must safeguard your reputations." Setting aside her needlepoint, Mary Margaret lifted herself out of her seat with as much grace as she could manage in her advanced state. "But enough of that," she said, her tone sweetening as an excited gleam shone from her eyes. "It's time to ready yourselves for Lord Nemo's ball."
Emma's shoulders sagged and a long suffering sigh expelled from her lungs. Knowing her sister-in-law would not be able to attend the balls and parties now that she'd reached her time of confinement, Emma mustered up as much enthusiasm for the soiree as she could so the Viscountess could live vicariously through her. If she had her way, however, she would forgo the entire ridiculous affair, place her dowry in a trust, and retire to the country. But, she had made a promise to the Viscount and Viscountess both that she would participate in one season, and one season only, so she really ought to make the best of it she supposed.
~/~
Killian Jones, The Duke of Ironhook, was nearly at his boiling point. If he had to endure one more vapid conversation, one more not-so-subtle hint from a debutante's chaperone about how well suited their young lady would be to overseeing a duchy, he may very well lose it. Bloodthirsty Mamas and opportunistic Misses had set their title climbing sights upon him, but he was more interested in learning his new role and taming his wild ways for the sake of his brother's memory, than finding a Duchess. If tonight's invitation had not come from the man Killian considered more of a father than his own sire, he would have begged off this evening altogether. Killian knew he would have to wed and produce an heir at some point, but surely he could be afforded a season or two before such a requirement became pressing?
"You simply must dine with us sometime this week, Your Grace," one of the determined Mamas offered. "Our cook prepares the most exquisite mackerel. I'm told it is one of your favorites."
Killian gave the woman a gracious smile, and without actually committing himself to the invitation, polished off the remainder of his champagne so he could excuse himself to retrieve another... or perhaps ransack Nemo's study in search of something stronger.
Spying a gaggle of more enterprising ladies, bedecked in a shades of red and plum which, he was told by an all too thoroughly amused Nemo, was meant to coordinate with his standard preference of red and black garb, Killian changed course and instead of heading for the banquet table, lined with champagne flutes, he found himself on the terrace of Nemo's gardens. A heavy exhale labored from his chest, the light, early summer breeze a welcomed relief against his skin, in contrast to the crushing heat he had experienced in the stifling ballroom.
Slipping his hands into his pockets, Killian strolled down the terrace steps towards the rows of hedges and topiaries decorating the lawn, knowing he would find a bit of solace in their shadows. Chaste ladies of repute would have been warned against their dangers, and eagle eyed chaperones would ensure none of their charges risk their virtues to the dark and sordid solitary corners.
Unfortunately for Killian, one such lady's chaperone seemed to be failing in their duties.
A gasp sounded when Killian ventured through one of the archways and his head snapped to pinpoint its origins. Seated upon one of the garden's stone benches was a young, attractive woman. Dark curls were piled high upon her head with red plumage artfully woven through her tresses, and she was dressed in a gown of deep crimson. Clearly startled by his presence, she stood and began to survey their surroundings.
"I beg your pardon, Miss," Killian said. "I was not expecting anyone else to be out here."
"I, uh," the woman stammered, seemingly at odds with herself.
"You really should not be out here alone," Killian warned. "It would not do for someone to find us together. Unchaperoned."
"Yes, I know," the woman replied, and the hair on the back of Killian's neck began to lift with a prickling of apprehension at the expression the woman now wore.
Edging his way back towards the archway, Killian advised, "Then perhaps you ought to return to the ballroom."
With a flash of desperation in her eyes, the woman caught his arm and pleaded, "Do not go yet. Please. I need… I cannot… I must find myself a match, and I-"
"Love, I assure you, I am not the match you seek," Killian reprimanded. "Nor will I allow you to entrap me in whatever scheme you have concocted." Wrenching his arm from her grasp, he threatened, "Make no mistake. If we are discovered, I shall issue no proposal, so you would do well to return to the ball. Now."
The sound of swishing skirts and approaching footsteps made both his and the woman's heads dart to the archway. His heart leapt into his throat before plummeting into a never ending freefall towards his stomach when another woman rounded the corner. Closing his eyes in preparation for the scene to come, Killian ground his teeth together. His worst nightmare was coming to pass, and soon the entire ton would know exactly what sort of bastard he was. As much as he was loath to see the woman's reputation forever tarnished, he would not be browbeaten by Society's rules to marry before he was good and ready. He would sooner face the muzzle of a pistol on the dueling field.
"Emma!" his would-be bride exclaimed. "This is not what it looks like."
"I should say not," Killian groused through clenched teeth.
"Oh?" their discoverer, Emma, drawled, before unleashing an ire that had Killian's eyes snapping open and taking in the woman with astonished interest. "Well, that is a relief. Because if I did not know any better, I would say you are out here being utterly stupid, Ruby Lucas." Marching forward, the feisty blonde gripped the brunettes arm and began dragging her back towards the archway. "Please excuse us, My Lor… er…" Her eyes grew wide after casting them upon Killian, and her mouth dropped open in stupefaction before she remembered herself and choked out, "Y-Your Grace, I mean."
Without giving Killian a chance to reply, she tugged once more on her companion's arm and hastened them both back out the archway. The brunette was clearly not pleased with her friend's meddling, but Killian couldn't have been more grateful, nor more stunned… for a variety of reasons.
Reasons that only compiled when he heard the woman's admonishments from the cover of one of the hedgerows that led back towards the house.
"Have you completely lost your mind, Ruby Lucas?" the woman hissed viciously. "Is this where you've been all night? Laying in wait for some hapless gentlemen to come by so you can find yourself compromised? Do you have any idea how stupid that is?"
"That's easy for you to say," the other woman, Ruby, shot back. "Your brother would fund endless seasons for you should you desire it, I only have this one." The blonde woman must have opened her mouth to speak, but the brunette barreled on. "Yes, I know. You think it all quite preposterous and that I would be better off remaining unwed, but not all of us wish for spinsterhood the way you do."
Killian balked at that statement. What lady of Society did not aspire to marry? Indeed, they were groomed from birth to enter into a respectable marriage, tend to home and hearth, and provide their husbands with an heir, lest they find themselves among the lowest of stations within the noble class. Killian had always found such ambitions to be as banal as the ladies his brother, Liam, had prompted him towards on those rare occasions he found himself within Misthaven during The Season. Never had he met any with intentions other than a domesticated sort.
"I know you want to marry," the blonde commiserated. "I am not unsympathetic to your desires or situation, but this… this is not the answer. Entrapping a man? You know what my brother nearly endured, why would you put such a burden on a… for heaven's sake, Ruby. The Duke? Did you really believe for one moment that he, out of all the men within the ton would… What would you have done if someone else had discovered you and he'd made good on his threat to not issue a proposal? You have no father or brothers to demand satisfaction for such a dishonor, and even if he had agreed, what sort of happiness could two people ever find in a marriage where one of them was forced to enter?"
Properly chastised, the brunette sniffed and a long suffering sigh expelled slowly from the blonde. "Come," she said. "We should return to the ball before we are missed. Not another word on the matter."
Seeming to have secured her companion's agreement, Killian heard the retreat of their light footfalls and waited several beats of his interest piqued heart before following. Entering once more into the fray, Killian ignored the flutter of fans being coyly unfurled his way and scanned the ballroom for curled golden tresses cascading over the back of a pale blue gown. His lips turned up when he finally caught sight of her, but then faltered before coming close to anything considered a smile when he noted her escort.
Viscount Nolan. One of his brother's oldest friends, and a man who knew Killian's reputation far too well to ever let him anywhere near a woman he was charged to look after.
Fortunately for Killian, the pair soon found themselves in the audience of the evening's host. Putting an abrupt end to whatever it was the young lady before him was prattling on about, Killian made his apologies and excused himself, heading towards the opposite end of the ballroom, where their esteemed host saw him coming.
"Ah! Killian, my boy. There you are," Nemo boomed loudly over the throng. His blonde saviour turned her head and her sparkling emerald eyes widened as the pink of her cheeks deepened in hue at the sight of his approach. "Forgive me, Your Grace," Nemo corrected, affectionately with the slightest hint of melancholy. "I confess it shall take some getting used to, referring to you as Ironhook or Your Grace, and not simply Killian."
Killian waved the man off, swallowing back the lump of emotion that had begun to gather in the back of his throat. He did not wish to dwell on his brother tonight. "Please, Lord Nemo. If anyone can take liberties in the way they address me, it is you." Killian took Nemo's proffered hand and gave it a firm shake. "Besides, Ironhook was my father and brother's name. I dare say I shall never become accustomed to it either."
"My condolences on your brother's passing," Nolan offered with a tone of respect. Killian gave him a gracious nod before his gaze fell to the woman - even more stunning in the flickering light of the ballroom - who had prompted his attentions in the first place.
His hopes of an introduction were thwarted when Nemo informed, "You know, I do believe your grandfather used a shortened version of the title." Sipping from his champagne flute, the mischief in his eyes did not fail to garner Killian's attention as he drew out the moment, having deduced precisely why Killian had chosen now to come over and say hello. "He, too, felt it odd to use the name he'd grown up hearing his father called by, and so insisted his peers call him Irons."
"I hear you have taken up tutelage with the pugilist once more," Nolan stated, his tone now betraying his thinly veiled disapproval. "Perhaps Hook would be a more apt epithet."
The woman snorted daintily into her lemonade, and Killian could not help but raise a brow of mocked offense in her direction. "Does such a moniker amuse you, Miss…"
"Yes! Where are my manners," Nemo exclaimed. "You, of course, know Viscount Nolan, but allow me to introduce you to his family's ward, Miss Emma Swan."
Killian took the woman's hand and placed a light kiss along the back of her glove, his eyes remaining fixed on hers as she smiled politely, if not with a slight stiffness, at him whilst he murmured, "The pleasure is mine, Miss Swan."
"Entirely," she said sweetly through clenched teeth, low enough that neither Nemo nor the Viscount overheard as she swiftly removed her hand from his grasp.
"My apologies for not introducing myself in the garden," Killian began, firing back at her sass with a bit of his own cheek. "But seeing as you were without your escort, I did not think it proper."
"I beg your pardon?" Nolan demanded, stepping forward. "What are you insinuating?"
"Relax, Brother," Miss Swan said, exasperatedly. "The Duke passed by Ruby and me whilst we were on the back terrace taking in the air. As he said, he did not stop to make pleasantries, and merely nodded a respectful greeting our way."
"Aye," Killian replied, smirking conspiratorially at how easily she let slip the lie. "Though, now that I have had the pleasure of your acquaintance, perhaps you'll permit me more than a respectable bow of my head." Holding out his hand once more, he beseeched, "A dance, Miss Swan?"
He raised a brow in challenge when she appeared to hesitate, and for a moment he thought for sure the Viscount would intervene. A wide grin spread over his face when she placed her hand in his, giving him an agreeing nod as he led her to the floor. With a bow and reciprocating curtsy, they took their positions for the waltz beginning to play and Killian could not deny how natural it felt to hold this woman in his arms. A murmuring began to spread throughout the ballroom as they spun around the floor, but Killian was not focused on the response of the gathered gentry, his attentions were more attuned to the pinch in Miss Swan's brow and tight set of her shoulders.
"You seem vexed, love," he stated. "Are my skills not up to your usual standards?"
A placating smile spread over her lips as she quipped, "It is not your skill as a dance partner I find lacking, Your Grace."
"Well, that is a relief," he murmured, keeping his voice low as he cheeked. "Although I assure you, I have considerable other skills to offset any deficit that may exist within my skill set as a dance partner."
Rolling her eyes, she shot back, "If only such skills could make up the deficit I have already identified within your character."
Killian's hand gripped her lower back a bit tighter, pulling her in more closely but still within a respectable distance. "If you were a man, such words would be grounds for my demand for satisfaction," he warned, although his reaction to her jibe was more of enticing intrigue than anger.
"Yes, you do seem rather eager to find yourself on the dueling field. Why is that, I wonder?"
"What do you mean?"
"Did you really mean what you said to Ruby?" she inquired. "That should the two of you be discovered, you would not issue a proposal?"
"Aye."
"Then you were prepared to face the demand for satisfaction from her kin rather than marry," she reminded him. "Which leads me to believe you may have a death wish… Your Grace."
"Or," he countered. "I am a man of deep convictions and am willing to lay down my life for them."
Miss Swan huffed out a light snort and accused, "So, you would rather die than protect a lady's honour?"
Killian's jaw tightened and his words clipped out harsher than he intended. "I would rather die than be forced to take on yet another duty, carrying with it responsibilities I never asked for nor expected to have to deal with. Your friend knew exactly what she was doing when she entered that garden unescorted, and you found her tactics to be just as abhorrent as I did, yet you would lay judgement on me not wishing to find myself compromised as your brother so nearly did?"
Though she did not wither in the face of his ire, when her gaze dropped to his chest Killian knew his words had struck her just the same. "My apologies, Miss Swan," he offered sincerely. "I did not mean to lose my temper with you. In all honesty, I asked you to dance so I might have the chance to thank you." Her eyes snapped back up to his, and he could see the question sparkling within their viridian hue. "For intervening and for your discretion," he answered.
A soft smile pulled at the corner of her lips even as she declared, "I did not do it for you."
"Oh, I know," he chuckled. "But I am grateful all the same."
The waltz ended and they both finished their dance with the expected protocol. As he escorted her back towards the Viscount, she changed their course, steering them towards the refreshment table while whispering, "I hope you will not judge Ruby… Miss Lucas too harshly, Your Grace. While I do not condone her actions, I am sure you can agree that desperation often does not allow for clear thinking, and whether I believe she should be worked up into such a state so early within The Season, she is uneasy over the prospect of not finding a proper match while she still has funds enough to seek one."
Killian gave her a reassuring look and passed her a glass of lemonade while procuring a flute of champagne for himself. "I will not hold Miss Lucas' actions against her," he said, sipping the bubbly libation. "Perhaps I can even aid her in her quest."
"How so?" Miss Swan inquired, licking an errant drop of refreshment from her lips after pulling the glass away from her mouth; an action that had Killian's trousers tightening unexpectedly.
Clearing his throat, he turned his eyes upon the crowd and away from the woman who was affecting him more than he was ready to admit. "I can ask around, discreetly of course, and see who might have interest in her. She's a lovely lass. I am sure she has caught the attention of someone, but her… narrowed focus may be blinding her to an opportunity that has yet to work up its nerve."
She hummed in consideration next to him and gently placed a hand on his arm, drawing his attention back to her. "You would really do that?"
The way she gazed up at him, as though her earlier perceptions might be reassessing themselves, forced his Adam's apple to bob before he responded with an exhaled, "Aye."
The smile that took up her face was the most genuine he had seen from her and his chest constricted with an ache he had never felt before; one that had him silently vowing to ensure he might produce such a reaction from her as often as possible. Unfortunately, something behind him forced the brilliance of her smile to slip from her face and her grip tightened around her glass as she flicked her eyes about for a means of escape. Before Killian could inquire as to what had put her so on edge, a voice called out from over his shoulder.
"Miss Swan! I do believe you owe me a dance."
Glancing over his shoulder, Killian saw Neal Cassidy approach with his usual smug swagger and expression. Flicking his gaze back to Miss Swan, it was evident she would rather gnaw off her own leg than dance with the man who now stood next to them with an air of entitlement.
"Pardon the intrusion, Ironhook," Cassidy offered without even a hint of contrition. "But I think you have monopolized Miss Swan for long enough, don't you?"
"Actually," Miss Swan said in an overly sweet and somewhat mischievous tone. "His Grace prefers to be addressed simply as Hook. Is that not correct, Your Grace?"
"Indeed, Miss Swan," Killian replied with a reverential bow of his head before turning his attention to Cassidy. "And I am afraid I must monopolize the fair lady a bit longer," he stated as the orchestra began an energetic reel. "I did promise you a livelier rendition of my dance skills, did I not?"
Offering her his hand once more, Killian was relieved when she accepted it while begging off Cassidy's request with apologies and promises of another time.
Joining the other dancers as they lined up to begin the rigorous dance, Miss Swan leaned in and whispered, "Thank you, Your Grace."
"My pleasure, love," Killian replied, lifting her hand and kissing the back of her glove. "You saved me earlier this evening, I simply felt I should return the favor."
Taking his place opposite her, he shot her a roguish wink and she rolled her eyes at him. One of her elusive smiles began to twitch at the corner of her mouth, challenging him to coax it into fullness. For if there was one thing Killian Jones enjoyed, it was a challenge.
~/~
Another night, another insufferable ball. Emma irritatedly flicked her fan in curt motions. While the accessory was typically meant to be used as a tool of flirtation, Emma was employing hers as an instrument of warning to any would-be admirers seeking her attentions. She was in no mood to be courted tonight.
A fact, she knew, would not go unnoticed by their hostess, but she would simply have to offer her apologies to Lady Dell tomorrow morning whilst the ton took their promenade.
Emma had already had her fill of suitors for the day, and had very nearly refused to attend the Dell Family ball, until Mary Margaret had practically begged her to go and report back on all the grandeur since she could not attend. Blast her sister-in-law's sweet disposition which made refusing her so frustratingly impossible, especially when she was so clearly miserable at having to miss out on The Season.
Relenting, however, did not mean Emma had to participate in the evening's rituals. She would converse with Ruby and a few of her other contemporaries, sip lemonade, maybe take a spin around the dance floor with her brother, and avoid any and all overtures thrown her way by the strutting peacocks who seemed hell bent on regaling her with their plumage of flattery and arrogance.
Speaking of arrogance…
"Good evening, ladies," the Duke of Ironhook greeted with a respectable bow and not so respectable smirk.
Fans unfurled with a chorus of coquettish giggles twittering behind the wisps of feathers being artfully fluttered against the decolletage of each debutante within their circle. The Duke offered each of them a strained smile until his eyes connected with hers and the corners of his mouth relaxed into a more natural expression.
Presenting his hand, he arched one of those handsomely rakish brows of his and asked, "A dance, Miss Swan?"
Emma returned his smile, though hers held the strained quality his had a moment ago, and snapped her fan closed. "I think not, Your Grace."
Leaving gasps and scandalized murmurs in her wake, Emma spun on her heel and retreated towards her brother. Or at least, she had intended to. Her steps faltered for a moment when she realized he was no longer occupying the area of the room she had last seen him, and sensing the Duke's pursuit, Emma changed course and headed towards one of the sets of doors that led through to the adjoining gallery.
Her heart leapt into her throat when she found the room empty, save for herself and the Duke. While there was nothing untoward at being alone in the gallery with him, given it was open to the ballroom at a variety of access points that left the space within clear view of the ballroom, Emma felt her heart rate pick up speed when the Duke approached. Much in the same way it had the night prior when she had first laid eyes on him at Lord Nemo's ball.
He was quite possibly the most handsome man she had ever met. His dark, windswept hair, forget-me-not colored eyes, and chiseled features were enough to make anyone swoon. Despite his utter defiance in conforming to convention, such as the auburn tinted scruff that dusted his jaw, the firm physique he honed under the tutelage of a prize fighter, and his penchant for carrying a flask on his person at all times, Killian Jones the Duke of Ironhook was a captivating specimen, even if his reputation as a rake and scoundrel ought to be off-putting.
Ought to be, but… wasn't. Much to Emma's dismay. And her brother's, for that matter.
David had given her an earful on their way home yesterday evening. Warning her, without going into too much detail, that the Duke was not a suitable match, regardless of his title. David's close association with the previous Duke of Ironhook, Liam, gave him knowledge of the younger Jones' character and he made it quite clear he found it lacking, to put it mildly. Emma had reassured him she had no interest in the man's attentions, and recited once more that she had no intentions of marrying. However, she could not deny thoughts of the man had haunted her all night, leaving her with an unsettled and anxious feeling come morning.
A morning that had brought with it other unwelcome consequences from her evening spent in the Duke's company.
"Pardon me, Miss Swan," the Duke murmured as he came to stand alongside her, though he faced the paintings hanging opposite from those she was pretending to appraise. "Have I done something to offend you?"
Emma took a moment to try and collect herself, but the barrage of emotions currently warring within her made it difficult. She knew it wasn't truly his fault. How were either of them to know the feckless way in which the gentry's tongues would waggle? Still, the swirling frustration combusting with the anxiety churning in her gut made for a volatile mix, and Emma was not accustomed to biting her tongue, though in this instance she knew she must try.
"Offended?" she repeated in reply. "No, Your Grace. You have not offended me."
"And yet," he responded in a tone of contestation, "you seem, once again, to be vexed with me, love."
"I am not your love," Emma snapped, unable to keep control of her ire any longer. "I do not wish to be anyone's love. I do not wish to be courted, or wooed, or have ridiculous poems recited to me in stifling drawing rooms so full of pungent blooms it makes one's head spin. I have no intention of marrying, and do not wish-"
"Miss Swan," the Duke interrupted with a note of bewilderment underpinning his words. "Whatever are you going on about?"
Emma whipped her head in his direction and a rush of heat swept up her neck when she saw his expression of amused perplexity. She could feel the blush burning her cheeks, knowing he must think her mad for the way she had ranted, but she swallowed past her mortification and held his gaze.
"Have you not seen what Lady Candlewyck published after Lord Nemo's ball?" she asked. "She all but declared us the match of The Season. Which, for some reason, prompted a bevy of suitors to show up at my brother's house this morning to pay call."
The Duke balked at the news, then grew pensive, running his thumb and forefinger along the underside of his bottom lip and toying with the scruff there. "I suppose that would explain why the Mamas are less bloodthirsty this evening," he mused. "Perhaps they feel it a waste of time to try and draw out my interest when it is assumed I am currently fixated on another."
Emma crossed her arms over her chest and cocked her head to one side. "So, this ridiculous notion sweeps through the ton like wildfire, granting you a reprieve whilst I must endure the attentions of men I have no interest in? How is that fair?"
"Come now, lov… er, Miss Swan," the Duke corrected. "Since when has Society ever played fair? Best any of us can do is play our part, and seeing as the ton expects us to-"
"No," Emma said. "I will not kowtow to some gossip monger and her court of small minded sheep." He opened his mouth to counter, but Emma raised her hand to silence him; an action that earned her raised brows and caused a look of incredulity to blanch across his features. "I apologize, Your Grace, but I must insist you refrain from paying me any attention at all. We both know last night was not the beginning of some grand romance, as Lady Candlewyck has falsely reported, and in order to keep the ton from indulging in such a notion I think it best we-"
"I understand, Miss Swan," the Duke interjected sharply, his jaw tightening in such a way that the muscle below his cheek began to pulse. "I shall not trouble you further."
Emma's mouth snapped shut and she stood rooted to the spot, fearful she may have offended him. Surely he did not wish to perpetuate the rumor of their attachment… or did he? Had he hoped she might agree to continue the charade in order to keep ambitious matchmakers at bay? If their attention was as suffocating as her admirers' had been thus far, she could hardly blame him, but why should she have to suffer in order to alleviate his troubles?
"However," he continued on, his tone a bit gentler than it had been a moment ago, "I wish to convey some information I was able to gather regarding the matter we discussed last night."
When Emma's brows pinched together in confusion, he specified, "About interested parties in Miss Lucas' attentions?"
"Yes, of course," Emma replied, enthusiastically.
"It seems Lord Huntsman has been making inquiries, and even hopes to gain a proper introduction this evening."
"Graham?" Emma blurted out, earning her a raised brow from His Grace.
"Graham? I was not aware you knew Lord Huntsman well enough to abandon honorifics."
"Apologies, for my..." she stammered, embarrassed by her faux pas. "His family's country estate neighbors the Viscount's. I've known Lord Huntsman since we were children," she explained, which seemed to appease the Duke. "I am surprised he has not said anything to me of his interest in Ruby. He knows what a dear friend she is to me."
"Perhaps he wishes to navigate a course towards the lady's affections on his own merit?"
Emma huffed a rather unlady-like snort, and the Duke's lips twitched, fighting off a smile. "If we wait for Gra… er, Lord Huntsman to act on his own merits, Ruby may well become desperate enough to try another foolhardy stunt." Tapping her fan against his chest, Emma quipped, "Leave it with me, Your Grace," then swept her way back into the ballroom.
As luck would have it, Graham was conversing with their hostess, whom Emma had not yet thanked for her hospitality of the evening. Joining the small circle, Emma caught Lady Dell's eye.
"Miss Swan," she greeted, cheerily. "You are looking lovely this evening, my dear. Are you having a good time?"
"Indeed, Lady Dell. You have spoiled us with such festivities."
Lady Dell cocked a brow at her and admonished, "Are you sure? I have yet to see you take to the dance floor. Or were you, perhaps, awaiting the arrival of a certain duke before taking a spin?"
Emma grit her teeth and silently cursed that rag of a gossip sheet while fixing a bright smile to her face. "I'm sure I do not know what you mean, Lady Dell. My dance card is open to any gentleman who may ask."
"Well, then," Lady Dell replied, turning her sights onto Graham. "Perhaps, Lord Huntsman might entice you with a quadrille?"
Though he was quick to recover, Emma did note the startled expression Graham gave at being called out. He was never one who sought attention or wished to be the subject of conversation, the dear man. He was, however, a gentleman, so it did not surprise Emma at all when he bowed properly before her.
"It would be my pleasure," Graham replied, holding out his hand. "Shall we, Miss Swan?"
"We shall, Lord Huntsman," Emma accepted, happily.
"How are you enjoying The Season?" Graham asked, as they took their positions upon the dance floor.
"I have no wish to engage in small talk," Emma whispered at him. "There is another matter I wish to discuss with you."
"Oh?" Graham said, clearly taken aback. "What matter is that?"
"Your feelings for Ruby Lucas."
Graham's eyes widened. "How did you…"
The orchestra began and the dance floor came alive with merriment as Emma took the lead, guiding them to the other side of the room where Ruby stood with Lady Dell's nieces and a few others. "Nevermind that," Emma replied. "Do you want an introduction or not?"
"I… yes?" Graham squeaked out, looking a bit pale.
"Relax," Emma soothed. "You have until the end of this dance to work up your courage."
It turned out, Graham needed every second of the quadrille to pull himself together, but once the song had come to an end, they were perfectly positioned for Emma to introduce her oldest friend to her dearest one. With pleasantries out of the way, it only took a small press of Emma's heel on Graham's boot to remind the man to extend an invitation, and before the next dance began, he was leading Ruby onto the dance floor, both of them looking rather enamoured of the other.
Emma couldn't help the delighted grin beaming from her face as she watched them circle the room. Not even the presence of Mr. Cassidy could tarnish her good mood… or so she thought.
"Pleasant evening, Miss Swan?"
"It is, indeed, Mr. Cassidy," she agreed politely, her eyes still focused on her friends.
"If you've well recovered from your dance with Lord Huntsman, perhaps you would do me the honor of your next?"
"I am afraid I must decline," Emma said. "I believe the Duke is awaiting my next dance."
"Hook?" Neal replied. "I am quite certain I saw him leave."
"Leave?" Emma exclaimed, snapping her attention towards the man. "When?"
"While you were dancing with Lord Huntsman," he told her.
Emma's eyes scanned the ballroom for windswept dark hair, and her heart plummeted when her efforts returned void. Neal was right. The Duke was nowhere to be found, which meant he must have left, making good on his promise to trouble her no further.
"So?" Neal inquired again, holding out his hand. "Shall we?"
~/~
With each step Killian took along the rows of stately houses flanking the narrow street, his mood soured. He should have accepted August's invitation to begin with rather than make an appearance at the Dell ball. He'd rationalized his decision with the need to tell Miss Swan what he'd learned about Lord Huntsman's interest in Miss Lucas, but the truth was he had desired to see the feisty, blonde lass once again. To hold her in his arms and charm another smile from her as they created a stir upon the dance floor.
Although, what Killian truly desired was to hold her in his arms while he charmed other things from her while creating a stir within his sheets. A desire he knew could never be fulfilled, given the conventions of their world, and the lady's own protestations, and yet…
Killian pounded his fist against the door when he reached his destination, and was quickly received by a half dressed man who appeared delighted to see who was at his door.
"Jones!" August exclaimed, pulling him into the foyer with a hearty laugh. "Fuck me, no! It's Your Grace now, isn't it?"
"Hook will do," Killian corrected, finding he was growing more attached to the moniker, especially since Swan had seemed tickled by the suggestion of it the night before. Confound his inability to go even two minutes without thinking of the infernal woman. Releasing a deep sigh, Killian said, "My apologies for arriving late-"
August waved off his words and steered him towards one of the many salons within his residence. "No apologies necessary. You know you are never too late to enjoy the wonders of our gatherings."
Killian chuckled at the man's wink and followed him into the room, which was already full of people dabbling with charcoal, oils, and clay as they worked to capture the likeness of the live, nude models posed within the center of the room. Killian shed his coat and handed it off to one of the footmen, trading it for a glass of spirits August had most likely procured whilst abroad. One of the models gave him a coy smile as he passed, noting his appreciative gaze as he looked over her form - for purely artistic purposes, of course - before he settled in front of one of the vacant canvases lining the edge of the room.
"You'll let me know if there is anything you need," August said as Killian sipped the delicate liqueur. "My home is your home, as you know. Feel free to make use of it however you wish."
"I will, thank you," Killian replied, nodding at his host who then retreated, returning to what… or rather whomever, he was doing before Killian had arrived.
August Booth was a rather notorious member of the upper class. Embroiled in scandal at a young age, he existed on the fringes of polite society; not entirely shunned, due to his elevated title, but not wholly accepted either. A free spirit who preferred to live his life with no strings, August spent most of his time traveling abroad, seeking out the pleasures and delights of foreign lands then bringing those exotic delicacies and customs back with him to share with those among the ton and the middle class who were a bit more open minded.
His Den of Iniquity, he called it. The gatherings he and his… special friend put together to tantalize and broaden the horizons of their guests. The various salons within the house offered all manner of debauchery, suited to meet one's needs regardless of their proclivities. This was a place where judgement was left at the door, and the only rule that prevailed was that of consent.
While Killian sketched the female models bared before him, he knew there was most likely a set of male models displaying their assets in a similar fashion in the next room. Given the faint scent of opium hanging in the air, he ascertained that one of the salons was providing an experience of ecstasy to its occupants while moans and other colorful noises attested to ecstasy being achieved in more carnal ways in other rooms.
Though Killian had revelled in the activities the other rooms offered over the years, this was the one that provided him with the fulfillment he could not find anywhere else. Any decent brothel could provide their clientele with whatever company or kinks one may desire, but there were few places where a gentleman could indulge himself artistically. Killian had always found solace in art, the focused creativity did wonders to clear the mind and calm the soul, and should he wish, stir his passions as well.
His father and brother had lamented over Killian's volatile nature of excess. Too much drink, too many women, too high of risks with his gambling, too great a temper when he allowed his ire to go unchecked. Art helped to center him while boxing provided an outlet to unleash his frustrations in a controlled environment of routine and structure. That is not to say he did not still enjoy other activities that stirred his passion, provided a release of frustrations, and left him feeling sated in the presence of those whose forms rivaled great works of art. And while his current vexations could be alleviated by following his host to the room teeming with wanton women and men, eager to distract one's mind by overwhelming the flesh, Killian chose to lose himself in the lines and strokes of his charcoal as it captured a likeness, not of the model before him, but the fantasy of a woman who riled him like no other.
Utterly infuriating she was. With her creamy skin and sunshine tresses begging to be freed of their pins. To say nothing of her body, artfully draped in fashions that accentuated her curves, taunting him with the softness of her form that also held within it a measure of strength her contemporaries did not possess. A strength that shone from her emerald eyes, flecked with gold that flashed with challenge, defying the conventions of her station with brazen obstinance that did not waver, even in the presence of a duke.
The woman was a marvel, but also a source of potential grief and trouble he should not waste his time and energy on. Miss Swan had made her position on the topic of courting and marriage quite clear, and besides, he had been content enough to wait a season or two before earnestly involving himself in the Marriage Market. It would be easy enough to avoid the barrage of determined Mamas and Misses if he simply did not attend events where such members of the gentry gathered. He could take his place in Society just as easily by visiting his club, bestowing his patronage on a sporting match or two, and even as a spectacle on display in his opera box from time to time. No. He did not need Miss Swan to alleviate the pressure of the ton, nor did he need her in order to alleviate other such tensions that had been building within him since their encounter in Nemo's garden.
"You're rather talented, My Lord," a sultry voice commented over Killian's shoulder, jarring him from his musings, in which he had not realized how thoroughly lost he had become, not even registering that the models were taking a break. Killian turned, repositioning himself on the stool he was perched on and allowing the model who had winked at him before to step forward between his legs. "Or is it, Your Grace?" she asked, placing her hand over the rolled sleeve of his forearm before her fingers skimmed further up his arm, curling over his shoulder with a light, sensual squeeze.
"Thank you," Killian replied, his eyes unable to keep themselves from dropping down to where she was barely covered by the thin, nearly transparent garment she'd wrapped herself in, in some sort of vain exercise in modesty. "And it is," he confirmed, holding out his hand towards her. "Killian Jones, Duke of Ironhook."
"The pleasure is mine, Your Grace," the woman purred, placing her hand in his so he could lift it to his lips and place a light kiss along the backs of her knuckles before she propositioned, "But if you'd care to join me upstairs, I promise it can be yours as well."
She was tempting, that much Killian could not deny; buxom and bold, with experience that would surely have him reaching his climax without much effort on his part. Nor could he deny the desire lingering in his veins or the rigidity plaguing his cock after getting caught up in thoughts of a woman he barely knew and had no right imagining in the contexts the lady of ill-repute in front of him was offering.
Which was why he was as surprised as the lass seemed to be when he opened his mouth and replied, "While I appreciate the offer, I'm afraid I must decline." Lifting her hand off his shoulder, he stood and signalled the footman for his coat before he could change his mind.
Why on earth was he not changing his mind?
~/~
"Has that grain sack offended you in some way, or is it merely my imagination?"
Killian jabbed thrice more at the punching bag, letting Robin's comments roll off his back with the lines of perspiration he'd managed to work up that morning.
"Nah," Robin's assistant, Will, chimed in. "I imagine His Grace's surly mood has more to do with feathers than grain. Say, like… the down of a certain swan?"
With one last right hook, the seam of the grain sack split open, pouring its contents onto the gym floor. "What would you know of it?" Killian demanded. He was tempted to refute Will's estimations that his countenance that morning was churlish, but there was nothing for it. Killian should have taken the woman up on her offer last night, then perhaps he would not have had need of other ways to try and alleviate the frustrations Miss Swan was still wreaking havoc upon his ardor.
"A certain leaflet," Will shrugged a little too nonchalantly. "Is it true you danced with the Swan girl twice at Nemo's ball?"
Killian scoffed and adjusted the wrappings on his hand. "Are we to take out our needle point whilst we gossip over the affairs of the ton?"
"Nah," Will countered cheekily. "Just your affairs will do… Hook."
"Alright, enough," Robin stepped in, admonishing his apprentice while unable to keep a grin from pulling at his own lips. "You've tasks to see to, and His Grace needs to work on his footwork."
"Not according to Lady Candlewyck, he don't," Will called out, adding one last barb as he left. "And I'd imagine Miss Swan would agree."
"You must forgive Will, Your Grace," Robin stated as both men entered the boxing ring, ready to carry on with Killian's instruction. "You know what an arse he can be."
Killian chuckled and waved off his friend's apology. "It's fine, mate," he assured him, readying his stance. "Perhaps, to make it up to me, you can substitute the wanker's mug for the grain sack."
Robin responded with his own hearty laugh before striking Killian's jaw with a practiced punch. The two circled the ring, bobbing and weaving as they exchanged punches and jabs to each other's faces and body blows that would surely leave their mark, even though neither man was putting his full weight behind the strikes. This was simply practice, after all.
"Tell me truly," Robin inquired, dodging one of Killian's right hooks. "Do you have an interest in the Viscount's ward?"
"What possible business is that of yours?" Killian panted, far more winded than his opponent.
"Come now, Your Grace," Robin tutted. "You do not usually hold back your exploits from my curiosity. Why so coy all of a sudden?"
Robin waggled his brows, and this time, Killian's fist did not miss its mark. "Remind me as to why you are the first person I chose to reacquaint myself with when I returned to Misthaven?"
"Admit it, mate," Robin cheeked, blocking another swing so he could deliver his own with a bit of bruising force. "You missed me." Killian shook his head, the blow causing his ears to ring and black spots to erupt in his vision. "Now answer the question."
"Alright, alright," Killian conceded, holding up his hands in surrender, and making his way to one of the corners where a fresh towel was draped over the ropes. Wiping the sweat off his brow and neck, Killian leaned against the corner post and took a moment to catch his breath.
"I won't deny she caught my interest the night of Nemo's ball," Killian admitted. "But any endeavor to woo her is pointless. The lady does not wish to marry, and quite frankly, I am not entirely certain I am ready for the institution myself."
The back of Killian's neck prickled at the way Robin was mulling over his words, his expression too much like his brother's whenever he was about to confront his little brother on his foolishness.
"To say nothing of the Viscount's presumed objections over the matter of my courting his sister," Killian continued. "His close association with my brother means he is well aware of my reputation."
"Ah, yes," Robin retorted, brazenly. "The brothels, the gambling parlors, and whatever backwater slums you chose to fuck about until duty and responsibility compelled you to return. I can see how such a stain against your character would make you an ill-suited suitor. It isn't as though half the men within the gentry are not guilty of the same."
"If you were any other man, I would take your head clean off for such words," Killian warned.
"And if you were any other man, you might actually be capable of such a feat," Robin shot back with a fair amount of impudence.
Killian could not help the amused huff that left his lungs. This was why he enjoyed Robin's company. The man was not influenced by title or station. He weighed the measure of a man differently, and while careful to remain on the proper side of respectful most of the time, he did not pull punches with Killian whenever they argued, anymore than he ever would in the ring during one of his exhibitions.
"You said the woman caught your interest," Robin said, bringing the conversation back around to his original topic. "And based on what Candlewyck has written, the lady's remarks on marriage notwithstanding, you seem to have captured hers as well."
"Why are we even discussing this?" Killian questioned, suddenly feeling the need to hit something again.
"Because you are my friend, and I have never seen you this tied in knots over a woman before."
"It was merely a grain sack," Killian argued. "I will gladly compensate you for it."
"It's not the grain sack, Hook," Robin countered. "You were still on that dance floor with Miss Swan, or distracted by some other interaction you've had with her the entire time we sparred in this ring. Admit it," Robin challenged with a knowing smirk. "You want her."
"What I want does not matter," Killian replied in a strained tone. "She has made it clear she wants nothing to do with me."
"After spending all of two dances in your presence?" Robin snorted. "I've never known you to give up so easily." Killian quirked a brow at his friend. "I'm not suggesting you badger the poor woman with unwanted overtures," he clarified. "But to surrender without even trying to gain her favor? To concede defeat while others will surely fight for her affection and her hand, one of which, despite the lady's assertions otherwise, might well succeed in obtaining? That is not the Killian Jones I know."
"So, in direct opposition to what the lady desires from me, you would have me fight for her, is that it?"
"A man unwilling to fight for what he wants, deserves what he gets," Robin stated, quoting the phrase Liam had often recited. "Moreover," the man continued, reaching underneath the ropes to a small table that was placed ring side and snatching something from its surface, "you clearly have not read Lady Candlewyck's latest issue." Slapping the pamphlet against Killian's chest, Robin exited the ring.
Killian's eyes skimmed over the neat print, the typeface adding a measure of prominence to the otherwise presumptuous words. When he caught sight of the word Swan, he focused his attention to the paragraph recounting a moment from last night's ball.
...and should the Duke's early departure from last night's soiree discourage any of you, birthing a concern that the infatuation that had begun to bloom between His Grace and Miss Swan may have started to wither, then fear not, dearest reader, for this author has it on good authority that Miss Swan lamented the Duke's absence for the remainder of the evening, having to endure round after round upon the dance floor with suitors far less capable of taking the lead with one as spirited as the Viscount's ward.
Air rushed from Killian's lungs. Could what the gossip monger reported be true? Had he been too hasty in leaving the Dell ball last night? Had Miss Swan regretted her rebuff of his attentions? Crumpling the paper in his hand, Killian tossed it aside and strode towards the changing room. There was only one way to find out.