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Chapter 4: Of Icons and Egos
It would have eased Emma's mind, had she known, that she plagued Lord Hook's dreams.
His dreams began with all manner of lewd and lascivious activities. Since he often dreamt of women he wouldn't dare touch awake, the marquess felt no concern about dreaming of David Nolan's vexing sister. In fact, Killian relished putting the haughty bluestocking in her place—on her back, on her knees, and in positions he doubted were anatomically feasible.
Yet, every time, just as he was about to unleash his passion upon her, something dreadful occurred. In one dream, he would abruptly awaken, sinking in a quagmire. In another, he found himself chained in a dank, pitch-black cell, unseen creatures clawing at his flesh. Then there were times he imagined lying cold and lifeless on a morgue slab, undergoing a grim autopsy.
Being a man of considerable intellect, Killian had no trouble deciphering the symbolism. Each nightmarish scenario his dreams conjured was a metaphorical reflection of the chaos a woman could wreak upon a man's life once she ensnared him. What puzzled him was why his slumbering mind had to conjure such grotesque scenarios when the reality was crystal clear.
For years, he had dreamt of women he had no intention of involving himself with. Often, when awake, he would imagine the courtesan in his bed to be a society lady who had caught his eye. Not long ago, he had indulged in the fantasy that the sultry French seductress was Kathryn Scarlet, and the satisfaction was no less potent than if she had been the icy dame herself. In fact, it was more gratifying, as the tart had displayed enthusiasm that Scarlet, in reality, would have bludgeoned out of him.
Killian, in sum, had no difficulty distinguishing between fantasy and reality. He had encountered Emma Nolan and felt the usual primal urge. He desired almost every attractive woman he encountered. Endowed with an insatiable sexual appetite, likely inherited from his passionate Greek ancestry, he knew precisely how to gratify his desires. If he craved a harlot, he paid and enjoyed her. If he desired a lady of virtue, he found a substitute harlot, paid her, and satisfied his appetite without complication.
That was the situation with Nolan's sister, or so he attempted to resolve—though it remained quite unresolved.
The dreams weren't solely to blame. The incident at Boussole Dorée hadn't exactly curbed his appetite for harlots, but it had left a bitter aftertaste. He hadn't revisited Nova to pick up where they left off, nor had he sought another strumpet since. He reasoned Will's voyeuristic inclinations weren't reason enough to renounce all whores. Yet, Killian found himself hesitant to enter any room with a fille de joie, as he was just fastidious enough to dislike the idea of females in Parisian alleys reeking of filth.
Thus, between troublesome dreams and the lingering distaste they caused, he found himself unable to dispel his desire for Miss Nolan in his usual manner. By the end of the week, Killian's patience was wearing thin—a most inopportune moment for David Nolan to reveal that the grimy, mildewed picture Miss Nolan purchased for a mere ten sous turned out to be an exceedingly valuable Russian icon.
It was a few ticks past noon, and Killian had just narrowly sidestepped the contents of a washtub cascading down from an upper-story window on Rue de Provence. He had been so focused on avoiding a soaking, that he hadn't noticed Nolan scurrying towards him. By the time the marquess did, the dolt was upon him, enthusiastically delivering his latest revelations.
Killian's brow darkened in bemusement—or irritation- when David paused to catch his breath. "A Russian what?" the marquess inquired.
"Acorn. That is to say, not a nut sort of thing, but a heathenish picture with gold paint and such," David clarified.
"I believe you mean an icon," Killian corrected. "In that case, I fear your sister has been misled. Who fed her such nonsense?"
"Gepetto," David replied.
Killian felt an icy twinge in the pit of his stomach. Gepetto was reputedly the pinnacle of appraisers in Paris. "Icons are as plentiful as the boulevardiers' lies," he mused. "Still, if it's a gem, she's surely snagged a steal at ten sous."
"The frame's set with a lot of little gems - pearls and rubies and such."
"More likely glass and garnets," Killian interjected.
David wrinkled his brow in his customary struggle to formulate a thought. "Well, now, ain't that a strange thing? Slinging a load of tinsel onto a fine golden frame."
"The one I saw had a wooden frame," Killian's temples started pounding with relentless irritation.
"But that's what's so clever, ain't it? The wood thing was part of the case they'd buried it in. Because it had been buried, you know. Hence the ghastly stench. Ain't it a lark? Old Gold will blow a gasket when he learns."
Killian entertained visions of detaching David's head from his shoulders. Ten sous. He had dismissed it without a second thought, while the bothersome sister had scrutinized it with her magnifying glass like an overzealous beetle collector. She has an interesting expression, she had remarked. And Killian, ensnared by the living woman, had remained oblivious.
Yet, there was nothing to suspect, he insisted to himself. David possessed the intellect of a bemused peacock. Undoubtedly, he had bungled everything, as usual. The "acorn" was likely just another one of those gaudy religious trinkets adorning every devout corner in Russia—glossy paint on the frame, and bits of glass haphazardly affixed.
"Mind you, I'm not to breathe a word to Gold," David continued in a hushed tone. "Nor to anyone, especially not you, she insisted. But I'm no performing bear, as I told her. No ring in my nose to be led around by, is there? So I scurried straight here to find you—just in the nick, as she's off to the bank the moment Ingrid settles for her nap. Then it'll be tucked away in a vault, and you'll never get a proper look at it, will you?"
The Marquess of Hookstone, Emma noted with a twinge of satisfaction, was positively livid. He reclined in his chair, arms folded like a barrier against the world, his blue eyes half-closed in a sulky simmer as his gaze swept the coffee shop. It was the sort of sullenly sulfurous look she imagined the Devil wore upon first surveying Hell after the Fall.
She was surprised his gaze didn't leave a smoldering trail of charred remains. Yet, the café's patrons merely averted their eyes, only to sneak glances back the moment Hook redirected his brimstone displeasure toward her.
Though she had already devised her strategy for handling the situation, Emma found herself vexed by David's lack of discretion. It would have been so much easier if he had exhibited a modicum of subtlety. She regretted taking him along to retrieve the picture from Gepetto the day before. But how could she have foreseen that it was more than the mere work of an unusually talented artist?
Even Gepetto had been flabbergasted when he began his work, revealing the bejeweled gold frame hidden within the decrepit wooden one.
Naturally, because the piece, once Gepetto had worked his magic, was a glittering marvel bedecked with gems, David had become exuberant. Too exuberant to heed any warnings. Emma had attempted to explain that informing Hook would be akin to waving a red flag before a bull. David had dismissed her concerns with a casual pshaw, asserting that Hook wasn't that sort of bad sport—besides, he probably owned a dozen similar pieces and could buy another dozen if he fancied.
Emma was certain, however, that whatever the Marquess of Hookstone possessed, it wasn't anything like her rare Madonna. And though he had feigned boredom when she showed it to him today, congratulating her with the most patronizing tone and laughingly insisting on accompanying David and her to the bank to ward off any would-be robbers, she knew he was itching to throttle her.
After the icon had been securely tucked away in the bank vault, it was Hook who had nonchalantly suggested a stop for coffee.
Barely had they settled into their seats when he dispatched David on a wild-goose chase for a type of cheroot Emma strongly suspected was pure fantasy. David probably wouldn't return before midnight—if ever. For all she knew, he'd end up in the West Indies hunting down the mythical cigar, acting as if Hook were truly the Devil and David one of his devoted imps.
With her brother conveniently out of the way, Hook had merely to flash a silent warning at the café's patrons, a look that clearly told them to mind their own affairs. If he decided to throttle her on the spot, Emma doubted anyone would leap to her rescue. In fact, she suspected not a single soul would dare whisper a word of protest.
"How much did Gepetto say the piece was worth?" Hook finally asked. It was the first word he'd uttered since giving the coffee shop owner their order. When Hook entered an establishment, the proprietor himself rushed out to attend to him.
"He advised me not to sell it right away," she replied evasively. "He wished to contact a Russian client first. There's a cousin or nephew or some such of the tsar who—"
"Fifty pounds," Lord Hook interrupted. "Unless this Russian is one of the tsar's many mad relatives, he won't give you a farthing more than that."
"Then he must be one of the mad ones," Emma retorted. "Gepetto mentioned a figure well above that."
He fixed her with a hard stare. Gazing into his dark, severe face and those ocean-deep, implacable eyes, Emma could easily imagine him sitting upon an immense ebony throne at the very depths of Hades. Had she glanced down and discovered that the polished boot a few inches from her own had turned into a cloven hoof, she wouldn't have been the least bit surprised.
Any woman with a shred of common sense would have picked up her skirts and fled.
The trouble was, Emma felt anything but sensible. A magnetic current was coursing along her nerve endings, slithering and swirling through her system, creating a peculiar, tingling heat in the pit of her belly, and turning her brain to mush.
She wanted to kick off her shoes and trail her stockinged toes up and down the black, costly boot. She wanted to slide her fingers under his starched shirt cuff and trace the veins and muscles of his wrist, feeling his pulse beat under her thumb. Most of all, she wanted to press her lips to his hard, dissolute mouth and kiss him senseless.
Of course, such a demented assault would likely leave her flat on her back with her maidenhead swiftly eliminated—quite possibly in full view of the café's patrons. If he was feeling particularly benevolent, he might even send her off with a jocular pat on the bottom and a breezy "run along," she mused gloomily.
"Miss Nolan," he drawled, "I'm certain all the girls at school found your wit positively sidesplitting. But perhaps if you ceased batting those lashes for a moment, you'd realize I am not a little schoolgirl."
She hadn't been batting her lashes. When Emma played coquette, it was with precision and intent, and she was certainly not so foolish as to try that method with the Devil himself.
"Batting?" she echoed with feigned confusion. "I never bat, my lord. This is what I do," she turned her gaze towards an attractive Frenchman seated nearby, then delivered Hook a swift, sidelong glance. "That isn't batting," she declared, releasing the instantly bedazzled Frenchman and returning her full focus to Hook.
Amazingly, his expression grew even more severe.
"I am not a schoolboy either," he retorted. "I recommend you save those slaying glances for the sorts of young sapskulls who respond to them."
The Frenchman, now gazing at her with besotted fascination, was promptly reminded of his own mortality when Hook turned his steely gaze upon him. He immediately averted his eyes and launched into an animated conversation with his companions.
She recollected Ingrid's warning. Emma couldn't be sure if Hook had any intention of reeling her in, but it was clear he had just posted a "No Fishing" sign.
A thrill shot through her, as it was the primal response of a woman when a dashing man exhibited the typical irksome signs of possessiveness. She was acutely aware that her feelings towards him were decidedly primitive.
On the other hand, she had not completely lost her senses.
She could see Big Trouble brewing on the horizon.
It was glaringly obvious. Scandal trailed him like a lovesick puppy, and Emma had no desire to become its next chew toy.
"I was merely providing a demonstration of a subtle distinction which had apparently escaped you," she said coolly. "Subtlety, I gather, is not your forte."
"If this is your subtle way of reminding me that I overlooked what your sharp eyes discerned in that dirt-encrusted painting-"
"You clearly didn't inspect it closely, even when it was pristine," she remarked. "Otherwise, you would have identified it as a piece from the Stroganov school—and wouldn't have proposed the paltry sum of fifty quid."
His mouth twisted wryly. "I didn't propose anything. I shared an assessment."
"To test my knowledge," she countered. "However, I am well aware, just as you are, that this piece not only hails from the Stroganov school but is an exceedingly rare example. Most miniatures of its caliber were typically crafted in silver. And let's not overlook the fact that the Madonna-"
"Has gray eyes, not brown," Hook interjected in a decidedly bored tone.
"And she's almost smiling. Usually, she appears utterly glum."
"Cross, Miss Nolan. They look exceedingly ill tempered. Likely due to the woes of virginity—enduring all the trials of childbearing without any of its joys."
"Speaking on behalf of virgins everywhere, my lord," she leaned closer. "I can assure you there are many delights. One of which is possessing a rare piece of religious art valued at no less than five hundred pounds."
He laughed. "No need to announce your virginity to me," he said. "I could discern that from half a mile away."
"Fortunately, my expertise lies elsewhere," she replied, unfazed. "I'm confident Gepetto's Russian acquaintance will offer me five hundred. Moreover, I know he's a keen buyer looking to make a savvy purchase, which suggests I'll fetch considerably more at auction," she adjusted her gloves. "I've witnessed many a man lose his wits to auction fever. There's no telling what extravagant bids it might inspire."
Hook's gaze narrowed into slivers of suspicion.
At that moment, their host emerged with their refreshments. Accompanied by four underlings who scurried about, arranging linens, silver, and crockery with meticulous care. Not a crumb dared stray onto a plate, nor a hint of tarnish mar the gleaming silver. Even the sugar cubes were perfectly chiseled into half-inch squares—a remarkable feat, considering the hardness of the average sugar loaf, rivaling granite and diamonds. Emma often pondered how the kitchen staff managed such precision without resorting to explosives.
She indulged in a small wedge of yellow cake topped with fluffy white icing.
Hook allowed the obsequious proprietor to adorn his plate with an array of fruit tarts, meticulously arranged in concentric patterns.
They ate their sweets in silence until Hook, having decimated enough tarts to set every tooth in his mouth throbbing, set down his fork and scrutinized her hands with a furrowed brow.
"Have all the rules changed since I've been away from England?" he asked. "I understand ladies do not carelessly expose their bare hands in public. But surely, they're allowed to remove their gloves to eat?"
"It is permissible," she replied coolly. "But not practical," she added, raising her hand to reveal a long row of tiny pearl buttons. "It would take me all afternoon to undo them without my maid's assistance."
"Why in the devil do you wear such infernally bothersome things?" he demanded.
"Ingrid insisted on them for this pelisse," she explained. "If I didn't wear them, she'd be terribly offended."
He was still fixated on the gloves.
"Ingrid is my grandmother," she clarified. He hadn't met her. He'd arrived just as Ingrid had retired for her nap - though Emma had no doubt her grandmother had promptly risen and peeped through the door the moment she'd heard the deep, masculine voice.
The voice's owner now looked up, his blue eyes glinting. "Ah, yes. The watch."
"That, too, was a wise choice," Emma said, setting down her own fork and slipping into her business mode. "She was delighted."
"I am not your little white-haired grandmother," he retorted, catching her drift. "I am not so enamored with icons - even Stroganovs - to pay a farthing more than they're worth. To me, it's worth no more than a thousand. But if you'll promise not to bore me to distraction by haggling and trying to charm me with your eyes in between, I shall gladly pay fifteen hundred."
She had hoped to finesse him gradually, but his demeanor left no room for such tactics. Straight to the point, then—exactly where she had steered her thoughts hours ago, after glimpsing the look in his eyes as he examined her remarkable find.
"I shall gladly give it to you, my lord," she declared.
"No one gives me anything," he retorted coldly. "Save your games—whatever they may be—for another. Fifteen hundred is my price. My final offer."
"If you would send David home, the icon is yours," she countered. "If not, it will grace the auction at Midas'."
If Emma Nolan had grasped Killian's turmoil, she would have halted after the first sentence. No, had she truly comprehended, she might have fled for the hills with all the speed of a gazelle. But she couldn't fathom what Killian barely understood himself: his burning desire for the delicate Russian Madonna. That half-smiling, half-wistful visage, with Baby Jesus nestled to her bosom, had captured his soul like nothing before. He had felt an urge to weep upon seeing it, and the reason eluded him.
The craftsmanship was exquisite—art both divine and human—and he had been moved by artistry in the past. Yet, this was different; it stirred depths within him that had long been buried. He couldn't articulate these emotions any better than he could as a child of eight. Back then, he'd merely pushed them aside, dealt with them like old foes until they ceased to torment him.
Having remained stuck in a perpetual state of emotional immaturity, those feelings persisted at the level of a primitive child. Now unexpectedly ensnared by them, Killian found himself unable to reason as a grown man should. He couldn't convince himself that David Nolan was a persistent annoyance whom Killian should have ejected long ago. The idea of delighting in the present moment, when the fool's sister was willing to pay—or rather, to bribe him handsomely—never crossed the marquess's mind.
All Killian could see was an exceedingly fetching maiden tantalizing him with a toy he wanted very badly. He had offered his grandest and finest plaything in return, only to have her mockingly threaten to toss hers into the nearest cesspit, just to see him grovel.
Much later, Killian would realize that this—or some equally foolish notion—had been raging through his mind.
But that realization would dawn far later, when it was hopelessly too late.
At present, he felt about eight years young inside and was nearing thirty-five outwardly, thus torn between his inner child and outer maturity.
Leaning in, he murmured, "Miss Nolan, there are no alternate terms. I offer you fifteen hundred quid, you say 'Done', and everyone departs content."
"No, they won't." Her chin jutted forward with the defiance of a swan preparing to deliver a well-aimed peck at an unsuspecting foe. "If you won't dispatch David home, I'll have no dealings with you. You're ruining his life. No sum of money could ever compensate. Even if I were on the brink of starvation, I wouldn't sell you the icon."
She did indeed peck.
"Easy to preach when your belly's full," he quipped, a wry smile curling his lips. Then, with dramatic flair, he switched to Latin, quoting Publilius Syrus: "'Anyone can hold the helm when the sea is calm.'"
Matching his linguistic play, she responded in kind, her eyes twinkling mischievously: "'You cannot put the same shoe on every foot.'"
His countenance remained a stoic mask, hiding any hint of surprise that may have flickered beneath. "Ah, it appears you've dipped into the well of Publilius," he observed dryly. "Yet, it's curious that such a discerning lady fails to see the obvious. I'm no dead language to be trifled with, Miss Nolan. You tread dangerously close to treacherous waters."
"Because my brother is drowning there," she retorted. "Because you're holding him down. I'm neither big nor strong enough to pry your grip off. All I have is something you desire, and even you can't take it forcibly," her eyes flashed green. "There's only one way for you to obtain it, my lord of Hell.You throw him back."
Had he possessed the capacity for adult reasoning, Killian would have acknowledged her logic as impeccable—exactly what he would have done in her shoes. He might have admired her directness instead of feeling the need to respond in kind.
But adult reasoning eluded him.
The spark of defiance in her eyes should have glanced off him harmlessly. Instead, it ignited something deep within, setting off an internal chain reaction. He mistook the reaction for anger, imagining he could hurl her against a wall if she were a man. Since she was a woman, he contemplated alternative ways to teach her a lesson.
Unbeknownst to him, hurling her was the last thing on his mind. His intentions were more aligned with Venus than Mars, Ovid's Ars Amatoria rather than Caesar's De Bello Gallico.
Therefore, he miscalculated.
"No, you do not see clearly at all," he remarked coolly. "There's always another path, Miss Nolan. You presume otherwise, assuming I'll abide by society's dear little rules. Perhaps you think, because we're in public and you're a lady, I'll mind my manners. Maybe you even believe I care for your reputation," he flashed a malevolent smile. "Miss Nolan, perhaps you'd benefit from reconsidering."
Her emerald eyes narrowed. "Are you threatening me?" she challenged.
"Allow me to clarify, as you did with your own warning," he leaned in. "I can shatter your reputation in under thirty seconds. In three minutes, I can reduce it to ashes. We both understand, don't we, that with my standing, I needn't exert myself excessively to achieve this. You've already become a subject of speculation merely by being seen with me," he paused, letting the weight of his words settle.
She remained silent, her narrowed eyes now sparking with furious resolve.
"Allow me to elucidate," he continued smoothly. "Should you accept my generous offer of fifteen hundred, I shall conduct myself with utmost propriety, escort you to a waiting cabriolet, and ensure your safe journey home."
"And if I decline, you will attempt to destroy my reputation?" she countered, her voice steady.
"It won't be an attempt," he replied with chilling finality.
Undaunted, she sat up tall, folding her dainty gloved hands on the table. "I'd love to see you try," she retorted, her gaze unwavering.
