I was going to drop the chapter on Monday, but since I'll be out and about, I figured I'd share it sooner! Hope you dig the chapter—let me know your thoughts :) Enjoy the read!
Chapter 5: How To Make a Man Obsessed in 6 Days
Killian had generously offered Miss Nolan ample chances to grasp her misstep. His warnings were as plain as day.
However, to falter now would betray doubt, or worse, frailty. To waver in the presence of a man was risky; to do so with a woman, catastrophic.
And so Killian grinned, drawing closer still until their faces were inches apart. "Say your prayers, Miss Nolan," he whispered softly.
Then, with deliberate slowness, his bare hand—free from gloves since his meal—slid down the sleeve of her pelisse, navigating past each frivolous pearl-grey button until he reached the first.
With a deft flick, he unfastened the tiny pearl from its mooring.
She cast a sidelong glance at his hand but remained statuesque.
Meanwhile, conscious that every gaze in the establishment was fixed upon them, and that the once boisterous conversations had hushed to whispers, he began speaking to her in Greek. In the manner of a lover, he waxed poetic about the weather, a dappled grey steed he contemplated selling, and the state of Parisian sewers. Though he had never attempted to seduce a woman before, nor had the need, he had witnessed and absorbed the antics of other poor fellows engaged in the game, replicating their laughable tones to perfection. The onlookers would be convinced they were entwined in romance. All the while, he deftly advanced down her sleeve toward her wrist.
She uttered not a sound, only stealing occasional glances from his face to his hands with a frozen countenance he interpreted as mute horror.
Had he been as composed internally as he appeared externally, he might have discerned matters more accurately. Outwardly, his expression remained enticingly focused, his voice pitched low and alluring. Internally, he uncomfortably noted his heartbeat accelerating around Button Number Six. By Button Number Twelve, it raced. By Button Number Fifteen, he had to concentrate fiercely to regulate his breathing.
He had disrobed whores beyond measure, shedding frocks, stays, chemises, garters, and stockings with practiced ease. Yet never in his life had he undone a delicately bred maiden's glove. He had engaged in countless debaucheries, yet never had he felt so debased as now, with each pearl set free and the soft kid sliding down, exposing her wrist to his touch.
Lost in the labyrinth of Hook's Dictionary, searching for a definition of his current state, he found himself bewildered by the entries. Little did he realize that Miss Emma Nolan's green eyes mirrored the baffled expression of a virtuous spinster reluctantly succumbing to seduction.
Even if he had deciphered her expression, he would not have believed it, much like he couldn't believe his own inappropriate excitement over a blasted glove and a mere morsel of feminine flesh. And not even a prime cut at that, but a scant inch of her wrist, curse her allure.
He couldn't halt the progression. His ostensibly impassioned expression had transformed into genuine desire, abandoning Greek dissertations on drains for vivid descriptions of his urge to undo, unhook, and untie every button, clasp, and string…and remove her attire, piece by piece, trailing his ravenous hands over her pristine, virginal skin.
As he spun his heated fantasies in Greek, he steadily peeled back the glove, revealing a palm of delicate allure. With a gentle tug towards her knuckles, then another, and another, the glove finally slipped off. He let it flutter onto the table, clasping her petite, tender hand with his larger, warmer one. She emitted a faint gasp. No resistance. Not that it would have made any difference to him.
Flushed and breathless, heart pounding as though he had sprinted a great distance in pursuit of something elusive, he was determined not to release his grip. His fingers enclosed around her hand with an intense gaze, silently challenging her to attempt - just attempt - an escape.
He found her still wearing that same wide-eyed expression. Then she blinked, dropping her gaze to their joined hands, and spoke in a small, breathless voice. "I'm terribly sorry, my lord."
Though not fully in command of his own breath yet, Killian managed to respond. "I have no doubt of that. But alas, it's too late now."
"I fear so," she murmured sadly, shaking her head. "Your reputation may never recover."
A prickling unease crept over him momentarily. Ignoring it, he let out a laugh and glanced around at their captivated audience. "Agapité mou, it's your own rep-"
"The Marquess of Hookstone has been sighted in the company of a lady," she interjected. "Witnesses have reported him serenading her," she added, looking up with a glint in her green eyes. "It was quite enchanting. I had no idea Greek could be so... evocative."
"I was discussing drains," he retorted tersely.
"I didn't realize. Nor did anyone else, I suspect. They all believe you were courting," she grinned. "The spinster sister of that bumbling David Nolan."
Too late, he saw the flaw in his strategy. Then, he remembered Hatter's gossip about the infamous Ingrid. Everyone here would think the girl followed in her grandmother's seductive footsteps—a femme fatale—and Parisians would swear he had fallen under her enchantment.
"Hook," her words slithered through the air like a dangerous melody in a quiet room. "If you don't release my hand this instant, I'll kiss you. Right in front of everyone."
A chilling realization crept over him. He might kiss her back—a scandalous scene of Killian, the infamous rake, locking lips with a lady—a virgin, no less. Panic threatened to shatter his composure.
"Miss Nolan," he parried, his voice a low, steely cadence. "I'd love to see you try."
"By gad," an irritatingly familiar voice interrupted from behind Killian. "I had to venture all the way to that blasted Rue d'Éclat, and it's not exactly what you had in mind, I know, but I sampled one myself first, and I'm certain you won't be disappointed."
Unaware of the tension thickening around him, David Nolan nonchalantly placed a small cigar box on the table, mere inches from Killian's hand—still entwined with Miss Nolan's.
David's gaze flickered between their clasped hands, his blue eyes widening. "Dash it all, Emma," he muttered irritably. "Can't you leave my friends be for once? How many times must I remind you?"
Miss Nolan withdrew her hand with icy composure.
David offered Killian an apologetic shrug. "Sorry about that, Hook. She does this to all the blokes. No idea why, seeing as she doesn't fancy 'em. Just like Aunt Johanna's daft cats. They'll go to all the trouble of catching a mouse, then leave the blighted things lying around for someone else to deal with."
Miss Nolan's lips twitched with suppressed amusement.
The faint glimmer of laughter was all it took to freeze and shatter the tempestuous mix swirling inside Lord Hook into icy rage.
He had started his formal education with his head dunked in a cesspit. He had endured mockery and torment before. But never for long.
"Well-timed as always, Nolan," he remarked dryly. "Since mere words can't quite capture my relief and gratitude, actions will have to suffice. Why don't you swing by my place once you've escorted your irresistible sister home? Pendragon and a few others are dropping in for a bottle or two and a spot of hazard."
After enduring Nolan's gushing gratitude, Killian bid the pair a cool farewell and strolled out of the shop, grimly resolved to keep David Nolan submerged until he drowned.
Even before Lord Hook arrived back at his residence, eyewitness accounts of his tête-à-tête with Miss Nolan were careening through the boulevards of Paris.
By the time the private revelry of drink and dice had wound down near dawn—David, a few hundred pounds lighter, and carted off by a pair of footmen to his bed—speculation was rife about the Marquess of Hookstone's intentions towards Miss Nolan.
At three in the afternoon, Will Scarlet, crossing paths with Arthur Pendragon at Chez Victor's, wagered a princely sum of one hundred fifty pounds that Killian would be bound to Miss Nolan before the King's Birthday in June.
"Hook?" Arthur echoed, his azure eyes widening. "Married? To a blue-blooded spinster? Nolan's sister?"
Ten minutes later, Arthur had ceased his uproarious laughter and was beginning to regain composure. Will repeated his proposition.
"It's too easy," Arthur chuckled. "I can't accept your wager. That incident in the coffee shop was just one of his jests. A ruse to set everyone aflutter. Right now, he's probably laughing himself senseless over how easily he's hoodwinked everyone."
"Two hundred," insisted Will. "Two hundred says he stops laughing within a week."
"Very well," conceded Arthur. "If you're eager to toss your money into another sinkhole. Define the terms."
"Within a week, someone spots him pursuing her," declared Will. "He follows her from a room, down a boulevard. Takes her hand—no, by God, I don't care—if he grabs her by the hair, that's more his style, isn't it?"
"Scarlet, Hook's not one for chasing skirts," Arthur remarked with a patient air. "Hook says, 'I'll take this one.' Then he lays down the cash and the lady walks."
"He'll go after this one," Will retorted. "Just as I said. With witnesses. Two hundred says he does it within a week."
Arthur Pendragon had a knack for predicting Hook's antics, often turning a profit on the Devil's own whims. Predicting the Devil's behavior, in fact, was how Arthur made at least half his income. The smug, knowing grin on Will's face was starting to grate on Arthur's nerves. Adopting an expression of mock sympathy—purely to needle Will—Arthur took up the challenge.
Six days later, Emma stood at the window of her brother's appartement, glaring down at the bustling street below.
"I swear, Hook," she muttered darkly. "I shall put a bullet precisely where that Greek nose of yours meets your black brows."
It was nearing six o'clock. David had pledged to return by half-past four to primp and prepare, ensuring he could escort Emma and their grandmother to Madame Lucas's soirée. The unveiling of Mrs. Scarlet's portrait was scheduled for eight o'clock and with David requiring a good two and a half hours for his ablutions and traffic sure to be snarled, they stood to miss the grand event.
And it was all Hook's infernal doing.
Since their fateful encounter at the coffee shop, Lord Hook couldn't bear to let David out of his sight. Wherever Hook ventured, whatever mischief he pursued, he found no pleasure unless David tagged along.
David, bless his gullible heart, believed he had finally earned Hook's unwavering camaraderie. Little did he know, Hook's apparent friendship was merely a mask for his vengeance against Emma.
This revealed the depths of Hook's villainy. Instead of facing Emma directly, he chose to torment her through her hapless brother, who lacked even the faintest notion of self-defense.
David was incapable of abstaining from spirits, exiting a card game, avoiding a doomed wager, or declining the advances of a courtesan. If Hook imbibed, David followed suit, despite lacking the fortitude for it. If Hook gambled or indulged in excess, David mirrored every reckless move without hesitation.
Emma didn't take issue with these pursuits in principle. She'd been pleasantly tipsy on occasion and had lost a few pounds at cards or on a wager—albeit within sensible limits. As for the courtesans, she imagined if she were a man, a dalliance now and then might be appealing, but she'd never squander more than the going rate. She could hardly believe Hook had paid as much as David insisted, but her brother had sworn on his honor that he'd witnessed the transaction firsthand.
"If it's true," she'd sighed in frustration just the previous evening, "it must be because his demands are extravagant—perhaps the ladies have to exert themselves more, you see?"
All David heard was an insinuation about his virility not measuring up to his idol's. She'd questioned his manliness, prompting him to storm out and not return—except he was carried home at seven in the morning.
Meanwhile, she had tossed and turned until nearly dawn, pondering just what Lord Hook demanded of his bedfellows.
Thanks to Ingrid, Emma was well-versed in the basics of what ordinary men sought—or provided, depending on one's perspective. She knew, for instance, what the bewigged gentleman concealed beneath the lady's skirts was up to, just as she understood such positions weren't common in saucy timepieces. That's precisely why she had purchased it.
But since Hook was far from ordinary and undoubtedly paid for much more than the bare essentials, she had spent the night in a feverish haze of apprehension, curiosity, and—if she were brutally honest with herself, which she typically was—a touch of yearning, too, for good measure.
Her mind couldn't shake the image of his hands. Not that she hadn't contemplated every other inch of him as well, but those large, too-clever hands had left a distinct impression on her.
At the mere thought of them, even now, raging as she was, Emma felt a hot, aching curl in her gut, from her diaphragm down to the pit of her belly.
Which only fueled her fury further.
The mantel clock chimed the hour.
First she'd kill Hook, she swore to herself. Then, her brother would face her wrath.
Leroy entered. "The porter has returned from the marquess's residence," he announced.
David, following Parisian custom, relied on the building's porter to handle tasks typically managed by footmen, maids, and errand runners back home. Thirty minutes earlier, John the porter had been sent on an errand to Lord Hook's residence.
"Obviously, he hasn't brought David back," she remarked. "Or I'd have heard my brother bellowing in the hall by now."
"Lord Hook's servant rebuffed John's inquiry," Leroy reported. "Persisting, John was boldly ousted from the doorstep. The servants, Miss Nolan, mirror their master's character with appalling precision."
It was one thing, Emma fumed, for Hook to exploit her brother's vulnerabilities. Allowing his lackeys to mistreat an overworked porter delivering a message was an entirely different offense.
"Pardon one offense," as Publilius wisely noted, "And you encourage the commission of many."
Emma wasn't about to let this slide. With fists clenched, she strode towards the door. "I care not if the servant is Mephistopheles himself," she declared. "Let him dare to eject me."
A very short time later, while her trembling maid, Marian, huddled in a dingy Parisian hackney, Emma rapped firmly on Lord Hook's grand front door.
A towering English footman swung it open. He stood near six feet tall, casting a disrespectful gaze up and down her form. Emma could practically see the cogs turning in his head. Any servant with a shred of wit would recognize her as a lady. Yet no proper lady would dare darken the doorstep of an unwed gentleman. The dilemma lay in Hook not quite fitting the mold of a gentleman. Emma spared him the effort of unraveling this riddle.
"The name is Nolan," she declared crisply. "And I'm not accustomed to being left on a doorstep while a lazy lackey ogles me. You have precisely three seconds to move aside. One. Two-"
He retreated, and she swept past him into the foyer.
"Get my brother," she commanded.
He gawked at her, dumbstruck. "Miss— Miss—"
"Nolan," she supplied crisply. "Sir David's sister. I need to see him. Now," she punctuated her demand with a sharp tap of her umbrella on the marble floor.
Emma had adopted a demeanor honed from taming unruly boys twice her size and wrangling with the more obstinate servants of her uncles and aunts, who often parroted nonsense like "Master wouldn't approve" or "Madam forbids it." Her approach left her listener with only two options: compliance or imminent peril. It proved as effective in this instance as in all the others.
The footman cast a terrified glance toward the staircase at the hall's end. "I-I can't, miss," he stammered in a hushed voice. "He-he'll have my head. No interruptions. Not ever."
"I understand," she remarked dryly. "You're bold enough to toss a porter twice your age onto the pavement, yet you-"
A gunshot echoed through the house.
"David!" she exclaimed. Abandoning her umbrella, Emma dashed towards the stairs.
Normally, the report of a pistol, even accompanied by feminine shrieks as it was now, wouldn't have sent Emma into a tizzy. The issue was, wherever her brother ventured, mishaps followed. If there was a ditch nearby, David would plunge into it. If there was an open window, he'd find a way to tumble through.
Therefore, if David found himself near a flying bullet, he'd likely stroll right into its path.
Emma knew better than to hope he'd escaped unscathed. Her only prayer was that she could staunch the bleeding.
Bounding up the grand staircase and through the hallway, she followed the trail of feminine screams and boisterous, inebriated shouts.
She swung open the door.
The first sight that greeted her was her brother sprawled face-up on the carpet.
For a brief moment, that was all she registered. Rushing to his side, just as she knelt to inspect him, David's chest heaved with a wine-laden snore that jolted her upright again.
Then she realized the room lay as silent as a crypt.
Emma cast a swift glance around.
Scattered across chairs and sofas, draped over tables, were nearly a dozen men in various states of undress. Some were unfamiliar faces, while others—Pendragon, Locksley, and Humbert—she recognized. Accompanying them were several women, all belonging to a venerable profession.
Her eyes fell upon Hook. He lounged in an oversized chair, a pistol casually held in one hand, flanked by two ample-bosomed strumpets—one fair, the other dark—perched upon his lap. All three stared at her, frozen mid-action since her abrupt entrance. The brunette seemed caught in the act of tugging Hook's shirt from his waistband, while the blonde had clearly been facilitating by undoing his trouser buttons.
Surrounded by half-clad revelers in various stages of inebriation and undress did not unsettle Emma in the slightest. She had grown up amidst mischievous boys intentionally streaking to startle the ladies of the house, and had been privy to more than one sight of a youthful bare bottom, for such antics were often a cousin's idea of humorous exchange.
Her current milieu failed to ruffle her composure. Even the pistol in Hook's hand failed to provoke alarm, having discharged its shot and now requiring reloading.
The only unsettling sensation that gripped her was an absurd urge to yank those two harlots' hair out by the dyed roots and snap every one of their fingers. She chided herself for such impulses. After all, they were just professionals, doing their job for pay. She tried to convince herself she felt pity for them, hence her acute discomfort.
She nearly bought into that rationale. Regardless, whether she did or didn't, she remained in command of herself and, by extension, any situation.
Emma remarked, gesturing toward her comatose brother. "Turns out, he's just thoroughly soused. My mistake." She sauntered toward the door. "Please, carry on, monsieurs. And mademoiselles."
And out she went.
Up to a point, Killian reflected, everything had gone swimmingly. He had ingeniously devised a solution to his transient issue with strumpets. If he couldn't stomach them in brothels or on the streets, why not bring them into his own home?
It wouldn't be the first time.
Nine years prior, at his father's somber funeral, a buxom local lass by the name of Milah Lydgate had caught his eye. A mere few hours later, she found herself in the embrace of the grand ancestral bed. While she had been pleasant enough company, the true delight had been picturing his recently departed father gyrating in the family tomb alongside his esteemed forebears.
A minor inconvenience followed nine months later, swiftly resolved by Killian's shrewd man of affairs to the tune of fifty pounds annually.
Since then, Killian had confined himself to whores who adhered strictly to professional protocols, knowing better than to complicate his life with squalling offspring or attempts at manipulation and blackmail.
Isla and Charlotte were well-versed in these unspoken rules, and he was finally ready to get down to serious business.
That is, after he settled things with Miss Nolan.
Killian had anticipated her eventual confrontation, though her explosive entrance into his drawing room was unexpected. Nonetheless, it aligned with his broader strategy. Her brother's unraveling was particularly satisfying, accelerated by Killian's direct involvement in his downfall.
Miss Nolan would undoubtedly grasp the situation soon enough. As a shrewd woman, she'd have to concede her grave misstep in attempting to outwit the Marquess of Hookstone. Killian had envisioned her eventual acknowledgment, preferably on bended knee, pleading for mercy.
But things had taken an unexpected turn.
All she had done was cast a bored glance at her brother and another faintly amused one at Killian himself before calmly turning her back and leaving.
For six interminable days, Killian had endured her brother's incessant chatter, pretending to be the confidant of that witless fool. Nolan had trailed after him, barking for attention, clumsily stumbling over everything in his path. After nearly a week of frayed nerves from her brother's antics, all Killian had achieved was becoming the object of Miss Nolan's amusement.
"Allez-vous en," he murmured, his voice a low growl. Isla and Charlotte sprang off his lap like startled deer, scattering to opposite ends of the room.
"Hook," Arthur ventured cautiously.
Killian's glare could have ignited a bonfire. Arthur hurriedly refilled his glass from a nearby bottle.
With a decisive thud, Killian placed the pistol on the table, crossed the room in long strides, and slammed the door shut behind him.
From there, he moved swiftly. He reached the landing just in time to see Nolan's sister pause at the front door, scanning the hallway.
"Miss Nolan," he called, his voice steady and commanding. There was no need to raise it; the resonant baritone carried like a distant storm.
She flung open the door and darted outside.
He stood there, watching the door swing shut, mentally instructing himself to return to his sport of shooting the noses off the plaster cherubs on the ceiling. Pursuing her would only lead to his committing a crime of passion. And Killian never stooped to allowing any member of the weaker sex to rattle his composure.
Yet, even as he was coaching himself, he found himself hurtling down the remaining stairs and charging through the long hallway toward the door. With a furious wrench, he flung it open and stormed out, leaving the door to slam violently in his wake.
