Hey, lovely readers! đź’–

I am super excited for you to dive into this chapter because it contains one of my absolute favorite scenes I have written! 📝✨ This moment has been living rent-free in my mind for ages, and the trope mybe cliché, but I can't wait to share it with you all. I hope it brings you as much joy and feels as it did for me while crafting it. As always, your thoughts and feedback mean the world to me, so please let me know what you think! Happy reading!

Huge thank you to my beta ARandomDream for correcting my mistakes ❤️


Chapter 6: The Art of Seduction

As if driven by some inexplicable madness, Miss Nolan wasn't retreating down the street but marching straight back toward his residence.

"Blast his impudence!" she exclaimed, hastening towards the door. "I shall break his nose. First the porter, now my maid—and the hackney. It's beyond tolerable."

Killian intercepted her, blocking the doorway with his imposing frame. "Oh, no you don't. I'm not interested in whatever game you're-"

"Game ?" She stepped back, her hands on her hips, and glared defiantly at him—or at least, he presumed she was glaring, given the wide brim of her bonnet and the dimming light of the day.

The sun was setting, casting Paris in a somber gloom as heavy grey clouds rolled in. In the distance, thunder rumbled ominously.

"My game?" she echoed, her voice cutting through the gathering dusk. "It's your brutish footman, following your lead, I presume—taking out his frustrations on innocent bystanders. No doubt he found it uproariously funny to scare off the hackney—with my maid inside—and leave me stranded, after pilfering my umbrella!"

With that, she pivoted sharply on her heel and strode away.

If Killian understood her tirade correctly, Starkey had not only frightened off Miss Nolan's maid and the hired carriage that brought her, but had also absconded with her umbrella. A storm was brewing, and finding an unoccupied hackney in this weather seemed increasingly improbable.

Killian smirked. "Adieu, then, Miss Nolan," he retorted. "Enjoy your leisurely stroll home."

"Adieu, Lord Hook," she shot back, still walking ahead. "I hope you have a delightful evening with your cows."

Cows?

It was clearly a deliberate attempt to provoke him, Killian reasoned. The comment was a feeble jab at best. To be offended would be to acknowledge that it had struck a nerve. He instructed himself to chuckle and return to his... cows .

But instead of retreating back into the house, he took a few brisk strides to catch up with her. "Is that prudishness, I wonder, or envy?" he challenged. "Is it their profession that offends you—or simply their more ample endowments?"

She continued walking, unfazed. "When David mentioned how much you paid, I assumed it was for their services," she remarked coolly. "Now, however, I see my mistake. Clearly, you compensate based on quantity."

"Perhaps the price is extravagant," he remarked, his hands itching to throttle her. "But alas, I'm not as skilled in bargaining as you are. Perhaps you'd care to negotiate on my behalf in the future. If so, I should clarify my preferences. What I prefer—"

"You prefer them large, ample, and simple-minded," she interjected.

"Intelligence is hardly a prerequisite," he countered, suppressing a violent urge to snatch her bonnet and trample it. "I don't hire them for debates on philosophy. But since you're well-versed in their appearance, let me hasten to explain what I require of them."

"You like them to undress you," she said, cutting him off. "Or perhaps dress you again. Frankly, it was hard to tell whether they were starting or finishing the act."

"I enjoy both ," he gritted out. "And in between, I expect them to—"

"I suggest you handle your buttons yourself for now," she advised coolly. "Your trousers are beginning to bunch up in a rather unattractive manner over your boots."

At that moment, the realization of his sartorial negligence dawned on Killian, or rather, pirouetted before him in a whimsical pantomime. His shirt, caught in a playful dance with the wind, revealed cuffs engaged in a lively ballet at his wrists.

While the words "shy" and "modest" had no place in Hook's Lexicon, his attire, unlike his character, was always comme il faut. Especially as he strode through the streets of Paris, the world's most sartorially critical city.

A subtle warmth crept up his neck as he conceded, "I commend your keen observation, Miss Nolan." With an air of nonchalance and a steady gaze fixed on her, he proceeded to undo all the trouser buttons, tuck in his shirt with deliberate finesse, and leisurely refasten each one.

A small, choked sound escaped Miss Nolan's lips, drawing a sharp glance from Killian. Her bonnet and the encroaching darkness obscured her expression, but he sensed a blush coloring her cheeks.

"Feeling a bit faint, Miss Nolan?" he inquired, a sly smile curling at the corners of his lips. "Is that why you've so effortlessly meandered past the very turn you should have taken?"

She stopped, her voice muffled and slightly indignant. "I walked past it because I didn't know that was it."

His smile broadened. "You don't know the way home."

She resumed her march, heading toward the indicated street. "I shall figure it out."

He trailed her around the corner, his tone dripping with mockery. "You were going to simply wander back, in the dead of night, to your brother's house—despite having not the faintest clue how to get there. You're quite the henwit, aren't you?"

"I agree it's getting dark, but it's hardly the witching hour," she retorted. "And I must say, it's hardly henwitted to have the most fearsome man in Paris as my chaperone. Quite chivalrous of you, Hook. Rather sweet, actually," she paused at a narrow street. "Ah, I'm finding my bearings. This lane leads to the Rue de Provence, doesn't it?"

"What did you say?" he asked, his voice dangerously low.

"I said, 'This leads-'"

"Sweet ," he interrupted, stalking after her.

Had she been a man, he'd have ensured her skull became intimately acquainted with the nearest lamppost.

Killian felt his knuckles ache from the force of his grip. He slowed his pace and sternly commanded himself to return home immediately. He had never stooped to violence against a woman in his life. Such behavior not only betrayed a contemptible lack of self-control but also reeked of cowardice. Only cowards wielded deadly weapons against the unarmed.

"It appears there's no immediate risk of you wandering the Parisian streets endlessly, inciting riots," he managed through gritted teeth. "I believe I can in good conscience allow you to find your way home unaccompanied."

She paused, turned back, and flashed a smile. "Oh, I understand perfectly. The Rue de Provence can be quite bustling at this hour, and it wouldn't do for one of your acquaintances to spot you. Run along now. Your gallantry will remain our little secret."

Killian willed himself to chuckle and walk away. It was a maneuver he'd executed countless times before, and was known for its impeccable finesse. When faced with his laughter, adversaries often found themselves unable to land a verbal blow. He had weathered more vicious attacks than this. It was simply… exasperation.

Despite his efforts, Killian couldn't summon a laugh, nor could he simply walk away from her.

By the time he reached the corner, she had vanished from sight.

He stormed after her and seized her arm, halting her abruptly. "Hold your tongue and listen," he said evenly. "I am not one of your Society trifles to be teased and mocked by a mere slip of a lass with an overinflated sense of her own wit. I couldn't care less about appearances, opinions, or gossip. I am not chivalrous, Miss Nolan, and I am certainly not sweet , damn your impertinence!"

"And I am not one of your brainless cows!" she retorted sharply. "I am not paid to bend to your every whim, and no law dictates that I should. I will say whatever I please, and right now, I find great pleasure in infuriating you. Because that's exactly how I feel. You've ruined my evening. I would relish nothing more than to return the favor, you pampered, selfish, vindictive brute!"

She kicked him squarely on the ankle.

He was so taken aback that he released her arm.

Staring at her small, booted foot, he exclaimed, "Bloody hell, did you actually think you could hurt me with that ?" He burst into laughter. "Are you out of your mind, Emma?"

"You great drunken jackass!" she cried, ripping off her bonnet and smacking him in the chest with it. "How dare you? I did not give you permission to use my Christian name," she whacked him again. "And I am not a mere trifle, you thickheaded ox!" Whack, whack, whack.

Killian looked down with profound bewilderment. Here was a fragile wisp of a woman attempting, it seemed, to inflict harm upon him with a piece of millinery.

She seemed to be in a perfect fury. While jabbing his chest with her ridiculous hat, she ranted about some party, somebody's portrait, Mrs. Scarlet, and how he had spoiled everything. She assured him he would regret it, because she no longer cared a whit about David, who was utterly useless to anyone on earth. She declared she was going straight back to England, opening a shop, auctioning the icon herself, and fetching ten thousand for it. She even wished Killian would choke on it.

Killian wasn't quite sure what he was supposed to choke on, except perhaps laughter, because he found Miss Emma Nolan in a fit of temper absolutely hilarious.

Her cheeks blazed pink, her eyes shot venomous sparks, and her curly blond hair tumbled about her shoulders.

It was very blond, almost white, a complete contrast to his own jet-black hair. All opposites. His was thick, coarse, and straight; hers cascaded in a curling veil of silk.

A few tresses, shaken loose from their pins, dangled tantalizingly against her bodice.

And that was when he became thoroughly distracted.

Her apple green pelisse was fastened snugly all the way to her white throat, outlining the gentle curve of her breasts.

Compared to Isla and Charlotte's ample endowments, Miss Nolan's were modest. Yet against her slender, delicate frame and whisper of a waist, those feminine curves suddenly seemed more than sufficient.

Killian's fingers began to twitch, a serpent of heat stirring and coiling in the pit of his belly.

The irritating bonnet proved too much. He snatched it, crushed it in his hand, and tossed it aside. "That's enough," he stated firmly. "You're beginning to bother me."

"Bother you?" she retorted incredulously. "I'll do more than bother, you pompous nincompoop!" With a fierce glint, she drew back, clenched her fist, and landed a solid blow square in his solar plexus.

It was a robust punch, capable of staggering a lesser man.

Killian barely flinched. The lazy raindrops pattering on his head had more impact.

But seeing her wince as she withdrew her hand, he realized she had hurt herself, and that struck him deep. He grabbed her hand, then quickly released it, fearful of accidentally hurting her in return.

"Damn and blast and confound you to hell!" He roared. "Why won't you leave me in peace, you plague and pestilence of a female!"

A nearby stray, startled by the outburst, yelped and scampered off.

Miss Nolan remained steadfast, her gaze fixed stubbornly on the spot where she had struck him, as though awaiting some cosmic revelation.

He couldn't fathom what she expected. Yet, with an intuition as undeniable as an impending tempest, he sensed she hadn't achieved whatever mysterious goal she sought—and she wouldn't depart until she did.

"What the devil is your game?" he thundered. "Are you daft?"

She remained silent.

The lazy plops of rain gradually built into a steady patter on the pavement. Droplets sparkled on her hair and danced on her flushed cheeks. One solitary drop slid along her nose and down to the corner of her mouth.

"Bloody hell," he cursed.

At that moment, he cared little for consequences. He seized her waist with his monster hands and hoisted her up until her damp, defiant face was level with his own.

Before she could protest, he crushed his demanding lips against hers.

At that instant, the skies opened up, unleashing a deluge.

Rain cascaded upon his head, while petite, gloved fists hammered his shoulders and chest.

None of this fazed him in the slightest. He was Killian Jones, the Devil incarnate.

He feared neither the wrath of nature nor the judgment of polite society. Certainly not Miss Nolan's righteous fury.

Sweet, was he? More like a repulsive, swinish debaucher, and if she expected to escape with just one loathsome peck from his tainted lips, she had another thing coming.

His kiss held no sweetness or chivalry. It was a ruthless, unabashed assault that drove her head back.

For one heart-stopping moment, he feared he might have snapped her neck.

But no, she wasn't dead, not with all that flailing and squirming. He clasped one arm securely around her waist and used the other to steady her head.

Her struggles ceased instantly. And just as suddenly, those tightly pressed lips yielded to his assault, catching him off guard enough to stumble backward into the lamppost.

Her arms coiled around his neck like a vice grip.

Madonna ston ourano.

Holy Mother of God, the madwoman was kissing him back.

Her lips pressed fervently against his, warm and tender like a spring breeze after a shower. She carried the scent of chamomile soap, damp wool, and pure Woman.

His knees threatened to give way.

He leaned heavily against the lamppost, his gasping breaths becoming shallow as his muscles turned to jelly. Yet she clung to him, her slender, gently curved form sliding down his body until her feet touched the ground. And still, she held fast to his neck, her kiss as sweet and earnestly passionate as his had been bold and fiercely demanding.

He surrendered to her maidenly fervor, feeling as though he were melting like salt in the rain.

In all the years since his father had packed him off to Eton, no woman had ever done anything to or for him without payment in hand. Or - as in the case of the one respectable female he'd been so misguided as to pursue nearly eight years ago - unless he signed papers putting his body, soul, and fortune into said hands.

Miss Emma Nolan clung to him as if her very existence hinged on it, kissing him with a passion that seemed to defy the laws of time and space.

Bewildered and flushed with heat, he traced his unsteady hands over her back, fingers trembling as they molded to her exquisitely slender waist. She was unlike anything he had ever held before—so delicately slim, supple, and perfectly curved. His chest tightened with a longing so intense it bordered on pain, a feeling that threatened to overwhelm him.

Se ého onireftí.

I've dreamed of you.

Se íthela stin ankaliá mou apó ti stigmí pou se synántisa.

I've wanted you in my arms since the moment I met you.

He stood there, a hapless figure in the relentless downpour, unable to rule his needy mouth, his restless hands, while, within, his heart beat out the mortifying truth.

Chreiázomai eséna.

I need you.

As if his admission had provoked divine retribution, a brilliant flash split the sky, followed by a thunderous roar that reverberated through the street.

Startled, she recoiled, a hand flying to her lips in shock.

"Emma," he said, reaching out to halt her retreat. "Agápi, I -"

"No. Oh, God," she muttered, shoving her wet hair out of her face. "Damn you, Hook!"

With that, she pivoted and bolted.


Emma Nolan was a young woman who confronted reality head-on, and as she ascended the dripping steps to her brother's appartement , she faced a series of undeniable truths.

First, she had pounced on the flimsiest excuse to pursue Lord Hook.

Second, she had plunged into a profound melancholy, quickly morphing into a fit of jealous fury, upon discovering two women ensconced on his lap.

Third, she had been on the brink of tears when he had dismissed her allure and referred to her as " a mere slip of a lass. "

Fourth, she had goaded him into assaulting her.

Fifth, she had nearly throttled him in her demand for the assault to continue.

Sixth, it had taken a bolt of lightning to pry her loose.

By the time she reached the appartement door, she was strongly tempted to dash her brains out against it.

"Idiot, idiot, idiot," she muttered, pounding on the portal.

Leroy opened it, his mouth agape.

"Leroy," she declared, striding inside. "I have failed you. Where is Marian?"

"Oh, dear," Leroy stammered, glancing around helplessly.

"Ah, then she hasn't returned. Not that I am the least surprised," Emma said, heading for her grandmother's room. "In fact, if my poor maid convinces the driver to take her straight to Calais and row her across the Channel, I wouldn't blame her a whit," she rapped at Ingrid's door.

Her grandmother opened the door, took one look at her, and then turned to Leroy. "Miss Nolan requires a hot bath," she said. "See to it immediately, if you please."

Then she took Emma's arm, tugged her inside, sat her down, and began to peel off her sodden boots.

"I will go to that party," Emma declared, fumbling with the buckles of her pelisse. "Hook can make a fool of me if he likes, but he will not ruin my evening. I don't care if all of Paris saw. He's the one who ought to be embarrassed—running half-naked down the street. And when I reminded him that he was half-naked, what do you think he did?"

"My dear, I cannot begin to guess," Ingrid said, swiftly working off the silk stockings.

Emma recounted the leisurely unbuttoning of his trousers.

Ingrid erupted into peals of laughter.

Emma frowned at her. "It was a Herculean effort to keep a straight face—but that wasn't the hardest part. The hardest part was—" she sighed deeply. "Oh, Ingrid. He was so disarmingly charming . I wanted to kiss him. Right on his cheek, on that rakish scar. And then everywhere else. It was infuriating. I had resolved not to lose my temper, but I did. And so I beat him and beat him until he kissed me. And then I kept on beating him until he did it properly. And I must confess, as mortifying as it is, that if we had not been nearly struck by lightning, I would be utterly ruined. Against a lamppost. On the Rue de Provence. And the worst part is—" she groaned. "I wish I had been ."

"I know," Ingrid said soothingly. "Believe me, dear, I know." She stripped off the rest of Emma's drenched garments—Emma being incapable of doing much besides babbling and staring vacantly at the furniture—wrapped her in a dressing gown, planted her in a chair by the fire, and ordered a brandy.


About half an hour after Emma Nolan had fled him, Lord Hook, drenched to the bone and clutching a mangled bonnet like a war trophy, stormed through the door a trembling Starkey held open. Ignoring the footman entirely, the marquess swept down the hall, up the stairs, and into his bedroom. He flung the bonnet onto a chair, peeled off his sodden garments, toweled himself dry with the briskness of a sailor, donned fresh attire, and returned to his guests.

No one, including the most audacious or inebriated of the tarts, dared to inquire about his escapade. Killian rarely felt the need to justify his actions—he answered to no one.

He had simply announced that he was hungry and going out to dinner, leaving the others to their own devices. Everyone but Nolan, who was incapable of anything beyond noisy breathing, accompanied Killian to a restaurant at the Palais Royal. They found that Boussole Dorée , their intended haunt, had closed down that very day. With no alternative offering Boussole Dorée 's unique charms, the party fragmented into smaller groups, each seeking its own amusement. Killian headed to a gambling hell with his duo of...cows and Arthur with his.

At three o'clock in the morning, Killian meandered through the streets, alone and aimless.

His steps led him to Madame Lucas' abode, just as the revelers were beginning to depart.

He stationed himself under a tree, well beyond the feeble glow of a solitary streetlamp, and observed.

He had brooded there for nearly twenty minutes when he saw Jefferson emerge, with Emma Nolan on his arm. They were conversing and laughing.

She wasn't wearing her usual absurd bonnet but instead sported a hair arrangement that was even more ludicrous. Shiny knots and coils sprouted from the top of her head, adorned with pearls and plumes that bobbed with every movement. The coiffure, in Killian's opinion, was delightfully preposterous.

That was why he wanted to rip out the pearls, plumes, and pins, to watch the silky golden veil of her hair ripple over her shoulders, gleaming in the lamplight.

There was far too much gleaming white, he noted with a surge of irritation. The oversized ballooning sleeves of her silver-blue gown didn't even have shoulders. They started halfway down her arms, primly covering everything from there down, while leaving what should have been concealed brazenly exposed to the view of every slavering hound in Paris.

Every man at the party had examined, at leisure and close quarters, that curving whiteness.

Meanwhile, Killian, like the Prince of Darkness they all believed him to be, stood outside lurking in the shadows.

At this moment, he didn't feel particularly satanic. If the humiliating truth be told, he felt more like a starving beggar boy with his nose pressed to the window of a pastry shop.

He watched her climb into the carriage. The door closed, and the vehicle lumbered away.

Though no one was around to witness his misery, he chuckled under his breath. He had laughed a great deal this night, but the laughter couldn't drown out the truth.

He'd known she was trouble from the start—had to be, as every respectable female was.

"Wife or mistress, it's all the same," he'd scoffed to his companions on many occasions. "Once you let a lady—virtuous or not—sink her claws into you, you're stuck with a troublesome estate where the tenants are always in rebellion, and you're endlessly pouring in time and money. All for the fleeting privilege—at her whim—of what you could get from any streetwalker for a few coins."

Yes, he desired her, but this wasn't the first time an unsuitable woman had stirred his lust. He craved, yet always mindful of the quicksand trap these sirens, bred for the purpose, laid out for him.

The bitter truth was, he had walked right into it, fooling himself otherwise—or worse, thinking it harmless to him, as if no pit were deep enough, no mud thick enough, to ensnare him now.

Then what holds you here? He chided himself. What unseen force compelled you to stand foolishly, like a besotted fool, outside this house, simply because she was in it? And what invisible shackles kept you rooted, yearning for a mere glimpse of her?

A brush of her hand. A taste of her lips.

Disgusting, he rebuked himself.

Indeed it was, yet undeniable truth it remained, and he loathed it and loathed her for making it so.

He should have seized her from the carriage, he mused, torn those prim adornments from her hair, taken what he desired, and departed, laughing, like the remorseless fiend he was.

What or who could hinder him? Before the Revolution, countless decadent aristocrats had indulged in the same. Even now, who would cast the first stone? Everyone knew his reputation. They would argue it was her own folly for crossing his path. The law wouldn't champion her honor. That duty would fall to David Nolan... at pistol point, twenty paces away.

With a wry grin, Killian abandoned his somber vigil and strolled down the boulevard. Trapped he may be, but he'd been ensnared before, he reminded himself. He'd stood on the outside looking in, yearning and solitary because he would not be let in. Yet always, in the end, Killian emerged victorious. He had compelled his schoolboy adversaries to respect and covet him. He had repaid his father a hundredfold for every humiliation and pain. He had become the old tyrant's living hell on earth and, one hoped, his eternal bane in the afterlife.

Even Tinara, who had once led him around by the nose for six interminable months, had subsequently endured the repercussions with her own pretty nose rubbed raw by the consequences.

True, Killian hadn't viewed it that way back then, but a man's vision tends to blur when a woman's claws are shredding him to pieces.

Now, however, clarity had dawned: it was a balmy day in 1818, just shy of a year following his father's burial.

This time, it was Pan laid within the polished casket adorned with blooms. In a drunken brawl over a strumpet in the stable yard of an inn, he had tumbled onto the cobblestones and split his skull.

Post-funeral, Tinara, the eldest of Pan's five younger sisters, had cornered the Marquess of Hookstone and expressed gratitude for his journey from Paris. Her dear brother—she had valiantly dabbed at a tear—had held him in the highest esteem. Her hand had lingered briefly atop his, then swiftly withdrew, a blush coloring her cheeks.

"Ah, my delicate little rosebud," Killian murmured with a wry twist of his lips. "Quite the artful maneuver."

And artful it was, for with that simple touch, Tinara had ensnared him. She had drawn him into her world—polite Society—a realm he had long ago abandoned. In that world, a mere glance from him could blanch a debutante's complexion and send her chaperones into fits of panic. The only lasses who had ever dared dance with him were his friends' sisters, and even they hurried through the steps as if fleeing a thunderstorm.

But not Tinara. Though she couldn't dance due to mourning, she possessed a gift for conversation and gazed up at him as though he were a gallant knight.

Four months passed before he was granted the privilege of holding her gloved hand for twenty fleeting seconds. It took another two months of nerve-gathering before he dared to press his lips to hers.

In her uncle's rose garden, the gallant knight had bestowed upon his lady a chaste kiss upon her cheek.

Almost as if staged, a cacophony erupted from the nearby bushes—mothers, aunts, and sisters shrieking in unison. Before he knew it, he found himself sequestered in the study with Tinara's uncle, and sternly instructed to make an honorable declaration.

In the blink of an eye, a quill was thrust into his hand, accompanied by a towering stack of documents demanding his signature.

To this day, Killian couldn't quite recall where he summoned the presence of mind to peruse them first. Perhaps it was the shock of receiving two consecutive orders, for he was not accustomed to heeding commands of any sort.

Regardless, he set down the quill and read.

He discovered that in exchange for the honor of marrying his delicate little rosebud he would have the privilege of settling all her late brother's debts, along with her uncle's, aunt's, mother's, and her own, for eternity— 'til death do us part, amen.

Killian swiftly deemed it a reckless investment and made his sentiments known.

He was promptly reminded that he had compromised an innocent girl from a respectable family.

"Then shoot me," he retorted, and exited the scene.

No one took him up on the offer of gunfire. Weeks later, back in Paris, he received news that Tinara had wed Lord Darling.

Darling was a sixty-five-year-old dandy in rouge who looked nearer ninety, with a collection of scandalous snuff boxes and a penchant for groping every maid within arm's reach. His survival past the wedding night had been deemed highly improbable.

He had not only survived but had managed to breed his young bride at an alarming pace. She barely had time to push one brat out before the next was on its way.

Killian was picturing in vivid detail his former flame in the clutches of her painted, palsied, sweating, and drooling spouse, relishing every lurid thought, when the bells of Notre Dame tolled in the distance.

He realized they were quite a bit more distant than they should have been if he were on Rue de Rivoli, where his residence awaited.

Glancing around, he discovered he was not just on the wrong street but in entirely the wrong neck of the woods.

His bewildered gaze landed on a lamppost that seemed oddly familiar, like an old acquaintance with stories to tell.

His mood, momentarily lifted by thoughts of Tinara's marital torment, swiftly plummeted again, dragging his entire being into the depths of despair.

Touch me. Hold me. Kiss me.

He rounded the corner into a dim, cramped alley, where a featureless, windowless wall stood witness to his turmoil. Leaning against the chilly stone, he endured the torment he couldn't escape, the ache twisting deep within him.

I need you.

Her lips locked with his, her hands anchoring him close. She was a tempest of warmth, tasting like rain, and for that fleeting instant, it was achingly sweet to imagine she desired his embrace.

He had believed it then, but struggled to believe it still, resenting himself for yearning and her for kindling that desire within him.

With resolve hardening his jaw, Killian straightened his posture and resumed his path, enduring the tumult within, convinced she would pay, in time.

Everyone did. In time.