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Chapter 7: High Stakes, High Society
The afternoon following Madame Lucas' soirée, a crestfallen Arthur Pendragon counted out two hundred pounds to Will Scarlet.
"I saw it myself," Arthur lamented, shaking his head in disbelief. "From the window. Yet, I wouldn't have believed it if others hadn't witnessed it too. He stormed right out the door and chased her down the street. Probably to scare her off. I daresay she's packing her bags at this very moment."
"She was as poised as ever at the unveiling last night," Will remarked with a smirk. "Cool, collected, and managing her flock of admirers with effortless charm. When Miss Nolan decides to pack, it'll be her bridal trousseau, with linens embroidered with an 'H' for Hook."
Arthur bristled. "That's not how it happened at all. I know what I saw. Hook despises interruptions. Uninvited guests are an anathema to him; when he dislikes something, it either vanishes or gets crushed. If she were a man, he'd have crushed her. Since she wasn't, he made her disappear."
"Three hundred," Will retorted. "Three hundred quid says she's ensconced as his marchioness before the King's Birthday."
Arthur stifled a smirk. Whatever Hook did or didn't do with Miss Emma Nolan, marrying her wasn't in the cards.
Not that Hook was averse to marriage altogether. Oh no, that would be too tame. If he ever did tie the knot, it would be a grand scandal, a slap in the face to his few living relatives - a handful of distant cousins - and a mockery to the departed hordes. The bride, assuredly, would hail from the realms of mistresses, widows, or offspring of some infamous traitor or killer. She'd probably be a notorious courtesan to boot. Perhaps a half-Irish, part-Jewish mulatto madam, whose last lover had swung from the gallows for an unspeakable crime against the Duke of Kent's only legitimate child, the nine-year-old Alexandrina Victoria. A Marchioness of Hookstone who was a chaste virgin from a respectable - if somewhat eccentric - lineage? Out of the question.
Hook being hitched—to anyone—in a mere couple of months was about as likely as pigs sprouting wings and performing ballet in the clouds.
Arthur took the bet without hesitation.
This wasn't the only wager circulating through Paris that week, nor the largest where the names Hook and Nolan were staked.
The harlots who had witnessed Miss Nolan's dramatic entrance into Hook's parlor and his subsequent chase regaled their fellow ladies of the night with the tale. The male guests, embellishments in tow, spread the story far and wide to any ear that would listen—essentially, everyone.
And everyone, naturally, had an opinion, some even wagering on their convictions. Within days, Paris buzzed with anticipation, akin to the Roman mob awaiting the mortal clash of its fiercest gladiators in the arena.
The conundrum lay in coaxing these rivals into the same arena. Miss Nolan navigated the echelons of respectable Society, while Lord Hook prowled the shadowy demimonde. In a most vexing turn, they seemed resolute in evading each other's orbit, impervious to persuasion or subterfuge.
Enter Lady Belfrey, a recent transplant to Paris, tirelessly striving—albeit with mixed success—to ascend to the pinnacle of its social hierarchy. Sensing a rare opportunity, she seized it with aplomb.
Lady Belfrey boldly scheduled a grand ball on the very day when one of her competitors had slated a masquerade. Coincidentally, this event fell precisely a fortnight after the infamous "Chasing Miss Nolan Down the Street' ' incident. While Lady Wintercrest and her pair of grand-lings were not considered the crème de la crème of either Paris or London society, and Lady Belfrey wouldn't typically entertain them under normal circumstances, she extended an invitation to her ball.
She also extended an invitation to Killian before proceeding to make sure everyone in Paris knew about it. Though she, like at least half of Paris, believed him to be ensnared by Miss Nolan, Lady Belfrey did not hold her breath for his attendance. Everyone knew that the Marquess of Hookstone was about as likely to grace a respectable social affair as he was to invite the executioner to test the guillotine's blade on his own neck.
However, Killian had already behaved unexpectedly when it came to Miss Nolan, so there was a slim chance. And where there was a slim chance of the impossible happening, there would always be people eager to witness it firsthand.
Lady Belfrey's guest list mirrored her daring move, with not a single decline in sight—not even, to her mild unease, from Lord Hook himself. His silence spared her from falsities, though it left her other invitees dangling in suspense. To ensure the evening proceeded without a hitch, she bolstered her staff with a dozen robust French aides, prepared for any eventuality that might accompany the Marquess's shadowy presence—or absence.
Emma, meanwhile, was waving the white flag of surrender. After just three encounters with Lord Hook, a mere spark of attraction had flared into a full-blown wildfire of mindless infatuation. Her symptoms hadn't just become virulent; they'd become glaringly obvious.
At Madame Lucas' party, Mr. Scarlet had made a few sly remarks about Hook. Emma, still reeling from the aftershocks of one tempestuous embrace, had responded far too sharply. Will's knowing smile had told her he'd guessed her predicament, and she wouldn't have put it past him to spill the beans to Hook.
However, the Scarlets had abruptly vacated Paris a week after the soirée, and Hook hadn't come within a mile of her since that soul-searing kiss in the thunderstorm.
And so, if anyone had suggested to him that Emma Nolan was smitten with him, it was evident that Hook couldn't have cared less. This, Emma assured herself, was precisely as she preferred it.
Because there was only one way the Marquess of Hookstone could care about any woman, and that was for as long as it took to tumble her onto a bed—or a tavern table—unbutton his trousers, dispatch his business, and button up again.
Smitten or not, she knew better than to tempt Fate by risking another encounter with him, where he might witness her mortifying condition firsthand and decide to demonstrate his own brand of caring.
She had scarcely finished convincing herself that the sensible course of action was to leave Paris immediately when Lady Belfrey's invitation arrived.
Within twenty-four hours, Emma became keenly aware—just as all of Paris did—that Hook too had received an invitation.
It didn't require a genius to decipher the reason: she and Hook were expected to provide the evening's main entertainment. She also knew a considerable amount of money would change hands, hinging on her interactions—or lack thereof—with His Lordship.
Emma decided she wanted no part of this spectacle.
Ingrid thought otherwise. "If he goes, and you are not there, he will feel humiliated," she said. "Even if he simply considers attending, and then learns of your absence, he'll feel slighted. It's irrational and unfair, but men often are, especially when their pride is on the line. You'd best go unless you're prepared to have him storming after you to nurse his bruised vanity."
Though Emma seriously doubted Hook possessed any feelings worth wounding, she couldn't deny Ingrid's extensive experience with men—a vast and varied collection over the decades.
Thus, the invitation was accepted.
Killian could not decide what to do with Lady Belfrey's invitation.
One part of him suggested he burn it ceremoniously.
Another proposed he personally deliver it back to Her Ladyship—via her throat.
Ultimately, he consigned it to a trunk, a chaotic repository of travel mementos, a mangled bonnet, and a frilly umbrella. Six months from now, he told himself, he would laugh at these ridiculous relics before torching them, just as he had done years earlier with Tinara's accursed gloves, a fragment of a feather from her bonnet, and the note summoning him to that ill-fated dinner party at her uncle's.
Deciding how to settle accounts with Miss Nolan and the hypocrites praying for his downfall was his present task. Lady Belfrey's invitation was a clear ploy to witness the Devil brought to his knees. Respectable Paris would savor nothing more than his defeat, especially at the hands of an English spinster.
They wanted a morality play, the Triumph of Virtue or some such rubbish.
He could leave them hanging, let them hold their collective breath until they turned blue, while the stage remained empty. He relished the image of a few hundred souls dying of suspense while the Devil dallied elsewhere, laughing, drinking champagne, his lap filled with painted harlots.
On the other hand, it would be a riot to laugh in their smug faces, to swagger onto the stage and deliver a performance they'd never forget. The image had its allure: an hour of devilish mayhem in one of the Faubourg St. Germain's most prim and proper ballrooms. Then, at the climax, he'd sweep Miss Emma Nolan into his arms, stamp his cloven hoof, and vanish with her in a puff of smoke.
He'd no sooner conjured the image than he discarded it as antithetical to his purposes. She must be ignored, so that she, and everyone else would understand she had no power over him. It would be far better to collect an armful of women at random, drag them away, and leave them mindless with terror in a cemetery.
But that was rather a lot of bother, and Paris didn't deserve so much entertainment. Far better to let it suffocate in its own disappointment.
So his mind went, back and forth, like a pendulum caught in a storm, right up to the evening of the ball.
Emma arrived at the ball seething with resentful frustration, a mood that only deepened as the evening unfolded.
Before the party, she had spent hours fretting over her hair, her gown, and every accessory down to the smallest detail. Yet despite her meticulous preparations, she found herself subjected to subtle barbs from the women and not-so-subtle advances from the men after her arrival.
By half past eleven, David had already lost a small fortune in the cardroom, drowned his sorrows in drink, and been escorted home. Ingrid, on the other hand, was now on her second dance with Mr. Hopper. Emma could see from her grandmother's blissful expression that no help would be forthcoming from that quarter tonight. The French aristocrat had clearly made a lasting impression, rendering Ingrid incapable of focusing on anything else when she was so smitten.
Normally, Emma could observe her grandmother's romantic foibles with a wry detachment. But tonight, she felt Ingrid's yearning in her bones, and it was far from amusing.
It was not amusing to feel on edge, restless, lonely, and bored to tears as midnight approached, all because one insufferable brute couldn't be bothered to attend. Nor was it amusing to acknowledge that his absence was probably for the best, even as she secretly longed for him to be there and despised herself for it.
She had even declined two dances, hoping against hope that His Satanic Majesty would sweep her onto the dance floor on a whim. Now, watching Ingrid with the French aristocrat, Emma's spirits plummeted. With Hook, it would never be like this.
He would never cast upon her such a melting smile as Hopper's, and if Emma ever regarded him with an expression as enraptured as Ingrid's, Hook would burst into laughter right then and there.
Suppressing a despair she knew was irrational, Emma yielded to her two most pressing suitors. She gave one of the reserved dances to Robin Locksley and the other to Lord Humbert.
As he inscribed his name on the last vacant panel of her fan — intended as a memento of the evening, her final night in Paris — Graham remarked in a hushed tone, "I see there's no dance left for Hook. Are you certain he won't show up?"
"Do you have reason to think otherwise?" she retorted. "Have you caught a whiff of brimstone or a puff of smoke signaling his arrival?"
"I've a hundred pounds riding on his appearance," declared Graham, brandishing his pocket watch. "At precisely—well, we shall see in a moment."
Emma noted the convergence of his timepiece's hands just as a distant clock tolled loudly.
On the tenth stroke, heads pivoted toward the ballroom entrance, and voices hushed to a murmur. By the twelfth chime, the room fell silent as death.
Heart pounding, Emma forced herself to face the entrance. It was an immense, ornate archway, a grandiose affair indeed.
The entrance didn't seem large enough for the dark, towering figure that paused beneath it.
It was a long, theatrical pause, perfectly matching the midnight drama. And true to his Prince of Darkness reputation, Hook was draped almost entirely in uncompromising black. A glimpse of snowy linen at his wrists and another at his neck and chest only heightened the effect. Even his waistcoat was a somber shade.
Though she stood the room's length away, Emma had no doubt the dark gaze sweeping carelessly over the assembly glinted with contempt, and the hard mouth curled in the faintest, most disdainful smile.
The memory of what that dissolute mouth had done to her a fortnight ago sent a wave of heat up her neck. She fanned herself, trying to banish the memory—and the suspicion that Graham was covertly observing her. She told herself it didn't matter what he or anyone else thought, except Hook.
He had shown up, and here she was, so he could have no qualms on that front. Now all she needed to do was discern his game plan, play along by his rules, and hope those rules didn't venture beyond the boundaries of decorum. Once appeased, he would chuckle and depart merrily, leaving her free to return to England without fear of him pursuing her. She would resume her life exactly where she had left off, and in due course, she would consign his memory to the realm of nightmares or fleeting fevers, breathing a sigh of relief that it was all in the past.
That was the way it had to be, Emma insisted to herself. The alternative was catastrophe, and she refused to let her life crumble due to a fleeting, albeit intense, madness.
It took Killian precisely nine seconds to spy Miss Nolan amidst the throng. There she stood with Lord Humbert and a coterie of other notorious rogues at the distant end of the ballroom. Clad in a shimmering silver-blue gown, she seemed surrounded by a halo of fluttering objects dancing about her head. He supposed her hair was once again ensnared in those preposterous coils. But such coiffures, like sleeves inflated to the heavens and bonnets bedecked with baubles, were the current rage, and he doubted they could rival the aviary perched atop Lady Belfrey's head.
Lady Belfrey's countenance bore a meticulously composed expression of welcome. Killian strode over, executed an exaggerated bow, beamed, and declared himself utterly enchanted and honored, overflowing with rapture.
He allowed her no opportunity for escape, and as he sweetly requested introductions to her guests, he relished the disarray that widened her beady eyes and drained all color from her jowly visage.
By this time, the congregation of frozen statues around them was thawing back to life. His quivering hostess gave a discreet signal, prompting the musicians to dutifully strike up a tune, and gradually, the ballroom resumed a semblance of normalcy—well, as close to it as one could reasonably expect, given the monster in their midst.
Still, as Lady Belfrey escorted him from one cluster of guests to another, Killian sensed the tension thickening in the air. He knew they all awaited his transgression, likely placing wagers on its nature.
He felt an intense urge to oblige them. It had been nearly eight years since he'd last stepped into this realm, and while the faces and mannerisms of polite Society appeared familiar, he'd forgotten how it felt to be a spectacle. He recalled the forced courtesy masking fear and repulsion in their eyes, the women blanching at his approach, and the feigned camaraderie of the men. Yet, what he had truly forgotten was the bitter isolation they imposed upon him and the anger it stoked within. It twisted his gut into knots, fueling a primal urge to howl and wreak havoc.
After enduring half an hour of polite torture, Killian's patience snapped like a taut violin string. He resolved to depart promptly, but not before settling the score with the architect of his woes once and for all.
As the quadrille concluded, Robin Locksley escorted Miss Nolan back to her adoring coterie, who clustered near an oversized, ghastly fern.
Releasing Lady Belfrey with a gallant nod toward a chair, Killian pivoted and strode purposefully across the room toward the monstrosity of a plant. He marched with such determination that the men surrounding Miss Nolan had no choice but to yield or risk being trampled. And yield they did, yet they lingered like unwelcome shadows at dusk.
He cast a heavy-lidded glance over the assembled admirers.
"Go away," he said quietly.
They dispersed.
His gaze then swept over Miss Nolan from head to toe.
She returned the appraisal.
Ignoring the stirring sensation her deliberate emerald gaze provoked, he allowed his attention to drift to her bodice, boldly assessing the prominent display of creamy shoulders and bosom.
"It must be held aloft with wires," he remarked. "Else your dressmaker has uncovered a way to flout gravity's laws."
"It's lined with a stiffening fabric and bones, akin to a corset," she replied calmly. "Awfully uncomfortable, but it's the height of fashion, and I dared not incur your disapproval by appearing frumpy."
"Ah, so you were counting on my arrival," he mused. "Because you're simply irresistible."
"I hope I'm not so suicidal as to wish to be irresistible to you," she fanned herself. "The truth is, it seems we're embroiled in a comedy, where we play the lead roles. I'm willing to take sensible steps to bring it to an end. You sparked gossip with your coffee shop theatrics, but I'll concede I played a part in provoking it," she interjected swiftly, forestalling any rebuttal. "And I admit, the rumors might have fizzled if I hadn't barged into your house and vexed you," her cheeks flushed. "As for what occurred afterward, apparently no one witnessed it, rendering it inconsequential to our current predicament."
He observed her tight grip on the fan and the rapid rise and fall of her bosom, signs of her agitation.
He smirked. "You certainly didn't act as though it were inconsequential at the time. Quite the contrary-"
"Hook, I kissed you," she stated evenly. "I see no reason to dwell on it. It was not the first time you've ever been kissed and it won't be the last."
"Goodness, Miss Nolan, are you threatening to repeat the offense?" He widened his eyes in feigned horror.
She let out a sigh. "I knew it was too much to expect you to be reasonable."
"What a woman means by a 'reasonable' man is one she can manipulate," he quipped. "You were right, Miss Nolan. It is too much to hope for. I hear someone torturing a violin. A waltz, or something resembling it, seems to be imminent."
"So it does," she replied tightly.
"Then we shall dance," he declared.
"No, we won't," she retorted. "I had saved two dances because... Well, it doesn't matter. I already have a partner for this one."
"Certainly. Me."
She held up her fan, displaying the masculine names inscribed on the sticks. "Take a close look," she challenged. "Do you see 'The Devil ' written here?"
"I have perfect eyesight," he remarked, taking the fan from her tense fingers. "No need to hold it so near. Ah, yes, is this the one?" He pointed to a name. "Cassidy?"
"Yes," she confirmed, glancing past him. "Here he comes."
Killian turned. The Frenchman was cautiously approaching, his expression pale. Killian nonchalantly fanned himself. The man hesitated. Smirking, Killian applied pressure with his thumb and forefinger to the stick labeled "Cassidy". It snapped.
Cassidy departed.
Returning his attention to Miss Nolan, Killian maintained his smile as he systematically broke each stick, one by one. Then, with a flourish, he thrust the shattered fan into the fern pot.
He held out his hand. "My dance, I believe."
It was a display fit for cavemen, Emma told herself. In the hierarchy of social finesse, it ranked just above clubbing her over the head and dragging her off by her hair.
Only Hook could get away with it, just as only he could clear the field of rivals simply by telling them, without the smallest hint of self-consciousness or subtlety, to go away.
And only she, madly infatuated as she was, could find it all absurdly romantic.
With a sigh of resignation to her own folly, she placed her hand in his.
They both wore gloves, yet she felt it keenly: a jolt of contact as sharp as a lightning strike. It raced through her veins, turning her knees to jelly. Glancing up, she caught the flicker of surprise in his eyes, wondering if he too sensed the electric charge, as his knowing smile faded.
But if he did, it didn't give him pause. Instead, he boldly clasped her waist and, with the next upbeat, whisked her into motion.
She gasped, clutching his shoulder.
Then the world spun away, blurred and distant, as he enveloped her in a waltz unlike any she had known.
It wasn't the stately English waltz but a pulsating, shamelessly sensual Continental dance, likely favored in the shadowy corners of society. Perhaps how he twirled his… cows.
But Hook wouldn't bend to appease a gaggle of Society's puritans. He would dance to his own tune, and she, intoxicated, could only revel that she was his chosen partner.
He moved with innate elegance: robust, commanding, and utterly confident. She needed no thoughts, only to surrender to the endless swirl of the ballroom while her senses buzzed with awareness of him alone: the broad shoulder beneath her touch... the sinewy form so close to hers... the teasing blend of smoke, cologne, and pure masculinity... the firm grip at her waist, drawing her nearer with each step, swirling her skirts around his legs... closer still and into a swift twirl... her thigh brushing against his...
She gazed up into shimmering, sea-blue eyes.
"You're hardly resisting at all," he observed.
"As if it would make any difference," she replied, suppressing a sigh.
"Don't you even want to try?"
"No," she admitted. "And that's the misery of it."
He scrutinized her expression for a beat, then his lips curled into that infuriatingly smug grin. "Ah, I see. You find me irresistible."
"I'll get over it," she retorted. "I leave for home tomorrow."
His grip on her waist tightened, but he said nothing in return.
The music faltered to its final notes, signaling the imminent return to reality—a reality where he should not, must not play any part, lest she forfeit her very existence.
"I regret any harm to your reputation," she began, her voice tinged with sincerity. "But I didn't act alone. You could have ignored me, chosen not to grace this ball with your presence. Now all you need to do is laugh it off, walk away, and prove to them I'm insignificant, that they had it all wrong."
He spun her in a final, sweeping arc as the music drew to a close, holding her a fraction longer than decorum dictated. Even upon releasing her hand, he retained a lingering grasp.
"And what happens, Emma," his voice dropped, resonant and provocative, "if it turns out they had it right?"
The resonant bass of his voice pulsed with an undercurrent that made her glance up involuntarily. Yet, what she glimpsed in those deep blue eyes seemed more tumultuous than she expected. Surely, it was her own unrest mirrored there, she reasoned, unwilling to admit otherwise.
"That's not how this ends," she retorted, her voice trembling slightly. "You came to mock them—and especially me. You waltzed in, took command, and everyone bowed to your whims, like it or not. Even me, dancing to your tune."
"You seemed to enjoy it," he countered.
"Enjoying a dance doesn't mean I like you ," she shot back. "You'd best release my hand before people start thinking you like me ."
"I couldn't care less what they think. Páme."
With his grip firm around her hand, he set off purposefully, leaving her little choice but to follow—or risk being dragged along. Apparently, his Greek translated to something like "Come along now" or "Stay and be dragged away." Perhaps she should consider getting a dictionary soon.
He whisked her towards the entryway with determined strides.
Emma's gaze darted around frantically, weighing the odds of screaming for help, when a resounding crash echoed from the cardroom. Screams followed, mingled with shouts and more crashes. In an instant, the ballroom erupted into chaos as everyone surged towards the commotion.
Everyone except Hook, who maintained his brisk pace towards the exit.
"It sounds like a brawl," she ventured, attempting to wrench her hand free. "A full-blown riot, perhaps. You'll miss all the excitement, Hook."
He chuckled and tightened his grip, guiding her through the doorway.
