Tall, Dark... Collection. Carole Mortimer

wear the jewellery of Arabella’s dead mother would put that intimacy in jeopardy.

      It was a dilemma the Duke made no allowances for as he took Jane firmly by the bareness of her shoulders to turn her so that her back was towards him.

      Jane tensed expectantly. She knew that in a few seconds the Duke’s fingers would once again brush against her nape as he secured the clasp of the necklace.

      Her breath caught as his arms moved about her, so that he might drape the necklace about her throat. The slightest touch of those long, elegant fingers seemed to sear the bareness of Jane’s flesh, causing her to quiver involuntarily, quickly followed by an uncontrollable trembling as he smoothed the ringlets from her nape.

      If the two of them had been alone then Jane would have lost no time in turning to confront him, to firmly assure him that she was perfectly capable of securing the necklace herself. But they were not alone. Arabella was standing as silent witness to any exchange between them.

      Jane could only hope that the Duke did not intend to attach the earbobs himself…

      No matter that it was two days since the Duke had kissed her, nor that they had rarely exchanged a word since then, Jane knew that her insides would melt entirely if the Duke did not soon stop touching her so intimately.

      How could it be that his slightest touch made her feel this way? The touch of a man who, when he was not making love to her, provoked her to such feelings of antagonism at his arrogance that she argued with him constantly?

      Jane did not have the worldly experience to answer these questions herself. Neither did she have someone to whom she could voice these questions—no one in whom she could confide. She certainly could not tell Arabella of the unimaginable longings that surged up inside her whenever the Duke—Arabella’s own brother—touched her!

      It did not help that he seemed to be taking an age—or possibly it just seemed that way to her sensitised flesh?—to secure the clasp. Jane was starting to feel slightly lightheaded, and she found it difficult to breathe…

      This had not been one of his better ideas, Hawk acknowledged with self-disgust as the gentle arch of Jane’s nape, the soft perfume of her hair, her very closeness, all seemed to cause him more physical discomfort than he would have wished.

      ‘There,’ he rasped dismissively, as the catch finally caught and he could step back from Jane’s disturbing proximity.

      ‘Oh, they really are perfect on you, Jane!’ Arabella moved forward to clasp Jane’s hands in her own as she looked at her admiringly. ‘You have exquisite taste, Hawk,’his sister added, with what Hawk realised was the first genuine smile she had directed at him in some time.

      Even so, it was a smile that Hawk had no chance to respond to, because Jane turned to face him and all of his attention became transfixed on her.

      The delicate cream-coloured pearls nestled softly against the swell of her breasts, visible above the low neckline of her new gown. Breasts which gently rose and fell as she breathed, causing Hawk’s jaw to clench and his mouth to tighten. He could not seem to take his gaze from her rounded softness.

      The Duke looked so grim, Jane noted regretfully, as she moved one of her hands to touch the pearls at her throat. ‘Perhaps…’ she began, her voice husky. ‘Perhaps now that you have seen the pearls again, Your Grace, you would prefer it if I was not to wear them?’

      They were his mother’s pearls, after all, and had once adorned the no doubt delicate throat of the Duchess of Stourbridge. As such it must surely seem like something of an insult to her memory for them now to be worn by a young woman whose irritating presence had been forced upon him.

      A young woman who, although the Duke was not aware of it, did not even know the identity of her real father…

      ‘I hope you realise, Jane, just how insulting it is to even suggest that might be either Arabella’s feeling or my own!’ he rasped impatiently. ‘As Arabella has already assured you, the pearls complement your gown perfectly,’ he added with haughty dismissal, before turning away. ‘Come, Arabella.’ He held out his arm to his sister. ‘It is time we went downstairs to await the arrival of your guests.’

      Even as Jane inwardly acknowledged how well brother and sister looked together, both so tall and elegant, she could not help but feel disappointed—contrarily so!—that the Duke had made no particular comment on her own appearance. His only compliment had been upon how beautiful the new gown was, and how well the pearls looked with that gown. A gown that he himself had instructed to be chosen and which, in time, he would also pay for.

      Despite Jane’s inner turmoil of emotion over the last few days, whenever she had recalled the way the Duke had kissed and caressed her, she had found Arabella’s excitement about her dinner party infectious. Had even found herself looking forward to the occasion almost as much as the young hostess.

      But now Jane had been reminded of the fact that the gown she wore was not really hers—that the pearl jewellery was only on loan to her for the evening. She was, in effect, merely a cuckoo in borrowed plumage.

      She bowed her head. ‘I will join you both downstairs shortly. I—I have the earbobs to put on yet,’ she excused lightly, when she saw that Arabella was about to protest her need for delay. ‘I assure you that I will not be long, Arabella,’ she said warmly.

      ‘See that you are not, Jane.’ The Duke was the one to answer her stiffly as he escorted his sister to the door.

      Jane waited until the two had left her bedchamber before moving to sit down in front of the mirrored dressing table.

      The pearls did look well with the gown and Jane’s newly styled hair, but as she looked at her reflection she could find no pleasure in them. Could only look at herself and berate herself for a fool.

      For she had made a great discovery about herself when the Duke had touched her and the warmth of his breath had softly caressed her nape. Had realised in the last few minutes, when her main emotion when she’d turned to face him had been deep hurt as he had looked and spoken to her with such coldness, that she was falling in love with the Duke of Stourbridge.

      A man even more unsuitable for Jane to fall in love with—if that was possible!—than Jane’s real and married father had been for her mother…

       Chapter Nine

      Hawk was aware of Jane—as were several other pairs of male eyes—from the moment she stood, slightly hesitant, at the top of the sweeping staircase to stare down at the guests who had already arrived and were now milling about the entrance hall, chatting and laughing with friends they had not seen for several weeks or months.

      For a few seconds Jane looked slightly overwhelmed by the prospect of meeting so many people, and then Hawk saw her bare shoulders straighten and her chin rise determinedly, before she held her head regally high and began her slow descent of the staircase.

      She really did look magnificent this evening. The simplicity and colour of her gown gave her skin the creamy texture of velvet, and the deep red of her hair made her stand out from the other women in the room like a beautiful, exotic butterfly amidst less colourful moths.

      Hawk was not even aware of making excuses to his guests as he began to cross the room to Jane’s side, barely acknowledging the remarks addressed to him as he did so, the intensity of his gaze fixed firmly on Jane as she reached the bottom of the staircase.

      But his gaze narrowed, his mouth thinning disapprovingly, when he realised, despite his own promptness, that another man had already stepped forward to take Jane’s hand in his own and raise it to his lips.

      Justin Long, Earl of Whitney. The very last man Hawk would wish anywhere near a young woman under his protection!

      A man who, the last time the two men had met, had made known his displeasure at being asked to relinquish his place in the Countess of Morefield’s bedchamber to Hawk.

      It was so typical of Whitney that he had seen and at