CHAPTER 4
Quincy
The ballroom glimmered under a soft glow as Quincy Hawkins set alight the last candle. He waved the matchstick, extinguishing the flame before turning toward his radiant wife.
She stood a few yards away, wearing a golden gown, her expression coy, her leaf-green eyes shimmering under the resplendence. And while her elfin features might confuse any other man into believing her an otherworldly sprite, she was in fact a sensual woman with deep desires he never tired of pleasing.
Quincy extended his right hand. “Might I have this dance, sweet Holly?”
Her lips formed a sensuous smile. She curtsied with aplomb before taking his hand, and together they waltzed across the silent room.
“We danced this dance at the ball where we first met,” she purred in an arousing manner.
“Bully to that,” he murmured. “We first met in a gentleman’s club.”
Her strawberry-flaxen locks burned a darker shade of red in the low light—as did her pinkening cheeks. “Yes, well, our first ‘official’ meeting was in a ballroom like this one.”
“You’d already seen me naked by then.”
The heat in her gaze slowly simmered. “I had, hadn’t I?”
“Wench.”
Her smile broadened. She had once detested that word, but since marrying him, she’d grown rather fond of it, and her tenderness toward the epithet demonstrated just how much their relationship had strengthened.
Quincy hadn’t realized he’d been strapped for breath until a whoosh of air escaped his cramped lungs. His blood reeled as a precious memory overwhelmed him: the first time he’d set eyes upon Holly.
It had been a year ago, on Christmas Eve. She’d stumbled into his room at the bawdy house, mistaking him for her model. As the notorious Lord H, Holly had painted nudes to support herself. And when his bare arse had appeared in the underground artworld, Quincy had been convinced she’d ruined his life. Worse, he’d been forced to marry the wench in order to prevent a scandal and protect their reputations.
It was hard to imagine, but he’d once thought he’d never be happy with Holly, with any woman, really. He’d been obsessed with opium for ages, plagued by nightmares and saddled with guilt over past sins . . . luckily, his wily wife had seduced him, healed him, offered him hope.
Disarmed by the unruly emotions teeming inside him, Quincy captured her soft mouth in a tight and sizzling kiss. She stumbled once, twice before regaining her footing, then lilted with him in harmony around the dance floor, their lips still locked in a passionate buss.
As his blood burned—too hot—he broke away from the kiss, rasping, “Happy Christmas, Holly.”
Her voice fluttered. “Happy Christmas.”
He needed to take his mind off the raw urges stirring within him, and offered, “Congratulations on the smashing success of your first exhibit.”
Since retiring the pseudonym Lord H, Holly had taken up the more enigmatic initials H. H for Holly Hawkins. She had recently presented a collection of art incognito, unleased a new form of expression, in truth: a sort of nonrepresentational work instead of the usual objective art.
She snorted. “Half the critics despised my efforts.”
“It doesn’t matter if they love you or hate you, my dear, so long as it’s one extreme or the other, so long as you’re the subject of discussion, gossip, even.”
She cocked her head, thoughtful. “I suppose.”
“You are now an acclaimed artist. And your work will be in ever higher demand—just don’t tell anyone you’re a woman.”
“I wouldn’t dare.” She made a moue. “I’d be declared an abomination. Any critic who’d respected my work would have to hide face for supporting a woman artist, while my detractors would revel in pompous approval, vindicated that my work was not art because of my sex.”
At the rising pitch in her voice, he nuzzled her brow in comfort. “I’m afraid H.H will remain a mystery to posterity . . . but your brilliant work will last forever.”
“Thank you,” she whispered. “And how goes your medical practice, Doctor Hawkins?”
“The suites are furnished and I have two official patients.”
A slender brow arched. “Impressive.”
He wasn’t bothered by her teasing. A new “quacksalver” set up shop every day in Town. It would take time to earn the public’s trust. And Quincy had time. Since boyhood, he’d possessed a fascination with the healing arts. He’d even trained as a surgeon aboard one of his brother’s ships. But it wasn’t until a few months ago, when he’d received his accreditation from the Royal College of Physicians, that he’d opened his own practice on Harley Street.
“In truth,” he said, “I prefer working at the Royal Hospital for Incurables and the Royal Free Hospital in Hatton Gardens.”
“Why?”
“The physicians there are little more than blacksmiths and barbers. The patients are desperate for help. And I intend to make changes in sanitation, nursing. I will still keep my private practice like any respectable doctor, but my work at the hospitals are far more meaningful.”
“Because you have talented hands, my love.”
Was that a double entendre?
As his blood smoldered again, he caressed her lithe fingers. “Would you trust me with your painter’s hands?”
“I would trust you with every part of my body, including my heart.”
His own heart pounded ever quicker, and their dance slowed to an idle undulation. “If you’d like me to perform a thorough examination, my love?”
She gasped. “We’ll be late for dinner.”
“Dinner be damned.”
She paused, scraping her teeth over her plump bottom lip—then pulled him in for a heady kiss.