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  HAWK

  & the Lady

  ALSO BY ELIZABETH STEVENS

  NEW ADULT/ADULT BOOKS

  Heaven & Hell Chronicles

  Damned if I do

  Damned if I don’t

  Damned if I know

  All Devilbums Go To Heaven

  Grace Grayson Security

  Chaos & the Geek

  Hawk & the Lady

  O Lord & the Queen

  Rollie & the Rocker

  Tank & the Rebel

  Loving the Sykes

  Caden

  Carter

  Luther

  Oscar

  Ashton

  MATURE YA/NEW ADULT BOOKS

  the Trouble with Hate is…

  Accidentally Perfect

  Gray’s Blade

  Being Not Good

  Popped

  a GRACE GRAYSON novel

  HAWK

  & the Lady

  ELIZABETH STEVENS

  Kinky Siren

  An imprint of Sleeping Dragon Books

  Hawk & the Lady

  by Elizabeth Stevens

  Print ISBN: 978-1925928761

  Digital ISBN: 978-1925928754

  Cover art by: Izzie Duffield

  Copyright 2020 Elizabeth Stevens

  Worldwide Electronic & Digital Rights

  Worldwide English Language Print Rights

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any form, including digital and electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the Publisher, except for brief quotes for use in reviews. This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  “What’s the point of being grown up if you can’t be childish sometimes.” – the 11th Doctor.

  N

  Contents

  Leah

  Patrick

  Leah

  Patrick

  Leah

  Patrick

  Leah

  Patrick

  Leah

  Patrick

  Leah

  Patrick

  Leah

  Patrick

  Leah

  Patrick

  Leah

  Patrick

  Leah

  Patrick

  O Lord & the Queen

  Hawk & the Lady

  Thanks

  My Books

  About the Author

  Author’s Note

  This book is written using Australian English. This will affect the spelling, grammar and syntax you may be used to. It might come across as typos, awkward sentences, poor grammar, or missed/wrong words. In the majority of cases (I won’t claim it’s infallible, despite all best efforts), this is intentional and just an Aussie way of speaking (it took my US beta readers a bit to get used to). I can’t say ‘the’ Aussie way, since we seem to differ even within the same state. Just think of us as a weird mix of British and US vernacular and colloquialisms, but with our own randomness thrown in. I still hope you enjoy it, though!

  A note on the whole Society aspect; I have to admit I’ve taken some liberties with this, but I’ve tried to combine them with a more realistic Adelaide lifestyle. This will hopefully not be too jarring, and explain if there are inconsistencies to the sort of Society you expected.

  1

  Leah

  There wasn’t much that scared me, but my mother in one of her moods always managed to send a chill down my spine. It certainly didn’t help that I was already half an hour late to meet her. A fact not changed by me checking my watch again.

  “Sorry, miss. I’ll get you there as soon as possible.”

  I looked up towards my driver. “All good, Rich. Not your fault that I refused to leave the house on time.”

  I saw him give me a tight smile in the rear-view mirror before he went back to concentrating on the road. He was no stranger to my mother’s disposition and knew as well as I that I was in for a tongue-lashing when we arrived. Rich would only be spared because my mother knew me so well, which was the only reason I felt less guilty about putting him in the position I always did.

  Rich had been my driver for as long as I could remember, and that was going back a fair way by now. As far as jobs went, he had it pretty easy; I only used him for mother-related sojourns. That meant trips to her house or galas, parties, or soirees she considered ‘societal’. All right, and I also sometimes (often) used him on nights I went out with the girls. On a day to day basis though, the guy theoretically had nothing to do; I drove myself to work, appointments, the shops. In reality, we were neck-deep in function season and I did call on him more than usual.

  Still, I had to suppose he might prefer that. If I wasn’t needed in my job most of the time, I guess I’d feel pretty useless.

  But my mother’s life was never one I’d properly belonged in and thus I didn’t bask in the lifestyle expected of Priscilla Carmichael’s daughter. I was like a triangle block trying to squish into a square hole; you could put me in it, but the fit wasn’t quite right. And, instead of being my older sister and trying harder to fit in, I did the opposite and emphasised being the odd duck as best I could.

  It didn’t help the people around me. It didn’t really even help myself.

  Wishing my life were different in all manner of ways, I said nothing to Rich and I went back to my phone.

  I ignored the multitude of messages from my older sister and her step-daughter. They all said the same thing anyway and it amounted to: forget queen of the desert, we were about to have the queen of Hell. Because Heaven forbid somebody disobeyed Priscilla Carmichael by being late to family brunch.

  I was momentarily distracted by an email from one of my Year Eleven kids with a question about the essay due the next week. I was usually available to all my Year Elevens and Twelves on the weekends, but I just didn’t have the energy to reply then. I flagged the email and looked up just as we pulled into the driveway of my parents’ home. Calling it a mansion in Adelaide seemed a bit ridiculous. We didn’t really do ‘mansions’ per se, they were just big houses for rich people. But that was a bit of a mouthful.

  “Thanks, Rich,” I said as I opened the door.

  “Just let me know when you’re ready to leave, miss.”

  I nodded to him. “Will do, thanks.”

  I scurried out of the car and legged it up the front steps. The door was open before I could hit the doorbell and my older sister looked at me with the kind of grin that we’d shared our wholes lives. It was kind of a ‘shared misery but at least we can see the humour in it and we have each other’ sort of smile.

  “Hi. I know, I know. Hi,” I told her before she could say anything.

  “What are you wearing?” my sister sighed fondly as she hugged me.

  I stepped back and looked down. “What?” Then my stomach dropped and I looked up at her quickly. “No?” I breathed in horror.

  Anna nodded. “Oh, yes.”

  “It’s one of those brunches?”

  “Yes. Yes, it is.” She didn’t look apologetic about it at all. “You didn’t know?”

  I rolled my eyes. “If I knew, do you think I would have turned up like this?”

  To be fair, it wasn’t that bad. I would have been totally comfortable rocking up to PD day at work like this. I probably could have even got away with wearing it during term time if I was that serious about it. But there was no way dark blue, high-waisted, three-quarter jeans, white boots, and a red cropped knit jumper were appropriate a
ttire for a brunch with guests. Particularly when said guests were more adequately described as ‘suitors’. Priscilla Carmichael didn’t believe denim was an appropriate choice for anything, let alone ‘courting’.

  These surprise suitor brunches were becoming a startling regularity with my mother. And by regular, I meant that this made three times in about six months. But considering it had been maybe once a year before that, I was getting concerned and fed up. Concerned that my mother had some arbitrary deadline for my ‘perfect’ marriage I was as yet unaware of. And fed up that I was being served up on a silver platter for the likes of her society friends’ wanky sons.

  I was in no way ready to get married and I had zero interest in a trust fund kid – completely ignoring the fact I was such a kid. I just wanted to go out to the club with my girlfriends and continue making horrible life choices I often berated myself for. Namely getting improperly wasted and going home with a man covered in tattoos who’d never call me. I’d left a string of them in my wake and never learned my lesson. I had, however, grown out of letting myself believe a relationship was possible with any of them.

  Baby steps.

  Life was a series of baby steps and I was at least going – mostly – in the right direction. Like now, for example. My next baby step was getting through a brunch I’d been trained my whole life for. Too bad experience had shown I was more like one of those dog show dogs who do really well in the lead up then get overly excited on the day and end up humping the judges’ legs.

  Minus any humping of proverbial legs.

  I was fairly certain I could avoid humping whoever it was Mother had invited to what I should have known wasn’t just a family brunch.

  “Who is it?” I asked Anna as she started dragging me towards the conservatory.

  But she didn’t answer, just turned one of those sisterly ‘you’re going to hate this and I’m going to love you hating this’ grins in my direction.

  “Anna…” My tone was intended to be warning, but it was much closer to panic.

  A reaction like that from her meant it could only be a handful of people. We were good acquaintances with almost all the society brats – fond term, included ourselves – in our generation, and knew them all by sight. Unless Mother had resorted to flying them in from interstate or overseas, I’d at least know them.

  Hopefully.

  “She’s here,” Anna said as we walked into the conservatory.

  “Leah…” Mother said disapprovingly. “You’re finally here.”

  Was that not what Anna had just implied?

  “Hi,” I said with my best attempt at a smile. “Yes, here I am.”

  The man with her stood up like the well-trained gentleman he was, and I could safely say there was no risk of humping occurring. I’d think about it. Extensively. Vividly. In graphic detail. But I’d never follow through with it.

  Mother threw a judgemental look at my wayward mop of curls, but said nothing about it. “You remember Edward,” was all she said.

  It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even a rhetorical question. It was a demand. I would remember Edward if it killed me.

  I forced a genteel smile and nodded. “Of course. Edward. Nice to see you again.”

  Because how could I forget the man Priscilla was obviously still decided would be my future husband?

  Objectively, I couldn’t argue the match. When you’d been brought up the way I had, you saw the benefit in what my mother called a smart match. Smart matches came in a few varieties but amounted to the same basic traits; wealthy, attractive, great PR team, and business smart. Business smart being code for ruthless in the boardroom, a pro on the golf course or tennis court, and a heavy drinker (and spender) in the club. Bonus points if you thought loyalty to your spouse was optional.

  Subjectively, I had as many reasons to refuse the match as I had to objectively agree with it.

  Oh, Edward Barnes was pleasant enough to look at. He even held up decent conversation and seemed to encourage my uncouth lack of etiquette with a mildly tantalising, lustful burn of desire in the depths of his dark green eyes. He was always groomed impeccably, smelling of something that made me think of aged Cognac and chocolate covered oranges. He was tasteful, amusing, and one of the least misogynistic of the socialites our age. Comparatively.

  No. There wasn’t anything overtly disagreeable about Edward Barnes at all.

  There was, though, the pesky best kept open secret that he was shagging his step-sister. It was the sort of open secret that no one acknowledged beyond whispers in the bathroom or behind bedroom doors, but everyone in our generation knew it to be true that Edward Barnes and Isabella Samson-Barnes were lovers. There was something very unsisterly in the way she clung to him as she was flirting with someone else. Something definitely unbrotherly in the way he placed his hands on her possessively when she spoke to any other man.

  It wasn’t love. It was barely like. It was more like obsession. Like Cruel Intentions come ridiculously to life. Just less fucked up. Sort of. And yet, that undeniable and seemingly unbreakable bond between step-siblings did nothing to stop the vaguely suggestive tip to his lips or the knowing glint in his eyes as he looked at me in my mother’s conservatory that morning.

  “Leah, the pleasure is all mine,” he said, his voice achieving its purpose of running over my skin like the smoothest Viennese coffee.

  However, I needed more than like coffee of any sort to be won over. An actual coffee would be a brilliant start. For which I’d not had the time that morning due to the never-ending snooze function on my phone’s alarm. So, if I was going to keep my cool around a surprise like Edward, I was going to need to bring him down closer to my level. And I had a sure-fire way to do that.

  “And is Isabella joining us today, Edward?” I asked, raising an eyebrow at him surreptitiously.

  His eyes said ‘touché’ and the imperceptible rise of his lips was a challenge. But his posture was nothing short of polite and appropriate.

  It was this sort of thing that made Edward a dangerous adversary. He knew exactly why he was in my mother’s house that morning. He knew the expectations on us as well as I did. He just seemed strangely less averse to them than I was. Which was flattering, but also a strike against him.

  He’d perfected the art of concealed flirting – most of us had, how else were we to get up to mischief under our parents’ noses? – and he wielded the weapon with exceptional skill. Passive-aggressive subtle nuances were a socialite’s favoured weapon. It worked for flirting, for insults, for compliments, or for secrets. They were crafted ‘in-jokes’ that sailed straight over the heads of anyone new.

  “Unfortunately, she couldn’t make it,” was all Edward said. Out loud.

  “Pity,” Mother said, somehow sounding simultaneously like she was, in fact, utterly cut up about it at the same time she couldn’t care less. “Leah, why don’t you show Edward the new Strelitzia nicolai?”

  If I wasn’t keen on making myself look relatively good in front of other people, my mouth would have dropped open and I would have given Mother my best, impudent ‘Whaa?’ and she would have berated me on using proper English.

  Instead, I nodded and shot Edward a ‘because we totally want to do that’ look. “Of course. This way.”

  Edward smiled and indicated I lead the way. As we weaved through Mother’s various plants and décor items, I noticed Anna’s step-daughter come in with my father. Sara waved to me and I gave her a smile in return. Father looked over in our direction for a moment, then seemed to think it was best he just ignore whatever strange mating ritual his wife was in the middle of orchestrating.

  “It’s only new for her, naturally. The thing’s about five years old. She wouldn’t get one that wasn’t old enough to flower.”

  Edward nodded like he understood exactly what I was saying. Which was impressive because I was parroting less than convincingly.

  “My step-mother was the same with hers. She put it in the main hall, of course. It’s an impres
sive plant, though I think this one looks healthier.”

  “What do you know about gardening?” I asked, humoured.

  He shrugged. “Very little.”

  I nodded. “Ah. So, you’re just sucking up to her, then.”

  “It would seem in my best interest.”

  “Would it?”

  “Your mother implied benefit in me escorting you to the Tremaine’s gala ball next month,” Edward told me.

  “Did she now?” I looked at him with my eyebrow raised. “Well. I mean, it works in theory. But I just see one problem with that.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “I’m just not interested in being escorted anywhere.”

  “Even to appease your mother?”

  “Why, Edward. Are you trying to appeal to my sense of self-preservation?” I teased.

  He smiled ruefully. “I might indeed.”

  “And might I ask what you get out of it?”

  “Other than your tremendous company? Nothing.”

  “Flattery will get you nowhere with me, Mr Barnes.”

  “Can you blame a man for trying, Miss Carmichael?”

  “Oh, I can. But, this once, I may not.”

  “Does that mean you’ll let me escort you?”

  I looked over to my mother as she talked with Anna, our father, and Sara. It would get her off my back, even in the short-term. It would also put me firmly in Isabella’s crosshairs. I could deal with Isabella, she was in no way a threat to me on any level. But anytime I didn’t have to deal with unnecessary annoyances was awesome. The somewhat antagonistic part of me looked forward to ignoring Isabella’s reaction. The part of me that wanted peace and quiet was reminding me that it wasn’t worth the hassle. And those two parts warred in me like always.

  It was my nature versus my nurture at its finest. I was brought up to respect the rigid shackles of my parents’ and social groups’ beliefs and expectations, but it was my nature to rage against the cage that made me feel like I needed to be in it. I was constantly bridging the gap between two worlds, two lives, two Leahs. It could be tiring but, after twenty-seven years, it was my normal. There was safety in normal. The idea of ripping apart my normal was terrifying, even if it might have been more peaceful.