His gaze tracked her departure until the trees hid her beautiful, prickly image from view. He should honor her request and simply avoid her.
But Neville knew he would not do that. He would pursue her and torment her and convince her to kiss him again. Eventually she would give him that lease. As for the future beyond that, he could not say. His life unfolded as it would, hideous nights, bearable days, and occasionally, like today, a flash of true brightness.
How could he turn his back on another chance to bask in that light?
Olivia thrashed through a bed of ferns and stomped up the narrow woodland path, jerking her skirts when they caught on a tuft of grass or a holly branch. He was without a doubt the most unpleasant, debauched clod she’d ever had the displeasure to know!
But he kisses very well.
She stumbled over a projecting oak root and only prevented herself falling by grabbing on to the tree. In the process, however her glove ripped and she swore as no proper lady should. She stared at her new kidskin glove and the irreparable tear in the palm. Another crime to lay at Lord Hawke’s door.
He still kisses very well, the mocking voice of her conscience said.
“I am not writing that in my matchmaker!”
A gray squirrel scolded her from the safety of the spreading oak, and a pair of sparrows darted away as if annoyed by her blundering into their heretofore peaceful home.
“I despise him,” she threw defiantly at the disapproving birds. The fact that he knew his boldly taken kiss had melted every ounce of her resistance only made her dislike him more. A man was not born knowing how to kiss like that. He learned through extensive practice, and that meant loose women, lusty barmaids, overfriendly housemaids, and the like.
She started forward again, only glancing briefly backward to assure herself he did not follow. Truly, he was the most odious man alive—even if his kisses did curl her toes.
By the time she approached the racecourse, Olivia had regained a moderate control of her temper. Unfortunately, the other emotions her anger had suppressed rose promptly to the surface. Like a shadow she could not outrun, the memory of his every touch clung to her. It prickled in the places his strong hands had held her. It burned where the two of them had pressed together, knees to belly to chest. She’d felt his arousal against her stomach, and just remembering it set her nerves all ajangle.
Then there was that kiss.
Olivia came to a halt just beyond the tented pavilion and pressed the back of one hand against her lips, feeling the heightened sensitivity there. She’d never been kissed like that. Never. Raphael St. Julian had forced his tongue into her mouth once. But though she’d been curious about the much-discussed French manner of kissing, her primary reaction had been revulsion.
Neville Hawke’s kiss, however, had not repulsed her. It should have, but it had not.
She licked her lips, then groaned at the unbidden thrill that swept like wildfire through her. She was behaving like a wanton, like the lowest sort of woman, and she was heartily ashamed of herself.
But she was made of sterner stuff than that, she told herself. She tucked a stray curl behind the ribbon that held her straw bonnet in place. Lord Hawke may have won this round in the absurd battle of wills they fought, but he would not win the war. Like every other well-bred young woman, she knew how to freeze a man, and she was not above giving him the cut direct.
“Oh, there you are!”
Olivia’s head jerked up at the abrupt sound of her mother’s voice. Of all times to run into her. Worse, she was arm in arm with Penny Cummings.
“Where is Lord Hawke?” Penny asked, her eyes sly upon Olivia.
“I believe he is still walking his horse. How much did you win?” she asked, deliberately turning her attention to her mother.
“Seven pounds. And Penny won the same. But you, my dear, won more than anyone. Ten pounds. Here you go.” She handed Olivia a little sack of coins tied up in one of her lace handkerchiefs. “How wise of you to stake so much of your quarterly allowance on Lord Hawke.”
Penny’s knowing expression and her mother’s eagerly raised brows were the only things that prevented a sharp retort. As it was, Olivia could not take that broad hint without some sort of reply. “It was the horse, not the man, that I committed my funds to. I have always felt a partiality to strong-willed females, no matter the species.”
Augusta’s bright blue eyes searched Olivia’s face. She gave a pleased smile. “Go on without me, Penny. I would have a private word with my daughter.”
Olivia frowned. Penny laughed. “You should be glad of your dear mother’s concerns,” she said. “She merely hopes to gain you an advantageous marriage without ruining your reputation in the process.” Then she looked past them. “Oh, and here comes Lord Hawke.”
As Penny minced away in the man’s direction, Olivia sent a baleful glare at the woman’s back. “Look to your own reputation,” she muttered.
“Now, now. That is rather ungrateful of you, Olivia. As our hostess—and Lord Hawke’s—it becomes dear Penny’s responsibility to ensure the complete propriety of all within her household.”
“How fortunate I am,” Olivia tartly replied, “to have two matrons overseeing my every move.”
“I’ll thank you not to use that word in reference to me.” Augusta raised her chin and rearranged the lacy shawl that lay across her shoulders. “It sounds so old and, well, matronly.”
“And you most certainly are not that, right, Mother?” Olivia glanced past her to where Penny now strolled alongside Neville Hawke and his lovely racehorse. “Honestly, I do not understand why you are so anxious to remarry. Dealing with men can be so unbearable.”
Following her daughter’s gaze, Augusta smiled, then hooked her arm through Olivia’s. “Do I detect a partiality toward Lord Hawke? He is a rather compelling young man.”
Olivia wanted to be sharp and cutting in her rejection of the man, but her mother’s warm concern was her undoing. She gave a great sigh as they started for the pavilion. “He can be compelling. I will grant you that. But he is also arrogant and aggravating, and extremely high-handed.”
“Has he tried to kiss you?”
“Mother!” Olivia tried to sound appalled at the very idea. But the color that flamed in her cheeks gave her away. “Oh, Mother.” She sighed again. “It doesn’t matter if he did or did not. He is not the sort of man I can be interested in.”
“You say that about every man you meet.”
“Very well, then. Will you believe me when I say he is the antithesis of everything I require in a husband?”
Augusta patted her arm. “My, my. Such strength of feeling he rouses in you.”
Olivia turned to her mother. “I hate it when you deliberately misconstrue my words.”
Augusta gave an elegant shrug that conceded nothing. “It is only that you and he seem so well suited in age and fortune and rank. Even your lands run together. Added to that, you look very well together. Everyone commented on it when the two of you danced together last night.”
Olivia shook her head. She did not want to hear such things. “Yes, he dances well. He is also handsome enough, in a dark and brooding sort of way, and he loves horses and the outdoors. You’re right. On the surface we appear very well suited. But he also drinks too much and is far too knowledgeable about women. In short, he is a rake of the worst sort and not to be trusted.”
After that heated dialogue Augusta regarded her a long, pensive moment. “It seems you have made quite a study of Lord Hawke. You must admit, however, that he sounds quite unlike all the other suitors you have rejected.” She smiled in a satisfied manner.
“And what do you imply from that? No, never mind. You just don’t understand.” Angry, Olivia pursed her lips and did not pause to consider her next words. “Perhaps this will make it clearer to you. Lord Hawke is just like my father. Dashing, dangerous, and not the sort of man a wise woman would marry—if, indeed, he even has marriage in mind.”
Olivia
did not linger to hear Augusta’s response to that. The shocked expression on her mother’s face was sufficient to know she’d made her point. They did not often discuss her father, for Augusta tended to ignore the man’s faults, and that generally caused Olivia to magnify them.
She strode determinedly toward the little market that had sprung up in Doncaster’s town green, determined to avoid Penny, her mother, and the impossible Neville Hawke. Untying her bonnet, she let it fall and dangle at her back—a rather unladylike gesture. But she did not care. At least now her mother would drop the subject of Lord Hawke, for above all things, her mother disliked arguing about Cameron Byrde.
The strings of Olivia’s reticule cut into her wrist as she walked, and it swung in rhythmic thumps against her thigh. It was heavy with the weight of her winnings. She had Lord Hawke with his fast hands and bold ways to thank for her fattened purse, and it galled her to no end.
She would spend it, she decided on the spot. She would spend every last shilling and purchase frivolous things that he could not possibly approve of.
That was stupid, she immediately decided. Frivolity was all he understood. Drinking and loose women and wagering large sums of money on horse races. No, she amended. Better to spend her winnings sensibly, on items that enlightened the mind.
She scanned the festive arc of market stalls and the regular shops beyond them. Ribbons of every hue fluttered, creating a rainbow. The scent of roses and lavender and honeysuckle alerted her to the perfumers’ corner. A young boy shouted the benefits of Dr. Smythe’s Universal Antidote, while a woman exhorted a man to purchase a posy for his sweetheart. There were pastries and fried pies and ale and punch and wine. She spied Irish linens and Scottish wools, and garments beaded in the far-off Orient.
There was every sort of vendor in town for the races and Olivia’s eyes ran restlessly over their booths, seeing everything and rejecting all. Then her gaze landed on a table laden with books and she headed straightaway for it. Her ten pounds in winnings could purchase more books than she could ever carry. Perfect.
By the time Olivia had made her purchases the sun had begun its descent to the horizon, the next two races had been run, and the bookseller was giddy with delight. “I’ll send a boy with your purchases directly, miss.”
“I’m staying with the Cummingses,” she said. She’d spent eight pounds ten, and she held out her hand for the change.
When he glanced at her torn glove he bobbed his head. “Begging your pardon, miss, but my wife’s brother has a leather goods stall around t’other side.”
Olivia folded her fingers in a fist around the tear, for it reminded her of her flight from Lord Hawke and their kiss. She pressed her lips together and trembled at the disturbing memory. She did not want to remember that, or anything else having to do with that man. Unfortunately, everything seemed to remind her of him.
“Thank you,” she said, as she turned away from the bookseller. She sighed, then bolstered her spirits with spite. Perhaps she should purchase something for Lord Hawke to remember her by—the one woman who was not taken in by his dashing manner. She allowed herself to indulge in that fantasy. A gift that would transmit her utter disdain to him. What could it be?
A bottle of cheap wine.
She grimaced. Though that was perfect, it would only make her look as low as him. Better to ignore him, she decided, and to brace herself for his ill behavior tonight. Despite her warning that she would not dance with him again, she did not put it past him to try to force the issue.
The change jingled in Olivia’s reticule as she returned to the pavilion, irritating her. She would give it to the poor box in the village church, she decided. Then she spied a fine gray gelding being led by its trainer and she had a better idea. She would bet it on Lord Hawke’s opponents and deposit all those winnings in the poor box.
And if the blasted man did not lose?
Olivia opened her hand and stared at the torn palm of her glove. He could not win every race. His horses could not all be that fast.
Kittiwake was, though. Olivia climbed the three steps up into the raised pavilion. That filly was as fine an animal as she’d ever seen. There was no way she could lay a wager against Kitti. In truth, she wouldn’t mind owning the spirited animal herself.
But that was out of the question. She would no more do business with Neville Hawke than she would dance with him again.
Or kiss him.
Chapter 9
Neville groomed Kestrel with a vengeance, paying close attention to the big animal’s mane and tail, until the horse snorted and stamped in impatience.
“Easy, lad,” Neville murmured, then shifted just before the horse struck out with its near back leg. “Easy, lad. I’m going. I’m going.”
“He’s more than ready to run,” Bart commented, leaning over the stall wall and hanging a bucket of oats on a recessed hook.
“Tomorrow he’ll have his chance.” Neville slipped out of the stall, then hooked his arms over the gate and stood as Bart did, staring at the magnificent stallion.
“How are you managing?” Bart asked after a while.
“Well enough. And you?”
“Never better, though I’ll be pleased to return home.”
“You miss Maisie?” Bart was ten years married to Woodford’s cook.
“Aye. And the little ones.” When Neville did not say anything, Bart cleared his throat. “Have you never thought of marrying, milord?” He ducked his head when Neville shot him a sharp look.
“I’ve thought about it.”
Another long silence ensued and Bart shifted. He was nervous, Neville realized. As well he should be. While their relationship was much closer than lord and hired man, there were some boundaries they’d never crossed. But today for some reason the man seemed determined to push those boundaries and broach the subject of marriage.
“Meself, I’ve never been so content,” the horse trainer forged on. “What with a woman welcoming me home with a good meal, and the children all eager for their father’s attention.” He spat into the straw. “That kind of homecoming, well, it makes even a poor man feel like a king.”
Neville turned and faced his trainer. “Out with it, Bart. What bush are you beating around?”
Bart stared at him without blinking. “If you wed, you might be able to sleep in the night. If you had a woman to lose yourself in—a good woman, not merely a convenient one—you might sate yourself with her instead of whisky. You might find peace that way, lad.”
Neville had stiffened at the first mention of his night miseries. The reference to his drinking only riled him more. But this was Bart, a good and loyal employee. With an effort Neville tempered his response. “Your concern is noted.”
When he turned to leave, however, Bart continued. “It’s not only me as is concerned.”
Slowly Neville pivoted, his jaw clenched. “Am I to understand that my personal habits are discussed among the people I employ at Woodford?”
Neville had faced down many a man with just such a dark glare and dangerously soft words. But Bart did not back down. His face blanched and his throat convulsed in a swallow, but he did not back down. “Your habits, as you say, are sometimes discussed by those who work for you—but only by those who care for you beyond their quarter day wages.”
Simple words, and Neville could not in good faith doubt their sincerity. He exhaled slowly and rubbed the back of his neck. He would not be angry at the man’s well-meant interference. “I thank you for your concern, Bart. But I’m not sure a woman is the answer to my problems.”
“What of Miss Byrde, her being your neighbor after a fashion?”
Neville shook his head in amazement. “Have you been spying on me?”
Bart smiled faintly. “A blind man could see the attraction between the two of you. And I ain’t blind.”
Again Neville rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t think she holds a charitable opinion about me.”
“You didn’t insult the girl, did you? She
’s a lady—”
“She can take care of herself.”
Bart’s gaze narrowed. “If you want a woman to like you, you can’t begin by treatin’ her like some casual bit of—”
“I’m not looking for a wife!”
“Well, you should be.”
“That’s enough, damn you!” Neville caught a shuddering breath. “That’s enough on that subject.” They faced one another across the shadowed center aisle of the Cummingses’ ancient stable. “Tend to the horses. I’ve other matters to occupy my mind.”
When Bart did not answer back, Neville gave a curt nod and strode away. But the horse trainer seemed determined to have the last word. For when Neville reached the archway that led to the paddock he heard the man call out.
“Waltz with her. They act-scandalized but all the women love waltzing. Waltz her, lad.”
Neville fortified himself with a glass of brandy, but just one. He’d made a point to limit his drinking after his first night at Doncaster. Ever since his earlier conversation with Bart, however he’d been consumed with a restless sort of energy. The sun neared the horizon. Already the common folk drifted toward the town square where the public dance was to be held. It was rare, a dance attended by peer and drudge alike. Silks would mingle with fustian. Embroidered slippers would dance to the same music as freshly cleaned work boots.
Had the queenly Miss Byrde ever joined in so lusty a celebration as this annual dance was purported to be? Though there was more than one area designated for dancing, and like tended to gather with like, Cummings had made it clear to his male guests that this was a rougher sort of dance than the ladies would be accustomed to. But that was its appeal, it seemed, and it was always well attended. It fell to the men of their party to ensure that no woman was ever left alone.
Neville combed his hair and retied his stock. He would make certain that Miss Byrde was adequately chaperoned. Let her fume and stamp her foot and flash her amber-green eyes at him. He would not care. In fact, he anticipated the release of her temper with great eagerness. There was a mighty passion held in check beneath her properly sophisticated demeanor, and he seemed driven to see it released.
The Matchmaker Page 10
