He paused and bent to stare at himself in the looking glass. Why was he doing this? Why had he fixed his attentions on her, when no other woman had compelled him this way since he was a green lad? It was more than the land lease, otherwise he would never have acted so recklessly toward her. If all he wanted was the lease of her properties, he would not have left that note in her journal, nor would he have kissed her so thoroughly by the stream.
Just to remember that kiss and her artless response to it caused his blood to warm.
No. It was not merely the lease. He wanted the woman too, fool that he was. And she wanted him. Bart had said a blind man could see the attraction between him and Olivia.
He pondered that a moment, then allowed himself to consider the rest of what Bart had said: that a wife might ease his nightmares; that a woman in his bed each night might give him the relief he sought. The distraction. The satisfaction.
Neville stared at himself, seeing the face so like his father’s—and the scar on his jaw, a constant reminder of that fateful night in Ligny. He turned away and spying his tumbler, lifted it once more.
If he were a gentleman he would stay away from Miss Olivia Byrde. Then he laughed. If he were a true gentleman, there would be no reason to stay away. He would be perfectly acceptable to her and her mother.
But he was no gentleman. Once he might have been, but he was that man no longer. And he was not in the market for a wife.
He finished the brandy slowly, savoring its heat and bite, and anticipating the easing of his tension that would shortly follow.
He set the tumbler down. Bart had overstepped his bounds this afternoon, but he’d been right about one thing. Women loved the waltz. He’d learned the dance in France, and though he’d not danced it recently, as with last night’s cotillion, the steps would come back to him.
He would waltz with Olivia tonight, he vowed, bolstered by the brandy that surged through his bloodstream. She would avoid him, he would pursue her, but in the end she would be in his arms, sweet and yielding, as she’d been today beside the stream. Just the thought roused an unseemly lust in him.
But they would not end up in bed together, he reminded himself. That was out of the question. She was, after all, a lady. Unfortunately. Added to that, ruining her would ruin any hope he had of leasing her fallow fields and pastures.
Still, if he could tempt her, just a little, he would consider the night a success. He would expose her passions to her so that she would have to admit their existence. She might tell herself now that she despised him, but soon enough she would have to admit to her desire.
Even Bart knew that.
“You are coming, and that is my final word on the subject,” Augusta declared. “You have no call to slight the Cummingses that way when they have been nothing but hospitable.”
Olivia glared at her mother, hating that she was right.
“Besides,” Augusta went on. “Penny tells me this public dance verges on the scandalous, what with it being open to everyone in the entire countryside. I should think it quite your cup of tea.”
This time Olivia turned away. Again her mother was right. She would be quite ecstatic over this evening’s entertainment if it were not for Lord Neville Hawke. And the worst of it was, that though she would be mortified to face him again, a part of her—the wickedest part of her—wanted to see him.
She pressed her fingers against her eyes, willing herself to a calm she’d been unable to attain all evening, ever since he’d kissed her.
Why on earth had she followed him to that private spot beside the river? Why had she let herself be alone with him, knowing the perverse attraction she felt for the man?
Because she’d thought reason well able to combat the primitive passion he roused in her.
She let out a sigh. She was not a stupid woman, nor a frivolous one, so there was no excuse for such infantile behavior. Goodness, she’d had three seasons. If nothing else, she’d learned how to handle unwelcome suitors. Not that he was acting remotely like a suitor. Rather, he was behaving like a boor. A wretch. One of those vile men with no good intentions, only bad ones.
But he was so very good at kissing.
“Olivia! I am speaking to you.”
Olivia shuddered back to reality. Her mother would not give up until Olivia either went along with her plans or else explained precisely why she would not. And even if Olivia did try to explain about Lord Hawke, Augusta would probably advise her to encourage the man. If it was Augusta who kept a notebook on eligible men, she would consider Neville Hawke perfect: handsome and dashing, with both title and property.
Olivia picked up her hairbrush. “I heard you, Mother. I just didn’t like what you said.”
“When have you learned to be so willful toward your mother?”
“I’m sorry.” Olivia sighed again. “You are right. I have no reason to avoid tonight’s festivities. But promise me one thing, Mother. Please? Promise me you will not push any men at me tonight.”
Augusta paused in the act of fastening a bracelet over her glove. She cocked her head and studied her daughter. “If you refer to Lord Hawke, as I think you must, I doubt I need push him at you. He seems interested enough without encouragement from me.” At Olivia’s stubborn expression, her eyes narrowed. “I cannot understand how you can possibly find him unacceptable!”
Olivia could have groaned. She did not want to have this conversation. “As always you jump to conclusions,” she said peevishly. “I was not referring specifically to him. It’s just that I left London because the marriage mart has become so tedious. I certainly do not wish it to follow me here.”
Augusta returned her attention to her bracelet. “Very well, then. I will refrain from introducing you to any unmarried gentlemen. Is that what you want? Only you must indulge me by answering one question. Just one. Agreed?”
Olivia gritted her teeth. What a choice. But one question was easier than an evening dodging her mother’s machinations. “Just one.”
“Very well. Here it is.” She lifted her head and fixed Olivia with a wounded gaze. “Do you intend never to wed? Have you set your standards so impossibly high that no man can ever hope to meet them?” She pressed her clasped hands to her chest. “Have I wasted the past three years in futile hope? For I assure you, I do not wish to waste another three.”
That was hardly what she had expected, and for a moment Olivia was nonplussed. “That’s more than one question,” she replied in lieu of answering.
“Perhaps, but they are essentially the same. Tell me the truth, Olivia, for I grow weary of this game you play.”
Olivia bowed her head. How to answer? “Yes. I do wish to marry someday. But when I wed it will be to a man I love.”
Augusta drew back. “That sounds like an accusation. Do you think I did not marry for love?”
Olivia could have groaned. As usual her mother turned everything around to focus upon herself. “That’s not what I meant, Mother.”
Augusta sniffed. “Yes. Well, you should nevertheless know that I loved all my husbands, though perhaps each of them in a different way.” She stared into the distance. “George was much older, but he was a dear and very good to me. Your father well, he was wild. I’ll admit that. But I loved him passionately. As for Humphrey, surely you cannot doubt my love for him.”
“No, of course not. It’s just …” Olivia wrung her hands. “I just don’t want to make a mistake. I want to be sure.”
“What you want, my darling, is the perfect man. Unfortunately, the perfect man does not exist. But I suppose you must determine that for yourself.” She came up to Olivia and softly patted her cheek. “Come along now. Finish dressing your hair. And do not wear your best slippers, for there will be dirt and mud.”
Olivia nodded and focused on dressing for the evening’s activities. Their conversation had not been as difficult as she’d feared, yet it nonetheless left her dispirited. Was she seeking the impossible? Was it too much to expect a man to be steady and kind a
nd well read? Surely not. It was just that she’d been searching in the wrong places. And since when had love become a requirement of marriage for her?
With a heavy sigh she stuck a pair of glittering combs in her hair. She would have a pleasant time tonight and not worry about it, she resolved. Nor would she worry about Lord Hawke, she told herself.
At least she would try.
The three women rode in the carriage with Mr. Cummings. Mr. Garret, Mr. Harrington, Lord Holdsworth, and Lord Hawke all rode attendance on horses beside them on the short trip into town. Even so, Olivia was relieved not to have to face Lord Hawke yet. Instead she concentrated her thoughts on the other men, trying to drum up some enthusiasm for them, to no avail.
Once in town there was much to distract her. The entire square was lit with torches, and in the center of all was a raised platform for the musicians. Around the perimeter refreshments were placed, punch in one area, wine and brandy elsewhere, and at one corner, the ale carts.
“You ladies should confine your activities to this area between the musicians and the punch tables,” Mr. Cummings instructed them. “None of the rowdies will be allowed in here.”
“I should like to make a tour of the other areas, to see the maids and stablemen dancing. And the vicar,” Olivia added with a faint grin.
“And we shall do so,” Penny said. “That’s all a part of the fun. But only as a group,” she cautioned. “Do not go off alone, Olivia. You must promise me that.”
“I assure you, I am no more eager to expose myself to the unwelcome attention of a shop clerk than to that of a peer.”
Penny’s brows lifted at that remark, but Olivia just turned away and took a deep breath. She was glad now that she had come. The evening air was redolent of torch smoke and summer dust, of earthy horses and forbidden French perfumes. From all directions people streamed into the square, every one of them dressed in their best.
A trio of young women strolled arm in arm. Probably merchants’ daughters or housemaids, but Olivia stared after them, envious. They were laughing and shooting flirtatious looks at a stand of eager young men, most of whom appeared uncomfortable in starched collars and freshly slicked-back hair. But one sharp fellow hooted and called, “Say, Annie, will you save a dance for me?”
That sent the girls into gales of laughter. But the center girl, Annie, Olivia presumed, gave a nod, which started all the fellows cackling and punching one another in the arms as they laughed.
Olivia reluctantly turned away. Oh, to be that free, to choose a man based on nothing more than her sincere interest in him.
Penny clucked her disapproval at the casualness of the young people’s exchange. But Augusta laughed with enjoyment. In her mother’s eyes Olivia spied the sparkle that drew men so eagerly to her side. It struck her suddenly that her mother truly adored men. She saw the good in them first, whereas Olivia, always focused first upon their flaws.
Across the way the musicians had begun to warm up, but Olivia was too caught up in her sudden revelation to notice. If she meant what she told her mother about hoping someday to marry, then perhaps she must begin to follow her mother’s lead. She must strive to see the good in the men she met and not simply catalogue their flaws.
Someone jostled her from behind and she stumbled to the side—only to be caught by a strong hand on her arm. The heat of that grasp should have warned her. Nevertheless it was a shock to stare up into Neville Hawke’s darkly handsome face.
“Will you dance with me, Olivia? Despite your anger with me and your hasty words, I still would like to dance with you. And I believe you wish the same from me.”
She did. It was humiliating—it was unimaginable. But Olivia did want to dance with him. Or at least her body did, traitorous creature that it was. She stared up into his fathomless blue eyes, almost black tonight, and felt every fiber of her being strain to fall into his arms. Only her pride and the remnants of good sense prevented her from doing just that.
“I believe … I believe I have already made my feelings clear on the subject. Anyway,” she added, remembering only belatedly to extricate her arm from his firm hold, “I wish to stroll around first. And besides, the musicians have not yet begun.”
He smiled, making it impossible for her to tear her gaze away from his. She was aware of her mother very near, watching them, and of Penny whispering something to her husband. But Olivia was trapped in Neville Hawke’s intent gaze.
“I ask only for one dance, Miss Byrde. Surely you are not so heartless as to deny me that humble request.”
Olivia’s heart thundered; her mouth had become dry and thick. Like an idiot she could neither reason nor speak. Then someone nudged her—her mother?—and her senses began once more to function. After their candid conversation, was her mother already pushing her at a man Olivia could not want? She was so close to him now that she could smell the soap he’d used, and the brandy he’d drunk. Brandy. He was drinking again. It was just the fuel her flagging resolve needed.
“But I am heartless,” she said. “Anyone in London could tell you that. I’m surprised you have not already determined as much. If you will excuse me?” And just that rudely she turned her back on him.
There was a little gasp. Olivia did not know from whom. But it was not from Neville Hawke. From him came only silence.
Olivia wanted to slink away, she was that ashamed of her rudeness. But he deserved it. She tugged at her trailing satinedged shawl. She’d warned him not to ask her to dance but he’d been too arrogant to believe her. He deserved the set-down she’d just given him, she told herself. He did.
But as the evening’s gaieties began in earnest, Olivia could take no comfort in the rightness of her behavior. The music began, lively, raucous tunes, and it seemed that everyone participated in the dancing. Her mother and Penny never sat down. They scarcely had a chance to finish a glass of punch between sets. All the men of their group danced with them, and several other gentlemen they knew—everyone, that is, except Lord Hawke.
As Olivia circulated, morose in her chats with varying acquaintances, she tried not to search for him. But she could not help it. He was nowhere to be seen. Surely her slight had not wounded him so deeply as all that.
It didn’t matter she told herself as her gaze swept restlessly across the mass of gentlemen and ladies queuing up for a country line dance. Even if he were wounded, he would take consolation with his brandy or whisky, or even ale. She had no reason to think twice about him.
But try as she might, Olivia could muster no enthusiasm. She danced once, with Mr. Garret. But she was not a good partner and decided to spare any others the ignominy of her company. Perhaps another glass of punch.
As a galop began she backed up and circled around the dancers who were becoming more energetic as the evening wore on. The line of onlookers was thin between the group of gentlemen and ladies she was a part of, and the merchants and shopkeepers dancing in their own circle behind her. She bumped into someone and turned around to apologize, then stood watching this less finely dressed circle of dancers.
There was the girl she’d seen before, dancing with that same eager fellow. The girl’s hair had come loose and her wheat-colored locks flew prettily around her shoulders. Her eyes sparkled and her cheeks glowed warm from the dancing. As for the fellow, he gazed down upon her with a look half-way between possessive man and smitten boy. There was no mistaking the attraction between them and Olivia could not help but follow their progress through the dance.
Was that what her mother had seen when she’d watched Olivia dance with Lord Hawke? Olivia’s own cheeks grew warm. Surely not!
She stood there watching until the galop ended. But before the dancers could depart the dance area, another song struck up. This time a waltz. As Olivia watched, the young man spun the pretty girl into his arms—
And just as swiftly, someone did the same to her. Lord Hawke! One of his arms circled her waist; his free hand enveloped hers, and within a few mad moments they were a part of the swi
rling mass of dancers.
This could not be happening!
Yet Olivia could find no words to protest. The music was too insistent. Her mood was too mercurial. Or perhaps she knew the relentless Lord Hawke would not release her no matter what she said or did. At any rate, Olivia found herself clasped in Lord Hawke’s implacable embrace, whirling to the frankly seductive music amidst an amorous crowd of complete strangers, and all the while staring up into the darkest, most compelling eyes she had ever beheld.
“If Miss Byrde will not dance with me,” he murmured, “I’m glad to seek out sweet Hazel among the common folk.”
With an effort Olivia averted her eyes from his and instead stared at his jaw and the scars that ran alongside it. Bad enough that she’d allowed him this liberty. She refused to appear a tongue-tied idiot. With an effort she marshaled her wits. “I’ve heard it said that the element of surprise is a key tool in military strategy.” She watched in fascination as his mouth curved into a half-smile.
“It is.”
“And you have much experience in the military.”
“You might say that.” His voice sounded more careful.
She raised her gaze to his. “I hear also that one battle does not constitute a war.”
One of his dark brows arched. “We are speaking of you and me now, I presume.”
She shrugged.
“Be forewarned. Hazel, that one battle can turn the tide.”
Before she could respond he spun her around and in the process pulled her close so that their thighs bumped and his chest grazed her breasts. At once every nerve in her body went on alert. She was hot and breathless and she did not know if ii was the dancing or the man.
“You take liberties you should not.”
“Isn’t that what you’ve come to expect of me?” His voice lowered. “Isn’t that what attracts you to me?”
“If I am attracted to you, Lord Hawke, it is in the same manner that I am attracted to any tragedy: a house on fire; a carriage mishap.”
The Matchmaker Page 11
