He laughed at that. “A house on fire?”
But she only continued more heatedly. “Yes, or a carriage mishap. One cannot help but stare and hope never to experience such misfortune oneself.”
“Too late, Hazel.” He spun her out of the dance circle, his hand firm on her waist. Before she knew it, they were in a darkened alley between a cobbler’s shop and an empty wagon. “Too late, Hazel, I’m afraid misfortune has found you after all.”
Chapter 10
“If you kiss me again I shall … I shall scream,” Olivia blustered.
“I’m willing to take that chance.”
Olivia’s heart, already racing from the dance, increased to a painful rate. “You are worse than I thought. No gentleman at all.”
“Perhaps not, for I am not normally attracted to young ladies of so-called good breeding. Then again, you are not like other ladies of that ilk.”
“That’s not so!”
“But it is.” He smiled faintly and his eyes ran over her face. “By day you may be Olivia Byrde, proper young miss, planning coldheartedly how to snare the perfect gentleman of society so you can go on to live the perfect life of a society matron. But by night …” His hand at the small of her back pressed her closer until their bodies touched and sizzled with awareness. “By night you become Hazel, my lovely, willful Hazel.”
Olivia could not move. She was too mesmerized by his words; too exhilarated by his touch. There was a terrible truth to what he said, and a certain relief. This Hazel he liked to invoke, was undeniably curious and a little wanton.
But she was not really Hazel, she reminded herself, and so she must fight her pull—and his. “I am afraid you delude yourself, Lord Hawke.” She was breathless. “This Hazel is a figment of your imagination—”
He squelched her argument with a kiss. In the dark, against a slat-sided cart that smelled of sheep’s wool and tallow candles, with a hundred people not a shout away, he kissed her—slowly, thoroughly—and in the process drew Hazel up to the surface.
Somehow her arms came free and circled his neck. Some how she tilted her head up to him, and he was quick to take advantage. He was tall and well muscled, lean but hard, and she felt the heretofore mysterious outline of the male form against hers. Beyond them the music picked up tempo, and the ebb and flow of genial conversation blurred to a hum. Male voices, female voices, all entwined, thrumming together in a way she’d never before noticed.
But in the dark quiet of their hideaway, Lord Hawke kissed Olivia.
Neville kissed Hazel.
“How old are you?” he asked between kisses.
She was almost too breathless to answer. “One-and-twenty.”
“You’re very good at this.” His breath fanned her ear with heat and she arched instinctively in response. “Very good,” he said, recapturing her lips with more force than before.
Insane as it was, Olivia was absurdly pleased by his words. No man had ever kissed her with such complete authority, such prowess and absolute conviction. His lips teased hers apart. His tongue probed and caressed and stroked within her mouth in the same blood-poundingly erotic manner he’d done beside the river—
Dear God, what was she thinking?
She pulled back abruptly and twisted her head to the side. He still held her, though, imprisoning her between his powerful body and the solid cart. “Have you kissed all the men you list in that little book of yours?”
“No!” She stared indignantly at him. “You can let go of me now.”
“For if your research did include kissing those men,” he continued, ignoring her words, “I owe them my sincere thanks, all thirty-eight of them.”
“I told you before, I did not kiss all of those men! Now, let go of me.” She shoved against his chest—his solid hard-as-a-rock chest—acutely aware of the contradictory emotions that wrestled within her: fury at his insulting assumption; satisfaction at his sensual approval; and humiliation at her easy capitulation.
She needed to get back to her area of the dance, away from Neville Hawke and his dangerous appeal. Despite everything, she could not deny that he was dangerously appealing. Disastrously appealing. Fatally appealing.
But he was not of a mind to let her go. He made that very clear. “How many did you kiss?”
Four, at most. “Not nearly as many as you have—kissed women, that is.”
A distant torch limned his face with gold, just enough for her to see an arrogant male smile curve his lips. “Is that a compliment to my talent?”
“Only you would think so. It’s an insult to your morals, of which you clearly possess none.”
“To the contrary. I consider it my moral duty to please any woman who decides to kiss me.”
“I did not decide to kiss you. You decided to kiss me!”
“I was reading your mind,” he countered. “I’m doing it again,” he added, lowering his head.
Though she was somewhat better prepared this time, the impact of his lips on hers was every bit as powerful. Perhaps even more so. Olivia had kissed four men in her life, only two of whom had ventured the intimate invasion that this man had so boldly taken. Only one had progressed beyond the barrier of her tightly clenched teeth, however, and she certainly hadn’t enjoyed it. That Neville Hawke succeeded with so little effort was a wonder to her. That he so thoroughly delighted her in the process was truly amazing. She should make him stop and recoil from him in disgust. But she simply could not.
He kissed her and, fool that she was, she kissed him back. The music in the distance was the only other thing that registered in her pitifully besotted brain.
One of his hands cupped the back of her head, slanting her mouth better against his. His fingers tangled in her hair, almost as intimate an invasion as his tongue. Their bodies fit together despite the considerable difference in their height, and the profound difference in their anatomy. Hard chest to soft breasts. Muscular thighs to slender ones. And against her flat belly the growing evidence of his true interest in her.
This time when she pulled away from him, he let her go. As she gasped for breath, pressing one shaking hand to her lips and the other to her stomach, he leaned heavily on the cart, his hands clenched on the slats, his arms straight and rigid. “You,” he said, nearly as breathless as she. “You should be kept under lock and key.”
“Me?” Her chest hurt, her heart beat so rapidly. “This is your doing, not mine!”
“As I recall, we did it together—and very well, I might add.”
Ruthlessly she suppressed the perverse pleasure that coursed through her. “Well, we shan’t be doing it again.”
“I’d wager a very large sum that we do.”
“Then you’d lose.” She turned to go, intent on stalking away and determined to abide by her avowal to avoid him. But his next words stopped her.
“Your hair is all mussed, Hazel. And your lips look distinctly well kissed. Whoever sees you will know at once what you’ve been up to. And probably with whom.”
“Don’t call me that!” Unfortunately, a quick hand to her hair confirmed the worst. Her neat coiffure was now a tousled mess with pins lost and curls dangling about her neck. “Botheration!” she muttered, turning her back to him as she attempted to repair the damage. For her lips, however, she had no remedy. She licked them once. Was it really so obvious?
She stole a peek at him, for she did not put it past him to lie to her. He had turned and leaned now with his back against the cart and his hands shoved into his pockets. Not a very lordly pose, and yet he looked more appealing than any man she’d ever seen.
More physically appealing, she amended as she jabbed the last hairpin in place. The passion he roused in her—for she could not deny he did rouse her to passion—that passion was the same sort of disastrous emotion that had drawn her mother to her vastly appealing father. Even she could remember how her father charmed every female in sight, from her mother to her to the housekeeper and serving girls and village women. She suspected that there ha
d been other women as well, for there were at least three women of the ton to whom her mother refused to speak, though she would never say why.
Mostly, however, Olivia remembered the many tears her mother had shed over Cameron Byrde, and not just after he’d died.
She slid her knuckles across her sensitive lips. This had to stop, she told herself. This fascination she had for him must end at once.
She raised her chin and faced him with more courage than she felt. “My father was a man like you. Handsome and charming. Outrageous. He broke my mother’s heart. Though I was young, I still remember how unhappy he made her.” She stared up into his dark eyes, which showed no flicker of emotion. “I have no intention of making the same mistake she did.”
She turned to go, unwilling to hear any response he might make, unwilling also to discover how weak her resolve might be. But before she could return to the crowd of revelers, he caught her by the arm. He did not stay her progress, but he tucked her hand firmly in his arm and matched her stride for stride.
At her bitter glare he remarked, “I’m certain even your blackguard of a father delivered his dance partners back to the safety of their family and friends.”
“Don’t forget to their husbands,” she snapped, tugging futilely to free herself.
“Unless you are wed and have not so informed me, you cannot accuse me of that.”
They were on the edge of the dancers once more and with a quick glance Olivia ascertained her whereabouts, then started toward the safety of the rest of their party. But even then Neville would not release her arm.
“I’ll see you all the way back. I cannot risk being termed less than perfectly charming.” They threaded through the crowd milling between the two areas of dancing, her arm firmly clamped against his. Once restored to the circle of silks and muslins and worsted wools, Olivia scanned the area for her mother. She found her dancing with a man Olivia did not know. Archie, Lord Holdsworth, danced near to her, with Penny Cummings as his partner.
“Your chaperones are occupied,” Neville noted. “Shall I wait with you—”
“No. You need not wait here with me. You need not dance with me, either, and you need not dog my footsteps one moment longer.”
“Do I not dance well enough for you?”
“That has nothing to do with it.”
“Don’t I kiss well enough?” His eyes ran over her face. “I could swear you enjoyed it, Olivia.”
Olivia sucked in a painful breath. “That … that has nothing to do with it either,” she croaked out most unconvincingly. Then she rallied. “In truth, were you less expert at kissing, I might more easily approve of you.”
She was saved his response when the music ended and the dancers parted to much applause. At last, her flustered mind thought when Penny spied her and headed her way.
The woman’s keen gaze skimmed Olivia head to toe. “Where have you two been?” she asked, a knowing glint in her eyes.
Olivia swallowed hard. Could Penny tell what they’d been doing? Was it as obvious as Lord Hawke had said? For a moment she was at a loss for how to respond. Then thankfully her wits rejoined her and she arrogantly raised her head. “Why, dancing, of course. And you?” She stared brazenly at Penny, daring her to imply anything, anything at all.
“Me? Oh, me.” Penny giggled, then turned to Lord Holdsworth. “Why, Archie has been teaching me how they waltz in Spain. So energetically. And what of you, Lord Hawke? Is it your energetic dancing that has put roses in our Olivia’s pretty cheeks?”
“’Tis my energetic dancing that brings color to his cheeks,” Olivia retorted before he could. Then she added, “Where is my mother?”
The rest of the evening was excruciating. To depart early was to invite all sorts of inquiry, and there was always the chance that Lord Hawke might follow her. The last thing she wanted was to be alone in that monstrous house with him.
So she spent the remainder of the evening as she had the previous one: avoiding Neville Hawke, pretending to be supremely unaware of him while in actuality she made note of his every move. Whom he spoke with, which women he danced with, and how often he filled his cup. This so-called pleasant diversion from town life was turning out even worse than she’d anticipated. And all on account of that horrible, troublesome man!
She danced with Mr. Garret and Mr. Cummings and a red-faced squire’s son Penny introduced her to. She was aware of Neville’s eyes upon her as she danced with that young man, and so redoubled her efforts to appear exuberant and gay. But it was terribly difficult and completely exhausting. At midnight when the fireworks were set off, her jaw hurt from clenching her teeth, and she had a raging headache.
It didn’t help that she spied the girl she’d seen earlier go off arm in arm with her eager beau. If only her own life were so easy and uncomplicated.
“You are very quiet,” her mother noted on the carriage ride home. “Did you not enjoy yourself?”
“I believe she and Lord Hawke have had a tiff,” Penny put in, giggling behind her hand. In the darkened carriage Olivia’s glare was quite lost on her tipsy hostess.
“I’m afraid Olivia is not impressed by handsome men possessed of great charm and wit,” Augusta remarked.
“That’s right, Mother. Find me an ugly, uncouth half-wit and I vow I shall drag him straightaway to the altar.” She flung open the window curtain and stared moodily into the dark passing countryside.
Penny collapsed in another fit of giggling.
Augusta at least had the good grace not to. “Now, now, darling. We’re only teasing you. It’s just that it is hard for us to understand your resistance to Lord Hawke’s clear interest in you.”
“Please, Mother. Enough.”
Augusta shrugged. “Very well. As you wish.” She turned deliberately to Penny. “So. How shall we spend tomorrow?”
Once at the house, Olivia told Penny and her mother good night in the foyer before the men riding horseback could join them. She made her way directly to her chamber as her mother’s laughter and Lord Holdsworth’s rejoinder wafted up the stairwell to her. The fact that Augusta appeared to have succeeded in her conquest of Lord Holdsworth only increased Olivia’s agitation. Like that pretty girl at the dance, her mother had an easy way with men. She drew them effortlessly to her, and kept them charmed and dancing eager attendance on her.
Olivia trudged into her room. What was she doing wrong? She attracted enough men, but there were none she wished to keep—save the worst one of all.
She rubbed her aching temple. Oh, how could she even think such insanity? She shut the door to her lonely chamber with unwarranted force. She could not take three more days of this, that was certain.
By the time she had undressed and made her evening ablutions, she had a new plan. There was no reason for her to continue at Doncaster that long. Sarah and Mrs. McCaffery were to arrive the day after tomorrow. Instead of resting for a day or two, Olivia decided that they would leave early for Scotland, the better to prepare the house. Portions of Byrde Manor had been closed up for fifteen years. Her task there was sure to be Herculean. The more reason to get an early start on it.
First thing the next morning Olivia informed her mother of the slight change in plans.
“Why such haste?” Augusta cried. “I do not understand you, child.”
“You will not miss me at all, Mother, so do not pretend otherwise.”
“Of course I shall miss you. So, I suspect, will someone else—who will remain nameless.”
Olivia ignored that. She’d not seen Lord Hawke since yesterday and since she meant to avoid the races, she expected not to see him today. If Sarah and Mrs. McCaffery arrived tomorrow, as planned, that meant they could leave Friday morning and hopefully arrive at Byrde Manor by Sunday night.
It was early afternoon when Augusta and Penny left for the races. “Are you certain you won’t reconsider and join us?” her mother asked.
“Thank you, but no.”
“Would you like us to lay a wager for you?
”
Remembering her winnings that yet remained from yesterday’s wager, Olivia agreed. “One pound ten,” she said, handing the coins to her mother.
“On Lord Hawke’s Kestrel?”
“No. Any horse but.”
Augusta shook her head. “You are being foolish, Olivia. Consider how well Kitti did.”
“This is not Kitti.” Though Olivia knew she was indeed behaving foolishly, she seemed unable to stop herself. She’d had all night to fret about Neville Hawke and his dangerous appeal, and to wonder if he was sitting up again in the library. That she could lose so much sleep over the man had brought her to a terrible conclusion. Though she had always thought herself completely unlike her mother, in truth they were exactly the same. They both harbored a weakness for rogues. The only difference was that up till now, Olivia had found it easy to resist those beguiling fellows who were all charm and style and no substance. She’d grown smug and confident, and had felt a little sorry for her more easily swayed mother. But she was smug no longer.
“Bet on the fastest horse opposing his,” she told her mother. “Meanwhile, I shall have a quiet day to restore myself and prepare for the long journey north.”
Augusta did not know what to think as the Cummingses’ carriage carried her and Penny into Doncaster. While Penny chattered on, speculating about Olivia and the darkly handsome Lord Hawke, Augusta considered her daughter’s odd behavior. That there was an attraction between them was unmistakable. But Olivia seemed determined to defeat it. She was not playing coy, Augusta knew, for that was not Olivia’s way.
Was it as she’d said, that Neville Hawke was just like her father?
Olivia had been but six when her father had died. Could she still recall those difficult last years? Had they made such a lasting impression on her as a girl that she would now turn away from the first man who’d ever truly attracted her?
Augusta sighed and stared down at her perfectly manicured nails. It was more likely Mrs. McCaffery who was the cause of Olivia’s attitude. The loyal housekeeper had never forgiven Cameron Byrde for making her mistress cry, and while back then it had been comforting for Augusta to turn to the woman, the repercussions yet lingered. Mrs. McCaffery hated Cameron Byrde, and through the years Olivia had absorbed much of that dislike—as well as an unfortunate distrust of most men.
The Matchmaker Page 12
