But all was not lost, she decided as the carriage slowed. Lord Hawke was not a man easily ignored, nor easily deterred. He wanted Olivia, that was plain. Augusta smiled. Judging from Olivia’s vehemence on the subject, Lord Hawke must have kissed her. He must have kissed her so thoroughly that her strong-minded daughter had yet to recover.
Augusta pressed one hand to her heart. She could still remember the first time Cameron had kissed her. She’d already been a widow with a little boy to raise, but her previous marriage had done nothing to prepare her for the likes of Cameron Byrde. Handsome as sin with laughing eyes and a sultry mouth. She’d fallen instantly in love with the dashing Scotsman, and the kiss he’d stolen that very same night had only sealed her fate.
Oh, but he’d been a wild one, passionate and too often careless with her feelings. She’d shed a thousand tears over him. A million. But in spite of all that—in spite of Mrs. McCaffery’s opinion and Olivia’s—she would not give up those seven years with him for anything in the world.
Once the carriage stopped in town, the coachman helped the two women alight. Augusta shaded her eyes with one hand as she glanced around the town square. Olivia had every right to be afraid of the likes of Neville Hawke. But her careful daughter also had the right to be happy, and Augusta had the strongest sense that Neville Hawke was the first man to come along who could do that.
“Let’s go place our bets, shall we?” she said to Penny.
“After yesterday everyone will be betting on Hawke Stables. The odds will not be nearly so favorable,” Penny complained.
“The odds in life never seem to be particularly favorable, do they? Yet we manage. We thrive.”
“I, for one, should like my money to thrive just as well today as it did yesterday,” Penny grumbled.
Augusta dug out the few coins Olivia had given her. What she wanted was for her daughter to thrive. And she was willing to bet everything that Neville Hawke was the man to help her do so.
Chapter 11
The day was interminable. It took an army of servants to run the Cummingses’ enormous household, but every time Olivia came upon one of them dusting or polishing or otherwise maintaining some aspect of that considerable establishment, they immediately disappeared.
As they should, she reminded herself. Good servants never labored in a room occupied by a guest. But Olivia was bored and she would have welcomed a chat even with the lowliest maid. She wandered from morning room to drawing room, from the gallery and outdoors to the verandah, until she found herself standing outside the library. The French doors were closed, but she could see them as she had that first night—was it only three days ago?—with Neville Hawke silhouetted in the opening.
She cupped her hands around her eyes and peered through the glass panes, spying the chair he’d been sitting in. Had he spent the entire night in it again? Did he spend every night in that chair instead of his bed? She squinted, seeing the table of books, the crowded shelves, and the commode with its decanters of brandy, whisky, and port. The real question, she told herself, was not whether he sat up every night drinking himself into a stupor but, rather, why he did it.
She tried the door but it was latched from within, so she turned away. It didn’t matter why he did not sleep at night, nor would she ever learn the answer. Nor did she wish to. Better to contemplate her coming journey and the myriad tasks that awaited her at Byrde Manor.
But Olivia was too restless even for that. As she wandered the gravel paths of the knot garden she heard the distant whinny of a horse, and for the first time that day she knew what she wanted to do. A quick trip to the stables to arrange for a mount, a dash back to the house to don her camel-colored riding habit, and within a half hour she was mounted. She guided the placid mare down a path through the rear gardens and toward the woodlands beyond, declining the stablemaster’s offer of someone to accompany her.
“I mean to take no chances with your animal,” she assured him. “No jumps, only a long slow ramble through the countryside.”
She headed west now, away from Doncaster as the man had advised her, toward a tributary of the river Don and the ruins of some ancient castle. The sky was sharp and blue, streaked with the high clouds typical of August and promising no rain yet. But despite the heat of mid-afternoon, the forest was cool, and as she rode, Olivia began to relax. Scotland would be like this, only wilder and more exhilarating—and she would have her own saddle horse and have to answer to no one about when and where she might ride.
Down a hill they angled, the mare picking her way on sure feet, and came upon an open valley blanketed with rosebay willow herb. It grew so tall that the dark pink flowers brushed at her heels.
Olivia breathed deep of the fragrant air. On the way back she must gather an armful of the wild flowers and have a bouquet placed in her room. Too bad there would be no time to bring Sarah riding to this spot, for the girl would adore it. But there would be plenty of time for them to take long rides together at Byrde Manor.
So she headed on. The sun moved across the sky and she followed it. When the mare’s ears flicked forward she knew the river could not be far, and sure enough, through a dense stand of alder and birch, the sparkle and rush of water beckoned.
“Ahh,” Olivia sighed once she dismounted. She removed her boots and stockings and her bonnet and gloves. Then hiking her skirts up, she climbed onto a flattish rock along the river’s edge, and sat, dangling her feet into the water.
She sighed again as the icy water lapped up her calves. A capricious breeze lifted her hair and toyed with the hems of her twill skirt and linen petticoats. Somewhere nearby a woodpecker drummed steadily. A pair of red birds darted about an ancient birch on the opposite bank. All around her the forest thrummed with the business of life: bees and butterflies, squirrels and woodmice. Insects hovered near the surface of the stream and in its shadowy depths fish moved about. Even in the shallows pollywogs and minnows and fingerlings pursued their daily routine. They ate and lived and reproduced.
Olivia stared down into the stream. It was not so very complicated, nor should her own life be. So why was she complicating it? Why did she not simply marry some acceptable fellow and just get on with it—or else put the whole subject of marriage completely out of her mind?
She leaned back on her elbows, closed her eyes, and lifted her face to the sun. What if she decided not to return to London at all? What if she liked Byrde Manor so well she decided to winter in Scotland? She would wear heavy wool stockings and a plaid shawl, and spend most of the day in the warm kitchen or the cozy parlor. She could pass her time knitting and reading; she could organize the library and work in the stables.
She laughed to even think of it. Her mother and most of her friends would be scandalized. A single woman living alone on her own estate in the wilds of Scotland. But she would not truly be alone. There were the servants, the villagers, and her neighbors—
But not that neighbor.
Olivia straightened up at the thought of Neville Hawke and pulled her feet out of the water. She’d so looked forward to Scotland, but now there was this blight upon it. Lord Hawke would undoubtedly ruin everything, he and this perverse attraction she held for him.
If only she could find another man who affected her so. Maybe she wasn’t trying hard enough. Maybe another man’s kisses would affect her just as powerfully—if she would let another man kiss her. It was an intriguing thought, and as she reclined back on the stone again, she resolved to think about it most seriously. But not right now. Right now she was tired and relaxed. She would just rest a little while longer before heading back.
As he rode in the direction the stablemaster had given him, Neville’s thoughts were not so very different from Olivia’s. He should not be here, trailing after a woman who was plainly avoiding him, especially now that Kestrel had upset the better-known animals at today’s race. He should be at the Eel and Elbow, buying drinks and making deals, and laying wagers for Kitti’s match tomorrow against a full field of three-y
ear-olds. And if not that, he should be catching a brief nap, for he’d had little enough sleep this morning.
Instead he was riding through the woods, pursuing a woman who did not want to be found, least of all by him.
At least he had her mother’s approval. Lady Dunmore had not been in the least subtle. She’d found him in the racing stable this afternoon, tapped him imperiously on the arm with her fan, then boldly asked him if he had anything to do with Olivia’s black mood. Fortunately, she hadn’t really wanted an answer, and he wasn’t sure if he could have given her one. It was enough for the beautiful Lady Dunmore that he was interested in her daughter. For himself, he wasn’t certain what he was doing, or why.
He scrubbed a hand across his face wearily. He wanted Olivia for the obvious physical reasons, and he wanted her lands for the obvious economic benefits to Woodford and its people. But he also wanted Olivia for no logical reason he could discern. He was the last man a woman of her sort should attach herself to, for he was unworthy of any proper young woman’s attentions, and nothing good could come from such a union.
Yet how he wanted her! He wanted her will bent to his, her approval, her smiles—everything that was her. It was that idiotic nonsense that had sent him back to the Cummingses’ household and now here into the forest, searching for a woman who did not want him to find her.
Or did she?
That was the bedeviling part of it. She enjoyed his kisses and yet she ran from him. Why was that? Because she was wise enough to recognize his complete unsuitability.
But not wise enough to bring a groom along with her on her ride.
Thus justifying his search, Neville continued on, only slowing when Robin’s ears pricked forward. He could hear the river and through the trees he spotted a horse grazing in a narrow clearing along the riverbank. She was nearby.
Neville dismounted, then moved stealthily through the heavy summer undergrowth. He was acting like an insane man. There was no need to pursue her like this. He had several months to convince her to lease him her lands. Pursuing her when she obviously wished to be alone was illogical and sure to blacken his character even more in her esteem. But he seemed unable to do anything else. The thought of her out here without any protection made him crazy. If she intended to ride around the Cheviot Hills this way, careless of her safety, he would swiftly disabuse her of that notion.
He ducked beneath a low-hanging holly branch, then froze when a snatch of a melody drifted to him. His eyes narrowed, searching. Then a flash of fiery color drew his gaze to her. There, on a gray boulder with the late sun glinting copper and bronze off her unbound hair.
Her face was lifted to the sun as she half reclined upon the rock. Then she straightened and bent forward, shaking her hair down over the water so that the loose ends trailed nearly to the river’s surface.
Neville sucked in a breath. Her feet were bare and her legs exposed up to her knees. Narrow ankles, shapely calves, smooth, pale skin. She appeared a woodland nymph, a Scottish faerie lost somehow in England, and his desire for her trebled. He must have this woman.
But there was only one way to have a woman like her, and that was through marriage.
He halted at that unsettling thought. But he did not shy away from it. It would take marriage to possess Olivia Byrde. Was he prepared to go that far?
He thought about Bart’s admonition. Maybe the man was right. Maybe a woman was the answer. But not just any woman. There was only one woman he had ever wanted that fiercely.
He heard her soft voice, singing a familiar song, and his head and heart seemed to fill with it. God knew, he did not deserve a woman like her, and she certainly deserved better than the likes of him. But at the moment he did not care. He wanted her. He had to have her. And if the only way was through marriage, then so be it. He would propose marriage to Olivia.
And he would do whatever it took to convince her to say yes.
Struggling to quell the hot rush of blood to his loins, he began to hum, matching her melody. He started through the woods toward her. Once they were wed she would not behave so recklessly as this. But now was not a time to scold her. She would be angry enough with him for following her.
When she heard him, Olivia sprang to her feet, alarm on her face. But she was trapped on the boulder with her back to the river and no hope of escape. He could not resist a mild reprimand.
“You are safe, Olivia, though not due to any caution on your own part.” He sauntered into the sunlight, satisfied by her frightened expression. That fright, however, swiftly gave way to suspicion.
“You followed me.”
“Someone had to. That stableman ought to be sacked for allowing you go off without a groom.”
“I insisted. Everyone was working at the races. Besides, I do not need a guardian—and don’t you dare start any trouble for that poor fellow. I daresay, his greater error was in telling you where I went. But then, he could not know, as I do, how wicked a man you are.”
“Wicked?” Neville laughed out loud. She didn’t begin to know the truth of it. If she even suspected the wicked direction of his thoughts—how her dishabille and their solitude both combined to arouse him—she would run panic-stricken in the opposite direction. As it was, he had to clench his hands behind his back to prevent himself reaching for her.
“I suppose that in the eyes of a cosseted society chit I do appear wicked and dark,” he said.
She bristled. “Society chit? You have the nerve to denigrate me when I have done nothing?”
“You court disaster, Olivia. That is what you do. You wander strange houses at night. You walk out with men you should not. You ride alone then bare yourself for anyone to see.” He gestured with one hand. “What else?”
“What I do is none of your concern!” she shouted, quivering with fury. “You are not my father nor my brother!”
“It would be damned inconvenient if I was,” Neville muttered, his gaze locked upon hers.
There was no mistaking his meaning, and in the aftermath of that, the air fairly sizzled between them. He saw her swallow hard, and just that simple movement along her tender throat increased his inappropriate desire. He needed to get her on neutral territory—and fast—if he was to gain control of his unruly emotions. “I will see you back to the Cummingses’ household,” he said through gritted teeth.
A hunting bird let out a sharp cry and with a blink Olivia looked away from him. “I do not need your accompaniment,” she stated, catching her loose hair in one hand. She twisted it into a knot and stabbed it deftly with a hairpin to hold it in place.
“Twilight is nearly upon us. You have to leave soon if you wish to get back before dark.”
“But I don’t have to go with you.”
Neville crossed his arms and stared at her. “Very well. I’ll keep my distance. But I will see you safely returned.”
Olivia was so angry she could spit. How dare he order her around as if she were a child! It did not help matters at all that he was right about the fading daylight. The sun already dipped below the tops of the trees. Within an hour it would be dark.
But she did not need him to tell her that, nor to escort her back to the Cummingses’ estate.
Unfortunately, there was no getting rid of him. Though she turned her back to him, her hands shook as she donned her stockings and shoes, then her bonnet and gloves. She tried very hard to project an icy hauteur, but ruined it by stomping past him on the way to retrieve her mare.
“Keep your distance,” she warned him with a glare once she was mounted. Then with far more haste and far less calm, she urged Fanny up the riverbank and back the way she’d come.
That he kept his distance provided her with no comfort. She was acutely aware of him trailing her. She did not stop to collect any flowers. Nor did she say more than a curt word of thanks to the sheepish stableman when she handed Fanny over into his care. She strode for the house, straight up to her room. Then she snatched up her journal and turned to a page filled already with more n
otations than any other.
“He is an ogre. Contemptible. High-handed. He tries to corrupt me while all the while pretending to protect me from the untoward advances of others. Hah!”
She underlined every word, so heavy-handed with the pen that a thick ink blob marred the center of the page.
“Damn!” She threw the pen down on the desk, then rested her head in her trembling hands. Why did she let him upset her so? What had happened to her resolve to undermine him—or at the very least, ignore him? Why should she be forced to hide in her room, reduced to scribbling invective about him in her heretofore neat and analytical journal? Just because he’d kissed her?
She let out a choked laugh. Calling that last kiss merely a kiss was like calling the elegant Kitti a plowhorse. He hadn’t simply kissed her, he’d rocked her off her feet, challenged her every notion of logic, and changed her entire perception of herself. That hadn’t been a kiss, it had been a life-changing event. She knew she would always measure things as “before the kiss” and “after the kiss.”
She stared dowm at the journal, at everything she’d written about him, all her high-minded ranting, then suddenly crumpled the page in her fist. She covered her eyes with her other hand and let out a heavy sigh. If she was going to be honest in what she wrote, she ought to begin with herself. She was the problem, not him. Her reaction to him was the problem. But what made him so different from all the other men she’d met and written about in her little matchmaker?
Maybe nothing more than the two kisses they’d shared.
Olivia lifted her head and stared blankly at the crumpled page. Maybe her inexperience with kissing was the problem.
Unbidden, his words came back to her. He’d said she was very good at kissing. He’d also asked her if she’d kissed all the men listed in her journal—the rude cad.
The Matchmaker Page 13
