As if Lord Hawke sensed her disapproval, he looked up. Their gazes collided, then held. Olivia sucked in a sharp breath. At the same moment he set down his cup and shook his head when the blonde bent to refill it.
Olivia swallowed hard when he rose to his feet, still staring at her. He meant to approach her. Though she wished desperately to scurry up to her chamber and slam the door closed, pride prevented her doing so. She would not hurry away like a frightened child and thereby reveal to him how easily he unsettled her emotions. So she waited for him, mindful that Sarah and Mrs. McCaffery had already disappeared from view up the narrow stairhall.
He stopped before her, the top of his head nearly brushing the low, planked ceiling. “I trust your accommodations are acceptable, Miss Byrde.”
She nodded. “They are.” Beyond them the clink of glasses sounded. The jovial hum of voices and the other everyday sounds of life continued. But Olivia’s heightened senses focused solely on Lord Hawke. He appeared more at ease here than he had in Doncaster. His posture was more relaxed and at his throat his cravat was loosened. Most shocking of all, at least to her sensibilities, was that he had shed his coat in favor of only his waistcoat and shirtsleeves. Quite sensible given the warmth of the evening. But as they stood in the dimly lit hall, his dishabille lent a heady intimacy to their conversation, an inappropriate familiarity that she should not like. He was too overwhelmingly masculine like this, too virile, and far too attractive for her overwrought nerves.
She took a step back from him, gnawing on her lower lip. “I … um …” She glanced away from him, then back. “I wanted to … to thank you.”
“Thank me?”
“For coming to my assistance. The other night.”
One of his brows arched up a fraction. “With Mr. Garret, you mean.”
She nodded. “I should have thanked you then, but I … Well, I’m sorry it took so long.”
When he didn’t respond right away, but only kept looking at her, heated color began to rise in her cheeks. “Well, then. Good night.” She turned to leave.
“Wait. Before you go, I … ah … I wondered if you might prefer riding tomorrow instead of remaining in the confinement of the carriage. Like your mother, your sister insists that you are quite the horsewoman.” He paused and his dark eyes seemed to grow darker and more intense. “You may ride Kitti, if you like.”
Relieved that her awkward apology was over with, Olivia hesitated. The chance to ride Kitti! How she wished to accept his offer, for Kittiwake was quite the finest mare she’d ever seen. Certainly she’d never ridden an animal of such magnificent bloodlines. The quick “Thank you, but no” she meant to say died upon her lips. Instead she stared up at him, tempted beyond words by his offer.
Then he stepped forward—just one step nearer her—and all the reasons she must not accept his offer flared to life. Three times now he’d kissed her. Three times. And each time with an increasing ardor that made her go weak-kneed just to recall. Even now, standing in a public hallway, he somehow created an intimacy between them that was far too dangerous. Unlike her mother, however she was too wise to succumb to that sort of temptation—no matter how much she wished to.
Willing her heart to cease its sudden thundering, she shook her head. “Thank you, but no. I … I prefer the carriage.” Then, “Good night,” and this time she turned for the stairs and began her ascent.
She almost reached the second floor without further incident. Almost.
“You’re lying, Olivia,” his soft, taunting words wafted up to her. “We both know you’d rather ride with me.”
Olivia did not pause at the second floor but ducked around.
Chapter 14
“Where is he?” Sarah wondered for at least the tenth time.
They’d been on the road since early morning, the carriage and the accompanying riders—sans Lord Hawke.
“Don’t put your head outside the window,” Mrs. McCaffery scolded the girl. “As for Lord Hawke, I’m sure he will be along in his own good time. Just as his man explained.”
Olivia shifted on the leather seat which somehow felt even harder than it had yesterday. She was tired and in a bad mood, and Sarah’s insistent fretting over Neville Hawke grated on her nerves.
“If he runs true to form he no doubt overimbibed in the taproom last night and was unable to rise from his bed.” Assuming there were no other even more perverted reasons for his lingering in that bed. No blond reasons.
Mrs. McCaffery raised one disapproving brow. “Why, Olivia, what an ungenerous remark. I’m surprised at you.”
Again Olivia shifted on the seat. “Perhaps it is, but I have been exposed to more of Lord Hawke’s behavior than have you.”
Sarah glared at her. “You don’t know why he’s late. And just because you don’t like him doesn’t mean you have to criticize him. I like him,” the girl pronounced. “He knows everything there is to know about horses. Everything. And he told me I can come up to Woodford Court whenever I wish to go riding.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Olivia retorted. “James is bringing Goldie and Sugar up with him in a few days, so you needn’t pester Lord Hawke.” the comer, refusing to respond to his baiting, nor to his use of her given name.
But those last words of his echoed in her mind through the long sleepless night that followed. The mattress was lumpy; Sarah sprawled over her; and Mrs. McCaffery snored. But it was Neville Hawke’s taunting voice that interrupted her sleep, Neville Hawke’s voice that haunted her dreams. And in those dreams it was Neville Hawke and his magnificent horses that carried them hard and fast, riding together through the misty hills of Scotland.
But who followed whom? Who was pursued and who the pursuer? That she could never quite tell.
“I’m not pestering him! He’s happy to have me ride with me. He said so.”
“I’m sure he is,” Mrs. McCaffery interjected. “However, a well-mannered young lady never overstays her welcome. His offer is kind, to be sure. But I’m certain Lord Hawke does not intend for you to ride every day with him, Sarah. Nor will I allow it. He will rejoin us in his own good time. Until then, child, sit still. Read that book or take up your knitting. Otherwise, I will be forced to have you recite the orders of ascendancy or French grammar or”—she paused for effect—“your mathematical tables.”
With that threat hanging over her, Sarah flopped back into her seat, albeit with much grumbling and several dark scowls directed as much at Olivia as at Mrs. McCaffery. Once Sarah settled into her corner with Olivia’s novel, Mrs. McCaffery again dozed off. Olivia could scarcely believe it. The woman must be sleeping fully twenty hours a day.
Olivia rubbed her irritated eyes. How she wished she could do the same.
Neville was tired. He’d slept but four hours and had been astride for two now, pushing both himself and his stalwart mount to catch up with Olivia and her party. This past week had been a hard one. Too little sleep. Too much excitement. The thrill of winning; the successful sale of his racing stock.
Then there was the particular excitement associated with Miss Olivia Byrde. The unexpected excitement.
And the unexpected complication.
There had been a knot in the pit of his stomach ever since the incident with Clive Garret. How could she have thrown herself at the man that way? Was it for that damned journal of hers, research for a page on Clive Garret?
One thing was plain. She hadn’t wanted Neville’s help. She hadn’t wanted him to step in and save her, she’d said, and she hadn’t wanted him to kiss her. But he’d been unable to stop himself. Anger. Jealousy. Passion. They’d all combined to push him past the point of reason. The fact that she’d succumbed to her own passions in his arms had only confirmed what he already knew. She wanted him as fiercely as he wanted her.
But she absolutely refused to admit it.
So he’d stormed away furiously, swearing to abide by her wishes, misguided though they were. In the future he would leave her to her own defenses. She could th
row herself in the path of the worst blackguard and he would not make a move to help her.
Or so he’d vowed at the time.
All that night he’d stewed over it, convinced that she’d kissed every man in that damned journal. Forty now, including him and that spineless Garret. In a weak moment he’d bolstered his seething anger with a bottle of twelve-year-old brandy, and come the dawn he’d succumbed with an aching head and roiling gut to a fitful few hours of sleep. But later, at her mother’s first barely veiled hint, he’d leapt at the chance to escort her to Scotland. Afterward he’d berated himself for a fool. But he’d held to the promise he made to Olivia’s mother.
Now, as he approached Croft, he knew he must make some decision about Miss Olivia Byrde. Court her or ignore her. There was no middle ground.
It had been easier yesterday to be distracted by her little sister. Then last night outside the taproom, to his utter surprise she had thanked him, though it had been as much an apology as thanks. He’d dwelt on it all night. By the time he’d gone to bed at dawn, he’d known he could avoid this dilemma no longer. There was an attraction between them that frightened her. And why not? It frightened him. It scared the hell out of him.
But he needed to see it through, to see if she was that good woman Bart said might bring him ease. They were well matched in temperament and passion, and that was far more than most marriages could boast.
So he leaned over Robin’s withers, urging him on, and just beyond Darlington, in the courtyard of the Snail and Rook, he spied the heavily loaded Dunmore traveling coach. He was no sooner dismounted, however, and handing his horse over to the ostler, than Olivia and Sarah came down the three granite steps, followed by their housekeeper. Sarah spied him and at once dashed across the yard to his side.
Neville removed his hat and thrust one hand through his rumpled hair. How nice it would be if Olivia evinced even half the enthusiasm for him that her sister did. But Olivia’s face had pulled together in a faint frown, and though his normal response to that would be to taunt her or bait her with a wink or a grin, at the moment he could not muster the energy. He felt like an old man, tired and aching. Defeated and depressed.
“Lord Hawke, you’re here!” Sarah’s pretty little face glowed with excitement.
Somehow he managed a smile. To be that young again, and filled with such a zest for life. “I am indeed here, and I warrant I can read your mind.”
“I warrant you can,” she agreed, hopping in her anticipation from one foot to the other.
Mrs. McCaffery trained a stern eye on her young charge. “Sarah Palmer, it is hardly the behavior of a well-mannered young lady to press her wishes upon a gentleman who has already—”
“It’s all right,” Neville interrupted. “If she wishes to ride one of my horses again, she is most welcome.”
“That’s very generous of you,” Olivia put in, “But quite unnecessary.”
Neville sent her a sharp look. “You are welcome to ride with her.”
She lifted her chin but did not quite meet his gaze. “Thank you, but no.”
Mrs. McCaffery cleared her throat and fidgeted a moment with the carpetbag she held. “Might I … ah … presume to ride in her stead?” she ventured.
Neville’s brows arched in surprise. “Why, of course. Though I do not have a sidesaddle.”
“Pish. I am a Scotswoman and I grew up riding astride.”
“She jumps too,” Sarah threw in. “James told me,” she added when the woman stared at her in surprise. The girl clapped her hands with glee, then sent her sister a gloating look. “It appears you shall have to keep to your own gloomy company today, Livvie, while we shall have a glorious time.”
Olivia ignored her sister and addressed herself to Mrs. McCaffery instead. “Are you certain you will be comfortable astride?”
“Humph. After two and a half days jouncing along in that coach? Anything would be more comfortable than that. I’ll just take one of those light traveling blankets—for modesty,” she added with a prim nod.
It was then that the idea occurred to Neville. He glanced at the carriage, then back at Olivia. “Perhaps, Miss Byrde, you would be so kind as to allow me to share your carriage this afternoon. I find myself in need of a nap,” he added when she opened her mouth—to object, he imagined. “I would consider it a great personal favor. You will not even know I am there.”
When everyone turned to stare at her, Olivia closed her mouth with a snap. But she nearly choked on the words she forced down. What a sneaky, conniving … conniving … She was too incensed by his high-handedness to even think straight. Yet they all waited for her response, Sarah’s eyes sparking with amusement, Mrs. McCaffery’s brows raised in speculation, and Lord Hawke’s face …
Lord Hawke’s face looked tired. He looked weary, exhausted even. As quickly as that, Olivia’s objections faded. He did need a nap, or better yet, a good night’s sleep. What was it that made him keep such long hours, that drove him to this point of utter exhaustion? Perhaps today she might have the chance to find out.
She clutched her reticule and composed her face. But her hands trembled. “You are welcome to ride in the carriage, Lord Hawke. Considering your generosity to my sister, how could I possibly turn you away?”
She saw the surprise register in his dark eyes. But he only gave her a short bow. “If you will allow me a word with Bart, I will make the necessary arrangements for the horses.”
“I will have the innkeeper pack you a luncheon,” Mrs. McCaffery said, and as quickly as that the details of their altered traveling status were adjusted. The older woman returned to the inn. Sarah trailed after Lord Hawke, and Olivia was left standing alone beside the carriage. The enclosed carriage she would very shortly share with Neville Hawke.
Good lord. What had she done?
She had less than ten minutes to compose herself before John and the guard climbed into the driver’s box, and Lord Hawke stepped into the carriage. She was already inside, with her bonnet and gloves off, and her book open on her lap.
“You may use that pillow,” she said when he sat opposite her. Then she turned her attention to the window and the two who’d abandoned her to this awkward situation. “Be careful, Sarah,” she called from the window. And you too, Mrs. Mac.” When they grinned and waved gaily to her, she gritted her teeth. “No jumping,” she added, under her breath. Then she focused her eyes deliberately back upon her novel.
It was nearly impossible, however, for her to keep them there.
The carriage lurched forward, wheeling slowly through the posting house yard and out into the highway, turning north. The horses settled into a regular pace; the carriage creaked and rocked. The lanterns and window shades swayed, and a midday breeze laden with the scents of grass and horses and fecund earth gusted warm against Olivia’s cheek. The morning journey had been no different from this, she told herself. Nor had yesterday’s.
And yet everything was different.
Across from her, Neville Hawke had positioned the pillow against the side wall and leaned back upon it, his legs sprawled across the seat and into the empty aisle. They were long legs, she noted from beneath the veil of her lashes. Long legs snugly encased in dark gray twill breeches that displayed powerfully muscled thighs and well-shaped knees. His lower legs were covered in tall riding boots, well worn but of the finest quality. Probably his favorite riding boots, worn when there was no need to impress. That he felt no need to impress her left her somewhat unsettled.
He’d tucked his gloves into his pocket, and his bare hands lay folded across his stomach. Square palms and long square-tipped fingers. His hands were big, she noted, just like the rest of him.
She focused harder on page 71 of her book. They were too big, she decided, recalling how those hands had swallowed up hers when they’d danced. Indeed, no matter what the occasion, by his very presence he seemed always to swallow up everything: her hands when they’d waltzed; her will when they kissed.
She took a deep breath.
He even seemed to swallow up the air when they were enclosed together as they were now.
“What are you reading?”
She jerked in alarm and the book slid right off her lap. He retrieved it, then thumbed idly through the pages. “Emma. I hope this is one of those sensational novels frowned upon by the clergy.”
Olivia eyed him warily. “Why should you hope for that?”
“Because it would confirm my opinion of you.” He smiled, a slow, lazy grin made even more lazy by his semirecumbent posture, and offered the book to her.
“No doubt you expect me to ask just what that opinion is,” she retorted.
“I believe you already know.”
Olivia wanted to shrug off his words, so full of meanings she did not entirely comprehend. If he intended to rattle her nerves, he was succeeding most admirably. All she could do, however, was to affect the same dismissive manner she used with other men she wished not to engage in prolonged conversation. “Enjoy your nap, Lord Hawke. I know I shall enjoy my reading.”
She reached for the slim volume he held out. In the transfer, however, their hands touched—merely the graze of their fingers. Nothing more. But there were no gloves to dilute the impact, no supple leather to disguise the warmth of that momentary contact. Olivia sucked in a little breath and clutched the book in her hands, and this time she stared straight at him.
“I don’t know what your game is, Lord Hawke, but I do not wish to play it.”
He heaved a great sigh. “No game, Olivia—Miss Byrde. I wish only the luxury of a nap.” So saying, he shifted his great length into a more comfortable position, folded his arms across his chest, and closed his eyes.
For long minutes silence reigned in the warm confines of the carriage. It was Olivia who broke it. “I notice you do not sleep well at night.”
After a short silence he answered. “No.”
She cleared her throat, then plunged on. “Is that why you drink so much?”
He opened one eye. “Should I assume any answer I make will find its way into your journal?”
The Matchmaker Page 16
