How on earth was she to deal with him?
How was she to avert the catastrophe bearing down upon her?
She turned down the lamp and pulled the sheets up to her chin. He’d given her a week to decide. That meant she had a week to figure a way out of this mess. A week to avert an utter fiasco.
But though Olivia’s waking moments were consumed by fear and rage and frustration at Neville Hawke’s high-handed threat, when she finally slept she dreamed of laughter and joy and peace. In her dreams she rode a beautiful mare, and beside her rode a beautiful man. A baby gurgled and cooed, birds sang, and the sun shone. When she awoke, for the first few moments of the day she simply lay in her bed, well rested, marveling at how utterly content she felt.
And why should she not be content? She was away from town, in her own home with the clean scent of lemon wax and fresh country air surrounding her. She’d been right to come back to Byrde Manor, she thought, stretching like a lazy, well-fed cat. Her family was here with her, everything was perfect.
Then she remembered her guests, and her neighbor—and what they’d done together—and she bolted upright. Everything was not perfect. In fact, matters could not be worse!
She stared at the window in alarm. It was just past dawn.
She had only a few hours to prepare herself for the dreaded jaunt to Woodford Court.
At the last minute she opted to play the coward.
As their extensive party filed out into the courtyard, the women climbing into the open phaeton, the men onto their horses, Olivia pleaded a headache. Despite her mother’s cajoling and James’s suspicious looks, she remained adamant. So they rode out without her, the men casually dressed in riding breeches and short frock coats, the women arrayed like colorful birds in the open carriage.
No sooner had they departed, however, than Olivia began to worry anew. What might Neville say to them? Would he be angry enough at her absence to blurt out everything? She was terrified to face him and just as terrified not to be there with the others. How had he managed to turn an outspoken, generally fearless woman into such a quivering little coward?
“Botheration,” she muttered. “Damn the man,” she added, deciding he deserved more forceful curse words. “Damn you for the most troublesome, high-handed, deceitful wretch I’ve ever had the misfortune to know,” she swore, stamping her foot in agitation. Then she snatched up her riding ensemble from her armoire. If she didn’t hurry he might paint a picture even more dreadful than what had actually passed between them. She wouldn’t put it past him.
Once up on Goldie, her own mare that had been a gift from Humphrey upon her tenth birthday, Olivia felt a trifle more in control. After all, no one could actually force her to marry if she was truly opposed to the match. They couldn’t march her down the aisle and drag the words out of her mouth. They might try, but they would not succeed.
She patted Goldie’s neck and urged her into a slow, rocking canter. When her hat slid off and swung behind her back by its strings, she urged the mare on even faster. It felt so good to ride this swiftly, with the wind in her hair. She felt stronger and better able to face the coming confrontation. Even if Lord Hawke went so far as to cause a scandal, she decided she could survive it. She would simply remain here at Byrde Manor, away from all the malicious talk in London. She’d been thinking of remaining here anyway, so her plans need not change on that score. Besides, the gossip would die down in time. Soon enough a new scandal would come along to occupy all the twittering brains that made up most of society.
Her mother would be horrified, though, as would James. They would be publicly humiliated. As for Sarah, in six years the girl would have her own come-out. Would Sarah’s prospects be damaged by her older sister’s behavior now?
Olivia slumped in the saddle and Goldie responded by slowing her eager pace. What a turmoil!
Then a new thought crept into Olivia’s head, an idea too foreign to consider. Yet once there, it would not go away. What if she consented to marry Neville Hawke?
What if she just agreed to his demand, as unfair as it was?
Her brow creased in earnest thought. Her mother would be thrilled, of course, as would Sarah. James would be satisfied. As everyone agreed, Neville Hawke matched her in rank and fortune, and their lands did run together.
Certainly they were well matched in the passions of the body.
Olivia groaned at that shameful thought. Oh, but this was an impossible situation.
Still, the idea of marrying Neville Hawke would not go away. As she approached the small village of Kelso she decided to at least consider the idea for a while, to weigh the matter unemotionally—if that were possible. If not for his drinking, she would probably have found him more than acceptable. But he did drink—far too much, as she’d sadly come to learn.
Then again, he had vowed to quit. Could she believe him? She just did not know. She sighed. She would just have to see how Lord Hawke behaved today. Then she would make her decision.
Once in the village, Olivia stared about with considerable interest, for no matter her decision, this place was soon to become her home. Though not excessively prosperous-looking, it was, at least, neat and well maintained. A slat-sided cart rumbled by on uneven wheels, carrying a load of produce in burlap sacks. Several boys and two old men fished off the bridge, while another fellow on a tall ladder trimmed thatch on a substantial-looking cottage. As she turned for the bridge, she saw a small town green in the opposite direction, and across it, an old Norman-styled church.
She hadn’t yet called on the vicar, she realized. She would have to remedy that at once.
She turned Goldie to cross the bridge over the river Tweed. There she saw a few more cottages, small places set behind the stone wall that edged the north side of the road. Toward the rear of the tiny residences a woman hung clothes out to dry. In the common front yard three children played.
When they spied her they ran to the road and one of them, a little boy about five years old, swiftly clambered onto the wall and stood, balancing himself with outstretched arms. It put him nearly face to face with Olivia. But like the two little girls hanging on the wall, he did not speak but only stared at her through wide blue eyes.
She drew Goldie to a halt. “Hello,” she began, smiling at his serious little face. “I believe I may be lost. I was wondering, do you think you might direct me to Woodford Court?”
“Woodford Court?” one of the two little blond girls said. “Why, that’s easy enough to find. Just go down the road that-away.” She pointed. “Why d’you want to go there?”
Olivia smiled at the child. She was old enough to have lost two teeth already and so had a funny, gap-toothed grin, “I’m going to meet with someone.”
“Lord Hawke?” The boy finally spoke. Olivia shifted her smile to him, but he did not smile back. His eyes remained fixed on her, however, dark blue eyes, moody and suspicious.
“Yes. Lord Hawke, among others.”
“We saw them other riders,” the gap-toothed girl said. “How come you didn’t go with them?”
For a moment Olivia did not answer, she just kept staring at the boy. Had she seen him somewhere before? He looked so familiar. “I … um … I overslept,” she finally replied.
The third child, obviously unwilling to be left out of the conversation, piped up with, “My mother says the quality always oversleeps.”
Olivia’s eyebrows arched. “Does she now?”
Just then the woman hurried over, abandoning her laundry. “Mary. What are you saying? And Margaret. The two of you get home to your mother this very minute.” She snatched the boy down from his perch on the wall, then held him close, pressing him back against her legs while her hands crossed protectively over his chest. Her expression seemed resentful, but her words were polite enough. “Can I be helping you, miss?”
Olivia smiled at her, but received no more response from the woman than she had from her son. That it was her son, Olivia had no doubt, even though they looked nothing
alike. Her eyes were brown, as was her hair. With the spattering of freckles across her cheeks, she was a soft, warm-looking woman, despite her cool expression. The boy, however, had raven hair to contrast with his striking blue eyes, and his summer tan emphasized his coloring.
In that regard he reminded her of Neville.
Neville!
She must have gasped, or in some other manner revealed the shocking turn of her thoughts, for the woman’s hold on the child tightened. She whispered in the boy’s ear, then gave him a little shove toward the cottage. With disbelieving eyes, Olivia watched him head over to his two playmates, only once turning to give her a last unsmiling look.
Could it be true? Was that little boy fathered by the lord of Woodford Court?
“I’ll thank you not to single my boy out for your animosity.”
Olivia’s head jerked around at the woman’s belligerent words. “Animosity? I assure you, I would never—”
“You’re Miss Byrde, aren’t you? The lady as has come to live at Byrde Manor.”
“Well, yes, I am. But—”
“If I could’ve kept his parentage hidden I would’ve,” she broke in again. “But I can’t. He looks too much like his father to be deceiving anyone. But I’ll not have him slighted for it. Not even by you high-and-mighty types. An’ you needn’t complain to Lord Neville about me oversteppin’ my bounds.” She sniffed and folded her arms across her chest. “He’s made it clear he’ll provide for me and my Adrian, no matter what.”
Olivia had been taken aback by the sight of the child Adrian. No denying that. And the woman’s unexpected confrontation had caught her completely off guard. But she bristled at the woman’s assumption that she would do anything to slight an innocent child, and her temper flared at the woman’s contemptuous tone.
Her tightened grasp upon the reins caused Goldie to snort and stamp. The animal was impatient to be off. For that matter, so was Olivia. But first she needed to conclude this awkward conversation. Her chin jutted forward. “I assure you, madam, that I would never blame a child for its parents’ behavior. As for you, you have my complete sympathy. It’s plain that your past associations with the gentry have soured your disposition. Understandably so. Rest assured that I shall keep your experience in mind in my future dealings with Lord Hawke.”
Then she turned Goldie and urged her up the road. She heard the woman call out to her, but she ignored her. What she wanted was to gallop, to escape from her emotions in the dangers of a headlong dash up the narrow curving road. But she did not gallop. She rode as a lady ought: straight back and decorous pace, never revealing the emotions that seethed just beneath her composed exterior.
She should not be so disappointed in the man, Olivia told herself repeatedly on the short ride to Woodford Court. She should not be so angry with him. It was not unheard of for men of the peerage and landed gentry to get babes upon lesser folk. Servants; working women; the daughters of their tenants. For all she knew, her father might have gotten a child on some poor woman. But young ladies were not supposed to understand about such things.
At least Lord Hawke was supporting his child, she told herself. But she was angry and disappointed. And hurt.
At least he was single and not dallying behind his wife’s back, she rationalized. But would he cease such behavior once he wed?
Her mouth turned down. Not likely. Her father certainly hadn’t. He’d continued to drink and he’d continued to dally where he ought not. Why should she expect any better of Neville Hawke? Olivia squared her shoulders against the disappointment she felt. To think she’d actually been considering marriage to the man!
But there was no way she could agree to an alliance with him now, she told herself as she reached the pair of massive pillars that marked the entry to Woodford Court. If she’d had the slightest doubt on the subject of marrying him, she had it no more. Whatever trials she might face in the weeks to come, they would surely be easier than marriage to a drunken philanderer.
But her relief at having escaped his clutches did nothing to assuage Olivia’s anger at him. As his property revealed itself—the long shaded allée of spruce trees, the carefully tended wood lot that framed several picture-perfect vistas—even the pair of swans that glided across a lily-ringed pond increased her ire. His estate was magnificent, with the mature trees and moss-edged stone fences that bespoke centuries of loving care. Many a lord with considerably higher title did not possess nearly so lovely a home.
Then she came around a bend in the drive, the house appeared beyond another small lake, and she actually drew Goldie to a halt.
It was a castle, or more accurately a fortress. An old Scottish fortified house, built during an earlier, more tumultuous time. A tall stone tower punctuated the roof, providing a view over the surrounding lands. A stout wall formed a protected courtyard in front of the U-shaped house, giving the distinct feeling of a bailey. Today, however, instead of fending off invaders, the tall metal-strapped gates stood open to welcome the lord’s guests.
As Olivia rode slowly between the two gate towers, she felt very like a poor medieval maiden might, being thrust into her enemy’s stronghold—and everyone but she blind to the danger he presented.
A skinny young man ran out to greet her. “Good morning, miss. Are you come to see Lord Hawke?”
Despite her simmering rage she forced an appropriate smile. “Yes. I believe the rest of my family is already here.”
In short order he took Goldie in hand, then directed her toward the small party touring the stables. She spied Neville at once. His back was to her as he strolled between Lord Holdsworth and James, the three of them deeply immersed in talk of horses and bloodlines and racing times. Sarah hung on a stall door, offering a dried apple to a pretty young blazefaced animal. The others meandered behind them, Viscount Dicharry in the clutches of Mrs. Wilkinson and her aging daughter, the Skylocks behind them, and bringing up the rear, Augusta and the animated Mr. St. Clare.
For a moment Olivia held back and just observed the scene. Her mother looked particularly beautiful today, dressed in a shade of blue that never failed to flatter her, much that Archie seemed to care. But Augusta was not sulking. Instead she made the most of her present companion, while at the same time studying her environs with a calculating expression. It was the expression Olivia had come to think of as her “society mama in search of a son-in-law” expression. Augusta already approved of Lord Hawke as a man—more was the pity. It was plain to see that she approved equally well of his properties.
It was enough to make Olivia reconsider and retreat before anyone noticed her.
There was, unfortunately, no time for her to do that, for as Augusta scanned the long row of stalls filled with valuable horseflesh, her eyes fell upon Olivia. At once her face lit up with satisfaction.
“There you are!” She patted Mr. St. Clare on the arm, then disentangled herself from him and made her way over to Olivia. Her arms spread wide in greeting, but her eyes gleamed with speculation.
Olivia could have groaned. Of course Augusta would choose to believe the worst, that Olivia had been drawn to Woodford Court despite the splitting headache she’d claimed, drawn here by the lure of Neville Hawke—which was on one level partially true.
When Augusta pressed her palm to Olivia’s brow, Olivia ducked her head. “It was a headache, not a fever. And I’m much better.”
Augusta pursed her lips knowingly, “I’m so pleased to hear you’re better. It must be that wonderful tisane Mrs. McCaffery makes. I swear, that concoction cures nearly every ill known to mankind. But come. Come, my darling, and join us. Look, everyone!” She gestured to the others. “Olivia has come after all.”
Olivia wanted to cringe. What had possessed her to come trailing after them? She must appear like some child afraid to miss out on the least amount of fun. As for what Neville Hawke thought …
She didn’t care, she told herself. She didn’t care at all, for she already thought the very worst of him.
S
till, she did not want to reveal her feelings here in front of everyone, and so she was relieved when James made his way to her side. “That’s more like the sister I know.” He circled her shoulders with one arm and drew her over to where Neville and Lord Holdsworth stood. “There’s not much that can keep our Livvie down.”
“We’re to have a picnic,” Sarah announced, leaping down from the stall door. “But first Lord Hawke is going to show us this year’s foals.”
“How lovely,” Olivia replied, assiduously avoiding Neville’s avid gaze.
Fortunately Augusta stepped in and, hooking one arm in Neville’s and the other in Lord Holdsworth’s, she imperiously steered the two men down the stable’s long central aisle. “Well I, for one, have worked up an appetite. All this outdoor air, you know. Let us continue on with the tour, Lord Hawke. You, Archie, and James may finish your debate about grain-fed cattle versus open range over tea and biscuits.”
Olivia had to give her mother credit, for she had a way of taking people in hand, especially men, and then charmingly directing them precisely where she wished them to go. It was the same talent Sarah had begun to develop of late. Too bad she was not so adept at it, she fretted, as they wandered down the stables, then out toward a fenced field spotted with horses.
Woodford Court was a handsome and industrious estate, that was plain to see as the tour wended along. Neatly maintained. Humming with activity. People, horses, chickens—even the dogs and cats appeared healthy and well fed. Yet still Olivia glared daggers at its lord’s back. Competent he might be in matters of property and money—much more so than she had been with Byrde Manor—but he was still a despoiler of women and sire to who knew how many children outside the bounds of wedlock.
As if he sensed her sharp glare, he turned his head and gave her a brief but intense smile—the wretch! When he turned back to his other guests, she was left with the unpleasant sensation of dangling on tenterhooks, breathless, nervous, and furious. Still, she had no alternative but to go along, at least for now, with this charade.
The Matchmaker Page 24
