by Amanda Scott
Cathe disappeared to do her bidding, and Mollie sank lower in the big tub. There was no time to luxuriate, however, nor was the temperature of the water likely to remain even lukewarm much longer. So, with a small sigh, she began to lather her body with the delightful jasmine-scented soap smuggled in only the week before from France. The scent was heady, and she remembered that she had also acquired a small bottle of jasmine oil as well. She would use a drop or two to scent the oatmeal before Cathe brushed it through her hair.
Rinsing the soap away, Mollie stood up, letting the water run off her slim, white, delicately shaped body as she reached for the towel Cathe had left draped over the back of a chair, near the fire. She was still drying herself when Cathe returned, carrying a bowl of dry oatmeal flakes. It took very little time to add the oil and rub the oatmeal into Mollie’s hair but longer to brush it out again, and Cathe insisted upon doing the job properly.
“’Twould not do t’ go scattering flakes as ye walk, m’lady.”
“No, but do hurry, Cathe. I don’t wish to greet his lordship in my shift.”
“I doubt ’e’d object, m’lady,” Cathe responded with a grin. “Not after bein’ away four long years, ’e won’t.”
The girl’s words stopped the breath in Mollie’s throat. Until that moment, she had been concerned only with righting her appearance before he saw her. Now she began to consider what, exactly, his homecoming might mean to her.
She gazed at her reflection in the glass above the dressing table, realizing she was not the same naïve young girl he had left behind four years before. Oh, her face was much the same: still the same oval shape, with the same pointed, stubborn little chin, the same wide, generous mouth, the same dusting of freckles across the dainty, tip-tilted nose, and the same arched, expressive brows above the same dark-lashed, crystal-clear green eyes. Her hair was perhaps a few shades lighter, thanks to her habit of letting it flow free and hatless while she rode at breakneck pace over the wealds in any kind of weather. That habit was responsible, too, for the light tanning of her face and hands, for as often as not she forgot her gloves as well. She looked at her hands and shook her head.
“My nails are a disgrace, Cathe.”
“Aye, m’lady, and ’aven’t I told ye time and again ye must ’ave a care. Miss du Bois would ’ave seven kinds of fits an she could see ’em now.”
“Well, she wouldn’t, because she would never have allowed them to come to such a state.” Then, when Cathe’s face fell ludicrously, Mollie added with a laugh, “Don’t fall into the dismals, goose. I’m not blaming you. ’Tis my own fault that I’ve allowed myself to reach such a pass that I’m dependent on my dresser to trim and polish my nails for me. I’m capable enough to run the estates without so much as a word of advice from my—or rather, his lordship’s—bailiff, yet I cannot attend to the simplest matters for myself. ’Tis a ridiculous state. But I do wish Mathilde had not chosen this moment to visit her family in Christchurch.”
“’Twas to give Miss du Bois a well-deserved rest, m’lady, and well ye know it. She returns the end o’ the week to go wi’ ye to London. Let ’er enjoy ’er vacation now.” As she talked, Cathe had swept Mollie’s hair into a pile of curls atop her dainty head. The style gave her slender neck a fragile appearance and emphasized the daintiness of her small, well-shaped ears. It also made her eyes appear larger than ever and gave her an innocent air that Mollie hoped would get her through that first, dreaded interview with her husband. While, behind her, Cathe shook out the folds of a pale-green muslin gown with narrow darker-green ribbons woven through the lace trimming of the bodice and puffed sleeves, Mollie pulled a few tendrils loose from the coif to soften the line around her face and neck. Biting her lips and pinching her cheeks, she wondered if there would be a need to apply a touch of rouge. She often did so in London, but rarely here in Kent, where the practice was more likely to be frowned upon. She decided against it.
As Cathe helped her into the pale-green gown, Mollie was aware of a growing excitement that seemed to begin somewhere deep inside her and spread through her, giving a glow of warmth to her entire body. What would he expect of her? Would he assume that he need only walk through the door to take up all his rights and privileges as master of Hawkstone again? No doubt. Such was the way of men. From Cathe’s words, it was clear that everyone else expected him merely to take up where he had left off. A little shiver raced through her at the thought. What would he do if she defied him? If she told him he did not have the right merely to move back to his bed and board when the whim struck him to do so? What, then?
Mollie turned obediently when Cathe told her to do so, and held out first one hand, then the other, to have her nails trimmed. Over the maid’s shoulder she caught a glimpse of herself in the glass again and licked her lips nervously.
Hawk would no doubt already be annoyed with her if his relatives had informed him about even half the things she feared they might have felt it their duty to tell him. She tried to remember if she had ever seen him angry. All she could call to mind, however, was a lilting laugh and a pair of gray Colporter eyes that crinkled at the corners more often than not. In the face of his father’s fury, Hawk had customarily been tight-lipped, and the gray eyes had taken on a chilly glaze, but she couldn’t remember him ever losing his temper. And if he hadn’t lost it with his father, chances were good that he simply never lost it. Still and all, she decided, straightening her shoulders and lifting her chin, it wouldn’t do to cross him straightaway. Not, at any rate, before one had at least an inkling of which way the wind might blow.
Thanking Cathe and taking a last look at her nails, which, though much improved, still were a long way from meeting Mathilde du Bois’ high standard of perfection, Mollie scooped up a creamy, light wool shawl to protect herself against the chilly drafts in the great hall, and sallied forth to welcome her lord and master home from the wars, confident that she looked every inch the lady of the castle.
She heard his generous laughter as she approached the landing of the huge double staircase that descended in twin arcs to either side of the great hall below. From the landing itself she could see them all gathered before a huge fire, even larger than the one in the rear hall. There were several men, a beaming Lady Bridget, who was seated in a Sheraton armchair to one side of the hearth, and a dancing Lord Harry, clearly unable to contain his excitement at having his eldest brother home at last. The boyish voice piped above the others’.
“Can I go to Eton sir? Uncle Andrew said ’twas for you to decide, ’cause Aunt Biddy said I wasn’t strong enough, which ain’t nothing but stuff, ’cause I’m tough as whitleather. Only ask Ramsay. He says—”
“Hush, bantling.” Hawk’s tone was offhand, for his attention had been claimed, as she had meant it to be, by the sight of his slender, beautiful young wife, gracefully descending the broad, sweeping stairs to meet him. The shawl, draped negligently over one arm, trailed behind her on the steps, beside the short demitrain of her gown. It seemed as if she was unaware of any need to manage either one. Her head was high. The hand not holding the shawl rested lightly on the highly polished handrail. She was looking at him, her gaze seeming to hold his easily. There was a sparkle in her eyes, and although her soft, rosy lips were slightly parted, every poised inch of her bespoke the nobility of her heritage and her rank.
Hawk strode forward to meet her at the bottom of the stairs.
Mollie had heard him hushing the boy, and her first thought was that while she had remembered the lilt in his laughter, she had forgotten that particular caressing timbre of his low-pitched voice. Even the two words, spoken in that offhand manner to Harry, were enough to send tremors of excitement racing through her body. When he looked straight into her eyes, she felt mesmerized, as though she were suddenly walking on air. Though she could not take her eyes from his, she was keenly aware of his size as he strode to meet her. Hawk seemed to have grown both broader and taller in the years they had been apart.
He had not yet take
n time to change clothes. He wore a dark jacket, cut loosely to allow room for his massive shoulders to move without binding, but the buckskins encasing his legs did little to conceal the ripple of well-developed thigh muscles. His cordovan riding boots were mud-spattered. He was darkly tanned, and his thick, tawny hair, though darker than hers, was nearly as sun-streaked. He smiled ruefully as he took her small hand in his much larger one.
“Good day, my lady. Forgive me for tarrying here when I should have been taking the opportunity to rid myself of all this dirt.”
His features were as harsh as she remembered them, but the gray eyes under the straight brows were warm and glowing. Again her body responded of its own accord. Mollie could feel her breasts swelling as the nipples pressed against the fabric of her chemise. Color touched her cheeks when his gaze drifted to her cleavage, but her voice was steady enough when she spoke.
“’Tis of no account, sir, if you will but forgive me for taking so long in preparing myself to welcome you home.” Afraid he would misinterpret matters if she kept staring at him so blatantly, Mollie let her eyelids droop slightly, as if the gesture might somehow prevent him from seeing straight into her mind. But then she discovered she was more aware than ever of the fact that he still held her hand in his.
“You look charmingly, Mollie,” he said quietly, “and you smell delightfully of jasmine. Come and meet my travel-worn companions. The thin one there by Aunt Biddy is Jamie Smithers. I believe you’ve met him before.”
“Indeed I have,” Mollie answered serenely, smiling at the tall dark-haired man, dressed with the same casual but neat air that his host affected. “How nice to see you again, Sir James.” Smithers bowed.
“And the foppish gent with his hands in his pockets, leaning against the mantelpiece, is Lord Breckin. Have you met my lady before, Breck?”
“Not had the honor,” the heavyset, dandified gentleman said, straightening and giving a nod in Mollie’s direction. “Pleasure, ma’am.”
There were several other introductions to be made before the quick tread of boot heels from above heralded the arrival of Lord Ramsay. He hurried down the broad staircase with a grin and a hand outstretched to greet his brother.
“Hawk! Welcome. About time you decided to show your face around here again.”
“Thunder and turf!” exclaimed Hawkstone, giving the young man’s hand a hearty shake. “Ramsay? I’d never have recognized you, lad. You must have gained a full three stone since I last clapped eyes on you.”
“Thereabouts.” Ramsay chuckled, looking his brother over from head to toe. “You’ve changed a good bit, yourself.”
“Aye, I’ve put on a few pounds, but neither of us has changed as much as that young whelp yonder. What on earth have you been feeding him, Mollie?”
Mollie smiled at the glowing Harry. “He has a growing boy’s healthy appetite, sir, and will eat well nigh anything.” She had been watching her husband closely while he greeted Ramsay, trying to detect any sign of the annoyance she expected him to feel toward her. She was certain he would say nothing to her in front of the others, but she had hoped to be able to judge the extent of his displeasure and thus to be better prepared when the time came to meet it. As she looked up at him now, she saw nothing but warmth in his eyes.
“Mollie’s the one who hasn’t changed,” Ramsay said into the stillness that had followed Mollie’s comment. “She never seems to change at all.”
Surprisingly, Mollie saw that Hawk seemed shaken by his brother’s words. There was the faintest flicker of something that might have been irritation stirring in the gray eyes that looked down into hers, but she couldn’t, even with her vivid imagination, think the irritation was directed at herself. Nevertheless, a little shiver nudged at the base of her spine when she realized she was seeing but a trace of what might later be unleashed about her ears. Forcing a smile to her lips, she said, “Nonsense, Ramsay, everyone changes in four years, even the Lady Bridget.”
“Oh, dear,” said the plump little gray-haired lady seated near the hearth. It was clear to all of them that Mollie’s sudden reference to her had cast Lady Bridget into a state of some confusion. Withdrawing her hand from Hawk’s, Mollie hastened to her.
“Indeed, ma’am, ’tis true. But how I wish the rest of us could claim to have altered so charmingly. You quite put us in the shade, you know, with your gentle manners and your kindness to everyone.”
“How nice of you to say so, my love,” responded Lady Bridget with a smile that lit her pale-blue eyes. She patted Mollie’s hand. “Is it not pleasant to have dearest Gavin at home again? A man, you know, always seems to make things a deal more comfortable.”
“Now, how can you say so, Aunt Biddy,” Ramsay teased her, “when you know perfectly well that Papa never made anyone the least bit comfortable?”
Lady Bridget turned to him in flustered protest, but Mollie cut in swiftly. “Do not roast her, Ramsay. I shan’t allow it. You know very well that Aunt Biddy had long depended upon your father and has felt his loss most keenly. She has too much gentleness of spirit to tell you to your head that you’ve no business to be saying such things to her, but I have not.”
Ramsay only grinned at her, but Mollie recollected her manners at once when her husband’s voice sounded directly beyond her.
“It seems that even Mollie has changed,” he said gently. “Do you often take my unfortunate brothers to task in this manner, my lady?”
She turned to face him, contrite but determined to show him she would not allow anyone to torment Lady Bridget. The laughter in his eyes steadied her. “I do so only when they deserve it, sir, but I should not have spoken as I did in front of Sir James, Lord Breckin, and the others.”
“Don’t bother your head about them,” he said, casting a glance at the gentlemen in question. “Breck’s too tired, Jamie’s too addlepated, and the others too concerned with their own conversation to pay any heed. You, however,” he added, still gently, directing his glance at the elder of his two brothers, “ought to do so.”
“Ought I, indeed?” Lord Ramsay’s eyes were still twinkling, but both the twinkle and his smile faded when, after a brief silence, he looked questioningly from Hawk to Mollie and back again, the second time encountering a steady gaze with a hint of steel beneath it.
“You owe Aunt Biddy an apology for your hasty words, do you not?” Hawk said quietly.
Resentment flashed briefly in Lord Ramsay’s eyes before he turned to do his brother’s bidding, and Mollie was surprised to feel a similar resentment of her own at Hawk’s interference. It was one thing for her to light into Ramsay, quite another for Hawk to do so. How dared he walk in as if he owned the place, and begin by asserting his authority over them all! Not that it was not all of a piece with what she had expected from him.
It was a moment before she realized how ridiculous her thoughts were. Hawk did own the place. He had every authority. Clearly, Ramsay had realized that fact more quickly than she had, for his apology to Lady Bridget was as graceful as anyone might wish, and there was not the slightest trace of resentment when he turned to warm his back at the fire afterward.
Harry had been regarding them all rather measuringly. Now he stepped forward. “You haven’t said yet about Eton,” he informed Hawk with studied casualness.
“You’ve scarcely given me a moment to consider it, bantling,” Hawk replied reasonably. “’Tis not the sort of decision to be made in the twinkling of a bedpost. I shall have to think about it.”
“And talk to Uncle Andrew?”
“And talk to Uncle Andrew.”
Harry gave a sigh of resignation that brought a smile to Hawk’s lips. The boy eyed him speculatively. “Will you have to discuss with Uncle Andrew whether we can still go to London next week, also?”
Hawk lifted an eyebrow and glanced at Mollie. “You were planning to leave for town next week?”
“Yes, we were,” she replied. “’Tis the beginning of the Season, you know.”
“Ah, yes,
the Season.”
Was she imagining it, or was there a flicker of meaning in the gray eyes as he regarded her? “We can postpone our departure if you wish it, sir,” she said calmly.
“No, there is no need to do so. It suits my own plans admirably, I assure you.”
The gentlemen retired soon after that to prepare for supper, which was served earlier in the country than it would be served once they reached London. Harry followed the others, knowing that his tutor would be awaiting his return to the schoolroom, and Mollie found herself alone with Lady Bridget and Lord Ramsay.
“Oh, my dears,” said the elderly lady, “I was frantic when we heard he was coming and no one seemed to know where to find you. Wherever did you go?”
Mollie opened her mouth to speak, but Lord Ramsay beat her to it. “We merely went riding, Aunt Biddy. Nothing for you to be in a fidget about.”
“Yes, but do you know, I am nearly always in a fret when you two are out and about together. Only remember how angry Thurston was used to become when you got into scrapes, which you very often did.”
“Well, we are older now, and I, for one, am much better behaved,” Lord Ramsay pointed out. “I apologized very nicely for joking you, did I not?”
“Indeed you did, though it wasn’t necessary. I knew you were only funning. ’Tis simply that I begin to think of Thurston and how tragic and…”
Her voice trailed away, and with a speaking look at Ramsay, Mollie reached over to pat the smooth little hands folded neatly in Lady Bridget’s lap.
“We know how it is, ma’am. Though I do think,” she added a bit tartly, “that it was outside of enough for Hawk to go shoving his oar in when he can know nothing of the situation.”
“Well,” Ramsay admitted, “I felt that, too, for a moment, you know. Dashed awkward, ticking a fellow off in front of strangers like he did. Still and all—”
