by Amanda Scott
“Good Lord,” he said, chuckling. “I see a veritable Diana, sweetheart.” He let his gaze drift from her plaited hair to her leather top boots. “Do you often leave the castle in such apparel?”
Stricken, she looked down at herself. She had forgotten he knew nothing about her unconventional clothing. Everyone else was pretty well accustomed to it, although she made it a practice to keep out of Lady Bridget’s way when she was so attired. Lady Bridget did not approve, and Mollie had no wish to distress her. But now she looked warily at her husband, wondering what he would make of her breeches.
“Skirts get in my way when I shoot,” she said.
“I see.” A smile teased the corners of his lips. “Under the circumstances, I think I prefer that only one of us shall wear the breeches in this family.”
“Must I take them off, sir?”
“Not here, you mustn’t,” he replied hastily. “But I prefer you in skirts, my lady. Or without skirts. But without breeches altogether.”
She gazed at him speculatively. “I have said I would make every effort not to flout your authority, sir. But I truly prefer breeches to skirts when I am shooting. Would you be opposed to a small wager?”
“What sort of wager?” he asked, amusement in his eyes.
“Why, purely a sporting sort,” she assured him. “If I can outshoot you, I get to keep my breeches. If I cannot, I’ll shoot in skirts hereafter.”
Hawk cocked his head, his amusement deepening. “Perhaps no one has told you, but I am accounted to have a deft hand with a bow.”
“I have heard, sir. But we’ve only the one bow, which will give me the advantage, for I am accustomed to it, while you are not.”
“A lady’s bow is not my fancy,” he admitted, “but I daresay I can adjust to it rapidly enough.”
Indignation lit a spark in her eyes. “This is not a lady’s bow, sir. It has a fifty-pound draw. Haycock made it for me.”
With drawing respect, Hawk glanced at the target, where her arrows still lodged, one in the blue, two in the red, and the other nine in the gold. “Let me see that bow,” he commanded, holding out his hand. She gave it to him, and he tested it lightly, then held it out and drew the bowstring to his cheek. He did not attempt to hold it there, nor did he let it snap. He merely relaxed, turning to face her. “How shall we determine the winner, and what point advantage must I cede to you?”
“No advantage, sir.”
“Nonsense. I am quite willing to give you ten points, Mollie. I haven’t had a bow in my hand for a month or two, but if you will allow me two shots to find my point of aim at thirty yards, a ten-point advantage will soon disappear, I promise you.”
“If, at the end of this contest, you still wish to award me ten points extra, I shall accept them, sir. But I will not begin with an advantage merely because you are so foolish as to doubt my skill. We shall each shoot six arrows from thirty, then forty, then fifty yards. The one with the highest score at the end of the third round shall be the winner. Fair enough?”
“More than fair,” he said, a little grim now.
“Will two shots be sufficient to find your point of aim?” she asked sweetly. The only response being a sound more akin to a grunt than to human speech, she grinned to herself and went to collect her arrows.
Hawk took one from her, nocked it to the bowstring, drew swiftly, and let fly. The arrow lodged to the right in the red. His second shot also landed in the red, but it was much closer to the gold. Mollie’s eyebrows lifted slightly. Not bad for a man who hadn’t handled a bow in several months. He strode forward, pulled the arrows loose, then walked back to her.
“Shoot,” he said, handing her the bow. “We’ll each shoot two arrows at a time.”
Obediently, she took the bow from him and let fly her first two arrows. To her quiet delight both struck gold. Hawk’s first lodged near one of hers, but the second was a hairs-breadth inside the red circle. His jaw tightened a little. By the end of the round, Mollie was three points ahead. Her first shot from forty yards landed near the outer edge of the red circle, however.
“Damn,” she muttered. She heard a low chuckle beside her.
“I know grown men who would be glad to hit that mark from such a distance,” Hawk said.
“I do not generally shoot so wide,” she retorted. “Your presence is making me nervous for some reason. Or fear that I might lose my breeches. I did not think you would be so good.” He only chuckled again, and she turned back to the target, taking a moment to steady her concentration. Then, nocking her arrow, she lifted the bow, drew, and released as she exhaled. The second arrow sped straight to the center of the gold. She handed the bow to Hawk.
When they moved back to fifty yards, Mollie was still three points ahead, but once again her first shot struck red. Though her second went true, when Hawk’s first shot sped to the gold, she grimaced, barely refraining from stamping her foot. But he had already nocked his second arrow and she didn’t dare make the slightest noise. It, too, struck gold. The match was now dead even, and it stayed that way until they each had only two arrows left to shoot. Mollie took the bow from Hawk, nocked her first, and sped it on its way. It went true. Breathing a little easier, she nocked the second. When it, too, lodged in the center circle, she handed the bow to her husband.
Hawk’s first arrow landed beside Mollie’s. She gritted her teeth. A tie would be as good as a loss to her, for had she not said she would put off her breeches for good if she did not win? Hawk’s last arrow thumped into the target. He let out a long breath, and Mollie swore.
“I won’t take your ten points, either, damn you,” she said. He flicked a glance at her, his lips drawn together.
“I thought your eye was better than that,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“That last shot of mine is out.”
As they drew nearer the target, she could see that he was right. The arrow had lodged in the target at an angle. From a distance it had looked to be in the gold, but it was not. It was on the line between the two colors instead. Mollie chuckled. “Perhaps I will accept your ten points after all,” she said sweetly.
“We’ll have no gloating if you please,” Hawk said, grinning back at her. “A wife who wears pants is enough punishment for any man.”
“Well, you shoot better than I expected,” she confessed. “I was afraid for a moment or two that I should have to give them up.”
“You needn’t. I make good my wagers, though I’d take it kindly if you would refrain from coming here alone after this. You may keep your breeches, but next time you come out to practice, bring your groom.” He turned away, striding toward the butt to collect their arrows, leaving Mollie to stare after him, half-amused, half-angry. Her first inclination was to point out to him that he was dictating to her again, but she thought better of it. It was well within his power to forbid her coming to the meadow at all. Besides, she had won a victory, and it was no small victory at that. She suspected that it went much against the pluck with him to give in to her so gracefully, especially since he had clearly thought he was merely humoring her.
Chuckling a little to herself, she followed him and took the arrows as he handed them to her to replace in her quiver. Then, when she would have turned toward the horses, he stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.
She looked up at him, puzzled. “Sir?”
“Don’t go yet, sweetheart.”
“Was there something more you wished to say to me? You never said why you came after me.”
“I merely grew weary of accounts and crop yields and wished for pleasanter diversion. Your groom said you were here.” His voice had lowered, and there was an intimate note in it now that brought warmth to her cheeks. Her eyelashes fluttered a little, as though she would look away from him, but his hand cupped her chin. “Have you any notion what the sight of you in that outfit does to a man?” he asked gently.
“It has never seemed to disturb your brothers,” she replied, deeply conscious once again
of the way his voice and touch stirred her blood.
“They both regard you as a sister,” he pointed out. “I am glad, however, that neither Jamie nor Breck has been privileged to see you so attired. And I confess it does not please me overmuch that you appear this way before servants and stableboys.”
“You won’t change your mind?” Her eyes widened now at the thought that he might.
“No,” he said, pulling her closer. “I’m a man of my word, sweetheart. But I cannot deny that I’m glad we’ll be in London soon, where you won’t be tempted to dress as anything but the beautiful young woman you are.”
“Well, I might grow bored in London, too,” she teased, resting her cheek against his broad chest. “And there are butts in Hyde Park, you know.”
He gave her a shake. “Not for the likes of you, there aren’t. And I warn you, Mollie, it will be much the worse for you if I find—” He broke off, glaring, when he realized she was gazing up at him in wide-eyed innocence. “You little minx, you’re merely trying to find how far you can push me, aren’t you?”
“Well, you do have a tendency to come over dominating at the shake of a straw in the wind, sir, for all you think you’re the reasonable, fair-minded sort.”
“I am a reasonable man.”
“Only until your will is crossed,” she said, twinkling. “You will coerce me shamefully, sir.”
“Then it would behoove you to see that my will is seldom crossed,” he replied, smiling again.
Mollie shook her head, and her mouth turned down at the corners. “I foresee difficulties ahead.”
Hawk captured her chin again and tilted her face up. “Not if you begin as you mean to go on,” he said gently, lowering his lips to hers. His kisses were light ones at first, moving from her lips to her cheek, her eyes, the tip of her little nose, and then back to her lips again. But then, as the pace of her breathing began to increase, his touch became more demanding, more urgent. His tongue probed between her lips, and when hers darted to meet it, his hands slid to the buttons of her leather waistcoat and then to the lacing of the soft cotton shirt. Within moments her smooth, firm young breasts were bared to his touch. His fingers skimmed across their tips before his hand moved beneath the right one as though to test its weight.
Mollie stood on tiptoe, her hands moving across his chest, her passions leaping to respond to his every desire. Within moments, he had lowered her to the soft grass of the meadow, and his lips had moved from her mouth to her breasts, his fingers to the fastening of her breeches. For some moments she gave herself up completely to pleasure, but it soon became difficult to keep her mind on the business at hand. Suddenly, irrepressibly, she chuckled. Hawk lifted his head, looking at her curiously.
“My lord,” she said, grinning at him, “I’ve no objection to your choice of activity, but this location leaves something to be desired. Two days of sunshine have not been sufficient to dry this meadow. In truth, sir, my buckskins are already damp, and I shall soon be soaking wet!”
He grinned back. “I see no difficulty. We’ll simply return to the comforts of my bedchamber, where we will bring this delightful interlude to its proper conclusion.”
“In broad daylight?”
“We’ll draw the curtains.”
“But the servants will think we’re addled!”
“Nonsense. The servants will be envious.”
Mollie chuckled. “I begin to agree that the sooner we reach London, the better, sir. At least there you will be forced to behave in a civilized fashion.” But she made no further demur when he pulled her to her feet and began, most solicitously, to help her fasten her clothing.
6
LONDON WAS GRAY AND dismal when they arrived in Grosvenor Square after a tedious, day-long journey, but Mollie was nonetheless more than usually grateful to see the tall, elegant town house. Hawk and Lord Ramsay had ridden, but Harry, occupying the forward seat in solitary splendor, had chattered incessantly about all the sights he expected to see once they reached the metropolis. Between his excitement and Lady Bridget’s idle conversation, Mollie had soon been heartily bored and had found herself wishing that she might have been born a gentleman just so that she could ride alongside the carriage with the others.
She had no wish to dampen Harry’s enthusiasm or to offend gentle Lady Bridget, however, so she exerted herself to attend to them. At the second change, which was made in East Grinstead, she greeted Hawk’s invitation to take Harry up behind him with mixed emotions. Though grateful for the respite, she was conscious of a strong wish that it could be she, rather than Harry, who scrambled up to ride pillion behind the broad-shouldered marquess.
But now they were in London at last, and Harry could be turned over to his tutor, traveling with Hawk’s and Lord Ramsay’s men in the third carriage, behind Cathe, Mathilde du Bois, and Lady Bridget’s Prentice in the second. The spacious Hawkstone House entryway was warm and inviting. Ned Lofting, having traveled up from Kent with Mary Perfect the previous Friday, was there to greet them, impeccably attired in a long-tailed gray coat, well-pressed knee breeches, and a neatly tied cravat. Leaving the butler and his minions to attend to the baggage coach, the gentlemen went upstairs to change out of their riding dress, and Mollie and Lady Bridget retired to the first-floor drawing room, having first given orders that tea should be served to them there at once.
Mollie was amused to hear that since Mrs. Perfect had foreseen the request, tea would be immediately forthcoming. Mary Perfect was not married, but her elevation to the post of housekeeper had evidently made the change of title a necessary one—in her eye, at least. The housekeeper came herself to be certain their tea was all it should be.
She was a tall, slender, middle-aged woman with light-brown hair brushed severely off her forehead and confined in a neat coil at the nape of her neck. Her eyes were hazel, and her complexion unlined, despite her years. In black bombazine with just the smallest hint of a ruffle at collar and cuff, she presented the picture of efficiency. Her firm expression softened slightly when Lady Bridget complimented her on the appearance of the house.
“There was little enough to do when I arrived, my lady,” she said in her clear voice. “The town staff is very competent. I trust everything is to your satisfaction.”
Detecting an anxious note beneath the calmly spoken words, Mollie smiled. “We have every confidence in you, Perfect. The Bracegirdles would not have recommended Lofting or you, had they not believed you both completely capable.”
“Thank you, my lady.”
The door opened just then, and Lofting entered. “Begging your pardon, m’lady,” he said, “but Lady Andrew is below and wishes to know if you and her ladyship are at home.”
“Oh, for heaven’s—”
“Oh, dear,” said Lady Bridget in the same breath.
Lofting controlled his features admirably, but it clearly required an effort, and Mollie grinned at him. “I suppose you couldn’t simply tell her we’ve not arrived yet?”
“Mollie…dearest,” protested Lady Bridget in feeble accents.
“The baggage be scattered all over the hall, m’lady,” said the butler apologetically.
“And she would never believe we’d sent it on ahead,” Mollie sighed. “Very well, where have you put her?”
“In the main saloon, m’lady. She went in there herself. Just said she knew you was here and would want to see her.”
“Takes a deal for granted, does she not?” Mollie muttered. Then, seeing Lady Bridget’s shocked expression, she smiled. “Don’t fret, ma’am, I shan’t deny her. I suppose you’d better bring her up, Ned, but first send a man to inform the master of her arrival.”
“I sent Michael up immediate, ma’am, thinking if you wasn’t wishful to, perhaps the master would handle matters.”
“Very well,” Mollie told him, slightly nettled that he had sent for Hawk before coming to her. But she controlled her irritation, recognizing it for what it was. She and her husband had continued in charity with each oth
er for some days now. It was a state she enjoyed, and she had no wish to allow her own, admittedly often foolish little resentments to upset their good relationship.
“I dislike meeting Beatrix in all my dirt,” said Lady Bridget fretfully.
“Don’t bother your head about it, ma’am. It may prove to be a blessing in disguise. We can always tell her that, much as we enjoy her company, we simply must retire to refresh ourselves after so long and tiresome a journey. She detests traveling, you know, and so is very likely to believe us.”
Lady Bridget brightened considerably and was able to greet Lady Andrew’s sweeping entrance some moments later with all her natural graciousness. A tall woman, Lady Andrew Colporter carried herself with all the regal hauteur of a queen. Her salt-and-pepper hair was skillfully arranged in coils and twists atop her head, and her blue cambresine walking dress had been cut by a master hand. The dress was trimmed with sable, and she carried a large, matching muff over one hand. Her grande-dame attitude and the way she paused on the threshold when Lofting announced her almost brought Mollie to her feet as she had been trained to do as a child. Repressing the urge, not without a certain amount of pleasure, she greeted Hawk’s sharp-faced aunt with a nod as regal as the one returned to her and invited Lady Andrew to take a seat and join them in a dish of bohea. There were moments, she reflected as the older woman passed her to sit near Lady Bridget, when being a marchioness was truly stimulating.
It had been said of Lord Andrew Colporter’s wife by those who liked her least that marriage into the Colporter family had caused instant amnesia with regard to her antecedents. Lady Andrew never made mention of her own family, though Mollie knew she was a Wantage and therefore sprang from perfectly respectable roots. Nevertheless, Lady Andrew seemed to have put her family behind her, and when she spoke of “the family,” she referred, as everyone knew, to the Colporters. Indeed, Mollie believed that Lady Andrew was a good deal more conscious of what was due “the name” and Hawk’s position than Hawk was himself.
“Merciful heavens, Biddy!” Lady Andrew said as soon as the amenities were over and Lady Bridget had handed her a cup of tea, “I certainly hope you mean to furbish yourself up before you go into company. Your hair and that gown are sadly out of date!”
