by Amanda Scott
She knew precisely what he was asking her. It was a fairly common practice among the upper classes for ladies to entertain their lovers while their supposedly unsuspecting husbands were elsewhere. It was not common, however, for those ladies to entertain in their husbands’ own homes.
The prince’s invitation was scarcely the first of its nature that Mollie had received. Over the period of Hawk’s absence she had received any number of them. Several had even come from men who professed to be her husband’s very good friends, and many had come from gentlemen who clearly believed themselves to be offering to do her a favor. For the most part she had not been tempted by any of those offers. Nor was she tempted now. The only difference was that the prince’s was the first offer to come on such short acquaintance. Then, too, the casual nature of his invitation and the calm assumption that she would consider it made her wonder what he had heard about her before the countess had presented him.
She said nothing until the music stopped. Then, resting her hand lightly upon his forearm and keeping her voice noncommittal, she said, “I am flattered by your interest, Highness, but I fear I am the tiresome sort of woman who is devoted to her husband.” She saw Hawk approaching, alone, and for once there was little warmth in his expression. When he stepped up beside Stefanovich, the prince suddenly seemed smaller, less magnificent, somehow. “Have you been looking for me, my lord?” Mollie asked, smiling up at him in what she hoped would look to the prince like a devoted manner.
“I was. If you wish to make an appearance at Emily Cowper’s affair, we should take our leave now.”
She had made no such plans, but she knew better than to protest. He was ready to leave. Whatever purpose he had had in coming to Ashburnham House had been accomplished. She glanced toward the prince.
“Highness, may I present my husband, the Marquess of Hawkstone. Sir, this is his highness, Prince Nicolai Stefanovich, a member of Monsieur de Lieven’s retinue.”
“We met briefly earlier,” Hawk said. He spoke calmly enough, but Mollie was certain she detected an underlying curtness. “Shall we go, my lady? Your servant, sir.” He nodded to the prince, took Mollie’s hand, firmly placed it upon his forearm, and led her away. Looking up obliquely from under her lashes, Mollie noted the tightness in the muscles of his jaw and the way his lips seemed to thin into a straight line. A moment later they had found their host and hostess and made their farewells. The carriage was waiting at the end of the walkway.
“Where is Ramsay?” Mollie asked as her husband helped her into the coach.
“Gone a half hour ago, as soon as he’d made his bow to Prinny.” A flunky put up the steps and shut the door, and the coachman whipped up his horses.
“Gavin,” Mollie said a few moments later when the coach had passed through Berkeley Square without stopping, “are we not going to Emily Cowper’s?”
“No.” Silence fell upon them again.
“Gavin?”
“What?”
“Have I done something to vex you?” Her voice was small, surprising her. She hadn’t realized until the words were spoken how much the answer meant to her.
His hand found hers in the shadows and gave it a warm squeeze. “Have you not meant to vex me, Mollie?”
“N-no.”
“Only to punish me a little, then.” He made it sound like a statement of fact. In the glow cast by the carriage lamps she could see his face. He looked grim.
“Why do you say that, sir?” she asked, not at all certain she wanted to hear the answer.
But he seemed to give himself a little shake, and when he looked down at her again, his expression had relaxed. “I have not been a very good husband, sweetheart, and I have not the least right to blame you for being angry with me, but I’m afraid I must ask you to keep that Russian fellow at a distance.”
“I only met the prince tonight.”
“Did you? His attitude indicated a more intimate acquaintance than that.”
“Well, he is foreign, you know,” she said quickly, anxious to explain the matter to him. “I daresay that is why he is so particular in his attentions on such short acquaintance. I am persuaded he can mean nothing untoward.”
“Are you?” The question was a pointed one, and Mollie squirmed a little. She had noted this distressing habit of Hawk’s on previous occasions, when she had attempted to avoid discussion of an issue by making a glib statement. She hoped the prince meant nothing, and so she made hope into a statement of fact. But Hawk tended to look at matters in more precise shades of black and white. He disliked prevarication. When she did not answer him, his tone altered, becoming a shade sterner. “Do you truly believe that fellow has no motive other than simple friendship? Surely you recognize his type, Mollie.”
“I can take care of myself,” she muttered. “His attentions do not distress me, sir, whatever he may or may not hope to accomplish.” There was another small silence. She looked out of the window, staring at the houses as they passed along Mount Street.
“I forbid you to encourage his attentions,” Hawk said flatly.
Mollie stiffened, turning to face him. “Forbid me? You forbid me, sir?”
“I do. I know you do not wish me to interfere with your pleasures, madam, but I do not care to hear your name linked with his by the gossips, if you please.”
He had never sounded so stern before, and resentment churned in Mollie’s breast. She wanted nothing more than to lash out at him, to tell him he had no right to order her life. But the fact that he did have the right and the fear that he might take her to task over certain other matters stilled her tongue. Instead, she stared out the window again, pointedly ignoring him until they arrived in Grosvenor Square.
It was not particularly late, and she half-expected him to bid her good night before taking himself off again, but he did not. Instead, he ordered brandy sent to her sitting room, then placed an arm around her shoulders and gave her a little hug.
“Shall we go up, sweetheart?”
Both the coaxing note in his voice and the feeling of his arm across her shoulders sent a small thrill up her spine, but she ignored it, sending him a speaking look and saying nothing in response to his question, though she went with him obediently enough. A fire crackled cheerfully in the sitting-room fireplace, and there was a faint odor of wood smoke in the air. Mollie drew a little away from her husband.
“Mathilde will be waiting for me,” she said, her tone dismissing him.
“Send her away.” It was not a request.
Glancing at him first in defiance and then more uncertainly, she decided the time was not ripe for rebellion. She had no wish to hear him order Mathilde off to bed himself, so she walked quickly to the door to her own bedchamber and opened it. The room was empty.
“It is early yet,” Hawk said, close behind her. “Perhaps she did not expect you so soon. I will tell Lofting when he brings our brandy to send her to bed. You will have no further need for her services tonight.”
Lofting entered just then, so Mollie had no immediate opportunity to tell Hawk that he was becoming high-handed again, and when the butler had gone and the marquess turned toward her, holding the two brandy glasses in his hands, the words refused to come. He was smiling, but his expression was uncertain, as though he thought she might be about to lose her temper and was wondering how to deal with such an eventuality.
Her anger melted. She took the glass he held out to her. “Shall we sit by the fire, sir?” He agreed, but when she moved toward the smaller armchair, he took her arm and gently drew her with him to the larger one, pulling her down to sit in his lap. He had a comfortable lap, she thought as she snuggled against his chest. “I’ll crease your coat,” she said.
“No matter. Mawson will press it out again.”
She sipped the brandy, enjoying the warmth as it trickled down her throat. They sat quietly, watching the crackling fire.
Finally Hawk said, “I expected you to say more.”
“About the prince?”
; He nodded.
“You haven’t been jealous before, Gavin. Gwen said you would be, after the play at the King’s Theater. She expected you to fly up into the boughs because I was flirting so outrageously.”
His mouth twisted a little. “I was afraid of having my head handed to me on a platter if I ripped up at you that night.”
“What?” She stared at him, then her eyes narrowed as her mind raced back over the evening at the play. They had sat in the Colporter box with the Worthings, Lady Bridget, and Ramsay. Several people had visited them during the intervals, but no one…Her thoughts bumped into one another when she remembered the second interval. “Harriette Wilson! That’s it, isn’t it? You thought I’d fling it in your teeth that you’d visited her in her box.” When he nodded, still watching her warily, she shot him a saucy grin. “Does that mean you will let me do as I please so long as I extend the same courtesy to you, sir?”
He frowned, and for a moment Mollie feared she had gone too far. He certainly seemed to be taking her teasing in a more serious vein than she had intended.
“I don’t mean to give you that impression at all,” he said carefully. “I cannot explain all my motives to you just now, and for that matter, I cannot even claim that it is anything more than simple jealousy that makes me forbid you to pursue your acquaintance with that Russian fellow. And I certainly cannot expect you to trust me when the Lord knows you’ve little reason to do so.” He paused, sipping his brandy, then said, “I saw you flirting, right enough, and I didn’t like it. But I knew your intention was to punish me for not paying sufficient attention to you.” Mollie bridled, and Hawk smiled wryly, his free hand drawing idle patterns along the bare skin of her upper arm. “Was that not the case, sweetheart?”
“You warned me that you would be busy,” she said, sidestepping the question. But, as usual, he wouldn’t allow that.
“Did you not mean to punish me? Or did you wish to discover how far you could go before I would call a halt?”
“I never meant to make you angry,” she muttered.
“You still avoid my questions,” he said, “but I think you have said something more important than you know. We have each tried to avoid making the other angry. In fact, we have been at pains to keep our relationship a placid one. But neither of us is placid by nature, Mollie. We have been playing games. You have, because you wish to discover what manner of man you are married to. And I have, partly because there are still vestiges of guilt remaining and partly because I have a natural preference for peace over war. But this state of affairs cannot be good for either of us. We must be able to talk honestly with each other.”
Silence fell between them again as Mollie digested his words. A log shifted. There were fewer flames and more coals now in the fireplace, but the room was cozy, and Hawk’s fingers stroking her arm did nothing to distract her thoughts. She felt relaxed and secure. She remembered his admission that his antipathy to the prince might stem from simple jealousy. The thought lingered. What had he meant, precisely? Was he jealous because he counted his wife as one of his possessions, or did his feelings run deeper than that? She had not thought about his feelings toward her before. Or had thought about them only casually, as when she had realized she still had the power to attract him as a woman attracts a man. She was his wife. And Hawk was a proud man, so he would wish her to reserve her favors for him. But he had certainly never said he loved her. For that matter, even in bed, he was scarcely a demanding husband. He still treated her with the utmost consideration, almost as if he feared he might break her.
Had she been playing games, as he suggested? Perhaps she had. Perhaps he was right and she wanted to test him. Certainly, the moment she feared she might have angered him, she had ceased her foolish flirting and had begun to behave with more restraint. Did that not prove he was right? Or did it simply reflect the fact that she still didn’t know him very well, didn’t know how angry he might become or what that anger might prompt him to do. Lady Gwendolyn had shown a healthy respect for his displeasure, and she knew better than Mollie what to expect from him. It was all confusing, and she didn’t know that she could put her feelings into words even if that was what he was suggesting she should do. At any rate, it didn’t matter now, for he had finished his brandy, and his hands had become busier as a result.
His fingers fumbled briefly with the little silk bow at the center of her low-scooped neckline, but a moment later the ribbon was loose, and he held her left breast cupped in his hand. His fingertips brushed across the nipple, and when she gasped a little, Hawk smiled.
“You have such silky skin, sweetheart. I like to touch it.”
“Yours is hairy,” she replied, pushing her brandy glass into his hand so that he could set it on the table near the chair. Her hand moved to the buttons on his waistcoat. “Moreover, you’ve got a good many more layers of clothing to protect it. Should we not go to bed, Gavin?”
“No one will disturb us here,” he said, shifting her in his lap to give his hands clearer access to her lovely, firm breasts.
She had the waistcoat open now and was working at his shirt, trying to ignore the feelings that went racing through her body at his lightest touch. Suddenly he placed a hand beneath her knees as if he meant, after all, to carry her to his bedchamber. But he did not stand up. Instead, he merely shifted from the chair to the hearth rug, where he laid her down before him. Mollie looked up at him as he shrugged off his coat.
“I feel like a captive damsel must have felt in medieval days,” she said.
Grinning at her, he draped his coat over the chair, an act that would undoubtedly earn him a scold from his valet. The waistcoat followed. Then his shirt.
The dying firelight sent golden highlights dancing in the crisp curly hair on his chest and gave his bronzed skin a glow that made Mollie long to touch him.
“Gavin, come to me,” she murmured huskily, reaching her arms up to him. He caught her up, holding her close for a moment. Then his hands were busy with her gown again. It was but a moment’s work before it joined his clothing on the chair.
He pressed her back against the hearth rug, but this time he lay beside her, his hands caressing her velvety body while his lips claimed hers in a deep, exploring kiss. Mollie responded instantly, every fiber urging him to greater lengths of passion. Hawk’s tongue played games with hers while his teasing hand moved lower, first with the stroking palm flat against her stomach, then lower yet, until his fingers were enmeshed in the soft curls at the juncture of her thighs.
Still he was gentle. Even when his lips left hers and moved to her breasts, when Mollie began to feel as if her entire body were on fire and longed for release, he still seemed to be holding himself back, as though he were afraid to match his passions to hers. It occurred to her then that she was doing little more than wishing he would show more urgency. Perhaps it was up to her to stir him to the heights she inhabited. Her hands had been moving idly before. Now she gave them purpose, using all that he had taught her to awaken him. What had been gentle loveplay soon turned into a struggle between them to see which of them could move the other onto higher planes of passion. Grinning, she pushed him onto his back to prove to him that her lips were as talented as his own, but it was not long before, with a low moan, he toppled her backward again, taking her with all the sense of urgency she could have hoped for. When his body relaxed against hers again, Mollie looked up into his eyes, smiling contentedly. He gazed back at her, his expression intensely speculative.
“You enjoyed that,” he said, and the statement had a flavor of accusation.
She cocked her head a little on the hearth rug. “Should I not?”
“I was afraid I might have hurt you.”
“You are always afraid you might hurt me,” she pointed out. “I am not made of glass, Gavin. I do not break so easily.”
“I guess I know that now, but still, you are so small.”
“You would prefer an amazon?”
He chuckled, relaxing. “No, sweethe
art, I would not prefer an amazon.”
“Well, I may not be overtall, sir, but I am not so small as you seem to believe either. I am a woman, Gavin.”
There was a brief moment of silence while he regarded her searchingly, perhaps wondering if she was prevaricating once again. But she met his look steadily and his expression warmed. “’Tis just as well you are not easily broken, for if you meant to stimulate me as you did tonight, you will have to be most resilient, my lady.”
“I have learned much from you, sir, about the art of stimulation.”
“Aye.” He smiled at her, but she was certain she detected a glint of doubt in his eyes before he looked away again. She was tempted, in view of his earlier words on the subject of being honest with each other, to demand that he explain both his reasons for assuming she was so fragile and that look of sudden doubt. But she could not bring herself to do it, for she sensed the topic might be a dangerous one.
The following day he presented her with his guest list for their forthcoming soiree, and she glanced over it curiously. There were one or two names that were barely familiar to her and two that were not familiar at all.
“Who on earth are Germaine and Albertine de Staël?” she asked.
“You will meet them Sunday at Lady Jersey’s reception,” Hawk said. “Madame de Staël is the daughter of Monsieur Jacques Necker, who was Louis the Sixteenth’s Quatorze’s Minister of Finance. She is a woman full of great and noble sentiments, who was, like her father, in favor of the French Revolution. They, and others like them, wanted to establish a constitutional monarchy. When things began to get out of hand, Madame de Staël—for she had married Sweden’s ambassador to Paris by then—became an ardent supporter of the king and queen. She risked her own life, in fact, to present a petition in favor of Marie Antoinette to the revolutionary tribunal, and at one point she actually arranged a plan of escape for the royal family.”
“She sounds like a woman of resolution,” Mollie said, “but I collect her plan did not succeed.”
