by Amanda Scott
She was breathing heavily, her breasts heaving, her body moving against his hand, seemingly of its own accord. He shifted her position slightly, and his lips moved lower to the tips of her breasts. Slowly and deliberately he began to kiss and caress them with his tongue, and his hand moved slowly past her waist to her hips, then back to stroke her stomach before moving lower.
Mollie caught her breath. “Oh, please…” The words turned into a little moan as his hand moved between her thighs.
Hawk lifted his head. His eyes were twinkling. “Where is your gown, sweetheart?”
“In the wardrobe,” she muttered, straining against him. “Oh, don’t stop!”
“But it’s time for you to dress,” he said, smiling.
“I don’t care about that. You can’t stop now. Please!”
The smile broadened to a grin. “I must. Any more of this and I should send my good intentions to the devil.”
“Good intentions?” Then, as his meaning became clear to her, Mollie gave a little cry. “You beast! You never meant to continue, did you?”
“Oh, we shall continue, sweetheart, but I will choose the time. If you behave yourself tonight, we may even bring this interval to its natural conclusion as soon as we get home. You may reflect upon the possibility while you dance with other men, and perhaps you will thus remember to reserve your warmest smiles for your husband.” So saying, he placed her on her feet and turned her around, giving her smack on the backside sound enough to make her yelp. “Get your gown. I shall attempt to help you into it if you like.”
Knowing that it was of no use to argue, she marched over to the wardrobe and fairly snatched the heavy gown from its padded hanger, wishing she had the nerve to fling it in his face. But when he grinned at her, the look in his eyes made her skin tingle again as if he had touched her, and in that moment she knew her punishment would be complete.
Half an hour later they found Lady Bridget and Lord Ramsay still in the dining room, and Hawk decided there was plenty of time to enjoy a slight repast before they must depart. Lady Bridget accepted Mollie’s appearance with her usual placidity, but Ramsay shot her a quizzical grin. She knew her cheeks were flushed and her whole body still tingled, but she returned a steady look to her young brother-in-law and took her seat, careful at the same time to avoid her husband’s twinkling eyes, lest the sight of them put her out of countenance.
A footman appeared at her side with a dish of curried lobster, and she turned gratefully to help herself, glad of an excuse for silence while she helped herself first from one dish and then from another and yet another as if her only interest at the moment were food.
Ramsay turned his attention to his brother, saying with a chuckle, “I say, Hawk, this ought to be famous sport tonight. Is it true what they say? That Prinny forced the dandies to invite him, after all?”
“It is.” Hawk shifted his gaze briefly away from his wife to his brother. “Pierrepont said someone told Prinny about Brummell’s insistence upon excluding him from the festivities, whereupon his highness simply wrote to Mildmay informing him that he intended to be present. According to Pierrepont there was nothing then to be done except to receive him as politely as possible.”
“I heard they even sent him an invitation,” Ramsay said.
“So they did. Signed by all four.”
“Still, I daresay he’s piqued. Prinny’s not the man to take lightly to rebuff.”
“I fear,” observed Lady Bridget gently, “that they have none of them displayed good manners. It was unkind of them to exclude his highness in the first place, when they were inviting all the world, but he should not have forced his presence upon them in such a way.”
Mollie was silent throughout the meal, but she was entirely conscious of her husband’s eye constantly upon her, and later in the coach, when his foot chanced to move against hers, a series of tremors danced through her body. It was as if they were alone, so conscious of him was she, as if Lady Bridget and Ramsay were miles away instead of sitting right there with them. Mollie could still sense Hawk’s touch. Her breasts felt swollen beneath the tight Tudor bodice, and every nerve in her body was alive to his presence. The others chatted casually as the coach passed along Piccadilly, and at last they turned into the Haymarket. There were three or four carriages ahead of the Colporter coach, so there was a slight delay, but at last their coach was at the entrance to the Argyle Rooms, and the steps were let down. They slipped on their loo masks.
“There’s Prinny now,” Hawk said in an undertone, nodding slightly to direct their attention to the party just ahead of theirs. Mollie had already noted the unmistakable, thin figure of the Regent’s aide-de-camp, Colonel Hanger, just behind the much larger bulk of his royal highness. The Colporters followed the royal party up to the entrance, through the foyer, and into the anteroom leading to the main ballroom. It was here that the four hosts lined up at the door, two to each side, to receive their guests.
The Regent bowed to Pierrepont, turned to the other side, saw Mr. Brummell standing there, and at once turned back to Lord Alvanley, standing next to Pierrepont. In the shocked silence that followed this deliberate cut and atrocious piece of ill-manners, Brummell’s voice sounded, clear, cool, and penetrating.
“Ah, Alvanley, who is your fat friend?”
It was clear from the chuckles emanating from the group surrounding them that Brummell still could do no wrong, that his query was being regarded as a witty retort to blatant provocation rather than as an unmannerly insult, but Mollie had an unobstructed view of the Regent’s face. She could see from his expression that he was cut to the quick by Brummell’s words.
Still visibly shaken, the Regent proceeded into the ballroom, and the Colporters stepped up to greet their hosts. As Mollie was speaking to Sir Henry Mildmay, Colonel Hanger appeared in the doorway again, excused himself for interrupting, and informed Mildmay that the Prince wished to speak to him.
Mildmay looked down his nose at the wiry little man. “Surely, sir,” he said with an air of weariness, “there must be some mistake. His royal highness saw me but a moment ago and took no notice of me whatsoever.”
The colonel retreated in good order, and when the Colporters followed soon after, Lord Ramsay observed that he was glad they were masked. “For I daresay his highness will remember every face he saw there. Don’t you, Hawk?”
“He will not trouble us,” his brother said evenly. “Will you dance, my lady?”
A waltz was in progress, and when Mollie obediently put out her hand, Hawk drew her into his arms and swung her expertly into the circle of rapid-paced dancers. She had not waltzed with him before, but her steps might have been meant to match with his, because she was unaware of the movements of her feet. She knew only that she felt like a feather in his arms. His breath stirred her curls, and her skin felt alive beneath the warmth of his hand on her waist. She had not said a word to him since leaving her bedchamber.
“You dance well, sweetheart.” His voice was low, with that caressing note that she had come to listen for, the note that always sent her blood racing through her veins. Suddenly the evening spread itself before her in a long, unending pattern of unknown events to come before they could go home again. She looked up into his face to find him smiling at her, then looked away again. “Why so silent, Mollie?”
“I can think of nothing to say,” she muttered. “I do not know you in this mood.”
“Do you know me in other moods?” The words were blatantly provocative.
“I sometimes think I do not know you at all, sir,” she replied to his chest.
“Do you want to know me, Mollie?”
She looked up again, blinking at him, searching his face.
“Do you?” he repeated, looking at her as though there was not another soul in that huge, crowded room. Even if she had wanted to, in that moment she could not have torn her gaze from his if her life had depended upon it.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Oh, yes, Gavin, I do.”
; He nodded, satisfied, and concentrated on the dance with even more enthusiasm than he had shown before. Mollie was breathless and laughing by the time the music stopped.
Her attention was claimed at once by another partner, and she soon lost sight of her husband. But the fact that he was out of sight did nothing to take his presence from her mind. All she could think about was what he had promised for the evening ahead. As time passed, her anticipation grew until she scarcely noted who her partners were. She recognized Prince Nicolai, despite his mask and Cossack costume, but even his blatant compliments failed to elicit more than a vague smile from her. It was not until Lord Ramsay claimed her hand for a Scotch reel that she collected her wits.
“I say, Mollie, I think I’d best take you for some refreshment. They’re serving an excellent fruit punch. Not that damned orgeat either. More like ratafia, but it’s got a strawberry flavor. I know you’ll like it, and you look as if you could do with a breath of air as well. Your cheeks look bright enough to be feverish.”
“Do they?” She looked up into his anxious face, grinning at him. “I am fine, Ramsay. Truly. But I’d very much like something to drink. And you’re not to leave me sitting in one of those awful little gilt chairs against the wall, either. I shall go with you.”
He agreed, and they moved together into a side apartment where a long buffet table had been set up, fairly groaning under the weight of the various delicacies set out to tempt the palates of weary dancers. At the far end a flunky ladled pink liquid into punch glasses.
“They’ve really put themselves out,” Ramsay observed. “This entire spread is from Gunter’s. There are even to be cream ices later on, for a shipment of ice arrived last week, and Gunter has kept it stored in his basement in Berkeley Square for just this occasion. That fellow at the punch bowl was telling me about it only a bit ago. Here, Mollie, try one of these excellent lobster patties.”
But Mollie’s attention had been diverted. Most of the guests still retained their masks and would do so until the unmasking at midnight, but the Cossack dress made it easy to recognize the Russian prince, and she was certain she also recognized the man with him.
“Look there,” she said to Ramsay in an undervoice. “There, by the potted palm in that corner. “Is that not Monsieur d’Épier in the red domino with Prince Nicolai?”
Ramsay glanced in the direction she indicated, a frown gathering on his handsome face. “By Jove, Mollie, I believe it is. What would they be wanting with each other, I wonder?”
The two men were involved in a serious conversation, but suddenly the man in the red domino looked up and saw Ramsay. Hastily excusing himself, he drew away from the prince and hurried back into the ballroom. Mollie thought the prince looked annoyed, and it crossed her mind that, as a member of Monsieur de Lieven’s staff, spies were undoubtedly as much to his interest as they were to Lord Bathurst and Hawk. After all, the Russians were as opposed to Bonaparte as the English were, and their recent success in speeding the invader from their land would only increase their interest in seeing that the French stayed where they belonged. No doubt Nicolai was doing a little investigating of his own. She put the incident from her mind and returned to the festivities refreshed by the respite.
Later, in the coach, the four Colporters declared the evening an unqualified success. They chatted comfortably about the various costumes they had seen and conversations they had taken part in, and Lady Bridget announced that she thought the evening had been a good one to mark the end of their London stay.
“I daresay you, Ramsay, might wish to remain for the Regent’s summer fete celebrating Lord Wellington’s victory, but I for one prefer to miss such a squeeze as that will be.”
Ramsay grinned at her, saying that while it might be fun, such entertainments were too public for his tastes, an opinion that gave his sister-in-law to think he had done some growing up in the past weeks. She smiled at him.
“Do you still intend to accompany us to Brighton?”
“I don’t know,” he replied, surprising her. “After all the activity, I daresay it won’t take much more than Hawk’s little house party before I’m completely burnt to the socket. I haven’t actually decided yet, but I might remain at Hawkstone afterward and do a little studying. Believe it or not, I’m growing anxious to return to school.”
Mollie stared at him, then turned to look at her husband, whose face was barely visible in the soft glow cast by the carriage lamps. “House party?”
He nodded. “I invited some friends to enjoy a repairing lease before going on to the dissipations of the seaside. Only a few, at first, but such things have a way of growing,” he added ruefully. “I thought I had mentioned it to you.”
“Well, you didn’t,” Lady Bridget replied before Mollie could speak. “Surely, dearest Mollie would have told me, Gavin, for there are preparations to be made before Hawkstone can be ready to receive guests, you know.”
“Well, I didn’t leave all to chance, Aunt Biddy. I sent word to the Bracegirdles nearly a week ago. Are you certain I said nothing to you, sweetheart?”
Mollie shook her head, dimly aware that she was glad he had made all the arrangements and that she would not have to be bothered about them. She smiled at him. “I had thought we were stopping at Hawkstone only for a day or so. How long are we to remain there, sir?”
His grin was unmistakable. “I haven’t decided,” he replied. “I’ve told the others they are welcome to stay as long as they like.”
Was there provocation in his tone? She wasn’t sure. But it didn’t seem to matter. Hawkstone was his home. He could do as he liked. She returned look for look. Ramsay glanced from one to the other, sensing mystery between them, but when Hawk chuckled as though at a private joke, the younger man shook his head and returned the conversation to his reasons for thinking he might remain in Kent instead of traveling with the others to Brighton. Mollie ceased to listen after some moments, when her awareness of her husband’s nearness overwhelmed other thoughts. They were in South Audley Street, approaching the square, and it seemed as if the clatter of the horses’ hooves on the cobblestones matched the rhythm of her beating heart.
Moments later they were in the front hall, and Hawk turned to Mollie with a lazy smile. “Go up to Mathilde du Bois, my dear. I’ve a few matters to attend to in my bookroom.”
Her breath caught in her throat. “Will you be long, sir?’ she asked, forcing herself to speak calmly.
His eyes were twinkling as if he knew exactly what thoughts were tumbling through her mind. “Just go upstairs, Mollie.”
Obediently she turned toward the stairs, but her teeth gritted together beneath her soft lips. How long did he mean to torment her? She had scarcely thought of anything but him since their interval together before dinner. What if he merely went out again and left her to stew longer? Just how much and how long did he mean to punish her?
With these and other thoughts filling her mind, she scarcely paid any attention to Cathe’s cheerful questions about the ball and none at all to Mathilde du Bois’ careful attention to her preparations for bed. She merely moved as the dresser indicated, letting her remove the Tudor gown and replace it with a soft silken nightdress, obeying her softly spoken commands without a murmur. Only when Mathilde suggested that her nails needed some slight attention did Mollie come to herself again.
“No, no, that will be quite all right,” she said a little tartly. “I shan’t need anything more tonight. You may both go to bed.”
They left, and she turned to stare into the cheerful little fire burning low on the hearth. How long did he mean to keep her waiting? After a few moments she opened the door into her little sitting room. It was dark, but she could see a glimmer of light under the opposite door. With only a moment’s hesitation she strode across the sitting room and pushed open the door to her husband’s bedchamber.
Wearing a glorious red brocade dressing gown, Hawk sat at his ease before his mirror, rubbing his chin, while his valet finished wiping the soapy
residue from a pair of razors. When the door met the wall with a soft thud, Hawk’s gaze caught Mollie’s in the mirror. His eyes danced.
“Yes, sweetheart?”
Mollie glared at the astonished valet. “Leave us,” she ordered brusquely. The man glanced at his master and, upon receiving a nod in reply to his unspoken question, slipped the razors into their leather case and quietly left the room through the door to the hall.
Hawk turned in his chair, raising his eyebrows at the sight of her in the thin silk nightdress. “Good Lord, Mollie, Mawson will dream of your charms for a week.”
“Let him!” she snapped. “Because I care not one whit for his dreams, and I need you right now, for whatever you may think to the contrary, you are the only man I know who can…who can…Dammit, my lord, do you mean to finish what you began earlier or not?”
He stood up and the dressing gown fell open, revealing that he wore nothing beneath it. His expression softened, and as he moved to take her in his arms, he said gently, “I believe I may have been a fool, sweetheart, to accuse you as I did, and as you can clearly see for yourself, I have as little wish at the moment as you do to prolong the agony.”
13
THE SIZE OF HAWK’S house party had indeed grown considerably by the time the Colporters were ready to depart from London. Mollie was well aware that there was more to the matter than a simple wish on the part of her husband to provide a break in the journey to Brighton for his friends. Seeing such names as the de Lievens and Lord Bathurst on the guest list would have told her as much, had her own instincts not warned her. Still, she was amazed to discover, when she sat down with Lady Bridget to add up the numbers, that upward of thirty persons would be joining them—some, though not all, for as long as a week’s time.
