“Goodness, no!” Viola exclaimed, her voice so appallingly earnest that he was hard-pressed not to smile. “Well, of course, Adelaide forced all of us to read good works, sermons, and such things.”
“Frances also?” he asked, wondering how she could manage to read with her bad eyesight.
Viola gave him a very fetching grin and a pretty shrug. “Oh, Frances does what she pleases.” And you don’t please her, my lord, but I shan’t tell you that!
“I see,” said Hawk. He slid a look at the clock on the mantel and saw that the time was up. Two down.
After a quiet luncheon with Viola, Clare, and Lady Ruthven, Hawk dutifully arrayed himself in the togs Grunyon set out for him. Thirty minutes later, after Viola had found her missing glove, he found himself sitting between the two sisters in his own carriage.
Frances, seated upon a hill that gave a full view of the castle, watched them leave. She grinned, rose, and shook out her skirts. She kissed her fingers to her lips at the retreating carriage. She had a lot to do before they returned. She’d left Robert’s croft after treating his one swaybacked horse for thrush. “Robert, ye mustn’t let Sally stand about in her own muck,” she said, adapting her speech to the farmer. “I’ve treated her as best I can, but ye must keep her hooves clean. Ye ken?”
Robert kenned, at least she trusted that he did. She returned to the castle, hoping to slip up to her temporary quarters in Viola’s room. One thing Frances could be certain of—neither Viola nor Clare would say a word to the earl about the strange behavior and the equally ugly appearance of their sister.
“Frances!”
It was her father, of course, and he was livid. She felt a strange sort of calm wash over her, and turned to face him.
“Yes, Papa?”
“Don’t you ‘Yes, Papa’ me, my girl! I have endured more than a parent should have to, and this is the end of it, Frances!” He strode toward her.
Frances stood her ground. “Then beat me, Papa,” she said, “for I shall not change. I will not leave Kilbracken and that is that. Do as you wish.”
“Damn you, Frances, he even applauded your miserable performance last night!”
“Yes, he did. What did you expect? That he would start laughing, howling, cover his ears with his aristocratic English hands?”
Ruthven was silent a long moment, and Frances didn’t like that, not one bit. Please roar, Papa, she pleaded silently. Instead, Ruthven said finally, “Very well, Frances.”
He turned on his heel and strode away.
What, she wondered, worrying her lower lip, was he up to?
4
Was this the face that launch’d a thousand ships?
—CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE
“Good Lord! Isn’t that your sister?”
Hawk held back the curtain on the carriage window for Viola to look out. He felt her stiffen; then she gave a trilling laugh. “Oh no, that’s not Frances. That’s one of the crofter women.”
He didn’t see the quick glance that passed between the two sisters.
Hawk said nothing, but he did gaze out the window one more time. It was Frances, he thought, not a crofter woman. She looked a rumpled, filthy mess, and those were men’s boots on her feet. The sleeves of the fading gray wool gown were rolled up beyond her elbows, and she was striding—yes, striding about like a damned man. He leaned back, a frown puckering his brow.
“Did you enjoy the Campbells, my lord?” Clare asked.
Hawk wondered at the nervousness in her voice. As for Viola, he could have sworn that she was snickering.
“Yes, of course,” he said, lying fluently. He had been so bored he’d believed death by slow torture would have been preferable, then decided that he’d had the torture.
“We so enjoy visiting witty, charming people,” said Viola. “And London, so many parties to attend! How thrilling it will ... must certainly be.”
Hawk was suddenly blessed with a very clear vision of his future. Either Viola or Clare as his countess, his hostess for an endless series of boring routs and soirees and balls and dinners. Giggling, gossiping, demanding his time, flirting with his friends. Or painting his friends and quoting Lord Byron. Life as he knew it would be over. It would die without a whimper. He wished at that moment that he’d never sold out, that he’d never left Wellington’s command. Dammit, he wanted to be free, and that included freedom from a wife. He wanted his newly found life of the past fourteen months to continue intact. He wanted to continue keeping Amalie, wanted to see the sheen in her eyes when he came inside her, feel her fingers digging into his shoulders as she arched up against him. He remembered vividly Saint Leven’s words to him, said in his slow, lazy drawl: “My boy, you’ve harangued me about this damned oath your father made. A wife won’t be a bad thing, you know.” Then he’d paused, and a wolfish grin had curved his lips. “Incidentally, I’ve always found Amalie very ... endearing. Will you continue to keep her?”
“Yes,” Hawk had said between gritted teeth. “Damn you, Saint Leven, yes I will.” In his fourteen months in London, he’d realized that most gentlemen, married or not, kept mistresses.
But how could he, with a wife dangling on his sleeve in London? He couldn’t, wouldn’t embarrass a wife in that way. Neither little Viola nor well-meaning artistic Clare would understand it, of that he was certain. And he knew as clearly as he could see, that with a wife in London, discretion wouldn’t be enough. There was a pronounced streak of maliciousness in the ladies of the ton. He cursed under his breath.
“Oh yes,” he heard Clare say with great enthusiasm, drawing his thoughts away from a future that chilled him. “So much to see, so very much to do.”
“Indeed,” added Viola. “To meet all your friends, all the famous ladies in London—I cannot wait!”
Hawk wanted to cry and howl at the moon.
Frances was present at afternoon tea. She bore no resemblance at all to the frowsy woman he’d seen from the carriage window. She was neatly dressed, her hair in a severe knot at the back of her neck, and looked so homely that he felt a spurt of pity for her. She said absolutely nothing.
Viola regaled him with spicy gossip, and flirted outrageously.
Clare gave him wistful looks, but thankfully made no more mention of the Elgin Marbles.
Lady Ruthven refilled his teacup until he thought he would float away.
He was on the point of excusing himself when he saw Frances ease out of her chair and walk briskly toward the door.
He had to do it, he had no choice.
“Lady Frances,” he said, rising quickly. “May I have a moment of your time?”
So, Frances, thought, her back still toward him, it was her turn to be interviewed for the post of wife. Well, she had to admit, at least he was fair.
“Very well,” she said, turning slightly. “In the gun room?”
“Yes, that will be fine.”
“I shall see you there, my lord, in ten minutes.” She slipped out of the room and headed toward the gun room. She pulled the spectacles out of her pocket and onto her nose. A stray strand of hair had worked itself loose and she left it hanging along the side of her face.
She realized her heart was pounding. She couldn’t be rude, not overtly. She had to be ...
“Lady Frances?”
She started, whirling about to see him standing in the open doorway.
“Yes,” she said, not moving an inch.
“I haven’t had much chance to speak to you.”
“No,” she said.
Damned ungrateful wench, Hawk thought, then immediately felt guilty. She couldn’t help her appearance, couldn’t help that she looked a fright next to her lovely sisters.
“Clare showed me many of her paintings. Has she done one of you?”
Frances looked over at him for the first time. She squinted, and wanted to grin at the slight stiffening of his face. “Yes.”
“I should like to see it.”
He was trying to be pleasant, damn him. “I don’t
know where it is.”
“Oh, a pity. Do you like to read?”
She heard the distaste in his voice, and realized that Clare must have gotten carried away with Lord Byron. She should have known that Clare wouldn’t realize that English gentlemen had blocks in their heads for brains. Poor Clare, wasting her precious poetry on an oaf of a man.
Frances raised her chin, wishing she could see him more clearly through the murky lenses. She realized that she was a bit disappointed that this man in particular fit her image of English gentlemen in general—gentlemen who thought the printed word a pleasure only for fools. “Yes,” she said, forcing her voice into a boring monotone. “I read the classics, of course. In Greek and Latin, and I much enjoy reading Chaucer aloud on long winter nights.” Did he look as if he’d just swallowed more of Doris’ soggy trifle? Take that, you arrogant ...
“Do you like to visit and go to balls and parties?”
He likes gaiety, wit, and charm.
“No,” she said, with not so much as a creak of hesitation. “I much prefer being alone.”
“With your Greek and Latin?”
“Yes.”
“And you like to be outdoors, do you not?”
“Yes, alone.”
“Ah.”
There were several minutes of absolute silence. She felt no compunction to say anything. It was his bloody interview, after all. She kept her eyes on her toes.
Hawk cleared his throat. “Thank you, Lady Frances,” he said, turned, and left the room.
His brow was furrowed as he strode to his bedchamber. By the time he opened the door, he was smiling with grim determination.
Grunyon wasn’t there.
Hawk finally found him in the north tower, gazing out over the barren landscape.
“Tottle told me where you were. I think the bloody butler was drunk. I have reached a decision,” he continued baldly.
Grunyon searched his master’s face. He seemed calm, morbidly so.
“If I wed either Lady Viola or Lady Clare, my life will change. I will have a prattling wife hanging on my sleeve, demanding my time, quoting poetry, painting, giggling, flirting.”
“I see,” said Grunyon slowly. “There is, however, Major Hawk, the matter of the oath.”
“I know. God, I know. I will wed Lady Frances.”
Grunyon could only stare at his master. “Wh—what, my lord?”
Ruthven stood below, listening with unabashed interest. He’d planned to discuss things with Hawk this very evening, in his library, over a brandy. He leaned outward, his ears ready to be filled, a crooked smile on his face.
“Lady Frances,” Hawk repeated. “Yes,” he went on doggedly, as if convincing himself. “She is homely. That is her only failing. On the other hand, she dislikes people and parties, she doesn’t carry on like a damned magpie. She would leave me alone. The servants would learn to put up with her wretched singing and playing.”
“That appears to be true,” said Grunyon, “but I do not believe I understand.”
“For God’s sake, Grunyon, I could take her to Desborough Hall, breed a child on her, then take myself to London. Everyone would be content, especially the lady. Lord knows, if I don’t wed her, she’ll end up a spinster.”
“You pretend that you are doing her a favor?”
“Don’t you try your damned sarcasm on me! It is the solution, I tell you.”
Ruthven wanted to laugh at the poor earl’s misguided impressions, and he had to press his hand over his mouth to keep himself quiet. Ah, my smart little Frances, you’ve done it this time. Outsmarted and outflanked. As for you, my boy, you don’t know what you’re in for.
“It still doesn’t seem very fair,” said Grunyon, digging in. He felt sorry for the lady.
“Fair be damned! My father is responsible for this wretched debacle, not I. I am making the best of it. I wouldn’t be a proper husband to either Viola or Clare, that is, I’d try to be, but it would be a misery. I would never be alone, I could no longer visit Amalie. Lord, I’d probably have to make intelligent conversation over the breakfast table. As for Frances, you’ll see, Grunyon, she’ll be happy as a lark in Yorkshire. The only thing missing is a loch and some heather. She can stride about the moors to her heart’s content, read Chaucer aloud to the servants, and do in essence what she does here.”
Ruthven very quietly left his post and wandered back into his bedchamber from the balcony. He was thoughtful, examining the consequences of the earl’s decision. The decision was, after all, cold-blooded in the extreme. But Frances, his thinking continued, Frances wouldn’t allow him to stay cold-blooded. She’d give him fits. His Frances wouldn’t be able to keep her tongue quiet in her mouth for very long. “It will work out,” Ruthven said to the empty bedchamber. “Ah yes, it certainly will. I must write to the marquess immediately.”
If he could have justified it to himself, he would have arranged the marriage between the earl and Frances, but he’d realized he couldn’t exclude Clare or Viola. Now the earl had fallen in with Ruthven’s wishes, for all the wrong reasons. He shrugged, then grinned widely, picturing the look on his daughter’s face. He wanted to dance a jig.
He saw Frances that evening before the family met in the drawing room. She looked as awful as possible, and he smiled at her. “Good evening, my dear,” he said. “How are you feeling?”
Frances stared at her father. “What is wrong?”
“Wrong? Don’t be a fool, my girl. Why should there be anything wrong?”
“You are not behaving as you should,” Frances said slowly, studying his face. “Has the earl offered for Viola or Clare yet?”
“No, no yet,” Ruthvan said. “But I suspect that he will speak to me soon enough now.”
“Ah yes, he did allow himself three days, did he not?”
“You have a sarcastic mouth, Frances.” On those less-than-loving words, he patted her shoulder, leaving her to flounder like a ship in a storm, sails flapping in the wind. What was he up to? she wondered, but there was no answer, none at all. She squared her shoulders, then immediately hunched them roundly, and went forward into dowdy battle. The mouse cometh, my lord earl, she thought, and laughed.
She was pleased with her performance of the afternoon. She was certain the earl was disgusted with her, and not just her face. Her answers, short and curt, had been inspired. She felt smug and safe.
She was unaware that during the interminable meal, the earl was gazing at her beneath half-closed lids. He was relieved that she ate like a lady. He was more than relieved that she said not a word, unlike her sisters, who seemed to be competing with each other for his attention. The time he would have to spend with Frances in the future stretched out before him in peaceful silence.
He could always have the pianoforte removed from Desborough Hall when he visited.
He determined to take an ax to the pianoforte himself after a half-hour of Frances’ singing and playing. He’d known the servants at Desborough Hall since he was a boy. They were loyal. He didn’t want them to run from the hall with their hands over their ears, and leave his employ. He forced himself to applaud when she finished. To his surprise, this time both Sophia and Ruthven applauded also.
He did notice the odd looks passing between Viola and Clare. It was as if they were restraining themselves from bursting out in laughter. It angered him. How could they treat their sister with such barely veiled contempt? It wasn’t her fault, after all, that she lacked so much of everything that they had in abundance.
“Frances, my dear, a moment, please.”
Frances halted her long stride at Adelaide’s bedchamber door. Her long-time friend, clothed in a voluminous white nightgown, motioned Frances into her room. There was but a single candle burning. Everyone else was long abed. Frances had wanted to walk off her excess of energy before retiring.
“Yes, Adelaide?” Frances said, knowing what was to come.
“My dear child, you’ve been behaving outrageously. You know that, of course, t
here is no need for me to point it out. You’re being dreadfully unfair to your papa, and that, perhaps, you haven’t realized.”
Frances couldn’t quite meet Adelaide’s concerned eyes. She said at last, “Not really, and I know what’s best for Papa. He would miss me dreadfully, Adelaide, you know that.”
“Frances, you know that every young lady must wed. It is a fact of life. The alternatives for ladies aren’t to be considered, at least in your case.”
Frances heard no bitterness in Adelaide’s voice, and she’d never married. She tried to lighten things. “I plan to be the most indulgent aunt imaginable, Adelaide.”
“Don’t be a bore, Frances,” Adelaide said sharply. “You’ve been overly protected, despite all the freedom your father gives you. You must realize that life is waiting outside the confines of Kilbracken. You cannot stay here forever.”
“Perhaps,” Frances said, her voice just above a whisper. She hated to feel guilty, particularly when she deserved to. “But you would say the same things about Viola and Clare. At least one of them is assured of a grand marriage.”
“Neither of them has your ... strength, Frances.”
“So, you’re now telling me that you believe the earl a hard man, a man who will make them miserable?”
Adelaide sighed, realizing her words had come too late, far too late now. “It no longer matters,” she said, wondering if her little sermon would have done any good before. She kissed Frances on her cheek. “Good night, dear. Sleep well.”
“I wish you wouldn’t be so nice,” Frances said. “You make me feel like a selfish wretch.”
“Don’t. As I said, it no longer matters.”
Adelaide stood in the open doorway of her bedchamber watching Frances stride down the corridor to Viola’s room.
Frances was whistling as she made her way down the stairs and across the entrance hall with her long-legged stride. The three days were up today, she thought, grinning at a suit of armor that was sagging against the wall next to the fireplace. Lucky Clare. Or lucky Viola. She cringed just a moment at the memory of her conversation the night before with Adelaide.
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