They chatted amiably about the war, and Hawk found himself impressed by his future brother-in-law’s knowledge. Neither an empty-headed fribble nor a fool was Edmund Lacy.
When Edmund rose finally to take his leave, he said gently, “Incidentally, Hawk, you needn’t worry that Beatrice will quiz you about your marriage. I have assured her that it is none of her affair. Nor, of course, is it any of mine.”
“What courage you possess,” Hawk remarked, grinning. “I have heard it said that poor old Lord Dunsmore cocked up his toes as his last and only independent act.”
“Hawk,” Edmund chided, “what a thing to say about your sister. She is high-spirited, ‘tis all. You cannot imagine, old boy, that she would drive me to a similar fate?”
Hawk laughed, only to close his mouth at the snorting sounds of disapproval from one of the ancient members of White’s.
He obligingly shook his head, sat back in the high-cushioned leather chair, and watched Edmund Lacy leave the room. A fine specimen of a man, Hawk thought. Not a flabby macaroni nor a pompous idiot. Fashionable, yes, but he didn’t carry on with excessive rings and fobs. He was trim, his features well-formed. He would make Beatrice a good husband, keep her in her proper place.
Frances. Oh hell, he thought, rising, disgusted with himself. He didn’t want to think of her. He wondered, as he strolled out onto St. James, if his father were still at Desborough Hall. He probably was, Hawk thought, holding her little hand and trying to make the servants regard her as something of a mistress. Perhaps his father would encourage her to buy some new gowns. Perhaps he would encourage her not to cower and hide. Hawk decided he should write her a letter. Yes, he would do that. He returned to the Hawksbury town house in Portland Square. There were only two servants in residence besides Grunyon, but it didn’t matter, since he never dined there in any case.
Rolland, his majordomo, was older than Otis at Desborough Hall and made Shippe at Chandos Chase look like a frisky young pup. He managed to answer the door knocker, but other duties beyond that were, at the very least, a decade behind him. Thus, it was Grunyon who brought him a quill and paper in the library.
“Is Rolland still breathing?” Hawk asked, grinning at his valet.
“After a fashion,” said Grunyon.
“I’d put him out to pasture, but he has no relatives. Lord, he’s outlived the lot of them, and he was, as I hear my father tell, the ninth of twelve children.”
“A case of longevity,” said Grunyon. “You are writing to Lady Frances?” he asked with the assurance of a longtime retainer who knew quite well his head wouldn’t be removed from his shoulders.
“Curse it, yes,” said Hawk, dipping the quill into the ink pot. “I shall be dining this evening with my sister and Lord Chalmers. See to my togs, will you. Grunyon?”
“Yes, my lord. Ah, do give Lady Frances my, er, best wishes.”
“Impertinent fool,” Hawk said.
“Sartorial splendor,” Grunyon said that evening, regarding his lordship with approval.
“What?”
“I heard that said of you, my lord.”
“What utter nonsense. Damnation, I don’t even know the meaning of that word.”
“It refers, my lord, to the elegant appearance you present in your evening clothing.”
Hawk snorted, accepted his cape, gloves, and cane, and took his leave.
He took a hackney coach the short distance to Grosvenor Square. He was met by a charming, gay sister at Dunsmore House, a sister filled with enthusiasm for his presence, and suffered her kiss on his cheek. Edmund shook his head at her display, and retreated, allowing Beatrice full rein.
Dinner concerned itself with exquisitely prepared French dishes—veal in a delicate wine sauce, partridge stuffed with raisins, chestnuts, and rice, lamb so tender that it melted when touched by teeth.
“I think we should both visit Gentleman Jackson tomorrow, Edmund,” Hawk said, sitting back in his chair, sated.
“I agree,” said Edmund. He gave Beatrice a nod, and she dutifully rose from her chair.
“I shall see you gentlemen after you’ve imbibed your port,” she said, and left them to themselves.
“Congratulations again,” Hawk said, and toasted Edmund.
“Thank you. We will deal well together, you know. It is my feeling that your father is ... relieved.”
The marquess rarely spoke of his daughter, and upon hearing of the engagement, had merely snorted and muttered under his breath, “Maybe the chit will have the good sense to have some children now.” And then he’d said something that had made Hawk frown. “The only thing that concerns me about Lord Chalmers is that he was one of Nevil’s closest friends.” Odd, that. Not what one would expect from a father.
“Perhaps,” Hawk said. He suddenly grinned at Edmund. “I also congratulate you on your strength of character. Beatrice has said not a word about my unfortunate alliance.”
Unfortunate? Edmund let it pass. He poured Hawk another glass of the excellent port, leaned back in his chair, and said in a meditative voice, “Did you hear what happened to one of the Earl of Egremont’s prize racers?”
Hawk wasn’t particularly interested, but he shook his head and leaned forward a bit.
“The horse’s name was Falcon and he was lamed by his trainer before a quite important race at Newmarket. The trainer has taken to his heel, to the Continent, one supposes.”
“Unfortunate,” Hawk said.
“I mention it just to remind you that the racing world isn’t one of unblemished character. One must really be utterly committed to succeed, like the Duke of Portland and the Duke of Richmond, for example. The men live their lives for their horses and their races. It is the only way.” He paused a moment, then added, “Nevil was the same way. He lived and breathed his horses. There was nothing else that gained his attention.”
Hawk, to Edmund’s brief chagrin, responded, but not as he had hoped. “It is odd, but you knew my brother much better than did I. I scarce ever saw him for the last six or seven years of his life. Was he successful at Newmarket and Ascot?”
It was on the tip of Edmund’s tongue to say that his racing stock wasn’t of the best, but then, that wouldn’t make logical sense. For if that were the case, then why would he, Edmund, wish to buy all the stock? “Yes,” Edmund said, “he was.”
“And you, I take it, are an avid racer?”
Edmund nodded, searching frantically for the right opening, the right thing to say. “That is why I would like to breed your stock with mine. It is my fondest ambition, I suppose you would say. Incidentally, your sister is also absorbed with racing. She also shares my ambition.”
“Ah.” Hawk realized that he wasn’t as eager about selling off Desborough stock as he had been but two months before. He was now a married man, and a married man normally, in the course of events, was blessed with children. What would his son think if he were to be informed that his father had sold his legacy? It was a startling, rather unwelcome thought, at least at the moment. He liked Edmund and he didn’t wish to deal him such a disappointment. He chose, instead, to perseverate. “I am still considering it. As you know, old man, my life has undergone severe buffeting during the past month. I am still not certain.” He shrugged. “But of course you aren’t interested in my mental machinations. Shall we see if Bea will play for us?”
Hawk saw the brief questioning look that passed from his sister to her betrothed. What to do? he wondered.
He listened with half an ear while Beatrice regaled them with her talented fingers at the pianoforte. He winced, thinking of Frances’ playing and singing.
“Belvis, he is truly magnificent, isn’t he?”
“Indeed so, my lady,” said Belvis, pleased at the excitement in her eyes as she stroked Flying Davie’s sleek neck. “Nearly sixteen hands he is, and a beautiful rich bay. You know that most thoroughbreds are bay, many chestnut. Rarely will you see a gray or a black. From his elegantly curved neck, fine muzzle, it’s obvious Flying Davie
has much Arab blood in him. As for the white star on his forehead and the white tufts on his fetlock, ‘tis inexplicable.”
“Who were his sire and dam?”
“Odd that you should ask,” Belvis said, scratching his thatch of curly gray hair. “His papers seemed to be missing when he was delivered here, nearly four years ago. But he’s a winner, you have but to look at him to know it.” He didn’t add that Flying Davie didn’t appear in any of the stud books, due, he supposed, to the former earl’s forgetful habits.
“Why didn’t his owner replace the papers?” Frances asked, feeling the stallion’s hot breath as he nibbled a carrot from her hand.
“The owner had left for India. Died there, from what I understand from his former lordship.”
Frances wiped her hands on her old wool skirt. “Will you come back, Belvis?”
“I’m not as young as I used to be,” he hedged.
“None of us is. Have the years taken your knowledge and skills?”
“Certainly not!”
Ah, Frances thought, he’s weakening. Before she could press him further, he said, “But you know, my lady, the reason I left was that his lordship has no interest. Indeed, he mentioned to me that he just might sell everything.”
“He won’t,” Frances said firmly, her fingers crossed at her sides.
“Well, it appears you’re a strong-willed lady, ma‘am. But still, it—”
“Please, Belvis.” She studied the older man. He must be over sixty, but he appeared as healthy as she. His face was leathery and deeply seamed from his long years out-of-doors. He was short, lean, of a wiry build, but his arms were immensely strong. His eyes were a faded blue, as if the harsh sun had bleached away the color. And the horses seemed to know him and to trust him. He was what her father had called a natural. Frances raised her chin. So was she, a natural, that is.
She drew a deep breath and blurted out, “I shall pay you three hundred pounds a year, Belvis.”
His eyes widened at that. Then he began to laugh, a rusty sound. He stopped just as suddenly as he’d begun, and wiped his eyes with his sleeve. “Tommy tells me that you cured a bruised back leg on Springer, and that he’s now in excellent condition.”
“He no longer even limps,” said Frances. “I ... well, I spent my growing-up years in Scotland learning about horses, about taking care of them. I have even delivered calves and foals. As for Springer, I simply applied frequent formentations, then some liniment for the swelling.”
“Doesn’t sound like much of a ladylike hobby to me, ma‘am.”
“I am a Scot, Belvis,” Frances said, her gray eyes darkening just a bit. “I am not a useless creature to be cosseted and—”
“I know, my lady,” he said, cutting her off.
“—and it wasn’t a hobby, Belvis!”
“Evidently not,” he said, rubbing his rather pointed chin. “My lady, don’t misunderstand me. ‘Tis not that I don’t wish to return to Desborough, ’tis just that when all is said and done, it’s his lordship who owns everything.”
“His lordship isn’t here, Belvis.”
“Yes, but—”
“I have no idea if he will return within the next six months.”
“Ah, and when he does return, you plan something of a ... surprise for him?”
Frances’ smile was radiant. “Yes,” she said, “oh yes, indeed I do!”
“And if he sells before he returns?”
That drew Frances up short. She gnawed on her lower lip, considering various possibilities. “I suppose,” she said finally, “that I shall have to write to him in London.” I shall beg, plead with him not to sell.
Flying Davie butted his nose against Belvis’ sleeve at that moment. The old man smiled. He said to Frances, “I shall stay until we know—one way or the t‘other.”
“Excellent,” Frances said, and shook his hand. She was smiling until she sat down in the estate room, a quill in her hand, a blank sheet of pressed paper before her. “Oh curse you, my lord!” she muttered, and set the quill to paper.
14
There was all the world and his wife.
—JOHNATHAN SWIFT
Hawk tapped his long fingers against the sheet of paper. He hadn’t appreciated being reminded of Frances’ existence, and here she had written him a letter! And what a letter ...
Odd, he thought, frowning as he studied her neat black script. Why the devil did she care about the stud? And she knew nothing of racing, at least he didn’t think she did. He felt a moment of sheer perversity, then grinned at himself. He slipped the page back in its envelope and shoved it into his desk drawer. No, he wouldn’t sell anything, but not because of her letter.
Such a show of excitement, of passion, from such a little dowd. He shook his head. He simply couldn’t imagine Frances interested in his high-strung race horses, for God’s sake. Certainly she would cower, afraid that they would bite her. He wondered if his father had set her up to do this, then shook his head at himself. That was not, to his firsthand knowledge, his sire’s way.
He toyed with the idea of writing to her to assure her that he had no further plans to sell. No, he decided, memory of her coldness, her ill-mannered behavior toward her husband rekindling his anger at her. Let her stew in her own juices.
He took himself off to another ball that evening, danced with Constance and a multitude of other ladies, flirted shamelessly with his hostess, Aurelia Mark-ham, and left at eleven o‘clock.
He thought to go to White’s, but changed his mind. He wanted, needed Amalie.
Amalie was ensconced in her favorite chair in her small drawing room reading Voltaire’s Candide. She was laughing in delight when she heard the door knocker. Hawk, she thought, and quickly stuffed the volume beneath the chair cushion.
Marie was in bed in her small bedchamber. Amalie opened the door, her smile welcoming. “Bonsoir, mon faucon,” she said, and opened her arms to him.
“I’m a horny goat,” Hawk said by way of greeting, and began to nibble her earlobe.
“You are always that randy animal,” she agreed, and lovingly stroked her hand over the ready bulge in his trousers.
He was also a randy animal husband, and that bothered Amalie. She wanted to laugh at herself for this most odd display of principle.
Because he was an exquisite lover, Hawk brought her pleasure first even though his own need was urgent.
“Most acceptable for a goat,” Amalie said, rubbing her hands over his strong smooth back. He was still breathing heavily, his face beside hers on the pillow.
“Thank you,” Hawk said dryly, heaving himself off her. He lay on his back, pillowing his head on his arms, and stared at nothing in particular.
“Something has happened to disturb you?”
He started at that, but shook his head vehemently.
“Come, mon cher,” she said gently, speaking before her mind had censored her thoughts, “you know very well that what the famous Corneille says is quite true: By speaking of our misfortunes we often relieve them.”
“Corneille?” he repeated in some astonishment. He turned to look at her closely and saw that she was flushing. Actually flushing! He grinned and ran his fingertip over her full lips. “A bluestocking mistress? How very delightful!”
“I am not this bluestocking,” she said, frowning at him. “I am no ignorant person, that is all.”
That drew him up short yet again. A person. He had always been fond of Amalie. She was pretty, she was gay, and she pandered to his every wish. She wasn’t rapacious or greedy, she was loving. She’d feigned pleasure with him but once, but never again. Oh no, he hadn’t allowed that. But she was a mistress, for God’s sake. Had he been so very blind to her?
“And there is another thing,” Amalie said, her lips tightening at what she thought was her lover’s amusement. “Voltaire says that we should cultive our garden. A noble sentiment. And you, my lord, have left your garden in the north ... well, untended!”
“The devil you say,” H
awk said slowly. “This is incredible ... a mistress championing a wife?”
She continued frowning at him.
“Done in by a damned Frenchman,” he said, running his fingers through his hair. “Look, Amalie, let’s not speak of her, all right? Indeed, I don’t want to speak at all this moment.”
She saw the gleam in his beautiful green eyes and felt her heart quicken despite her principles. “All right,” she said, and arched upward to kiss him and press her breasts against his furred chest.
Hawk wasn’t feeling particularly urgent now, and took his time. He wanted the woman, his mistress, back, not the person. When his mouth caressed her belly, and his fingers found her and stroked her so expertly, so completely, Amalie sighed.
Then she said abruptly, “You should do that to your wife.”
His tongue became as still as his mind. He lifted his head to look up the length of her body to her face. “My God, I haven’t even kissed my wife! I told you that. One doesn’t do this to a wife, for God’s sake!” He dropped a quick kiss on her damp curls. “She would faint, she would have galloping hysterics, she would expire of lacerated sensibilities on the spot!”
“Bosh,” said Amalie. “What a ridiculous notion you men have of women. Is your wife fashioned differently from me?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Hawk said acidly. “I haven’t seen her body.”
“So it is your gentleman’s belief that a wife, a lady born and bred, hates the thought of coupling?”
“Your English is improving by leaps and bounds,” he said in the most sarcastic voice he could muster. His desire was as dead as three-day-old ashes in the grate.
“Of course, I told you I am not ignorant. Listen, mon faucon, how can you be so stupid?”
“I am not being stupid, thank you! I have treated her with the utmost respect, I have—”
Midsummer Magic Page 17
