“Hawk—”
“Of course, my father, being of the older generation, raised a bit of a ruckus, but Nevil talked him around.”
“Hawk—”
He turned full face toward her. “Very well, let us return to the business at hand. Why are you still here? I told you to speak to Belvis. His services are not required.”
All thoughts of conciliation fled her mind and she saw red. “You ... you bastard!” She grabbed up the unmended saddle and heaved it at him. It landed short, and Hawk simply stared down at the saddle, then at his wife.
He laughed. “I am fortunate that women are not allowed in the army. Had you been firing the cannon, the enemy would have been toasting you with champagne.”
She looked madly about for something else to hurl at him. “You also wrecked your own protective castle wall, didn’t you? Not, of course, that I couldn’t have easily scaled that saddle to get to you, but now you are saving me energy.” He strode toward her, and Frances, seeing the gleam in his green eyes, turning them brilliant as emeralds, tried to dart around him. He caught her arm and jerked her against him.
“Now,” he said, holding her firmly, “what will you give me, wife, to keep Belvis here and your precious project intact?”
She opened her mouth to yell at him, and in the next instant his mouth covered hers. It was the first time he had kissed her and it was a revelation. Her lips were soft, parted, her breath sweet and warm. He felt her struggling wildly against him, but he didn’t want to release her. He gentled his kiss, his tongue lightly stroking her lower lip. He allowed his tongue to enter her mouth, only to retreat with great rapidity as her teeth bit down.
His desire for her was powerful even though he realized she would willingly have removed the tip of his tongue had he not been quicker. He continued kissing her until she finally quieted. He raised his head and stared down at her. “Have you never been kissed before, Frances?” he asked quietly.
“No, damn you! I don’t like it. It’s wet and disgusting and degrading—”
He kissed her again, drew away, and pressed his hand against the back of her head, drawing her cheek to his shoulder. He simply held her like that, listening to her harsh breathing. He released her and she jumped back, swiping the back of her hand across her mouth.
“Shouldn’t you speak to Belvis, my dear?” he said.
Her hand dropped. “No! You can’t, Hawk, you—”
“And, Frances, you will accustom yourself to my kissing you. Tonight, I fully intend to kiss every inch of you.” -
She stared at him aghast, all thoughts of the stud fleeing her mind. “You can’t! It’s ... impossible!”
“No, it isn’t, I promise you.”
“I don’t want you to! Hawk, I swear that I won’t fight you again, or ... hide. I will lie quietly and allow you to ... well, you can do as you wish.”
“And very quickly? In the dark? Without touching you or caressing you?”
“Why would you want to? You want your precious heir, that is all! Why do you want to torment me? I didn’t trap you into marriage, my lord! I wanted nothing to do with you.”
“And you still don’t, is that right?”
“No—I mean yes, I don’t want you!”
“There won’t be any further need of the cream either,” he continued, his voice deep and certain.
The red flush started at her knees, she knew, and traveled quickly to her hairline.
“Unless, of course, my dear, you much enjoyed my finger inside you, stroking you, easing you, stretching you for my—”
“Stop it! You are disgusting, hateful—”
He laughed. “Would you like to know why we won’t need the cream anymore, Frances?”
But she was dashing toward the tack-room door.
He was ahead of her, his hand smashed flat against the door above her head. Her hand clutched uselessly at the door handle. “As I was saying, Frances, we won’t need the blasted cream. Why? I’m sure you want to ask me. Well, my dear, we won’t because when I finally come into you, you will be quite ready for me—wet, warm, and quite wild for me.”
“You are disgusting,” she said in a low shaking voice.
He drew back his hand and stepped away. “We will see, Frances. I don’t think we’ll be downstairs for tea this evening.” He watched her frantically jerk the door open. “Frances,” he called after her, “don’t invite any more of our neighbors to dinner.”
“The ... the Melchers are to arrive at five o‘clock!”
“The vicar, Frances? You will send a message immediately, my dear. Plead illness, plead anything you like. If they come, Frances, I shall tell them that my beautiful wife and I are anxious to get back to our marriage bed. Don’t doubt me, Frances.”
She fled. Hawk strolled to the doorway and watched her run in the rain back toward the house. He smiled to himself. He’d regained control and the little witch knew it, and hated it. Still, he thought, frowning slightly, that kiss had surprised him.
It stopped raining in the early afternoon and Hawk took himself off to see John and Alicia. If he remained at Desborough Hall, he feared he would be sorely tempted to attack his wife on the floor of the drawing room.
Alicia, John told him proudly, raising a glass of sherry in salute, was with child. Hawk felt something deep and wonderful clutch at his insides.
“Hawk!” Alicia exclaimed, a bit pink. “You’re grinning like a fool! ‘Tis not your child!”
He was still grinning as he rode back to Desborough Hall.
He was humming as Grunyon assisted him into his evening clothes.
“Most heartening,” Grunyon said as he handed Hawk a neckcloth.
“What is?”
“All the changes Lady Frances has made.”
Hawk grunted, concentrating on the folds of his cravat.
“The three new trainers she hired seem to be good men, not all that experienced, of course, but willing and eager.”
Hawk said nothing, but his jaw tightened.
“Ah, indeed,” Grunyon continued, as if he hadn’t a worry in the world, “it is about time that Desborough Hall had a mistress, and one who cares about everything. Why, I was speaking to Mr. Carruthers, a most excellent young man, incidentally, and he was telling me—”
“I don’t give a farthing for what that excellent young man has to say!”
“I believe, my lord,” Grunyon continued, unperturbed, “that you must file down that nail. It’s just a bit ragged.”
Hawk looked at the fingernail on the third finger of his left hand. He blinked, suddenly afraid that the nail had been jagged the night before. That was the finger he’d covered with cream and eased into his wife. Had he hurt her? “Bring me the file,” he said.
When he entered the drawing room, his step was light, his face filled with anticipation. The room was empty.
“Otis!”
The damned man walked like a shadow, Hawk thought, when Otis glided in but a moment later.
“Where is Lady Frances?”
Otis felt a brief shiver of foreboding. He wanted to glide out of the drawing room and go directly to his room and bolt the door. “Ah, my lord, she left this afternoon for York. She had dealings, and I believe that she and Agnes—Agnes accompanied her of course, as well as a footman—were spending the night there. She will return on the morrow, my lord ... as you should know, my lord.”
Otis had known she was fleeing, and at this moment he wished that he had taken the footman’s place. He had assumed, more fool he, that she had told his lordship. The earl looked brutal, which was odd, Otis reflected motionlessly, because he hadn’t moved a muscle.
Hawk asked very calmly, his voice genial, “Where is she staying, Otis?”
Otis wished he could ease himself behind the wainscoting. Instead, he drew a deep breath. “I don’t know, my lord.”
“How many inns are there in York, do you think, Otis?”
“I couldn’t hazard a guess, my lord. A great many, I should suppos
e.”
“You are doubtless right,” Hawk said smoothly. “Fetch Marcus for me, if you please, Otis. I desire his company at dinner, unless, of course, he also accompanied my wife on her little jaunt?”
“No, my lord, Mr. Carruthers is here. He, ah, planned to dine with you, my lord.”
“Instructions from Lady Frances?”
“I believe so, my lord.”
Marcus didn’t like it, not one bit. He wondered if the earl would ask him to remove himself immediately from Desborough Hall. To his intense surprise and relief, the earl greeted him graciously enough, remarking blandly after they were seated at the dining table, “Such a pity that Frances must needs be gone this evening.”
“Yes, my lord,” said Marcus. A footman served the vermicelli soup and Marcus grabbed his spoon.
“I believe,” said Hawk after a moment, eyeing his steward’s shaking hand, “that we are to be blessed with a fricandeau of veal and lobster cutlets this evening.”
“Most delightful, my lord,” said Marcus, wishing he could taste the doubtless delicious soup. It slithered down his throat.
Hawk raised his wineglass, twirled it between long fingers, and said in an interested voice, “Her ladyship has told me of all your plans, Marcus. Is my father charging me interest for the five thousand pounds?”
The soup suddenly slithered down the wrong way, and Marcus coughed. “No, my lord, not to my knowledge. He was, er, most enthusiastic about it all.”
“I see,” said Hawk, still twirling his wine, seemingly intent on the deep red liquid. “Her ladyship told me of all her expenditures—repair of the paddocks, the new trainers ... ah, I seem to forget the other expenses.”
Solid ground, Marcus thought with vast relief. He listed each expenditure, slowly and precisely. When he paused, the earl merely nodded to him to continue. “And, of course, Lady Frances decided to place advertisement about the stud, and—”
The wine stem shattered. “She what?”
“Not in the Gazette or any local newspapers, my lord,” Marcus added quickly, staring at the blood-red wine spreading its stain over the white tablecloth. A footman had started forward, only to come to an abrupt halt at the sight of the earl’s face. “In the Racing Calendar and the Turf—”
“My God, I don’t believe it!” Hawk interrupted, his voice so filled with rage that the footman took a hasty step back. “She has reduced me ... Desborough Hall ... to a bloody tradesman?” He slammed his fist on the table and a sauced slice of veal jumped off its platter.
Hawk roared to his feet, nearly upsetting his chair. He drew up suddenly, realizing that there was a servant present. He cursed softly under his breath, then drew himself stiff as a poker at the entrance of Otis.
“Otis,” he said pleasantly, “you and the footman may remove yourselves. I will ring when we need you.”
“Yes, my lord,” Otis said, casting a pitying look toward poor Marcus Carruthers.
The footman nearly raced Otis to the door.
“Now,” said Hawk, leaning over the table, his palms flat, “will you tell me that you endeavored to talk her out of this nonsense?”
Marcus licked his lips. He felt a sudden pain in his belly.
“Actually, my lord,” he managed finally, clutching thankfully at a sop, “Lord Danvers is due on the morrow with his mare. He wishes to put her to stud with Gentleman Dan. It is a fee of two hundred pounds, my lord,” he added hopefully. “He wrote to Lady Frances immediately upon learning that Desborough was again a stud. He was most delighted, my lord. I believe Lady Frances has received other inquiries as well in the past two weeks.”
“I see,” said Hawk. He stared off into space for many moments, saying nothing more. Then, suddenly, he said in a meditative voice. “I wonder if I would truly go to the gallows if I murdered her?”
“My lord!”
“Yes, Marcus?”
“Lady Frances is a very gracious lady, she truly cares and enjoys ... well, my lord, she is—”
“You, my dear Marcus,” Hawk interrupted his effusions smoothly, “don’t have the blessed opportunity of being leg-shackled to the lady. Perhaps,” he continued in the same thoughtfully considering voice, “I could poison her tea, or perhaps her scones. She is most fond of scones, you know.”
“My lord! Surely—”
“I jest? I wonder. I suppose I could strangle her and pretend she took a toss from a horse. No, that would leave telling bruises on her throat, wouldn’t it? Ah, there is much to consider here.”
Marcus wondered wildly if the earl were truly serious. He saw the determined gleam in his lordship’s eyes, and decided at that moment that he was quite grateful not to be in her ladyship’s slippers.
“Yes,” Hawk said after a moment. “She will return on the morrow. Then I shall see.”
19
Who can refute a sneer?
—REVD. WILLIAM PALEY
“Why, good morning, Frances. How well you are looking. Was your brief trip to York successful?”
Frances’ hand fell silent on Flying Davie’s silky nose. The stallion tossed his head, and Belvis murmured in that magic voice of his, “Now, old lad, enough nonsense out of you. You mind your manners with her ladyship.”
Frances turned slowly to face her husband. It was ten o‘clock in the morning, and she had returned at eight o’clock. She had changed quickly, eaten, and gone immediately to the paddocks.
Hawk was dressed for riding in buckskins and buff riding coat. His Hessians glistened in the morning sun. He looked perfectly calm, and his voice showed only mild interest.
“Yes, my lord,” she said, tilting her head up just a bit, “it was most successful.”
Flying Davie snorted and Belvis chuckled. “This beast is the jealous sort, my lord,” he said to Hawk. “He is well-used to Lady Frances’ undivided attention.”
“Only because he has but to look at me and I feed him shamelessly,” Frances said on a smile.
“It doesn’t matter,” Belvis said. “I’ve cut down on his feed, you may be certain. The fellow is too fat for his own good. His time will increase markedly within the month, my lord. He will be our fastest racer and will do you proud at Newmarket.”
Newmarket! Hawk stared from Belvis to his wife. “May I inquire as to your success in York?”
Frances drew a deep breath. “Actually, I had heard—from Belvis—that a smithy there had come up with a most ingenious idea. You see, Belvis has told me the difficulties in getting the horses to, say, Newmarket or Ascot or Doncaster. It takes days and the horses are naturally tired at the end of their journey. This smithy believes he can construct a sort of closed stall with wheels so that the racers won’t have to walk. They, in turn, are drawn by other horses.”
“It is ingenious, my lord,” Belvis added. “The fellow—his name is Cricks—sent the plans back with Lady Frances. If you would like to study them?”
“Yes, I should like to,” Hawk said. To Frances he continued, a brow raised, “May I inquire if this commission is part of the five thousand pounds?”
“Y-yes,” Frances said, but her slight flush betrayed her. To her immense relief, her husband said nothing more about it.
“I understand, Belvis,” Hawk said, “that Lord Danvers is due with a mare today.”
“Yes, indeed, my lord. Gentleman Dan is ready, you may be certain.”
“I am certain that he is. Would you and Flying Davie excuse me for a moment?” Hawk gently took Frances’ arm and strode away from the paddock.
She waited for the explosion, but instead she got a very calm, sneering look. She wasn’t certain what to say to that look. She said nervously, plucking at her skirt, “You will allow this, won’t you, Hawk? It is two hundred pounds. It will cover the cost of the horse stable.”
“Oh, I shall allow Gentleman Dan to have his fun.” His eyes lit up as from within, and Frances blinked. “Indeed, my dear,” he continued, his voice now evilly mocking to her sensitive ears, “I believe that you should watch the pro
cess. It is most enlightening, you know. Perhaps you will learn something.”
His sneer became only more pronounced at her disbelieving expression.
“You have never seen a stallion cover a mare before, have you, Frances?”
She shook her head, mute. Such a thing wasn’t allowed. She’d never considered, never thought that ...
“You will be present, my dear.”
“I can’t, you know that! It isn’t proper, only men should—”
“Why, my dear wife, I thought you were intensely interested in every facet of this enterprise. It doesn’t bother you that only men watch a stallion mount a mare? Such insensitive brutes—the men and the stallion, of course. Perhaps you could demand that the stallion cover the mare in the dark. Spare the poor mare’s sensibilities and all that.”
“Stop it, Hawk!”
His voice hardened. “You will be present, my dear, and I will stand right beside you. If you have questions, I will be delighted to answer them for you. For example, you might wonder what the stallion uses to impregnate the mare. I will point out all his endowments. Perhaps you will notice some slight parallel, who knows?”
Her face was washed clean of color. It wasn’t done, she couldn’t imagine standing, watching, with men about, knowing that ... “I can’t,” she said. Her chin went up. “I won’t.”
He was fairly amiable now. “If you refuse me, I shall tie you up and bring you here. Then I wonder what the men will think?”
“This is my punishment,” she said slowly, looking toward the paddock.
“A lesson, certainly. When is our mare to arrive for her, ah, experience?”
“Soon,” said Frances, “very soon. Lord Danvers will remain the night, of course. He wishes the mare to remain until ...” Her voice dropped off as a stone from a high sheer cliff.
“Until she is impregnated. Of course, the mare is willing to be impregnated, and even if she weren’t willing, she would be forced to accept the stallion. She would be held quite securely so he could mount her. And men, of course, do the holding ... and the guiding, as it were.”
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