Frances realized there was no hope for it. She couldn’t begin to imagine what Lord Danvers would think about a lady’s presence at the mating. It was a humiliating thought. Perhaps he would protest, perhaps he would force Hawk to allow her to leave. No, that wouldn’t happen.
“Usually, the mare is ... well, you will observe firsthand, won’t you, my dear?” He didn’t expect an answer. He released her arm, and she quickly stepped away from him.
“Frances, attend me.”
She turned unwilling to face him.
“You will be present. If you flee, I swear that you will regret it. Do you understand me?”
“I understand,” she said. She added under her breath, “You miserable bastard!”
Hawk laughed. “Oh, my dear,” he said, “of course Lord Danvers won’t be present at your education. We will wait until he is well gone from Desborough Hall.”
At least, she thought, he was sparing her some humiliation, but not much.
Lord Danvers and his entourage arrived within the hour. He was a bluff, good-natured man in his early fifties. He greeted Frances graciously, then turned immediately to Hawk. “Pleased, I am, my lord, that you’ve started the stud up again. My Miss Margaret is ready to breed, and I don’t mind telling you, I’ve always wanted Gentleman Dan to sire a foal. Eh, that’s a steady fellow, I’ve heard! Always ready to—” He broke off, reddening just a bit as he realized there was a lady nearby.“
“Yes, indeed,” said Hawk smoothly. “Allow Otis to show you to your room, my lord,” he continued after a moment. “Then we will have luncheon. Is your mare ready to continue this afternoon?”
“Always ready, you know,” said Lord Danvers in a low but very carrying voice.
After Otis had escorted Lord Danvers from the drawing room, Hawk said to his wife, “We will journey to the attic now.”
She stared at him.
“In preparation for tomorrow. Come, Frances, I cannot allow you to appear as a woman, you must realize that. I fancy, though, that Nevil and I have some of our boys’ clothing in the trunks. You, my dear, may garb yourself as a male. A cap also,” he added, studying her hair.
Frances didn’t tell him that she and her father-in-law had already visited the attic and found her boys’ clothes. Unfortunately, there was still quite a selection.
Frances said little at luncheon and ate less. She heard the men carrying on about breeding and racing and hunting. So amiable!
She stayed in the house the entire afternoon. She wouldn’t have ventured out even if the drawing room had caught on fire.
The Melchers arrived for dinner. Nathan, the vicar, was a serious, rather narrow-shouldered man whose wife, Rosalie, was blessed with a large bosom, a lively sense of humor, and six children. She pandered shamelessly to Lord Danvers.
Frances was aware of her husband’s gaze throughout the meal. There was no escape, not tonight, she knew, as she took a bit of cabinet pudding, one of Cook’s specialities. She imagined he couldn’t wait to taunt her with details of the horses’ coupling. Sneering wretch!
Frances liked Rosalie. She’d never before known a motherly flirt. When she rose from the dinner table, Rosalie smiled broadly at all the gentlemen, and followed her.
The gentlemen didn’t join them for a good hour. They were, in all likelihood, Frances thought, jesting about Gentleman Dan’s prowess. As Hawk strolled across the broad entrance hall toward the drawing room, Lord Danvers beside him, talking nonstop about all the damned chicanery and cheating in the racing world, he blinked, hearing the pianoforte. It was a Mozart sonata, played beautifully. He shook his head at himself. The vicar’s wife, of course, but Rosalie had such pudgy fingers. He wondered how they could race so gracefully over the keys.
But it wasn’t Rosalie, of course. Hawk stiffened as he entered the room, his eyes going to his wife, who was seated gracefully before the pianoforte. Her lovely chestnut hair glistened with red and blond highlights in the candlelight from the branch of candles beside the pianoforte. Her white neck was long and graceful. She wore no jewelry. He wanted to kiss the nape of her neck and strangle her at the same time.
Frances finished, not looking up for a moment, calming the excitement the rapid last movement always brought to her. When she heard the loud applause, she nearly snapped her neck in her haste. She met her husband’s eyes. She’d forgotten the prize performance she’d granted him at Kilbracken. Fool!
“How enjoyable, my dear Lady Frances,” Rosalie said. “Such talent and ability! I vow you must be very proud of her, my lord.”
“Oh, I am indeed,” Hawk said in his blandest voice. “When I first heard her play at her home in Scotland, I remember thinking: Now, here is a talent that makes an audience react with unbelievable fervor.”
“And such a lovely picture she is, sitting there” continued Rosalie, more motherly now than flirtatious.
“Indeed,” agreed Lord Danvers. “You are a fortunate man, my lord.” Hawk saw the older man’s eyes rest on Frances’ white shoulders and he was surprised at the sudden jolt of anger he felt.
“Incidentally,” Hawk said, his attention still on Rosalie Melcher, “has my wife sung for you yet? You will not believe that such a voice can possibly exist. Frances, my dear, please give our guests more pleasure.”
His look was a dare and a command, and Frances knew he was remembering quite clearly her singing of that night. She nearly shuddered every time she thought about it. Did he believe her voice would crack the crystal on the mantelpiece? Curse him.
“Very well, my lord,” she said, sending him a sweet, very false smile, “if our guests are certain they wish to take the chance—”
There was vociferous agreement.
Frances bowed her head a moment, looking at her fingers spread over the keys. I am Scottish, she whispered to herself. Her fingers lightly came down on a soft major chord. Her voice was a gentle contralto, well-controlled, well-trained. She sang:O, my luve is like a red, red rose,
That’s newly sprung in June.
O, my luve is like the melodie,
That’s sweetly played in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I,
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a‘ the seas gang dry.
Hawk silently watched her face, letting her gentle voice and the beautiful words flow through him. He was startled when he heard the applause from his guests. It was on the edge of his tongue to tell her how lovely her voice was, but memory asserted itself, and the memory brought anger, and that brought his sneer. “How well you adapt, my dear,” he said softly. “Like a chameleon you are, to be sure. Why is it I expect you next to become a snake and strike where I will least expect it?”
Only Frances heard his baiting words. The others were talking, encouraging her to play another song. Slowly she raised her hands from the keys and laid her hands in her lap. She looked up at her husband and said quietly, “I am not a snake. But if I were, I should wish to be a very poisonous one.”
His eyes glistened, and he smiled, offering her his hand. “Just where would you bite me, Frances?”
She said nothing, merely rose and took his hand. She knew Rosalie was probably regarding them with dewy, romantic eyes. All are blind, she thought, when it suits them to be, or when the proper picture is presented to them.
“Perhaps,” Hawk continued as he lightly stroked his fingers over her palm, “you would bite me in my most vulnerable male spot. Not that I shouldn’t mind your beautiful mouth there, but biting? I think not.”
She quickly turned her hand and pinched his thumb.
His smile faded, just a bit.
“Eh, my lord, how about a game of cards?” Lord Danvers’ booming voice brought the both of them back to their responsibilities. “I’ve heard it said you’re quite the piquet player. Perhaps I can win back my stud fee, eh?”
“He is an excellent player, my lord,” Frances said quickly, seeing a ray of escape light through the fo
g. “I imagine your game or games would be quite interesting.”
The vicar and his wife took their leave after tea.
Lord Danvers neatly trapped Hawk, and Frances, trying desperately not to grin in triumph at her husband, merely nodded and took her leave.
She lay in her bed, stiff as a stone, until finally she fell asleep, her dreams of snorting stallions and whinnying mares, and her husband’s face.
It was near one o‘clock in the morning when Hawk quietly entered his wife’s bedchamber. He walked to her bed, lifted his candle, and stared down at her sleeping face. He reached out his hand, then very slowly drew it back. No, he thought, he would wait. It would be worth it. Indeed it would.
He smiled.
Lord Danvers took his leave the following morning after breakfast. He was jovial, even though, he informed Frances, her husband had quite taken the wind out of his sails over cards.
“A damned shark, my lady, that’s what he is!”
Frances smiled pleasantly. “I have thought similar things about him upon occasion,” she said.
Hawk and Frances stood on the front steps and waved Lord Danvers on his way. Frances said to her husband, “I see that it is profitable for you to spend so much time in London. How much of the poor man’s money did you win?”
“Five hundred pounds,” said Hawk absently. He was regarding her closely, and Frances felt herself stiffening, drawing away. He continued, “You look quite innocent and trusting in your sleep. A man could imagine that you are most malleable and charming—with your mouth shut.”
She refused to let him draw her, but still, she couldn’t prevent the words that blurted themselves out. “You didn’t touch me!”
He slowly shook his head. “No. I am sorry to disappoint you, Frances, but I was rather tired, you know. I decided to wait.”
“You didn’t disappoint me!”
“You know nothing yet, my dear, about disappointment.” He shrugged. “This afternoon, Frances. You will be at the stables at precisely two o‘clock.” He saw that she would protest, and added, “I also remember seeing you striding about in Scotland. I was riding in a carriage with your sisters at the time. I trust you can manage a believable stride today in your boys’ clothes.”
“I shall,” Frances said.
Frances dithered until it was very nearly two o‘clock. Even though her husband had told her to come to the stables, she wasn’t particularly surprised to hear a tap on the adjoining door. A moment later, Hawk strolled in, stopped, and looked her over thoroughly. “Very nice,” he said. “Now the cap.”
He watched her finish braiding her hair and pin it firmly on the top of her head. He took the woolen cap and pulled it down over her ears.
“Very nice indeed. You will behave, I trust, else I just might gain the reputation of a pederast.”
“What is that, pray?”
“A man who prefers boys to ladies.”
“Oh! That is disgusting!”
“I have always thought so.” He stepped away from her and studied her. The pants were a bit loose, thank God, but her long, slender legs were quite evident to him. Her shirt was covered with an equally loose jacket. If one didn’t look closely at her beautiful, quite feminine face, she would escape detection.
He grinned at her. “Well, Frances, are you ready for your education?”
She said nothing, for her tongue was dead in her mouth. He gave a final tug to her cap, bringing it nearly down to her eyebrows.
“Excellent. Just keep your mouth closed and no one will guess what really lies beneath that garb. Even if anybody does guess, no one would dare say a word.”
20
Between two horses, which doth bear him best ...
—SHAKESPEARE
Frances stared. Two trainers, Henry and Tully, held the mare, Miss Margaret, firmly by her halter. The mare was whinnying and snorting, her flanks quivering, her beautiful bay coat covered with sweat. Gentleman Dan could barely be restrained. His eyes rolled in his head at the sight of the mare, and the four men who held him strained for control.
Hawk watched Frances’ face as the stallion was guided behind the mare. He heard Belvis give a sharp command. This was the tricky part. It was always possible for the mare to be injured, and everything was done to prevent it. The stallion’s hooves were wrapped in thick white wool. Gentleman Dan was snorting, tossing his beautiful head, so excited by the sight and smell of the mare that Frances believed he would break loose at any moment. She held her breath. Suddenly the stallion was allowed to rear over the back of the mare, and she gulped.
“You are remarking the horse’s endowments,” Hawk said, regarding her wide-eyed stare.
“He is going to hurt her,” Frances whispered.
“Perhaps, but we will do our best to see that he doesn’t.”
The stallion was bucking at the mare, straining forward to bite her on her neck. The mare was trying to pull free of her holders, her hindquarters trembling.
“Now, look closely, my dear” Hawk said. He saw that she had closed her eyes, and roughly shook her arm. “You will look well, Frances.”
She opened her eyes to see the stallion thrust wildly into the mare. There was unearthly shrieking from both animals. It was a sight she could never have imagined. The stallion was huge, but the mare pushed back against him, craning her head back, snorting frantically. Frances couldn’t have closed her eyes against the sight even if she had thought about it. The horses seemed beside themselves; the stallion was allowed to thrust and withdraw as he wished to. He was enormous and Frances wanted to feel revulsion, she truly did. But the mare suddenly kicked her hind legs upward and the stallion, with a furious cry, drove into her. The mare screamed, and Frances knew, deep down, that it was a cry of pleasure. She felt her palms grow sweaty, her breath grow jerky.
The men were encouraging Gentleman Dan, but there was no leering, no stupid jests. It was only she herself, Frances thought vaguely, who was responding to this incredible scene. She felt a deep stirring, but didn’t understand it. She felt a tension building in her belly ... no, below her belly, between her legs.
She wasn’t aware that Hawk was watching her closely, his eyes glittering at the sight of the pounding pulse in her throat.
She wasn’t aware that Hawk’s hand had clasped her and that her fingers were working spasmodically against his. She drew a deep, shuddering breath when Gentleman Dan gave a wild cry and quivered, then stiffened over the mare’s back.
Suddenly she felt Hawk take her hand and lead her away. She felt dazed, utterly out of herself, which was foolish, of course, but she couldn’t seem to calm the rampaging feelings deep inside her. She kept pace with him, not looking at him. He finally gained the tack room, and closed the door.
“Frances,” he said very softly.
She raised glazed eyes to his face. He slowly turned her around so her back was pressing against his chest. Suddenly his hand was on her belly, kneading her, caressing her very gently, feeling her through the boys trousers. She wanted to object, but her body wouldn’t allow it.
His hand, just as quickly, stroked down her, and cupped against her. She gave a jerking start, and cried out. She felt his other hand press against her breasts, holding her still against him. She gave a whimpering cry, not understanding, as the palm of his hand pressed against her. She felt wet and hot and furiously urgent.
She vaguely heard his harsh breathing in her ear, felt his fingers now searching over her breasts, finding her taut nipples, stroking them.
Then his fingers were wild on her in a rhythm that made her whimper and press forward. “That’s good,” he said, his voice raw and low against her cheek. “Yes, move against my fingers.”
She saw the mare thrusting back against the stallion, and as she pressed her hips against him, his fingers followed. She felt blood pounding in her head, felt herself opening and tensing at the same time. His fingers quickened and she cried out, wanting more, wanting so much ...
“My lord! Belvis needs
to speak to you. My lord?”
The knock on the tack-room door, the groom’s voice, brought Frances plummeting back to earth. She felt Hawk’s fingers leave her, felt him draw a deep breath, heard him curse vividly.
His hands were on her upper arms now, gently squeezing her, as if trying to calm both of them.
“Just a moment,” he called out.
“Frances,” he said very softly. He turned her about, saw the dazed shock in her eyes, and pulled her close. His large hands stroked down her back, kneading the tense muscles. “It’s all right,” he said against her left ear. “I’m sorry about the damned interruption. You were so very close.”
Close to what?
He gently set her away from him. “Will you be all right?”
She felt a sudden violent surge of embarrassment. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him, to see the look in his eyes. She managed to nod, her head bowed.
Hawk cursed again.
“I must go,” he said, his voice taut and angry. “You remain here until you are ... feeling more yourself.”
Frances couldn’t have moved in any case. She watched him pause a moment at the door, shake his head, and quickly leave the room.
She sank slowly to the floor, her eyes closed. What happened to me? she wondered. Why did I react like that? For an instant she felt his fingers probing against her and shuddered. She had wanted him to continue, wanted him to make that odd, so strange pressure build within her. Tentatively, she slid her hand down her belly to lightly touch herself. She felt dampness and pounding heat and jerked her hand away. She moaned softly, not understanding. She felt weak and tight as a bow string, all at the same time.
“What is wrong with me?” she asked the empty room.
She rolled into a small ball, holding her knees, waiting for her breathing to slow. She didn’t move for many minutes.
Frances faced her husband at the dinner table. It had required all her resolution not to plead an awful illness, anything not to have to face him. He had had the absolute nerve to send her a message saying he would join her in her room for dinner if she didn’t come down.
Midsummer Magic Page 23
