“Just feel,” she heard him say, feeling his fingers on her and in her, and his mouth.
He brought her again to shuddering pleasure, and while she quivered with the final small convulsive shocks, he came into her, deeply, fully, and she pulled him down to her.
He closed his eyes, his teeth gritted, and was quickly beside himself. Her pleasure was a potent aphrodisiac, more potent that he could have imagined. He was nearly rough in his urgency, but she kept moving with him, stroking him, and his last thought was: Damnation, I am well and truly lost.
“I cannot move,” Frances whispered.
“Nor can I,” Hawk said, “but I must, or end up on the floor.”
Frances was dazed and sated, and fatigue washed over her like a gentle wave. “Don’t leave me, Hawk,” she said, only vaguely aware that he was pulling her against him and molding the covers about them.
“Damn you, Frances,” he said. He pulled her closer and felt her softness, felt her languid body flow against him, felt her trust.
Ah, Amalie, you have made me a fool with your damned bloody advice, he thought, kissed his wife’s forehead, and felt himself fall into a deep, sated stupor.
24
Quarrels wouldnot last long if the fault were only on one side.
—LA ROCHEFOUCAULD
The marquess stared first at his glowering son, then at his equally glowering daughter-in-law. There was so much tension in the air he felt he could probably taste it on his toast.
“Well,” he said brightly, “it is a lovely day today.”
Hawk grunted.
Frances speared a bite of egg. She was so furious, she wanted to kill and maim—him! She had, she recalled quite clearly, awakened some two hours before, a silly, very female smile on her face, only to realize that she was in her own bed, in her nightgown, and she was alone. Oh, curse him. She had felt gentled, and soft.
Never again.
And he obviously had felt nothing, absolutely nothing, else why would he have carried her back to her bed? And put her into her nightgown ... and looked at her, and she hadn’t known it. She’d probably been dreaming silly women’s dreams, fool that she was.
“When are you leaving?” she asked her husband in so cold a voice that it could have iced the tea.
Hawk took another bite of toast.
“Leave!” the marquess demanded, looking startled. “What the devil are you talking about, Frances?”
She said, seeing that Hawk was concentrating on the crock of creamy butter beside his plate, “Why shouldn’t he return to London? After all, my lord, he cares not a farthing for Desborough Hall or the stud or our racers or ... or for anything!”
“Father,” Hawk said, gently setting down his slice of toast, “I have sent a draft to your secretary, Conyon, for five thousand pounds. I trust that in the future you won’t waste more of your money or mine.”
It was too much. Frances eased back her chair and tossed her white napkin onto her still-filled plate. “A man’s power,” she said in rattling tones of sarcasm, “you don’t care for anything save your own pleasure—”
“I shouldn’t say that is precisely true,” Hawk said mildly, and gave her a mocking, intimate look that made her flush, not with embarrassment, but with anger.
“You don’t care! Sell the bloody stock! Go back to London! I’m sure I don’t care either!”
“I believe first I shall check into this mystery with Belvis,” he continued in that same mild tone.
“What mystery?” the marquess demanded.
“It would appear that Flying Davie’s dam died before she could have possibly foaled him,” said Hawk. “I think I shall have a look at the bill of sale.” He shook his head. “So many responsibilities, so many duties, so many demands on my time and ... energy.”
“You don’t deserve to die in your bed, my lord! You deserve to be flogged—”
“By you, my dear wife?”
“I should flay you with inexhaustible enthusiasm.”
“I do wish you two would cease your bickering for just a moment,” the marquess said. “Ah, Rosie, more tea if you please.”
Not another word was spoken until Rosie, her ears at attention, was forced with a very lagging step from the breakfast room.
“There has to be a simple explanation for this,” the marquess continued. “What does Belvis say?”
“He doesn’t understand it,” Frances said, calming her ruffled feathers. “He is disturbed.”
“It will doubtless all be explained when I see the bill of sale,” Hawk said, dismissing the matter.
Several hours later, he realized that an explanation was not in the offing. No bill of sale could be found. He and Marcus searched every conceivable place. There were no bills of sale for Tamerlane or for Clancy’s Pride either. Odd, Hawk thought, but shrugged it off. He had no idea what Nevil could have done with the papers, but doubtless they had to be somewhere.
He strolled out to the paddocks to observe Frances astride Flying Davie, taking him through a very controlled series of maneuvers. She was an excellent horse-woman, no doubt about that. And she’d been right about her natural ability with horses. Flying Davie followed her each instruction most willingly. She also enjoyed her riding habit, if that is what it could be called. She was wearing a brown wool skirt that was divided allowing the freedom of breeches.
When next he saw her, she was quite dirty, smelled of sweat and horses, and her hair hung in damp tendrils about her face. He wondered if she’d taken a toss and felt a brief spurt of alarm. But no, she came dashing into the drawing room waving a dirty envelope in one hand, a single sheet of paper in the other.
“From my father and Sophia,” she announced, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. She had forgotten for the moment that she wished neither to see nor to speak to her wretched husband.
“Yes?” he drawled with great disinterest.
“They are all well, and Sophia asks to send my sisters here. Of course they will need new wardrobes and Sophia asks that I supply them. Perhaps within the month—”
Hawk stared at her, then roared, “I had to marry you, Frances, you have to be here of necessity, but I’ll be damned in hell before I have your sisters underfoot, nipping at my heels! Nor have I any intention, madam, of allowing you to waste more of my money! Tell your bloody father that he can supply the blunt!”
Frances gaped at him, silent for an instant.
“And if Sophia thinks that I shall have the three of you in London with me, parading you all about to balls and such, she can just think again!”
She felt herself swelling with fury. “You bastard!” she yelled at him, unaware and uncaring in any case that Otis and Mrs. Jerkins were frozen in the hall outside the open door.
“You mean, petty, self-righteous prig! You are ridiculous and utterly horrible and I hate you!”
He watched her actually stomp her foot in rage, whirl about, and leave him alone. Only the horse scent remained.
I shall leave for London very shortly, he told himself. At last he had managed to make her despise him.
Frances fumed and paced in the estate room, cursing him in the most colorful language she could remember from her father’s verbal rages.
“Ho, what’s this?” asked the marquess. The whole point of loyalty, he knew, was to have a butler inform one of everything of interest that occurred. Otis, that pillar of loyalty, had filled his ears.
“Your damned son!” Frances yelled, turning on him.
“Yes?” he asked in an encouraging voice.
“He refuses to spend any of his precious money on my sisters! He even refuses to let them come here or to London or anything! I hope his toes rot off, I hope he smashes his hard head on the ...” She ground to a halt, unable to find a suitable obstruction for his head.
“I should be delighted to provide money for your sisters, Frances. And if it would please you, I have a somewhat improvident far-removed cousin who would be delighted to sponsor them. So you see, my dear, there
is no reason for you to be so ... concerned.”
That drew her up. To her father-in-law’s chagrin, Frances burst into tears.
“My dear!”
She turned her back to him, not wanting him to see her horrible loss of control. Finally she managed to get a hold on herself.
“Also,” the marquess continued after a moment, “Hawksbury House in London belongs to me. Hawk merely avails himself of it when he is there. He has no say who may stay there, Frances.”
“You are very kind, sir,” she said, still sniffing a bit. Then she drew herself up, and her gray eyes, now nearly black, gleamed with purpose. “It is not your responsibility. It is his, and I shall force him to meet his obligations!”
“How?” the marquess asked.
“I ... well, I’m not certain just yet. Perhaps I shall blackmail him when I find out his mistress’s name in London.”
“I shouldn’t go quite that far,” the marquess said quickly. “Really, my dear, I am a very rich man. There is no reason at all for you not to allow me—”
“No, sir,” she said quite firmly. “No. I thank you, but it is not right and I could not accept your generosity. You have done too much for me as it is.”
“Very well then,” the marquess said, already determined upon his next move in any case. He patted his daughter-in-law’s flushed cheek and took himself off.
He found his son butchering the billiard balls in the gentlemen’s smoking room. He watched him strike a ball with such force it should have punched a hole in the black felt.
“Hello,” the marquess said. “I should say, my boy, that your technique is lacking, just a bit.”
Hawk shot him a narrow-eyed look.
“My boy,” the marquess continued, his very gentle voice bringing his son to instant attention. “You will willingly provide funds for your wife’s sisters. You will also apologize to Frances for your execrable behavior toward her.”
Hawk very carefully laid the cue onto the billiard table. He said nothing.
“You know, dear boy, it seems to me that Frances, in all innocence, provided you with the perfect opportunity to dash her into the woodwork. I do wonder why you felt compelled to do it.”
“So she went running to you, did she?”
“Actually, no. Otis, my boy, Otis.”
Hawk muttered something about traitorous servants, and the marquess merely smiled.
“When I did track down your wife, she refused to allow me to assist her.”
“She would,” Hawk sighed.
“She is quite proud, you know.”
“She is an accursed female!”
“Why, my dear boy? Why did you hurt her so?”
Curse the old man for his perception, Hawk thought. He heard himself say in a calm-enough voice, “I am leaving Desborough Hall soon and I don’t want three females following me to London.”
“I suggest that you take care what you’re about, Hawk.”
“Oh hell,” Hawk said, smashing his fist onto a small tabletop that promptly collapsed. He stared blankly at the wreckage. “I will apologize to her. I will give her all the blunt she requires for her twit sisters, but I won’t escort them all about London! If she wishes, she can cart them about York and even Harrowgate. Plenty of assemblies and nonsense there.”
“May I suggest that you apologize to her quickly? She was muttering about blackmailing you.”
“Blackmailing me! Why, that is ridiculous!”
“Your mistress, Hawk.”
“She is a shrew.”
“Your mistress, dear boy?”
“No, Frances,” Hawk snapped.
“She is a handful, certainly, but a shrew, my boy? Surely you exaggerate, perhaps to protect yourself?”
Hawk cursed floridly and stomped out of the room.
The marquess slowly picked up the billiard cue and began a quite splendid, expert game.
Hawk forgot about returning to London, at least for the moment. That night Flying Davie became suddenly ill, and Frances, pale and drawn with worry, was in his stall until dawn. Hawk couldn’t ignore the situation; he wasn’t a complete bounder. He watched her care for the thoroughbred, saw that the horse trusted her, was quite calm when she touched him and ministered to him.
“The fellow will make it,” Belvis said to him, stretching his back. “Lady Frances has such a way with her. I never would have believed that a woman ... Well, that puts an end to my nonsensical notions. I wish I could understand why he got so ill. Lady Frances says it is something he ate, but his feeding is carefully supervised. Doesn’t make sense, no it doesn’t.” Belvis shook his weary head, and added with a faint smile, “You are most lucky, my lord.”
What to say to that? Hawk wondered, bone-weary himself.
Frances refused to leave Flying Davie until she was ready to fall asleep beside him in the stall.
“Come, Frances,” Hawk said, took her arm, and pulled her to her feet. “Flying Davie is now in better shape than you. It’s time you took yourself to bed.”
Frances felt light-headed with fatigue, but also proud of herself. “He will live,” she said with great satisfaction, and gave her husband a blinding smile.
There were smudges under her eyes, her hair was a ratty mess, her gown was wrinkled and filthy, and he felt something powerful move deep within him.
“You will eat your breakfast,” he said in a stiff voice, “then you will go to bed. It’s nearly nine o‘clock in the morning.”
“I am not hungry, just so tired.”
He shortened his step to match hers. She weaved a bit as they walked toward the house, and he gently clasped her arm. He said abruptly, “I apologize for cutting up at you. I shall certainly be delighted for your sisters to visit you here. I shall pay for new gowns and the like for them.” There, he’d said it. He waited hopefully to see that brilliant smile of hers again, but to his chagrin, she stiffened. “I think not, my lord,” she said in a very even voice. “I intend to pay for their new gowns myself. Of course, I do thank you for allowing the two little waifs to stay in your house.”
“You have no money, Frances, at least not enough to provide more than one outfit for each of them.”
She waved her hand at him. “My ring is valuable,” she said. “I intend to sell it. I shall go to York this afternoon.”
It was a long time since dawn, but Hawk saw red.
“You will do no such thing!”
“Isn’t the ring mine?”
“It is a family heirloom, it was worth far beyond the money it would bring. I forbid you to sell it, Frances!”
She came to a stop, pulled away from him, and said in a very clipped voice, “You may go to the devil, my lord. I assume the devil is in London. It appears a fine day for traveling. Why don’t you take yourself off?”
“The only reason I don’t shake you until your teeth rattle is that you are too weary. Don’t push me, Frances.”
“Ah, your sense of fair play, my lord? Don’t strike your opponent until he or she is able to fight back?”
“ ‘Hawk,’ damn you! Fair play has nothing to do with anything. You will not sell the ring and that’s an end to it.”
She gave him a long look and tightly pursed her lips.
“Frances,” he began, knowing her well enough now to recognize the signs of heels digging in.
She ignored him, walking more quickly. She came to an abrupt halt when two dusty carriages bowled up the drive to come to a halt in front of the house.
“Who the hell—” Hawk said.
Frances watched a nattily dressed gentleman climb out of the lead carriage, turn, and offer his hand to a lady.
“My God,” Hawk said, “it is Edmund, Lord Chalmers, and my sister, Beatrice!”
He strode forward, his hand outstretched. “Good Lord, man, ‘tis still an early hour. However did you manage to get Bea—”
He didn’t finish, for his sister said in a very imperious voice, “Hello, Phillip. Everything looks the same, I see. Edmund and I have
come to visit you. Oh dear, my father is here? And who is that, brother?”
Hawk turned to see her finger pointing at Frances, who stood like a filthy servant girl some feet away.
He drew a deep breath and said, “Frances, come here, my dear. She is my wife,” he added.
“She sleeps in the stables? How very odd, to be sure, but given her looks, I am really not surprised. However—”
“She was caring for a sick horse,” Hawk said briefly, cutting off his sister.
“How very odd,” Beatrice repeated.
“You don’t look terribly fit yourself, old boy,” Edmund said. “The horse will survive?”
“He will. Frances has a talent for healing animals.” He turned to see Frances at his side.
He performed the introductions, and Frances, smiling slightly, said, “I shan’t allow either of you to come closer, I fear I am something of a disgrace at the moment.”
“Nothing that a bath and rest won’t cure,” said Edmund kindly.
The marquess had reached them, and Frances was a bit taken aback to see Beatrice give her father a very cool kiss on the cheek.
Beatrice, Frances saw, was more beautiful than her portrait. She looked positively regal in her traveling gown of rich burgundy velvet, but her expression wasn’t particularly warm. Edmund, on the other hand, appeared a most polished gentleman, and quite kind. His eyes sparkled with good humor and he greeted the marquess with charming deference.
“Shall we all adjourn to the breakfast room?” Hawk asked. “I was on the point of forcing Frances to eat a bit before she takes to her bed.”
“I should like some tea,” Beatrice announced, “after, of course, I freshen myself a bit. Gertrude, have a care with my jewel case!”
Frances looked from the older maid to Otis, who stood observing them all from the steps. “Otis,” she called to him. “You will see to Gertrude and Lord Chalmers’ valet, if you please.”
“Certainly, my lady,” Otis said.
“Officious sod,” Beatrice said, her brows lowering a bit.
Midsummer Magic Page 28
