Authors: Amanda Scott
Grinning at her, he draped his coat over the chair, an act that would undoubtedly earn him a scold from his valet. The waistcoat followed. Then his shirt.
The dying firelight sent golden highlights dancing in the crisp curly hair on his chest and gave his bronzed skin a glow that made Mollie long to touch him.
“Gavin, come to me,” she murmured huskily, reaching her arms up to him. He caught her up, holding her close for a moment. Then his hands were busy with her gown again. It was but a moment’s work before it joined his clothing on the chair.
He pressed her back against the hearth rug, but this time he lay beside her, his hands caressing her velvety body while his lips claimed hers in a deep, exploring kiss. Mollie responded instantly, every fiber urging him to greater lengths of passion. Hawk’s tongue played games with hers while his teasing hand moved lower, first with the stroking palm flat against her stomach, then lower yet, until his fingers were enmeshed in the soft curls at the juncture of her thighs.
Still he was gentle. Even when his lips left hers and moved to her breasts, when Mollie began to feel as if her entire body were on fire and longed for release, he still seemed to be holding himself back, as though he were afraid to match his passions to hers. It occurred to her then that she was doing little more than wishing he would show more urgency. Perhaps it was up to her to stir him to the heights she inhabited. Her hands had been moving idly before. Now she gave them purpose, using all that he had taught her to awaken him. What had been gentle loveplay soon turned into a struggle between them to see which of them could move the other onto higher planes of passion. Grinning, she pushed him onto his back to prove to him that her lips were as talented as his own, but it was not long before, with a low moan, he toppled her backward again, taking her with all the sense of urgency she could have hoped for. When his body relaxed against hers again, Mollie looked up into his eyes, smiling contentedly. He gazed back at her, his expression intensely speculative.
“You enjoyed that,” he said, and the statement had a flavor of accusation.
She cocked her head a little on the hearth rug. “Should I not?”
“I was afraid I might have hurt you.”
“You are always afraid you might hurt me,” she pointed out. “I am not made of glass, Gavin. I do not break so easily.”
“I guess I know that now, but still, you are so small.”
“You would prefer an amazon?”
He chuckled, relaxing. “No, sweetheart, I would not prefer an amazon.”
“Well, I may not be overtall, sir, but I am not so small as you seem to believe either. I am a woman, Gavin.”
There was a brief moment of silence while he regarded her searchingly, perhaps wondering if she was prevaricating once again. But she met his look steadily and his expression warmed. “’Tis just as well you are not easily broken, for if you meant to stimulate me as you did tonight, you will have to be most resilient, my lady.”
“I have learned much from you, sir, about the art of stimulation.”
“Aye.” He smiled at her, but she was certain she detected a glint of doubt in his eyes before he looked away again. She was tempted, in view of his earlier words on the subject of being honest with each other, to demand that he explain both his reasons for assuming she was so fragile and that look of sudden doubt. But she could not bring herself to do it, for she sensed the topic might be a dangerous one.
The following day he presented her with his guest list for their forthcoming soiree, and she glanced over it curiously. There were one or two names that were barely familiar to her and two that were not familiar at all.
“Who on earth are Germaine and Albertine de Staël?” she asked.
“You will meet them Sunday at Lady Jersey’s reception,” Hawk said. “Madame de Staël is the daughter of Monsieur Jacques Necker, who was Louis the Sixteenth’s Quatorze’s Minister of Finance. She is a woman full of great and noble sentiments, who was, like her father, in favor of the French Revolution. They, and others like them, wanted to establish a constitutional monarchy. When things began to get out of hand, Madame de Staël—for she had married Sweden’s ambassador to Paris by then—became an ardent supporter of the king and queen. She risked her own life, in fact, to present a petition in favor of Marie Antoinette to the revolutionary tribunal, and at one point she actually arranged a plan of escape for the royal family.”
“She sounds like a woman of resolution,” Mollie said, “but I collect her plan did not succeed.”
“No, but it says much for her resolution, and her intelligence as well, that she managed to remain in France afterward. Under the Directory, her influence brought Talleyrand to power. She has always opposed Napoleon, however, and he exiled her from France eleven years ago.”
“Where did she go?”
“Oh, she came here and settled in an émigré colony in Sussex, but she did not remain long. Instead, she went back, and Napoleon tolerated her presence until recently, but her last book was too much for him.”
“She writes books?” Mollie asked. She could not decide whether Hawk had an extraordinary interest in the woman or if he was merely intrigued by her history, but she was looking forward to making the acquaintance.
“She does, indeed, and
De l’Allemagne,
her latest, is filled with references to the evils of imperialism. Napoleon was not amused. The book was seized by his police, and Madame has been exiled again.”
“So she returns to England and is introduced to the
ton
by Lady Jersey. It seems as if her sponsor here ought more logically to be the Countess de Lieven. She sounds a most political sort of person,” Mollie said.
“Ah, but her motive this time is not a political one, I think,” Hawk said, chuckling. “You forget Albertine.”
“Her daughter?”
“Indeed, and a daughter of marriageable age at that. Madame has a wish to see young Albertine suitably established, and I think her preference is for a wealthy English lord.”
“Any lord in particular?”
“No, and I doubt if the title matters a great deal. Money does, however, as it does with most émigré families. I think they will interest you, my dear.”
“Well, I shall certainly make it a point to invite them to our soiree. It seems we are to enjoy a variety of company that evening,” she said pointedly. But Hawk didn’t take the hint, making no effort to explain why he had chosen the names he had for his list. And one of those names stirred Mollie’s curiosity more than the others, for by her husband’s own command she was expected to invite his highness, Prince Nicolai Stefanovich, to her soiree.
O
N SUNDAY MORNING MOLLIE
descended to the breakfast parlor, dressed to attend services at St. George’s Chapel near Hanover Square with Lady Bridget. There was no sign of Hawk or Lord Ramsay when she joined the old lady at the table. Mollie knew that Hawk was up and about, but she realized she had scarcely seen Ramsay for several days. She mentioned the fact to Lady Bridget.
“Yes, dear, and he looked rather peaked, I thought, too. I daresay he has been too much occupied with his own affairs to spare us a thought. ’Tis often the case with gentlemen, though Gavin is all that is most considerate. You are fortunate, my dear.”
“Oh, fortunate indeed,” Mollie replied, chuckling as she spread marmalade lavishly upon a muffin. “Every wife should be fortunate enough to be spared her husband’s presence for four years at the outset of their marriage.”
“Well, perhaps he ought not to have gone away,” Lady Bridget conceded, “but now he is back, no doubt enriched by his many experiences, so we may all be comfortable again,”
“Nothing more than a lengthy grand tour, in fact,” Mollie said teasingly.
Lady Bridget looked over her spectacles. “He was very young when he went away, my dear. He is a man now. I daresay it has all been for the best.”
She looked flustered but determined, and Mollie relented, reaching across the table to pat her hand. “I own, ma’am, that things have been a deal more comfortable with him home.”
“You like him, don’t you, dear?”
The question caught Mollie as she was taking a bite of her muffin, so she could not answer immediately, which was just as well, since she hadn’t actually considered the matter. An interruption occurred before she was forced to put her tangled thoughts into words.
“I say, Mollie, have you got a few shillings you might lend me?” Harry demanded, bounding into the breakfast parlor without ceremony. “My pockets are all to let, and Bates says he will take me up to the Tower to see the animals. I thought we might stop in to see Sir Ashton Lever’s science museum in Leicester Square as well. They’ve got drawings of Trevithick’s locomotive, you know, and a model of Puffing Billy. By Jupiter, don’t I wish Hedley would bring the real thing to London! Imagine a locomotive that runs on a smooth rail instead of cogs! Wouldn’t I give anything to see it.”
“Your pockets are not the only thing to let, young man,” Mollie said calmly but with a pointed look. “Your manners have gone begging as well.”
“Sorry,” he replied, quickly and without any lessening of his good humor. “Good morning, Aunt Biddy. Good morning, Mollie. May I please have six shillings if you’ve got them to spare?”
“Six! You must have mistaken me for Golden Ball, sir. Whatever will you be up to with such a fortune?”
“No one could mistake you for Golden Ball,” Harry replied, twinkling irrepressibly. “I’ve seen him. However, three shillings will do if you’re at low tide. I asked for six because it has been my experience that if one begins by asking for twice the sum one wants, one is less likely to be disappointed in the end.”
“Is that a fact? And have you already tried this method on your brothers, my friend?”
The boy chuckled. “You are the most complete hand, Mollie. I did ask Ramsay, but he went all grim and testy, so I daresay it’s low water with him as well. And I didn’t ask Hawk because he has already said I must make do from Monday to Monday. He
says
he makes me an adequate allowance, but I can tell you, Mollie, though it might be more than adequate at Hawkstone, here in the city it simply disappears like so much smoke. And if you are thinking,” he added coaxingly, “that Hawk will not quite like it if you lend money to me, I can pay you back first thing tomorrow. Only today is when I need it.” He regarded her soulfully, an urchin with no other means of support who would starve if she refused to fund his needs.
Mollie laughed, casting a rueful glance at her ladyship. “What do you say, ma’am? Shall I assist this penniless waif?”
“Well, he isn’t penniless exactly,” observed Lady Bridget, always a stickler for facts. “His mother left him very well to pass and Thurston did not forget him. Moreover, I was unaware that Sir Ashton charged an entrance fee. Perhaps you would prefer, if that is truly the case, Harry, to visit the Academy, where they are exhibiting some very fine pictures by Mr. Joshua Reynolds.”
“No, thank you,” Harry responded, valiantly attempting to conceal his revulsion. “There is no fee, Mollie, but several of the exhibits can be made to operate by inserting a penny or a sixpence in a slot. A fellow wants to be prepared.”
“Very well, scamp. My reticule is there on the chair. Bring it to me and I’ll see if I can stand the nonsense and still have something to put in the plate later.”
“You’re a trump, Mollie,” he said as he took the shillings she pressed into his hand. With a grin he dashed off to inform Bates of the success of his mission, and Mollie smiled at Lady Bridget.
“I hope his lordship doesn’t disapprove. I daresay he’s right when he says we spoil Harry abominably.”
“There is no harm in the child,” Lady Bridget replied, “and Gavin is not so harsh a guardian as to deny him simple pleasures.”
As they prepared to depart for the chapel, Mollie remembered Harry’s casual remark about his brother’s finances, or lack thereof. She decided to talk to Ramsay, but no opportunity arose to do so before that afternoon, when she was expected to accompany Hawk and Lady Bridget to Lady Jersey’s reception for Madame de Staël and her daughter. In the coach, the subject crossed her mind again when Hawk mentioned that he had seen little of Lord Ramsay since the de Lievens’ rout.
“I have been taking your advice and giving him a long leash, Mollie, but I cannot help feeling he may be getting into low company as a result. Pierrepont said he saw him with a group of lads at old Seventy-seven last night.”
“Old Seventy-seven?”
“A gaming hell in St. James’s Street.”
“Well, at least he was not down at the docks, sir,” Mollie said with an attempt at levity. She caught a reproachful look from Lady Bridget for her trouble, but privately she was beginning to wonder if Ramsay might be under the hatches as a result of his gaming. She determined to find out before Hawk did, if that was the case. It was all very well to agree to submit to her husband’s authority, but she was certain he would come down hard on Ramsay if her suspicions were correct, and Mollie preferred to avoid that.
There was no time to spend worrying, however, for they were already nearing Berkeley Square. Mollie’s thoughts turned to Lady Jersey, and some of her feeling must have shown in her face, for Hawk, seated across from the two ladies, lifted an eyebrow. “What is it, Mollie?” he asked gently.
Her smile was a little forced. “I always get like this before meeting Lady Jersey,” she confessed. “I never know if she likes me or not. She is always so theatrical.”
“A tragedy queen,” he agreed. “It has been said that she attempts the sublime and only succeeds in making herself ridiculous.” They were approaching the tall, elegant Jersey town house. Hawk glanced briefly out the window before continuing calmly, “If she looks down her nose, it is merely because you outrank her, sweetheart.” The coach had come to a halt, and a flunky approached. “Her ladyship is inconceivably rude and her manner is often ill-bred. One of the few times I ever found myself in complete agreement with my father is when he said George Villiers ought to have beaten her soundly once a week until his lady learned how to behave as a countess should.”