Authors: Amanda Scott
The Regent bowed to Pierrepont, turned to the other side, saw Mr. Brummell standing there, and at once turned back to Lord Alvanley, standing next to Pierrepont. In the shocked silence that followed this deliberate cut and atrocious piece of ill-manners, Brummell’s voice sounded, clear, cool, and penetrating.
“Ah, Alvanley, who is your fat friend?”
It was clear from the chuckles emanating from the group surrounding them that Brummell still could do no wrong, that his query was being regarded as a witty retort to blatant provocation rather than as an unmannerly insult, but Mollie had an unobstructed view of the Regent’s face. She could see from his expression that he was cut to the quick by Brummell’s words.
Still visibly shaken, the Regent proceeded into the ballroom, and the Colporters stepped up to greet their hosts. As Mollie was speaking to Sir Henry Mildmay, Colonel Hanger appeared in the doorway again, excused himself for interrupting, and informed Mildmay that the Prince wished to speak to him.
Mildmay looked down his nose at the wiry little man. “Surely, sir,” he said with an air of weariness, “there must be some mistake. His royal highness saw me but a moment ago and took no notice of me whatsoever.”
The colonel retreated in good order, and when the Colporters followed soon after, Lord Ramsay observed that he was glad they were masked. “For I daresay his highness will remember every face he saw there. Don’t you, Hawk?”
“He will not trouble us,” his brother said evenly. “Will you dance, my lady?”
A waltz was in progress, and when Mollie obediently put out her hand, Hawk drew her into his arms and swung her expertly into the circle of rapid-paced dancers. She had not waltzed with him before, but her steps might have been meant to match with his, because she was unaware of the movements of her feet. She knew only that she felt like a feather in his arms. His breath stirred her curls, and her skin felt alive beneath the warmth of his hand on her waist. She had not said a word to him since leaving her bedchamber.
“You dance well, sweetheart.” His voice was low, with that caressing note that she had come to listen for, the note that always sent her blood racing through her veins. Suddenly the evening spread itself before her in a long, unending pattern of unknown events to come before they could go home again. She looked up into his face to find him smiling at her, then looked away again. “Why so silent, Mollie?”
“I can think of nothing to say,” she muttered. “I do not know you in this mood.”
“Do you know me in other moods?” The words were blatantly provocative.
“I sometimes think I do not know you at all, sir,” she replied to his chest.
“Do you want to know me, Mollie?”
She looked up again, blinking at him, searching his face.
“Do you?” he repeated, looking at her as though there was not another soul in that huge, crowded room. Even if she had wanted to, in that moment she could not have torn her gaze from his if her life had depended upon it.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Oh, yes, Gavin, I do.”
He nodded, satisfied, and concentrated on the dance with even more enthusiasm than he had shown before. Mollie was breathless and laughing by the time the music stopped.
Her attention was claimed at once by another partner, and she soon lost sight of her husband. But the fact that he was out of sight did nothing to take his presence from her mind. All she could think about was what he had promised for the evening ahead. As time passed, her anticipation grew until she scarcely noted who her partners were. She recognized Prince Nicolai, despite his mask and Cossack costume, but even his blatant compliments failed to elicit more than a vague smile from her. It was not until Lord Ramsay claimed her hand for a Scotch reel that she collected her wits.
“I say, Mollie, I think I’d best take you for some refreshment. They’re serving an excellent fruit punch. Not that damned orgeat either. More like ratafia, but it’s got a strawberry flavor. I know you’ll like it, and you look as if you could do with a breath of air as well. Your cheeks look bright enough to be feverish.”
“Do they?” She looked up into his anxious face, grinning at him. “I am fine, Ramsay. Truly. But I’d very much like something to drink. And you’re not to leave me sitting in one of those awful little gilt chairs against the wall, either. I shall go with you.”
He agreed, and they moved together into a side apartment where a long buffet table had been set up, fairly groaning under the weight of the various delicacies set out to tempt the palates of weary dancers. At the far end a flunky ladled pink liquid into punch glasses.
“They’ve really put themselves out,” Ramsay observed. “This entire spread is from Gunter’s. There are even to be cream ices later on, for a shipment of ice arrived last week, and Gunter has kept it stored in his basement in Berkeley Square for just this occasion. That fellow at the punch bowl was telling me about it only a bit ago. Here, Mollie, try one of these excellent lobster patties.”
But Mollie’s attention had been diverted. Most of the guests still retained their masks and would do so until the unmasking at midnight, but the Cossack dress made it easy to recognize the Russian prince, and she was certain she also recognized the man with him.
“Look there,” she said to Ramsay in an undervoice. “There, by the potted palm in that corner. “Is that not Monsieur d’Épier in the red domino with Prince Nicolai?”
Ramsay glanced in the direction she indicated, a frown gathering on his handsome face. “By Jove, Mollie, I believe it is. What would they be wanting with each other, I wonder?”
The two men were involved in a serious conversation, but suddenly the man in the red domino looked up and saw Ramsay. Hastily excusing himself, he drew away from the prince and hurried back into the ballroom. Mollie thought the prince looked annoyed, and it crossed her mind that, as a member of Monsieur de Lieven’s staff, spies were undoubtedly as much to his interest as they were to Lord Bathurst and Hawk. After all, the Russians were as opposed to Bonaparte as the English were, and their recent success in speeding the invader from their land would only increase their interest in seeing that the French stayed where they belonged. No doubt Nicolai was doing a little investigating of his own. She put the incident from her mind and returned to the festivities refreshed by the respite.
Later, in the coach, the four Colporters declared the evening an unqualified success. They chatted comfortably about the various costumes they had seen and conversations they had taken part in, and Lady Bridget announced that she thought the evening had been a good one to mark the end of their London stay.
“I daresay you, Ramsay, might wish to remain for the Regent’s summer fete celebrating Lord Wellington’s victory, but I for one prefer to miss such a squeeze as that will be.”
Ramsay grinned at her, saying that while it might be fun, such entertainments were too public for his tastes, an opinion that gave his sister-in-law to think he had done some growing up in the past weeks. She smiled at him.
“Do you still intend to accompany us to Brighton?”
“I don’t know,” he replied, surprising her. “After all the activity, I daresay it won’t take much more than Hawk’s little house party before I’m completely burnt to the socket. I haven’t actually decided yet, but I might remain at Hawkstone afterward and do a little studying. Believe it or not, I’m growing anxious to return to school.”
Mollie stared at him, then turned to look at her husband, whose face was barely visible in the soft glow cast by the carriage lamps. “House party?”
He nodded. “I invited some friends to enjoy a repairing lease before going on to the dissipations of the seaside. Only a few, at first, but such things have a way of growing,” he added ruefully. “I thought I had mentioned it to you.”
“Well, you didn’t,” Lady Bridget replied before Mollie could speak. “Surely, dearest Mollie would have told me, Gavin, for there are preparations to be made before Hawkstone can be ready to receive guests, you know.”
“Well, I didn’t leave all to chance, Aunt Biddy. I sent word to the Bracegirdles nearly a week ago. Are you certain I said nothing to you, sweetheart?”
Mollie shook her head, dimly aware that she was glad he had made all the arrangements and that she would not have to be bothered about them. She smiled at him. “I had thought we were stopping at Hawkstone only for a day or so. How long are we to remain there, sir?”
His grin was unmistakable. “I haven’t decided,” he replied. “I’ve told the others they are welcome to stay as long as they like.”
Was there provocation in his tone? She wasn’t sure. But it didn’t seem to matter. Hawkstone was his home. He could do as he liked. She returned look for look. Ramsay glanced from one to the other, sensing mystery between them, but when Hawk chuckled as though at a private joke, the younger man shook his head and returned the conversation to his reasons for thinking he might remain in Kent instead of traveling with the others to Brighton. Mollie ceased to listen after some moments, when her awareness of her husband’s nearness overwhelmed other thoughts. They were in South Audley Street, approaching the square, and it seemed as if the clatter of the horses’ hooves on the cobblestones matched the rhythm of her beating heart.
Moments later they were in the front hall, and Hawk turned to Mollie with a lazy smile. “Go up to Mathilde du Bois, my dear. I’ve a few matters to attend to in my bookroom.”
Her breath caught in her throat. “Will you be long, sir?’ she asked, forcing herself to speak calmly.
His eyes were twinkling as if he knew exactly what thoughts were tumbling through her mind. “Just go upstairs, Mollie.”
Obediently she turned toward the stairs, but her teeth gritted together beneath her soft lips. How long did he mean to torment her? She had scarcely thought of anything but him since their interval together before dinner. What if he merely went out again and left her to stew longer? Just how much and how long did he mean to punish her?
With these and other thoughts filling her mind, she scarcely paid any attention to Cathe’s cheerful questions about the ball and none at all to Mathilde du Bois’ careful attention to her preparations for bed. She merely moved as the dresser indicated, letting her remove the Tudor gown and replace it with a soft silken nightdress, obeying her softly spoken commands without a murmur. Only when Mathilde suggested that her nails needed some slight attention did Mollie come to herself again.
“No, no, that will be quite all right,” she said a little tartly. “I shan’t need anything more tonight. You may both go to bed.”
They left, and she turned to stare into the cheerful little fire burning low on the hearth. How long did he mean to keep her waiting? After a few moments she opened the door into her little sitting room. It was dark, but she could see a glimmer of light under the opposite door. With only a moment’s hesitation she strode across the sitting room and pushed open the door to her husband’s bedchamber.
Wearing a glorious red brocade dressing gown, Hawk sat at his ease before his mirror, rubbing his chin, while his valet finished wiping the soapy residue from a pair of razors. When the door met the wall with a soft thud, Hawk’s gaze caught Mollie’s in the mirror. His eyes danced.
“Yes, sweetheart?”
Mollie glared at the astonished valet. “Leave us,” she ordered brusquely. The man glanced at his master and, upon receiving a nod in reply to his unspoken question, slipped the razors into their leather case and quietly left the room through the door to the hall.
Hawk turned in his chair, raising his eyebrows at the sight of her in the thin silk nightdress. “Good Lord, Mollie, Mawson will dream of your charms for a week.”
“Let him!” she snapped. “Because I care not one whit for his dreams, and I need you right now, for whatever you may think to the contrary, you are the only man I know who can…who can…Dammit, my lord, do you mean to finish what you began earlier or not?”
He stood up and the dressing gown fell open, revealing that he wore nothing beneath it. His expression softened, and as he moved to take her in his arms, he said gently, “I believe I may have been a fool, sweetheart, to accuse you as I did, and as you can clearly see for yourself, I have as little wish at the moment as you do to prolong the agony.”
T
HE SIZE OF HAWK’S
house party had indeed grown considerably by the time the Colporters were ready to depart from London. Mollie was well aware that there was more to the matter than a simple wish on the part of her husband to provide a break in the journey to Brighton for his friends. Seeing such names as the de Lievens and Lord Bathurst on the guest list would have told her as much, had her own instincts not warned her. Still, she was amazed to discover, when she sat down with Lady Bridget to add up the numbers, that upward of thirty persons would be joining them—some, though not all, for as long as a week’s time.
“And that doesn’t include all the servants who will accompany them, ma’am,” she said to Lady Bridget, seated across from her in the little sitting room. “I am persuaded the poor Bracegirdles will not know if they are on their heads or on their heels. When Gavin mentioned a house party, I had no notion it would be anything like this, let alone that the Regent himself would choose to honor us with his presence.”
“Well, you know, dearest, it is not quite the first time royalty has been entertained at Hawkstone Towers,” her ladyship returned calmly.
Mollie chuckled. “I scarcely think the Bracegirdles can be expected to have benefited from that experience, ma’am. It has been quite some time since the Black Prince chose to break his journey into France by spending a week with the Colporters, and that was in the manor house at that.”
“But it has not been so long as all that since King George—though to be sure, he was then the Prince of Wales, of course—so honored us,” replied Lady Bridget.
Mollie stared at her. “King George?”
“Yes, indeed. Only for the one night, of course, but I can tell you, everything was at sixes and sevens for a week before the visit. Everyone was in a tizzy.”