Penny collapsed in another fit of giggling.
Augusta at least had the good grace not to. “Now, now, darling. We’re only teasing you. It’s just that it is hard for us to understand your resistance to Lord Hawke’s clear interest in you.”
“Please, Mother. Enough.”
Augusta shrugged. “Very well. As you wish.” She turned deliberately to Penny. “So. How shall we spend tomorrow?”
Once at the house, Olivia told Penny and her mother good night in the foyer before the men riding horseback could join them. She made her way directly to her chamber as her mother’s laughter and Lord Holdsworth’s rejoinder wafted up the stairwell to her. The fact that Augusta appeared to have succeeded in her conquest of Lord Holdsworth only increased Olivia’s agitation. Like that pretty girl at the dance, her mother had an easy way with men. She drew them effortlessly to her, and kept them charmed and dancing eager attendance on her.
Olivia trudged into her room. What was she doing wrong? She attracted enough men, but there were none she wished to keep—save the worst one of all.
She rubbed her aching temple. Oh, how could she even think such insanity? She shut the door to her lonely chamber with unwarranted force. She could not take three more days of this, that was certain.
By the time she had undressed and made her evening ablutions, she had a new plan. There was no reason for her to continue at Doncaster that long. Sarah and Mrs. McCaffery were to arrive the day after tomorrow. Instead of resting for a day or two, Olivia decided that they would leave early for Scotland, the better to prepare the house. Portions of Byrde Manor had been closed up for fifteen years. Her task there was sure to be Herculean. The more reason to get an early start on it.
First thing the next morning Olivia informed her mother of the slight change in plans.
“Why such haste?” Augusta cried. “I do not understand you, child.”
“You will not miss me at all, Mother, so do not pretend otherwise.”
“Of course I shall miss you. So, I suspect, will someone else—who will remain nameless.”
Olivia ignored that. She’d not seen Lord Hawke since yesterday and since she meant to avoid the races, she expected
not to see him today. If Sarah and Mrs. McCaffery arrived tomorrow, as planned, that meant they could leave Friday morning and hopefully arrive at Byrde Manor by Sunday night.
It was early afternoon when Augusta and Penny left for the races. “Are you certain you won’t reconsider and join us?” her mother asked.
“Thank you, but no.”
“Would you like us to lay a wager for you?”
Remembering her winnings that yet remained from yesterday’s wager, Olivia agreed. “One pound ten,” she said, handing the coins to her mother.
“On Lord Hawke’s Kestrel?”
“No. Any horse but.”
Augusta shook her head. “You are being foolish, Olivia. Consider how well Kitti did.”
“This is not Kitti.” Though Olivia knew she was indeed behaving foolishly, she seemed unable to stop herself. She’d had all night to fret about Neville Hawke and his dangerous appeal, and to wonder if he was sitting up again in the library. That she could lose so much sleep over the man had brought her to a terrible conclusion. Though she had always thought herself completely unlike her mother, in truth they were exactly the same. They both harbored a weakness for rogues. The only difference was that up till now, Olivia had found it easy to resist those beguiling fellows who were all charm and style and no substance. She’d grown smug and confident, and had felt a little sorry for her more easily swayed mother. But she was smug no longer.
“Bet on the fastest horse opposing his,” she told her mother. “Meanwhile, I shall have a quiet day to restore myself and prepare for the long journey north.”
Augusta did not know what to think as the Cummingses’ carriage carried her and Penny into Doncaster. While Penny chattered on, speculating about Olivia and the darkly handsome Lord Hawke, Augusta considered her daughter’s odd behavior. That there was an attraction between them was unmistakable. But Olivia seemed determined to defeat it. She
was not playing coy, Augusta knew, for that was not Olivia’s way.
Was it as she’d said, that Neville Hawke was just like her father?
Olivia had been but six when her father had died. Could she still recall those difficult last years? Had they made such a lasting impression on her as a girl that she would now turn away from the first man who’d ever truly attracted her?
Augusta sighed and stared down at her perfectly manicured nails. It was more likely Mrs. McCaffery who was the cause of Olivia’s attitude. The loyal housekeeper had never forgiven Cameron Byrde for making her mistress cry, and while back then it had been comforting for Augusta to turn to the woman, the repercussions yet lingered. Mrs. McCaffery hated Cameron Byrde, and through the years Olivia had absorbed much of that dislike—as well as an unfortunate distrust of most men.
But all was not lost, she decided as the carriage slowed. Lord Hawke was not a man easily ignored, nor easily deterred. He wanted Olivia, that was plain. Augusta smiled. Judging from Olivia’s vehemence on the subject, Lord Hawke must have kissed her. He must have kissed her so thoroughly that her strong-minded daughter had yet to recover.
Augusta pressed one hand to her heart. She could still remember the first time Cameron had kissed her. She’d already been a widow with a little boy to raise, but her previous marriage had done nothing to prepare her for the likes of Cameron Byrde. Handsome as sin with laughing eyes and a sultry mouth. She’d fallen instantly in love with the dashing Scotsman, and the kiss he’d stolen that very same night had only sealed her fate.
Oh, but he’d been a wild one, passionate and too often careless with her feelings. She’d shed a thousand tears over him. A million. But in spite of all that—in spite of Mrs. McCaffery’s opinion and Olivia’s—she would not give up those seven years with him for anything in the world.
Once the carriage stopped in town, the coachman helped the two women alight. Augusta shaded her eyes with one hand as she glanced around the town square. Olivia had every right
to be afraid of the likes of Neville Hawke. But her careful daughter also had the right to be happy, and Augusta had the strongest sense that Neville Hawke was the first man to come along who could do that.
“Let’s go place our bets, shall we?” she said to Penny.
“After yesterday everyone will be betting on Hawke Stables. The odds will not be nearly so favorable,” Penny complained.
“The odds in life never seem to be particularly favorable, do they? Yet we manage. We thrive.”
“I, for one, should like my money to thrive just as well today as it did yesterday,” Penny grumbled.
Augusta dug out the few coins Olivia had given her. What she wanted was for her daughter to thrive. And she was willing to bet everything that Neville Hawke was the man to help her do so.
THE day was interminable. It took an army of servants to run the Cummingses’ enormous household, but every time Olivia came upon one of them dusting or polishing or otherwise maintaining some aspect of that considerable establishment, they immediately disappeared.
As they should, she reminded herself. Good servants never labored in a room occupied by a guest. But Olivia was bored and she would have welcomed a chat even with the lowliest maid. She wandered from morning room to drawing room, from the gallery and outdoors to the verandah, until she found herself standing outside the library. The French doors were closed, but she could see them as she had that first night—was it only three days ago?—with Neville Hawke silhouetted in the opening.
She cupped her hands around her eyes and peered through the glass panes, spying the chair he’d been sitting in. Had he spent the entire night in it again? Did he spend every night in that chair instead of his bed? She squinted, seeing the table of books, the crowded shelves, and the commode with its decanters of brandy, whisky, and port. The real question, she told herself, was not whether he sat up every night drinking himself into a stupor but, rather, why he did it.
She tried the door but it was latched from within, so she turned away. It didn’t matter why he did not sleep at night, nor would she ever learn the answer. Nor did she wish to. Better to contemplate her coming journey and the myriad tasks that awaited her at Byrde Manor.
But Olivia was too restless even for that. As she wandered
the gravel paths of the knot garden she heard the distant whinny of a horse, and for the first time that day she knew what she wanted to do. A quick trip to the stables to arrange for a mount, a dash back to the house to don her camel-colored riding habit, and within a half hour she was mounted. She guided the placid mare down a path through the rear gardens and toward the woodlands beyond, declining the stablemaster’s offer of someone to accompany her.
“I mean to take no chances with your animal,” she assured him. “No jumps, only a long slow ramble through the countryside.”
She headed west now, away from Doncaster as the man had advised her, toward a tributary of the river Don and the ruins of some ancient castle. The sky was sharp and blue, streaked with the high clouds typical of August and promising no rain yet. But despite the heat of mid-afternoon, the forest was cool, and as she rode, Olivia began to relax. Scotland would be like this, only wilder and more exhilarating—and she would have her own saddle horse and have to answer to no one about when and where she might ride.
Down a hill they angled, the mare picking her way on sure feet, and came upon an open valley blanketed with rosebay willow herb. It grew so tall that the dark pink flowers brushed at her heels.
Olivia breathed deep of the fragrant air. On the way back she must gather an armful of the wild flowers and have a bouquet placed in her room. Too bad there would be no time to bring Sarah riding to this spot, for the girl would adore it. But there would be plenty of time for them to take long rides together at Byrde Manor.
So she headed on. The sun moved across the sky and she followed it. When the mare’s ears flicked forward she knew the river could not be far, and sure enough, through a dense stand of alder and birch, the sparkle and rush of water beckoned.
“Ahh,” Olivia sighed once she dismounted. She removed her boots and stockings and her bonnet and gloves. Then hiking her skirts up, she climbed onto a flattish rock along the
river’s edge, and sat, dangling her feet into the water.
She sighed again as the icy water lapped up her calves. A capricious breeze lifted her hair and toyed with the hems of her twill skirt and linen petticoats. Somewhere nearby a woodpecker drummed steadily. A pair of red birds darted about an ancient birch on the opposite bank. All around her the forest thrummed with the business of life: bees and butterflies, squirrels and woodmice. Insects hovered near the surface of the stream and in its shadowy depths fish moved about. Even in the shallows pollywogs and minnows and fingerlings pursued their daily routine. They ate and lived and reproduced.
Olivia stared down into the stream. It was not so very complicated, nor should her own life be. So why was she complicating it? Why did she not simply marry some acceptable fellow and just get on with it—or else put the whole subject of marriage completely out of her mind?
She leaned back on her elbows, closed her eyes, and lifted her face to the sun. What if she decided not to return to London at all? What if she liked Byrde Manor so well she decided to winter in Scotland? She would wear heavy wool stockings and a plaid shawl, and spend most of the day in the warm kitchen or the cozy parlor. She could pass her time knitting and reading; she could organize the library and work in the stables.
She laughed to even think of it. Her mother and most of her friends would be scandalized. A single woman living alone on her own estate in the wilds of Scotland. But she would not truly be alone. There were the servants, the villagers, and her neighbors—
But not
that
neighbor.
Olivia straightened up at the thought of Neville Hawke and pulled her feet out of the water. She’d so looked forward to Scotland, but now there was this blight upon it. Lord Hawke would undoubtedly ruin everything, he and this perverse attraction she held for him.
If only she could find another man who affected her so. Maybe she wasn’t trying hard enough. Maybe another man’s kisses would affect her just as powerfully—if she would let
another man kiss her. It was an intriguing thought, and as she reclined back on the stone again, she resolved to think about it most seriously. But not right now. Right now she was tired and relaxed. She would just rest a little while longer before heading back.
As he rode in the direction the stablemaster had given him, Neville’s thoughts were not so very different from Olivia’s. He should not be here, trailing after a woman who was plainly avoiding him, especially now that Kestrel had upset the better-known animals at today’s race. He should be at the Eel and Elbow, buying drinks and making deals, and laying wagers for Kitti’s match tomorrow against a full field of three-year-olds. And if not that, he should be catching a brief nap, for he’d had little enough sleep this morning.
Instead he was riding through the woods, pursuing a woman who did not want to be found, least of all by him.
At least he had her mother’s approval. Lady Dunmore had not been in the least subtle. She’d found him in the racing stable this afternoon, tapped him imperiously on the arm with her fan, then boldly asked him if he had anything to do with Olivia’s black mood. Fortunately, she hadn’t really wanted an answer, and he wasn’t sure if he could have given her one. It was enough for the beautiful Lady Dunmore that he was interested in her daughter. For himself, he wasn’t certain what he was doing, or why.
He scrubbed a hand across his face wearily. He wanted Olivia for the obvious physical reasons, and he wanted her lands for the obvious economic benefits to Woodford and its people. But he also wanted Olivia for no logical reason he could discern. He was the last man a woman of her sort should attach herself to, for he was unworthy of any proper young woman’s attentions, and nothing good could come from such a union.
Yet how he wanted her! He wanted her will bent to his, her approval, her smiles—everything that was her. It was that idiotic nonsense that had sent him back to the Cummingses’
household and now here into the forest, searching for a woman who did not want him to find her.
Or did she?
That was the bedeviling part of it. She enjoyed his kisses and yet she ran from him. Why was that? Because she was wise enough to recognize his complete unsuitability.
But not wise enough to bring a groom along with her on her ride.
Thus justifying his search, Neville continued on, only slowing when Robin’s ears pricked forward. He could hear the river and through the trees he spotted a horse grazing in a narrow clearing along the riverbank. She was nearby.
Neville dismounted, then moved stealthily through the heavy summer undergrowth. He was acting like an insane man. There was no need to pursue her like this. He had several months to convince her to lease him her lands. Pursuing her when she obviously wished to be alone was illogical and sure to blacken his character even more in her esteem. But he seemed unable to do anything else. The thought of her out here without any protection made him crazy. If she intended to ride around the Cheviot Hills this way, careless of her safety, he would swiftly disabuse her of that notion.
He ducked beneath a low-hanging holly branch, then froze when a snatch of a melody drifted to him. His eyes narrowed, searching. Then a flash of fiery color drew his gaze to her. There, on a gray boulder with the late sun glinting copper and bronze off her unbound hair.
Her face was lifted to the sun as she half reclined upon the rock. Then she straightened and bent forward, shaking her hair down over the water so that the loose ends trailed nearly to the river’s surface.
Neville sucked in a breath. Her feet were bare and her legs exposed up to her knees. Narrow ankles, shapely calves, smooth, pale skin. She appeared a woodland nymph, a Scottish faerie lost somehow in England, and his desire for her trebled. He must have this woman.
But there was only one way to have a woman like her, and that was through marriage.
He halted at that unsettling thought. But he did not shy away from it. It
would
take marriage to possess Olivia Byrde. Was he prepared to go that far?
He thought about Bart’s admonition. Maybe the man was right. Maybe a woman was the answer. But not just any woman. There was only one woman he had ever wanted that fiercely.
He heard her soft voice, singing a familiar song, and his head and heart seemed to fill with it. God knew, he did not deserve a woman like her, and she certainly deserved better than the likes of him. But at the moment he did not care. He wanted her. He had to have her. And if the only way was through marriage, then so be it. He would propose marriage to Olivia.
And he would do whatever it took to convince her to say yes.
Struggling to quell the hot rush of blood to his loins, he began to hum, matching her melody. He started through the woods toward her. Once they were wed she would not behave so recklessly as this. But now was not a time to scold her. She would be angry enough with him for following her.
When she heard him, Olivia sprang to her feet, alarm on her face. But she was trapped on the boulder with her back to the river and no hope of escape. He could not resist a mild reprimand.
“You are safe, Olivia, though not due to any caution on your own part.” He sauntered into the sunlight, satisfied by her frightened expression. That fright, however, swiftly gave way to suspicion.
“You followed me.”
“Someone had to. That stableman ought to be sacked for allowing you go off without a groom.”
“I insisted. Everyone was working at the races. Besides, I do not need a guardian—and don’t you dare start any trouble for that poor fellow. I daresay, his greater error was in telling you where I went. But then, he could not know, as I do, how wicked a man you are.”
“Wicked?” Neville laughed out loud. She didn’t begin to
know the truth of it. If she even suspected the wicked direction of his thoughts—how her dishabille and their solitude both combined to arouse him—she would run panic-stricken in the opposite direction. As it was, he had to clench his hands behind his back to prevent himself reaching for her.
“I suppose that in the eyes of a cosseted society chit I do appear wicked and dark,” he said.
She bristled. “Society chit? You have the nerve to denigrate me when I have done nothing?”
“You court disaster, Olivia. That is what you do. You wander strange houses at night. You walk out with men you should not. You ride alone then bare yourself for anyone to see.” He gestured with one hand. “What else?”
“What I do is none of your concern!” she shouted, quivering with fury. “You are not my father nor my brother!”
“It would be damned inconvenient if I was,” Neville muttered, his gaze locked upon hers.
There was no mistaking his meaning, and in the aftermath of that, the air fairly sizzled between them. He saw her swallow hard, and just that simple movement along her tender throat increased his inappropriate desire. He needed to get her on neutral territory—and fast—if he was to gain control of his unruly emotions. “I will see you back to the Cummingses’ household,” he said through gritted teeth.
A hunting bird let out a sharp cry and with a blink Olivia looked away from him. “I do not need your accompaniment,” she stated, catching her loose hair in one hand. She twisted it into a knot and stabbed it deftly with a hairpin to hold it in place.
“Twilight is nearly upon us. You have to leave soon if you wish to get back before dark.”
“But I don’t have to go with you.”
Neville crossed his arms and stared at her. “Very well. I’ll keep my distance. But I
will
see you safely returned.”
Olivia was so angry she could spit. How dare he order her around as if she were a child! It did not help matters at all that he was right about the fading daylight. The sun already
dipped below the tops of the trees. Within an hour it would be dark.