Neville nodded and winked at Bart. Kitti had placed first in the trials today, outshining several very good animals. As such she would have the coveted inside position for tomorrow’s race. His blood roared, pumping exhilaration throughout his body. Bringing the horses to Doncaster had been a good decision. Though he’d dreaded it, perhaps all would work out as he’d hoped.
“I’ll keep your offer in mind,” he said. “There’s still tomorrow’s race to be run.”
“When will we see your other animal put through his paces? He’s a fine-looking one.” Just then Holdsworth was jostled from behind and the tumbler he held sloshed whisky over the side.
Neville inhaled the sweet pungent scent of it. “Soon. Soon enough,” he said, staring hungrily at the amber liquid.
Cummings had invited his houseguests plus a few locals for an end-of-the-day drink at the Eel and Elbow, Doncaster’s finest public house. So far Neville had avoided spirits, only a mug of ale to assuage his thirst. But he could feel the siren call of the stronger stuffs.
Bart nudged him. “D‘ye want to check Kitti’s leg before I take ’er back to the stables, milord?”
Neville glanced at him, relieved at the interruption. Did Bart see how hard temptation rode him? He grimaced, but without rancor. Bart and Otis knew him better than any other men. They’d seen him roaring drunk one night, and deathly ill the next morn. They knew he sat up at night and slept until early afternoon. If they disapproved of the choices he sometimes made, they did not say. The common link they shared was the stables at Woodford, and the horses.
“I’ll see the rest of you this evening,” Neville said to his other companions. “I’ve horses to tend.”
“Hold on a minute! Here’s a toast to the fillies,” Cummings said, raising his glass.
“And to the fillies we shall encounter at the ball,” Holdsworth added, hoisting his glass high and grinning. “We shall need our dancing shoes tonight, lads.”
Neville raised his empty glass with the rest of the happy crowd. Then with Bart behind him, made his escape from the tavern.
They rode the one mile out of town in silence. It had been a good day, a good beginning, and he breathed deep of the warm afternoon air. The smell of drying hay and warm horseflesh added to his contentment, as did the sun lingering late in the clear August sky. Soon enough the cool winds would arrive, and behind them the winter. By then he would be back among his people, hunkered down for the season with
only his chores and the breeding mares to tend.
But if it was difficult to abstain from drinking now, it would be more so then. He rubbed one knuckle along the scar on his jaw. He knew from experience that he did his heaviest drinking during the long dark months of winter. It would be nearly impossible to fight his night demons without the numbing effects of whisky. He wasn’t certain he could succeed. The whisky deadened his nerves, keeping the awful memories at bay, memories of a night spent in hell, a night thick with screams and death, and swimming with blood.
He swallowed hard.
A night he could have prevented if he’d just stayed awake.
He shuddered, suddenly overwhelmed by the need for a drink. What did it matter if he drank himself sick? a resigned voice in his head whispered. After all, he had no one to impress with his sobriety—or lack thereof.
Then an image of Olivia Byrde flashed unexpectedly through his mind and he clung to it in relief. She would be there tonight, tempting him almost as fiercely as would Cummings’s fine stock of brandies. He ran a hand through his hair. No doubt she would work very hard to avoid him. But so long as he remained sober, he could think of no good reason to let her succeed.
“No drinking,” he said out loud.
“Very good, milord,” Bart agreed.
Neville gave him a sidelong glance. He’d nearly forgotten the man’s presence. “No drinking,” he repeated, shifting in the saddle. “But I will see if I can remember how to dance.”
Augusta adjusted the curl that lay against Olivia’s cheek. “You will break hearts tonight, my dear. Why, just look at you. Normally I would not care for that particular shade of coral. Too much orange for my delicate complexion. However, I must say Madame Henri was correct, for it suits you so very well. You look absolutely stunning. Even your eyes seem to sparkle with more color than is their wont.”
“Do you think so?” Olivia stared doubtfully at herself in the mirror. To be sure, her new gown was lovely, and such a
pleasant change from the pastels her mother insisted she wear in town. Also, her hair was being most cooperative this evening. That new lavender rinse must be the reason it looked so soft and shiny.
But what accounted for the flush of color in her cheeks, and the glints of emerald and gold in her eyes? She wrinkled her nose at her reflection. She hated to think that nervous anticipation about encountering the awful Lord Hawke might actually enhance her appearance.
“It must be the country air,” she said, turning away from the looking glass. “I told you I was weary of the crush in town.”
“I feel obliged to warn you, then, that there should be quite a crush tonight. According to Penny, her ball is one of the biggest events of the year in Doncaster. There will be all sorts of new gentlemen here, not just the town society which you seem uninterested in of late, but at least one viscount, and several very wealthy squires.”
Augusta removed her pearl earbobs and screwed on her favorite opals instead. She twisted her head from side to side, admiring the way they dangled and swayed. “By the by,” she continued. “Did you hear? That Hawke fellow that we’ve yet to meet, he is actually Lord Hawke, Baron Hawke of Woodford Court. You won’t remember, but Woodford Court is just a mile or so from Byrde Manor.”
At that bit of startling news Olivia spun around, one of her gloves tugged but halfway up her arm. “Are you certain?” she asked, her voice high-pitched and strained.
“Oh yes,” Augusta blithely continued. “We didn’t know them well, for they were abroad quite often while your father and I were in Scotland. But I did meet them once or twice. Lovely family. He was just a lad then, twelve or so, I’d say. Away at school most of the time. I’m told that the rest of his family is dead now. His parents and his brother.”
Augusta paused. “Did I mention that he’s unmarried?” she added, her voice rousing from its somber musing. “Baron Neville Hawke of Woodford Court, never wed and nearly thirty. Tsk, tsk. Well, here’s your opportunity, Olivia. You’ve been
complaining about the gentlemen of the ton. Unless Lord Hawke is one of those awful Scottish bumpkins, bearded and too robust for proper manners, you may find him quite to your tastes.”
Olivia listened to her mother with growing dread. That man was her neighbor? An odd shiver marked its way up her back. God help her if her mother took a liking to Lord Hawke as a son-in-law. “Are you so eager to marry me off that you would consign me to the wilds of Scotland, you who have ever found excuses to avoid visiting Byrde Manor?”
“I have nothing against Scotland, Olivia. Nor against Byrde Manor. In truth, the years I spent there were the best part of my marriage to your father. It was only in town—” She broke off and waved her hand. “Never mind all that. I enjoy country life and town life. It’s only that Byrde Manor is a little too remote for me. However, your tastes differ from mine. I believe we both can agree on that. Come now,” she added, tugging the scooped neckline of her bodice down another half inch. “’Tis time for the two of us to make our entrance.”
Entrance indeed, Olivia fretted, tugging her own bodice up. She did not want to see Lord Hawke, her neighbor. She stifled a muttered oath. If that man ruined her visit to Byrde Manor with his maddeningly arrogant manner—if he so much as raised one of his arrogant brows at her or smirked a mocking smirk—
She jerked the door open and started out. She didn’t know exactly what she would do. But she knew she would not let him get away with it.
Neville had positioned himself in the entry hall with a clear view of the stairs. He’d finally introduced himself to his hostess earlier in the day and resolved to be on his best behavior tonight. It had not been difficult to charm Penelope Cummings, and when she spied him now, she hurried toward him smiling.
“Lord Hawke. How fortuitous that you are downstairs. I thought that you, Lord Holdsworth, and Lady Dunmore, as
our ranking guests, might agree to stand in the receiving line with Mr. Cummings and myself.”
He gave her an admiring glance, then bent low with a gallant flourish. Were it not for her annoying voice and nervous, fluttering manner, he might consider her a handsome woman. “I would be honored.”
“Very good.” She coyly patted his arm with her fan. “I don’t believe you’ve met Lady Dunmore yet, nor her daughter, Miss Olivia Byrde. Ah, here they are now.”
Neville straightened at once and stared up at the dual curving stair that led from the warren of rooms that made up the upper levels of the Cummingses’ manse. Two women paused at the head of the rosewood stairway, two women equally lovely, but without the least similarity between them, he saw. Lady Dunmore was exquisite. Small and fair, she looked hardly old enough to parent the young woman at her side. Then he turned his gaze intently to the daughter.
Olivia Byrde was taller and more curvaceous then her mother, and her coloring was that of a Scotswoman, tempered only marginally by her English heritage. Auburn hair instead of red; hazel eyes instead of green. She had patrician features, yet colored with an earthy palette. He’d berated himself for mistaking her for a harlot, but he could understand now why he’d done so. Any number of women could be termed beautiful. But this particular one possessed also an innate sensuality. She was the sort of woman any man would desire. He most certainly did.
The two began their descent, the mother clearly conscious of the entrance she made. Olivia, however, appeared less self-assured. Was it on account of him?
One corner of his mouth turned up. He certainly hoped so.
“ … my particular friend,” Mrs. Cummings nattered on as the women reached them. But Neville only had eyes for Olivia. And she, to his great pleasure, stared fixedly at him.
Did the glint in those lovely eyes bode good or ill for him? Whichever it was, he meant to turn it to his advantage. He
would charm Miss Olivia Byrde and her mother, and gain those land leases no matter what it took. And perhaps, if he was lucky, he would take a little pleasure in the process as well.
“MAY I have this dance?”
Olivia steeled herself against the beguiling darkness in Neville Hawke’s voice. She’d been anticipating this moment all evening, ever since he’d bent so gallantly over her hand at their introduction. Since then he’d played at being a perfect gentleman. She knew because for the past two and a half hours she’d surreptitiously watched him.
He’d stood in the receiving line, so incredibly handsome and well mannered she could hardly credit that he was the same man with whom she’d already had two unfortunate run-ins. Then he’d circulated, speaking amiably with the men and dancing with his hostess, as well as several other women. It seemed now that she was next.
“Thank you,” she answered, her voice cool, her expression bland. “But I am not keen on dancing.”
He gave her a half-smile that was wholly masculine—and wholly dangerous. “You’ve accepted invitations from three other men. If you turn me down, you will hurt my feelings.”
“How that shall worry me,” she quipped. “I doubt you have any feelings,” she added, though not so loud that anyone else might overhear.
“You will hurt my feelings,” he repeated. “And you will rouse your mother’s curiosity.”
Olivia glanced swiftly to the circle around her mother. Sure enough, Augusta was staring at her and Lord Hawke. When Augusta smiled and waved, Olivia gave her an answering nod, then looked away. She raised her chin a notch and glared at
him, all the while tapping her fan against her palm. “I thought we had an agreement.”
“Yes. An agreement to be civil. And I, for one, think it would be grossly uncivil of me not to invite the most beautiful woman in the room to dance.”
Olivia averted her eyes. She was accustomed to effusive compliments from gentlemen, and she was adept at separating the sincere from the perfunctory and from the out-and-out false. Still, she had to force herself not to gape at his words.
“The most beautiful woman in the room,” she echoed, flicking her fan open and closed. “I should expect a more original piece of flattery from a rogue such as you. But save your breath,” she added before he could respond. “You are correct about my mother. Sad to say, but it is easier if I dance with you than explain to her why I refuse to do so.”
Haughty as a queen, Olivia reluctantly extended one hand to him. But instead of leading her onto the floor to line up for the cotillion, Lord Hawke simply stood still, holding her gloved hand in his and studying her intently. Though only a moment, it seemed to stretch out forever and it completely unsettled her—she, whom no man ever affected. Just like before, his touch unnerved her and left her positively breathless.
“I wish to apologize again for my boorish behavior,” he said, so softly that no one but she could hear. “And I will continue to apologize to you until I am convinced you have forgiven me.”
Olivia firmly ignored the little knot that tightened in her stomach. “I told you. It is forgotten.”
“Forgotten. But forgiven?”
Thankfully the musicians struck up the call for the dancers and he had to escort her to their position. That provided a little time for Olivia to compose herself. The fact that she needed the time to do so was vexing in the extreme. But between the warm intimacy of his hand and the low intimacy of his voice, she found herself almost dizzy.
She tried to concentrate as the caller explained the figure, but all the time she fumed at the man beside her. He had deliberately picked a cotillion because it was such a lengthy
dance and she would have to remain long in his presence. Well, he would not upset her, she vowed. He might think to continue his fun at her expense, but he would not succeed.
“So, Lord Hawke,” she said at the first pause in the dancing. “Are you satisfied with the first day of the horse racing?”
“I am. Tell me, do you have an interest in horses?”
Olivia hesitated. She adored horses and riding, whether a long ramble, a rousing steeplechase, or an impromptu race. However, she did not wish to provide the two of them with any common ground. “I suppose I appreciate them as much as the next person.”
They met and circled. His hand was warm.
“Do you keep your own saddle horse?”
“Yes,” she admitted. “But she is too old for more than a sedate ride these days.”
They bowed and parted and faced one another across the aisle of dancers. Again her stomach knotted and twisted as he studied her. Which was worse? she wondered. When their hands touched, or when they stood apart and he observed her with those dark hooded eyes?
The second change of the dance brought them back together. “Perhaps you might like to try one of my animals,” he offered.
“Perhaps. I’m afraid, however, that my stay here may be too brief to arrange it.”
“How about tomorrow afternoon?” His hand on her waist guided her in the promenade. Though his touch was light, Olivia felt it very clearly.
“I should think you will be occupied in Doncaster with your horses.”
“Won’t you be there also? After all, why else have you come to Doncaster except to see the races?”
“I haven’t consulted with my mother yet, so I cannot say what our plans are for the morrow.” She mentally crossed her fingers at that lie. Where Lord Holdsworth was, her mother would surely be, and Olivia knew that meant the racecourse.
“I would like it very much if you were there, Miss Byrde.
My filly, Kittiwake, is running. Having you there is bound to bring her luck.”
Olivia rudely rolled her eyes. “Another cloché. I’m sure your Kittiwake will be quite oblivious to my presence.”
He grinned. “You do not consider it more than coincidence that a pretty bird has fallen into the path of a Lord Hawke, who is running Kittiwake and Kestrel in the races? And you, my long-absent neighbor? Clearly it is fate which has cast us together, Miss Byrde.”
Olivia tossed her head. “I acknowledge the play on bird names and the coincidence. But as for fate, no. I will attend the races, and perhaps I shall even wager on your horses. If they are as fast as their master, they should outdistance all the rest,” she finished in scathing tones.
He grinned once more, a sinfully handsome grin that sent an unwonted quiver through her. When he spun her in the next figure, his touch was more forceful than before.
“Fast, you say.” He released her as the ladies did their
centre moulinet,
and her heart was thumping by the time she returned to his side. There was a glimmer of devilment in his eyes, and she felt a perverse surge of anticipation. A scoundrel he might be, rude and dangerous one moment, and nothing but charming the next. But he could never be said to be boring.
“Too fast for the likes of me,” she replied before he could make another leading remark. “I will, however, be certain to wager on your horses.”
Better that you wager on me,
Neville thought as he guided the stimulating Olivia Byrde through the cotillion’s next change. It was truly amazing the effect a chance encounter with this woman had wrought in his attitude. Or was it Kitti’s good showing today? Either way, he was actually enjoying himself. He’d not done that in years. He stared at his partner, trying to understand why she affected him so. One thing he knew. Olivia Byrde might disapprove of him, but she did not shy away from confrontation.
He smiled down at her, vitally aware of everything about her. Her eyes sparkled with life; her cheeks were flush with it. And her hair … The rich auburn mass was tamed into a
sedate topknot tonight. But two curls framed her face, two warm, springy coils of vibrant color. How he ached to see the full length of her hair released to cascade gloriously over her alabaster skin—
“Ah! Excuse me,” he muttered when he misstepped and nearly trod upon her toe. “Unlike your Lord S., it seems I am out of practice with dancing.”
And with wooing
. If he were not careful, his wayward thoughts would prove most embarrassing to him. As it was, they certainly astounded him.
They danced the next two changes in silence, though her expressive eyes spoke volumes. She was still angry with him, and wary of his intentions. That was plain. But she had just enough wildness in her nature to be intrigued. It was to that little wildness he instinctively addressed himself.
“Why are you yet unmarried?” he asked after the gentlemen made their centre and circinate.
“What a rude question! Are you also out of practice with the good manners of polite society? Too much time in the stables, I’ll warrant.”
He grinned at her pursed expression, and it occurred to him that she’d drawn more smiles from him in two days than anyone else had in four years. “Perhaps you are too strong-willed to suit the milksops that populate society’s upper crust,” he replied, ignoring her barbs. “Certainly you are beautiful enough to have gone in your first season.”
She gave him a withering look. “If I wished to wed just anyone, I could have done so years ago.”
“Years ago. Oho, she speaks as if she were an ancient. Years ago. You could be a grandmother by now, I suppose.”
That drew a tiny smile from her, one that left Neville wanting to see more. “You are an unrepentant rogue,” she said.
His hand tightened against her waist, slender without the aid of heavy undergarments, and it was with regret he released her for the final figure. “Is that what you wrote of me in that little volume you keep? That I am an unrepentant rogue?”
Her eyes flashed green and gold in the lamplight. “You assume quite a lot, my lord. What makes you think I bother to write of you at all?”
They came together with arms crossed and hands held. “Because I understand you, Olivia,” he whispered. “You are not a woman to do things by halves. No doubt you have already scribbled a page full of invective directed at me. My hope is that this night, as you sit in your dressing gown with your hair loose about your shoulders, you will write kinder words about
. me.”
Then they parted, each to their respective position, and made their proper curtsey and bow. The music ended with a triple crescendo and the dance was done. There was nothing left but for him to return her to her friends or her mother. But damn, he did not want to do so. He wanted to dance her out that open ballroom door and sweep her into his arms—
He bowed stiffly again, aware of the pooling warmth in his loins. Surely he could control himself better than this! “I hope you will afford me another dance before the evening is done, Miss Byrde.”
She stared up at him with troubled eyes, beautiful hazel eyes, green and brown with liveliness and worry. “I don’t think that would be wise,” she said, very quietly. Then she turned and fled his presence.
An hour later the supper room opened, and Olivia advanced in to dine on the arm of a Mr. Thompson, eldest son of the Cummingses’ solicitor. If she could have begged off and retired upstairs to her bedchamber with a headache, she would happily have done so. But her mother would have wondered at that—and so would Lord Hawke.
What was wrong with her to be acting like such a ninny? First he frightened her, then he insulted her. Now he charmed her despite her personal knowledge of his untrustworthy ways. He was just like her father.
And she was just like her mother.
That dreadful thought made her stumble.
“Watch yourself, Miss Byrde,” Mr. Thompson said. “The room is so crowded it’s a wonder any of us can make our way through.”
“Thank you,” she murmured. Yet her thoughts remained fixed upon that uneasy revelation. Not that she disapproved of
her mother. She loved her very much. But Augusta felt incomplete without a man at her side, and Olivia had always prided herself on being nothing like that. Yet here she was, fascinated by a man—for there was no other way to term it—fascinated by a man sure to bring her nothing but woe.
What a dangerous dilemma to find herself in.
But she was wiser than her mother, she told herself. And she knew enough of Lord Hawke’s true personality to be amply forewarned. His final words to her—far too intimate for their casual acquaintance—was proof enough that he was a well-practiced seducer. In less than twenty-four hours he had shown himself to be a drunkard, a womanizer, and a determined flirt. In short, he was a rake. That he was handsome and charming only made him more dangerous to any young woman of good breeding. She, however, had no reason to fear, for she had only to remember her father and the heartache he had visited on her mother.
Fortunately, she had only four more days to endure Lord Hawke’s proximity.
What of Scotland?
She stared blankly at the heavily laden buffet table. In Scotland they would be neighbors. But she would have her guests—and her brother as protection. She might be forced to see Lord Hawke once or twice, but otherwise she would keep well away from the man. Well away from him, she vowed.
Her appetite restored, she filled her plate and endured the obligatory small talk with the eager Mr. Thompson. Yes, how fortunate that the weather was so fine for the races. No, she did not mean to return right away to London. Yes, the musicians were very good for a country ensemble.