“I won! I won!” Augusta jumped up and down, for once forgetting her dignity. She grabbed Lord Holdsworth by the arm. “I won!”
He threw an arm around her with equal enthusiasm, for he, too, had wagered on the filly, Kittiwake. Beside them Penny Cummings and Mr. Garret joined in the victory toast. Of their entire party, only Olivia did not celebrate Lord Hawke’s victory.
Like the others, she’d bet on his handsome filly. By her reckoning, she’d won close to ten pounds, no small sum, and for that she was grateful. But Lord Hawke had won far more than that, and she was not presently of a mind to wish him success.
“Oh, let us go down to the winner’s circle,” Augusta said, and in a moment the others all surged forward. But Olivia hung back.
She’d spent a restless night, tossing and turning and plagued by angry dreams. As before she’d risen early, though after dawn this time. On her way to breakfast she had impulsively peered into the library. She’d not known why. But when she spied the curtains open, the big chair turned to the window, and the chess set sitting at the table beside it, her fury at Lord Hawke had modified to a more confusing emotion.
She did not understand the man at all. Added to that, he seemed never to sleep. Frowning, she searched the crowd for him. She ought to go down and join the others. She was being petulant, yet she could not help it. For all her plotting in the
night against the arrogant Lord Neville, following through was another matter altogether.
So she sat alone in the pavilion that Mr. Cummings had erected for the duration of the races, she and the two menservants tending to the small party.
Below she saw the excited filly prance up to the winner’s circle. The jockey grinned and waved, then angled the animal toward Lord Hawke, who enthusiastically clapped the fellow on the back. Even when the throng closed in around them, Olivia could not mistake Neville Hawke. It was not just his height, or his night-dark hair, gleaming in the afternoon sunlight. There was something about him, some presence, some sense of authority and command.
Then she recalled what Sally had said. He had been a military man, a war hero.
She stared harder at him, oblivious to the dust swirling in little eddies, or the constant hum and flow of people around the oval racetrack. Somewhere a dog yapped. A horse whinnied and the smell of stables and fried pies wafted over all. But Olivia focused solely on Neville Hawke.
The man sat up all night. He flaunted all the rules of society. And he did not behave at all like the other war veterans she’d met who were wont to go on and on about their wartime exploits. Not Neville Hawke. Despite his arrogant manners and supreme self-confidence—despite the fact that he was said to be a hero of the battle at Ligny—he did not boast of his war accomplishments. To her knowledge he hadn’t made mention of his military career once since he’d arrived in Doncaster.
No doubt he’d had some horrifying experiences during those years. How could he not have? But some instinct told her there was more to it than that, something specific he did not like to recall. Perhaps she should make some inquiries. It was no more than she would do regarding any new man come on the scene, she told herself. Research for her little matchmaker. Besides, he had no qualms about tormenting her. Why should she hesitate to return the favor?
As she watched the jubilant crush below; she saw her mother make her way to Lord Hawke’s side. He greeted her
warmly and the others also, accepting their congratulations. He was quite the center of attention and appeared to play the part most graciously. Then he lifted his head and stared up at the pavilion, directly into Olivia’s eyes.
The impact was stunning, and for a moment Olivia hesitated. She did not really wish to continue this conflict with him. What good could possibly come of it, save to mollify her insulted feelings?
Then he winked at her—winked at her!—and any inclination she had to relent vanished. The unmitigated gall of the man!
And when her mother, following the direction of his gaze, spied Olivia and smiled, Olivia’s resolve became as fixed as that of a bull taunted by a waving red flag. He wanted to torment her? Well, she would teach him the meaning of the word.
So she smiled back and saw the faint arch of his dark brows. Then lifting her betting receipt in salute, she started toward him.
The crowd had begun to thin by the time she reached the jubilant circle around Lord Hawke and Kittiwake. Another race had been called and the betting queues soon would close.
Lord Hawke and Augusta were the only ones who took note of Olivia’s arrival, and it was clear they both were pleased. His eyes glittered with mocking anticipation, her mother’s with gleeful scheming.
“Olivia also bet upon your pretty filly,” Augusta said, lightly tapping Lord Hawke’s sleeve.
“Come, my dear,” Lord Holdsworth said, steering Augusta away. “I’ll show you where we collect our winnings. Remember,” he added to Lord Hawke. “I made the first offer on this animal. I’m holding you to your promise not to sell her to anyone else—nor her first foal.”
“I won’t forget. You have my word as a gentleman.”
It took all Olivia’s will not to glare at him. His word as a gentleman? Hah!
As if he heard her very thoughts he smiled at her. Fortunately for Olivia, her mother interceded.
“Come. Give me your ticket, Olivia, and I’ll collect your winnings for you. You’ll keep her company while we’re gone?” This last she directed to Lord Hawke.
“It will be my pleasure.”
Olivia only gritted her teeth and smiled. She needed to have a heart-to-heart talk with her mother. Meanwhile, however, she must deal with Lord Hawke.
After Augusta and Lord Holdsworth and the others departed, the jockey slid down Kittiwake’s rump and Lord Hawke turned to him.
“It was just like you said, milord. I pushed Dorsey—just sat with Kitti’s nose at his animal’s flank—and he panicked and went too early to the whip. Then in the end our girl came through with that kick of hers—” He broke off, shaking his head and grinning. “She’s better than ever, milord. I could swear she was faster today e’en than yesterday.”
Hawke took out his watch. “A second and a half faster than the trials.” Then he clapped the tiny fellow on the back. “Go ahead and celebrate. Bart’s holding a pint for you. I’ll walk Kitti myself.”
“Are you sure?” The jockey’s eyes slanted toward Olivia.
Lord Hawke grinned. “Miss Byrde is mad for horses, or so her mother tells me.” Then he asked her, “Will you walk Kitti with me?”
His voice sounded sincere, but his eyes, oh, how they mocked her. Olivia, however, was more than up for the challenge. Indeed, sparring with Neville Hawke and prying into his personal life might be the only thing to make the next three days interesting.
“Do not take my mother entirely at her word,” Olivia replied. “For she is wont sometimes to exaggerate. To answer your question, however, yes, I will walk Kittiwake with you.” She turned to the animal and rubbed the white streak of her forelock, amazed that she could sound so calm while her emotions churned. “Kitti is quite a remarkable girl. Will you run her again? I do believe she can best all the three-year-olds, not simply the fillies.”
“Remind me to introduce you to my trainer,” Lord Hawke
said as he took the reins from his rider. They turned away from the racecourse. “You and he are in complete agreement on that score.”
“Why then, I’d say he sounds like an enlightened man, not underestimating the value of the female of the species.”
He laughed. “There is no need to be subtle with me, Miss Byrde. I assume you refer to women now, not horses.” That familiar one-sided smile curved his well-formed lips. “Be assured that I never underestimate women.”
“No?” She allowed herself the same sort of smug smile. “And I never underestimate men.”
“That is probably wise.”
“It occurs to me,” she continued, “that were I to know more of you, I might find attributes to cast you in a better light than our brief encounters have yet done. Certainly the past two nights’ unpleasantries do not encourage me to either like you or trust you.”
“But they did intrigue you, didn’t they? ‘Lord H. Tall and reasonably handsome. Proves the rule that looks can be deceiving,’” he quoted from her journal. When she sent a dagger-sharp glare his way, he laughed. “All right, then. I am encouraged that you wish to know me better.”
Olivia did not respond to that. They had progressed far enough from the racecourse to be relatively alone now. Behind them the horn blew to call the next set of horses. Ahead of them the temporary horse stalls were only partially occupied. Kitti nickered and Olivia instinctively stroked her neck. As much as she mistrusted the man, there was a dark sort of pleasure to be had in this cat-and-mouse game they played. “I hope, Lord Hawke, that you will not lend some coarse interpretation to my simple request.”
“Why not? Will that send you running away? It seems that my coarseness toward you is the only reason you are here now. Have you considered that?” He halted and turned to face her.
“Do not flatter yourself,” she stated with a frankness unusual even for her. “It is merely a measure of my boredom.” She met his bold gaze with a determined boldness of her own. Inside, however, she was quivering. Heavenly day, but he
could be incredibly beguiling when he set his mind to it. She had better tread very carefully else he might actually suck her in.
She gave a wave of her hand, and recklessly forged on. “You are more entertaining than some men I have met. Unfortunately, you are also far more irritating.”
“And yet you are here with me.”
“So I am. As I said, I am bored.”
“Then let me entertain you.” That last was said in a husky tone, low and most unsettling.
Olivia snapped open her fan and began briskly to ply it. Oh, but he was beyond the limit! “I hardly know you,” she retorted. “And what little I do know does nothing to encourage a continuation of our acquaintance. You drink too much; you are not above seducing your host’s household staff. You leap to wild conclusions about completely innocent persons, and you do not scruple to hold a person’s private belongings hostage. Oh, and lest I forget,” she added with increasing asperity. “You think it a prank to enter a person’s private chambers and pry among her personal possessions.”
He had the good grace not to deny a word of her accusations, but not enough to appear in the least embarrassed. In fact, he had the gall to grin at her. He spread his arms wide in a gesture of innocence. “What can I do to redeem myself in your estimation?”
“I doubt anything you do can alter my negative opinion of you now.”
“Then why are you here?” He smiled directly into her eyes.
Olivia swallowed hard and had to remind herself that it was to put him in his place and no other reason. His seductive manner meant nothing to her. Nor did his compelling eyes or the charm he seemed able to turn on and off at will. She snapped her fan shut. “As I said, I am bored here. Entertain me with tales of your wastrel youth. Perhaps if I knew more about you, I could build a case for empathy.”
She turned and began again to walk, for her nerves were stretched quite to the breaking point. He matched her pace and the filly ambled between them.
“All I know of your past,” she went on, “is that you have a great appreciation of horses and that you have come to Doncaster from lowland Scotland. Oh,” she added, turning to watch his reaction. “And that you are a hero of the war on the Continent.”
A shadow seemed to come over his face at that, and he stared straight ahead. But his voice, when he spoke, betrayed no emotion. “Say only that I fought in the war, not that I was a hero. The men who died are the heroes, not those of us who survived.”
The words were bitter to hear, and like bile, must have been even more bitter to speak. Olivia felt an immediate stab of the empathy she’d jested of. “Does it pain you to speak of it?” she asked, her voice softening.
“Not particularly.”
Liar
. She studied him more closely. The erect carriage, the straight nose, the strong jawline with its curving scar. Despite his appearance of barely civilized masculinity, it struck her unexpectedly that there was something tragic about him. “Does that mean if I write in my journal that you bear the scars of war, both on your skin and in your heart, that you will not care?”
A muscle ticked just beneath that scar. “To what purpose do you keep notes on so many men in that book of yours? Do you plan to select your husband from among them? To weigh their merits and flaws and choose the best of the lot?”
When he glanced at her he looked angry, and it was her turn to look away.
“It is simply a hobby of mine, nothing more. I help the young women of my acquaintance weed out their suitors—and sometimes I steer them toward gentlemen they might otherwise overlook.”
“Men like me?”
She met his mocking expression with a solemn mien. “At the moment I could not in good conscience steer any woman in your direction.”
Their eyes held a long, disturbing moment. “Perhaps none
of the women of your acquaintance is the sort of woman I seek.”