She dipped her head in acknowledgment of that possibility. “Does that mean you are seeking a wife? I assume you are unmarried.”
He smiled. “You truly do think the worst of me, don’t you? But yes, I am as yet unwed.”
Olivia felt a perverse satisfaction which she firmly ignored. “And are you seeking to alter that state?”
“No.”
“I see. And what of an heir? I should think your family eager for you to settle that issue.”
“Are you prying, Miss Byrde?” Again he smiled, but there was a guarded look in his eyes.
She gave him a guileless smile in return. So, he did not like it when she inquired into his personal affairs. There was nothing that could have made her more tenacious. “But of course I am prying. How else am I to learn anything about you?”
He halted and studied her a moment. “Very well, then. My family history is no secret. My parents are deceased, as is my only brother. As for my heirs, why should I care who accedes to the Hawke barony? At that point I will not be around to judge them.”
“I’m sorry about your family,” she said, embarrassed now by her flippant questions. “I had heard something to that effect.”
He shrugged. “They’ve been gone several years now. Besides, everyone dies someday.”
He said it without any discernible emotion, and yet Olivia sensed a deep sorrow in him.
They had reached a line of trees that separated the town proper from a silvery stream of ice-cold water. But Lord Hawke continued on, following a narrow path into the shady bower. The docile filly, sensing water, pricked her ears forward, eager for the refreshment.
Olivia paused. They were completely alone and would be even more so beyond the trees. The fact that he had shown
himself to be completely untrustworthy in such situations should have been sufficient to turn her right around. But the sun was shining, the stream beckoned, and she’d had quite enough of crowds. She glanced back toward the racecourse and the haze of dust that hung above it. By contrast, a bird somewhere ahead trilled an ode to life, and a pair of butterflies, one yellow, one orange and black, danced along the line between sunshine and shade.
The racecourse and all the people there were not so very far away, she reassured herself. Besides he was sober now, and she did not think him fool enough to risk losing the goodwill his horses had won him, At the moment he seemed willing to talk and she did not want to miss this chance.
So she hiked her skirt up a few inches and forged through the knee-high grasses. Once in the damp shade the grass gave way to arching ferns and, going deeper, to soft moss banks. He glanced over at her once, but it was too brief for her to read his expression.
Go back, the voice of reason warned her.
But curiosity urged her on. How had his parents and brother died, and why did he shy from marriage when it would be the perfect antidote to his loneliness? For one thing Olivia felt certain of: Neville Hawke was lonely. That was why he sat up at night and drank too much. Perhaps with her aid he could find the right woman to fill that void. Whoever she was, she would have to be a woman of considerable mettle and quite outside the bounds of normal society.
Olivia rolled her eyes at her own perversity. His tragic tale must be affecting her, for finding a wife for Lord Hawke had hardly been her intention when she set out to approach him today.
Then he ducked under a low-hanging oak branch, and in so doing, sent her that wicked one-sided grin of his. At once Olivia’s foolish maunderings collided abruptly with reality. Neville Hawke needed no help finding a woman, and only an idiot would think otherwise. She should turn around at once—but if she were not going to do that, then she should at the least keep her purpose firmly before her. He had no reason to
torment her, yet he chose to do so. It behooved her on behalf of decent women everywhere—be they maid or peeress or anything in between—to put him sharply in his place.
Her head was high as she came out into the clearing along the narrow streambed, and her purpose was firm. Just let him try anything with her and see how swiftly he was set down.
Kittiwake stood up to her hocks in the bright water as she took great draughts of its refreshing coolness. Olivia stared longingly at the handsome animal. How she wished she could wade barefoot through the stream, then leap onto Kitti for an exhilarating ride.
“Easy, girl. Not too fast,” Lord Hawke said to the filly, tugging her away from the stream. The horse tossed her head and reached down for more, but he held her back, distracting her with a handful of grass. “Slow, Kitti. Let’s cool you down slowly.”
“It seems she has a mind of her own,” Olivia said.
“Most interesting women do.”
Was that steady gaze meant to imply that she was among that number? Olivia supposed she should appear taken in by his ploy. So she smiled, but her words remained focused on her goal. “Was your mother just such an interesting woman?”
After a moment he answered.. “That’s hard to say. Can a child ever see his parents clearly? Do you see yours clearly?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. You can form your own opinion about my mother. However, I can form no opinion of yours save, it seems, through you. You haven’t answered my question, Lord Hawke.”
“Why don’t you call me Neville?”
“We are not sufficiently acquainted to warrant such familiarity.”
“That can be arranged.”
With those brief words and one potent look he made her stomach clench in a knot. She pulled a triplet leaf from an elder bush and twiddled it in her hand. “Are you trying to divert me from my question?”
One of his hands slid up and down Kitti’s side. “It is you
who constantly diverts me, Olivia.” He grinned. “Miss Byrde,” he amended before she could correct him.
“Was your mother an interesting woman?” she repeated with some frustration.
He met her determined look, then finally shrugged. “My mother was a quiet person, concerned with family, propriety, and religion, in that order. She possessed all the skills a gentlewoman should and was a good wife and a good mother.”
“But was she interesting?”
“My father thought so. The only cruelty he ever delivered her was that of dying before she could.”
“Oh.” Once again Olivia felt small and mean-spirited.
“He caught a cough he could not recover from. When he died she went into an immediate decline so that within months they were both gone.”
“Were you still away at war?”
“No. I had returned.” He averted his face.
Olivia bit her lower lip. He seemed deeply affected. “They must have been so proud of you,” she offered. “At least you gave them that.”
“Yes. I gave them that,” he echoed, but there was a bitter cast to his words. “Shortly after their demise my older brother took a bad spill. He lingered two weeks, then died without ever regaining his senses. So you see, Miss Byrde.” He raised his head and stared directly at her. “There is no one to care whether or not I marry, whether or not I produce an heir, and whether or not I behave as I ought.”
He paused, then with unexpected candor added, “You should not be out here alone with me.”
Olivia smiled with more confidence than she felt. “I suppose you are right. Since you have already accosted me twice, however, I suppose I grow jaded. Even you can only go so far in your efforts to shock me, so I feel relatively safe.”
“Then again,” he went on, a puzzled crease across his brow. “There is something curious about you. You are not like other young women of your set. You keep that perverse journal of yours. You wander about strange houses at night. Then you throw yourself in my path—with your mother’s full encouragement,
it seems. What is a man to think of all this? And now you quiz me about my family and my attitude toward marrying. That’s more the behavior of an eager mother than a demure young lady. Are you so desperate to wed as all that, Olivia?” He came around Kitti so that they were but an arm’s length apart. “Is there some secret you are keeping from me?”
For a moment she was baffled by his words. What secret could she have? If she was that eager to wed she would have done so long ago.
Then his gaze fell to her stomach and his meaning struck with painful clarity. She sucked in a horrified gasp. He thought she
needed
to wed? He thought she hid a secret that required a husband, and fast?
“Are you trying to trap me by compromising me?” he added, his eyes glittering with amusement.
It was that amusement at her expense which provided her some handhold on her temper. She crossed her arms and lifted her chin to a haughty angle. “You know you don’t believe that, Lord Hawke. Your only purpose for making such ridiculous implications is to goad my temper.”
He grinned. “Have I succeeded?”
“No.” She shook her head. “You have not.”
“I see. Well, perhaps this might do the trick.” All at once he drew her against him, trapping her folded arms between them. “Are you angry yet?” He stared down into her eyes from a distance of mere inches.
“I’m getting there,” Olivia muttered. She tried without success to pull away. Though his hold was not cruel, it was nonetheless implacable. “Let me go.”
“Not yet.” His face lowered. “You’re not angry enough.”
“Yes I am!” But Olivia’s heart was racing more with fear and anticipation than with anger. “I am furious. Now let me go at once!”
“You need a little more goading, I think. Perhaps this—” Without warning his lips came down upon hers. Or perhaps there had been a warning, for she’d been warned away from him from their very first meeting, and every time thereafter. Nevertheless, she still was not prepared. She struggled, but
only faintly, and only for a few brief moments.
When his lips moved and slanted for a closer fit, she forgot her anger. And when his arm wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her fully against him, she forgot to be afraid. When he nibbled her lower lip and teased her mouth open, then slid his tongue between her lips, Olivia felt a heated leap in her stomach and a frightening, compelling anticipation.
What would he do next?
What would she let him do?
NEVILLE knew he was behaving badly. An innocent young woman of the ton was not the sort of woman a man was supposed to dally with. But Olivia Byrde’s mouth was incredibly warm and incredibly soft, and it was plain she needed kissing. If her enthusiasm was any indication, she’d been hungry for just such a kiss a very long time.
So he kissed her, taking his time and doing a completely thorough job of it. She would not forget this kiss, he vowed as he tilted her backward in his arms. And she would have to write something very nice about him in that cursed journal she kept.
He slanted his mouth against hers, nibbling and probing. He felt the moment her lips parted, and felt no shame for delving deeper. She tasted like honey, like sunshine. It was enough to make a man drunk with desire, and he was not one to deny himself.
So he took full possession of her mouth, thrusting deeper and more insistently than he should. The fact that she curled her fingers around his lapels did nothing to discourage him. Boldly he stroked in and out, the intimate kiss of lovers.
Only when his arousal demanded the same sort of rhythm from his lower parts did he regain some portion of his senses. With a groan he reined in his rampaging emotions, raised his head, and stared down into her dazed eyes. “Is that what you wanted from me, Olivia? Is that why you have followed me here to this private place?”
As he looked down at her flushed face and the fullness of her delicious mouth, he had to stifle an oath. One kiss was not
enough. But as he lowered his head for another sweet taste of her, she seemed finally to come to her senses.
“No!” She twisted her head to avoid his lips, then pushed away and stumbled back nearly to the water’s edge, managing somehow to look properly insulted and temptingly disheveled, all at the same time.
“No,” she repeated, raising one hand tentatively to her mouth. Her voice was low and shaky. “I think you’ve taken sufficient advantage of me for one day.”
“I took advantage of you?” He laughed, determined to make her accept some portion of responsibility for their current situation. “Haven’t you got that turned around?”
“Me?”
Neville was fascinated by the play of emotions on her expressive face. From fledgling arousal to humiliation to fury, her feelings tumbled pell-mell, darkening her eyes, pinkening her cheeks, and flustering her completely. She took a deep breath, then another, and he could not help admiring how well she filled out the cream-colored muslin of her bodice.
“You think I have taken advantage of you?” she sputtered. “I have taken advantage of
you
?”
“Haven’t you?” He crossed his arms across his chest, enjoying himself as he had not done in years. “You followed me here of your own accord. Indeed, it would almost seem you have a hidden purpose. If it is not to trap a husband, then my secontl guess is that you hope to gain a paramour.”
“Oh!” She stamped her foot. “You are absolutely the limit!”
“Not that either? Hmm.” He frowned. “That leaves me with but one conclusion. I’m merely research for that little journal you keep, aren’t I? What will you write this time? Lord H. Aggravating, but he kisses so well.”
Was that a flash of guilt in her eyes? She averted her gaze too swiftly for him to be certain.
“I have no intention of listening to any more of this.” She lifted her skirts and clambered up the sloping green bank, angling carefully around him. “Do not invite me to dance this evening, Lord Hawke, lest you are prepared to be rebuffed. I do not wish to continue my acquaintance with you.”
“How shall you avoid it, I wonder?”
“I shall manage.”
“What of your sojourn in Scotland?”
She whirled around and glared at him. “What of it? I can imagine no occasion when I will invite you to Byrde Manor, nor any reason to call upon you in your abode. So you see, we are done.”
But Olivia’s determined avowal only increased Neville’s grin. He watched her storm away, head high and long, angry strides. She looked just as good from the back as she did from the front. No, they were not done, he and the redoubtable Miss Byrde, though he knew he trod on dangerous ground. If it was land leases he wanted from her, he was not pursuing them in a very logical manner. Yet he seemed unable to prevent himself from baiting her. Or from kissing her.
It was not lost on him that he took greater pleasure from this woman’s rejection than he had from any other woman’s welcome. But he’d long ago ceased to wonder at the paradox that was his life. Hailed a hero, yet in truth a traitor. Widely admired, yet consumed with self-hatred.
It was fitting that he be enamored of the first woman who despised him. But Olivia was as much a paradox as he, sometimes the proper Miss Byrde, other times his earthy Hazel. She was not like the other women of her set—like her mother or Penny Cummings or a hundred others of that ilk. Pretty baubles, the most of them, with no thought beyond the next party and what they would wear to it.
But Olivia was more opinionated, more spirited. And like him, she seemed to view society with a jaundiced eye.
His gaze tracked her departure until the trees hid her beautiful, prickly image from view. He should honor her request and simply avoid her.
But Neville knew he would not do that. He would pursue her and torment her and convince her to kiss him again. Eventually she would give him that lease. As for the future beyond that, he could not say. His life unfolded as it would, hideous nights, bearable days, and occasionally, like today, a flash of true brightness.
How could he turn his back on another chance to bask in that light?
Olivia thrashed through a bed of ferns and stomped up the narrow woodland path, jerking her skirts when they caught on a tuft of grass or a holly branch. He was without a doubt the most unpleasant, debauched clod she’d ever had the displeasure to know!
But he kisses very well.
She stumbled over a projecting oak root and only prevented herself falling by grabbing on to the tree. In the process, however, her glove ripped and she swore as no proper lady should. She stared at her new kidskin glove and the irreparable tear in the palm. Another crime to lay at Lord Hawke’s door.
He still kisses very well
, the mocking voice of her conscience said.
“I am
not
writing that in my matchmaker!”
A gray squirrel scolded her from the safety of the spreading oak, and a pair of sparrows darted away as if annoyed by her blundering into their heretofore peaceful home.
“I despise him,” she threw defiantly at the disapproving birds. The fact that he knew his boldly taken kiss had melted every ounce of her resistance only made her dislike him more. A man was not born knowing how to kiss like that. He learned through extensive practice, and that meant loose women, lusty barmaids, overfriendly housemaids, and the like.
She started forward again, only glancing briefly backward to assure herself he did not follow. Truly, he was the most odious man alive—even if his kisses did curl her toes.
By the time she approached the racecourse, Olivia had regained a moderate control of her temper. Unfortunately, the other emotions her anger had suppressed rose promptly to the surface. Like a shadow she could not outrun, the memory of his every touch clung to her. It prickled in the places his strong hands had held her. It burned where the two of them had pressed together, knees to belly to chest. She’d felt his arousal against her stomach, and just remembering it set her nerves all ajangle.
Then there was that kiss.
Olivia came to a halt just beyond the tented pavilion and pressed the back of one hand against her lips, feeling the heightened sensitivity there. She’d never been kissed like that. Never. Raphael St. Julian had forced his tongue into her mouth once. But though she’d been curious about the much-discussed French manner of kissing, her primary reaction had been revulsion.
Neville Hawke’s kiss, however, had not repulsed her. It should have, but it had not.
She licked her lips, then groaned at the unbidden thrill that swept like wildfire through her. She was behaving like a wanton, like the lowest sort of woman, and she was heartily ashamed of herself.
But she was made of sterner stuff than that, she told herself. She tucked a stray curl behind the ribbon that held her straw bonnet in place. Lord Hawke may have won this round in the absurd battle of wills they fought, but he would not win the war. Like every other well-bred young woman, she knew how to freeze a man, and she was not above giving him the cut direct.
“Oh, there you are!”
Olivia’s head jerked up at the abrupt sound of her mother’s voice. Of all times to run into her. Worse, she was arm in arm with Penny Cummings.
“Where is Lord Hawke?” Penny asked, her eyes sly upon Olivia.
“I believe he is still walking his horse. How much did you win?” she asked, deliberately turning her attention to her mother.
“Seven pounds. And Penny won the same. But you, my dear, won more than anyone. Ten pounds. Here you go.” She handed Olivia a little sack of coins tied up in one of her lace handkerchiefs. “How wise of you to stake so much of your quarterly allowance on Lord Hawke.”
Penny’s knowing expression and her mother’s eagerly raised brows were the only things that prevented a sharp retort. As it was, Olivia could not take that broad hint without some
sort of reply. “It was the horse, not the man, that I committed my funds to. I have always felt a partiality to strong-willed females, no matter the species.”
Augusta’s bright blue eyes searched Olivia’s face. She gave a pleased smile. “Go on without me, Penny. I would have a private word with my daughter.”
Olivia frowned. Penny laughed. “You should be glad of your dear mother’s concerns,” she said. “She merely hopes to gain you an advantageous marriage without ruining your reputation in the process.” Then she looked past them. “Oh, and here comes Lord Hawke.”
As Penny minced away in the man’s direction, Olivia sent a baleful glare at the woman’s back. “Look to your own reputation,” she muttered.
“Now, now. That is rather ungrateful of you, Olivia. As our hostess—and Lord Hawke’s—it becomes dear Penny’s responsibility to ensure the complete propriety of all within her household.”
“How fortunate I am,” Olivia tartly replied, “to have two matrons overseeing my every move.”
“I’ll thank you not to use that word in reference to me.” Augusta raised her chin and rearranged the lacy shawl that lay across her shoulders. “It sounds so old and, well, matronly.”
“And you most certainly are not that, right, Mother?” Olivia glanced past her to where Penny now strolled alongside Neville Hawke and his lovely racehorse. “Honestly, I do not understand why you are so anxious to remarry. Dealing with men can be so unbearable.”
Following her daughter’s gaze, Augusta smiled, then hooked her arm through Olivia’s. “Do I detect a partiality toward Lord Hawke? He is a rather compelling young man.”
Olivia wanted to be sharp and cutting in her rejection of the man, but her mother’s warm concern was her undoing. She gave a great sigh as they started for the pavilion. “He can be compelling. I will grant you that. But he is also arrogant and aggravating, and extremely high-handed.”
“Has he tried to kiss you?”
“Mother!” Olivia tried to sound appalled at the very idea.
But the color that flamed in her cheeks gave her away. “Oh, Mother.” She sighed again. “It doesn’t matter if he did or did not. He is not the sort of man I can be interested in.”
“You say that about every man you meet.”
“Very well, then. Will you believe me when I say he is the antithesis of everything I require in a husband?”
Augusta patted her arm. “My, my. Such strength of feeling he rouses in you.”
Olivia turned to her mother. “I hate it when you deliberately misconstrue my words.”
Augusta gave an elegant shrug that conceded nothing. “It is only that you and he seem so well suited in age and fortune and rank. Even your lands run together. Added to that, you look very well together. Everyone commented on it when the two of you danced together last night.”
Olivia shook her head. She did not want to hear such things. “Yes, he dances well. He is also handsome enough, in a dark and brooding sort of way, and he loves horses and the outdoors. You’re right. On the surface we appear very well suited. But he also drinks too much and is far too knowledgeable about women. In short, he is a rake of the worst sort and not to be trusted.”
After that heated dialogue Augusta regarded her a long, pensive moment. “It seems you have made quite a study of Lord Hawke. You must admit, however, that he sounds quite unlike all the other suitors you have rejected.” She smiled in a satisfied manner.
“And what do you imply from that? No, never mind. You just don’t understand.” Angry, Olivia pursed her lips and did not pause to consider her next words. “Perhaps this will make it clearer to you. Lord Hawke is just like my father. Dashing, dangerous, and not the sort of man a wise woman would marry—if, indeed, he even has marriage in mind.”