Now that was an invitation, but she wouldn’t rush in until he had been given his chance. She could wait.
“My thoughts are that this is a lovely home, and you are very fortunate to have grown up here.”
“Ah.”
At the tone she glanced at him.
“True fortune is to grow up surrounded by love, wouldn’t you say, despite the circumstances? If this had been your family home, would it have made your youth happy?”
“If this had been my family home, it would not be in nearly such good repair. And anything of value would have been stripped from it years ago.”
“I see. You think I should count my blessings?”
She met his eyes. “I think we all should. And the main blessing is a future. Whatever the past has been, the future is always ours to make.”
He was clearly listening and thinking.
“A future without the tendrils of the past?” He looked at the manor. “A house like this says otherwise.
The future is not a road stretching cleanly in front of us. It is a layer built on the foundation of the past.”
She thought of her family, her childhood, Deveril, Deveril’s death. “Does no one ever get to start building anew?”
His smile was wry. “Perhaps. But not someone who belongs to a place like Hawkinville Manor.”
“Belongs to,” she said. “I like that.”
But a movement on the ground caught her eye. Jetta had risen to a hunting crouch, and one little duckling was paddling close to the bank.
Clarissa stepped forward and shooed it away.
“She wouldn’t, would she?” she asked Hawk.
“She’s an excellent mouser.”
“That’s different.”
“Not to the mouse. The cat is a predator, Clarissa. It is its nature to hunt.”
She turned back to watch the ducklings. “It is a hawk’s nature too.”
“And a falcon’s.”
She glanced at him. Was that a hint? Did he want her to ask him? Why? “I assure you, I won’t bring you gifts of small victims.”
He reached out and lightly touched her cheek. “Whereas I would like to bring you your enemies, headless.”
“Enemies?” His touch and the word had her dazed.
“People who wish you ill. People you fear.”
She laughed, though to her own ears it sounded shaky. “Alas, I have no enemies worthy of a hawk.”
“Alas, indeed. But lacking a true enemy, I will make do with a petty one. No one has spoken to you unkindly? No carriage has splashed mud on your gown? No servant has served your soup cold?”
He was teasing, but he hadn’t been teasing before. Why should he suspect enemies? How much of the picture had he put together?
“I wouldn’t demand anyone’s head for that,” she said. “In fact, I want no more violence in my life.”
“More?”
She was stuck, but then Lord Trevor said, “Someone’s waving, sir.”
They both looked around to see an aproned figure waving from the manor door.
“Ah,” Hawk said. “The carriage must have returned to take us up to Steynings.”
As the others went ahead, he scooped up the cat, then put his free hand on Clarissa’s back to direct her toward the house. As he had in that room in the Old Ship…
Her dress was fine, and she was wearing the lightest of corsets. She felt the heat, and a thread of excited pleasure up and down her spine as she retraced her steps to the house.
Hawk and Hawkinville.
She would have both. She must have both!
* * *
Steynings was certainly a complete contrast to the manor—all clean, modern lines and symmetry. Inside, however, the place was a hive of mending, hammering, painting, and cleaning. The smell of wet plaster, sawdust, and linseed oil stole any sense of comfort for Clarissa. She followed Maria’s guided tour, wondering if her husband minded his family home being taken over in this way by his new wife.
She didn’t think Lord Vandeimen minded much that his wife did, just as she would find it hard to mind much that Hawk did. He wasn’t by her side now—the men had disappeared, probably to find a quiet corner and drink ale—and every moment of this tour seemed a waste of time.
Since there was no escaping, however, she tried to pay attention and make intelligent comments. One day soon, she hoped, the Vandeimens would be neighbors.
When she studied things, it did seem to her that most of the work was an improvement. Some doors had been moved, and two rooms had been opened up into one. The pale paintwork was fresh and airy and suited this building. It was easy to comment approvingly.
As they all returned to the marble-floored entrance hall, the men emerged.
Hawk came over to her. “More to your taste, I gather?”
Clarissa checked that her hostess was out of earshot before answering, “Not at all, I’m afraid. It’s too cool and big.”
He looked skeptical. Did he really think everyone preferred the modern style?
“Truly, Hawk. I think the manor house is lovely.”
Frustratingly, he seemed to take her comment as mere good manners. What else could she say? That she loved his house so much that she would marry Lord Deveril for it? Well, not quite that, for sure.
Then Lord Amleigh and his wife strode in in riding dress and high spirits. Clarissa did not think she imagined their sharp looks, as if she was being assessed. That was a very hopeful sign, if both of Hawk’s friends thought her of interest.
They all sat down in the dining room for a cold luncheon. Though the room was in a state for guests, Clarissa could see that work had been left half done in various spots. The food was excellent, however, and a general peace suggested that the workmen were also taking their meal.
She began to take in a sense of the house as it would be, and amid the relaxed conversation, indulged herself in imagining dinners here with these couples as her good friends. Her mind sped ahead to children growing up together as the three men had, but all in completely happy homes.
Not in a home like hers, or like Hawk’s.
In some things, at least, a new beginning was possible.
She heard about the Vandeimens’ wedding feast. It would be wonderful to be married like that, to be introduced to the village like that.
“You’ll have to choose a bride soon, Hawk,” teased Lady Amleigh, “so we can have another party before the summer is out.”
“Greedy, aren’t you, Susan? Wouldn’t it be better to wait a summer or two? There aren’t likely to be any more of that sort for a generation.”
“Speaking of generations,” Lady Amleigh responded, “we can celebrate christenings!” She blushed and grinned. “And yes, that does mean that I think there’s going to be a christening in February.”
Everyone congratulated the Amleighs, but Hawk said, “Hardly the time for a village fete, I’m afraid.”
Clarissa detected a touch of wistfulness in Maria Vandeimen’s expression, and wondered. The lady had been married and had no children. Could that happen to her? She supposed it could happen to any woman.
With talk of fetes and babies, everyone was lazy about rising from the table, but eventually Maria said that the workmen needed to get back to their tasks and they’d been told to be quiet while the guests were here.
They all walked out into the hall, and the Amleighs took their departure. The Vandeimens, however, were approached by an aproned man holding rolls of plans, and soon they were embroiled in an intent discussion.
Lord Trevor and Althea wandered to study some painted panels, leaving Clarissa and Hawk alone. It was not a good enough separation, however. The day here was almost done. Soon they would be in the carriage home, all chances gone. And she’d vowed to propose before they left.
Here?
The acoustics of the hall were such that she could almost catch what everyone else was saying. She needed to be outside with him. For quite a long time.
“After a lunch like that,” she said, “I would love a walk. Could we walk back to the village, perhaps?”
Hawk looked at her, but then said, “Maria will probably be some time, and would be relieved not to have us hovering. There’s a pleasant footpath that should take only a half hour or so.”
Anticipation and pure nerves tied Clarissa’s insides in a knot, but she said, “That sounds perfect!”
But then he said, “I’ll ask Lord Trevor and Miss Trist.”
Clarissa fiercely projected a message to Althea to refuse, but the other couple came over while Hawk went to speak to the Vandeimens. Clarissa looked for an opportunity to whisper to Althea, but none presented itself and in moments they were leaving the house by the back terrace, any hopes and plans in ruins.
She tried to imagine Althea lingering behind with Lord Trevor, but couldn’t. Althea, after all, was a stickler for the proprieties.
Halfway across the lawn toward the woodland, however, Althea stopped. “Oh, dear. I’m terribly sorry.
My ankle has begun to ache. I twisted it slightly in the mud at the fair.”
They all stood there for a moment, then Hawk said, “We will go back.”
“Oh, no! Please don’t,” Althea protested. “I’m sure you were looking forward to the walk.” She turned to Lord Trevor. “But if you could give me your arm back to the house, my lord…”
Of course he agreed. Clarissa glanced at Hawk, wondering if he would insist on returning as well, but he said nothing.
“Well, then,” she said to Althea, “if you will be all right…”
“Perfectly.” And Althea winked.
Clarissa had to fight not to laugh as she turned again, alone with Hawk at last.
Instinct told her that this could be the most important half hour of her life.
Hawk linked arms with Clarissa and led her toward the woods and wilderness. He looked down at her, but her golden straw hat shielded her face and made her a woman of mystery—as if she wasn’t enough of a mystery already.
He’d not planned this unchaperoned walk, but now that it sat in his hands he could not reject the gift. He could use it to seek details about Deveril’s death, but he knew he simply wanted to enjoy this time with the woman he could not have.
It was perilous. He recognized that. Strange magic was weaving through this day, and he felt as if he were walking into a fairy circle, being slowly deprived of logic and purpose.
He would do no wrong, however. He had promised Van, and a promise like that was sacred. All the same, a stern chaperone would have been safer.
A yowl made him look back to see Jetta running after them like a thoroughbred. “Ah. A chaperone after all.”
“Do we need one?”
He glanced at Clarissa, catching a wickedly demure look that made him want to groan. What was he going to do if she had wicked designs upon him?
The cat arrived with a final yowl of protest. He picked it up, saying to Clarissa, “If you don’t think we do, Falcon, you are being naive.”
She blushed, but it only created a more devastating glow. “I am capable of saying no to anything I do not want, Hawk. Are you saying you would force me?”
“You have a mistaken idea of the role of the chaperone, my girl.” They strolled on, the cat now limply content. “Her role is not to prevent wolves from attacking, but to prevent maidens from throwing themselves into the jaws of the wolves.”
She turned her head so he could see her whole face, and her expression was decidedly wicked. “I have always disliked having a chaperone.”
He stroked the cat. “Jetta, I think you are truly needed here.”
Clarissa laughed, a charming gurgle of laughter that was new. A few weeks ago in Cheltenham she hadn’t laughed like that—relaxed and happy. Seductive.
He could vividly imagine her laughing like that in bed. Naked in a well-used bed…
He’d seen men bewitched by wicked women, often to the extent of besmirching their honor, once or twice to their complete destruction. Had they, too, felt careless as they fell, as if a few magical moments were worth any fate?
If he had any sense, he would return to the house now.
Instead, he went on with her, out of the sunshine and into the cool mystery of the woodland. Jetta leaped down to explore, and Hawk searched for something innocuous to say. “We played here a great deal as boys.”
“Knights and dragons?” she asked.
“And crusaders and infidels. Pirates and the navy— but we were always the pirates.”
The hat tilted, showing a glimpse of nose. “A criminal inclination, I see.”
An opening. He could not fail to take it. “Of course. Have you never played the criminal?”
He watched carefully, but since he could still see only her nose, it was hard to judge her reaction.
“Have you?” she said.
Yes, now.
How peaceful it seemed in this other world under the green shade, busy birdsong all around them. Jetta pounced into some ferns, then out again, thankfully without a trophy.
Hawk looked at the siren walking so demurely by his side and wished this was the innocent, unshadowed stroll it seemed.
“Not here. None of us wanted to play the true villains. We didn’t consider pirates villains, of course. The dragons, infidels, and navy had to be imaginary.”
She turned so he could see her complete smile. “But villains often have the best lines. I always asked to play the villain in school plays.”
“A villainous inclination, I see.”
“Perhaps.” There was laughter in it, however, not dark meaning. “I certainly preferred it to being the heroine. There are so few good roles for a heroine.”
“Shakespeare has some.”
“True. Portia. Beatrice. I played Lady Macbeth once—”
He could imagine that a hand tightened on her throat, sealing off any more words. Why? What was it about Lady Macbeth that could not be spoken? Like the distant rumble of cannons, speaking of death, he remembered the bloody dagger in the play.
“But is she a heroine?” he asked, watching. “She incites a murder…”
He was almost certain that Lord Arden had killed Deveril, but had Clarissa incited him to it? Pressed the dagger into his hands? It was not a picture he wanted to envision.
“She suffers for it,” Clarissa said.
“But some murderers benefit from their crimes.”
“Only if they’re not caught.”
She was getting better and better at tossing words around without showing her feeling. He admired it, but he wished for a little more transparency.