When the Duchess Said Yes (30 page)

This was one of the few paintings that he’d commissioned, and the artist had captured a scene that had always been most dear to him: a sweeping view of Naples, as seen from his balcony at Bella Collina. Everything was there exactly as he remembered, from the tiny fishing boats in the harbor to the hazy mists around the broken top of Mt. Vesuvius in the distance. The details were so complete that he could almost feel the gentleness
of the breezes from the water, smell the flowers that grew wild on the rocky cliffs beneath the villa, and hear the warbling singing of his cook from the open kitchen windows below. There had been a succession of women there, too, of course, willing, plump-cheeked women, but the villa itself had always been his real mistress.

He had always been happy with this painting before him, because he’d always been happiest in Naples. Was it any wonder that as soon as he’d left, he’d dreamed of the day he’d return? He’d already secured his inheritance by marrying the lady of his father’s choice. All that was left was to sire an heir, and then he’d promised himself he’d set sail again for Naples and never look back at England.

He smiled now, determined to lose himself in the countless small recollections of the villa that had meant contentment to him. Bella Collina, his beautiful hill, the one place on earth where he’d been able to put aside the expectations of his father and of London, the one place he’d been able to be the man he wished himself to be. The villa was his escape, his sanctuary, his personal heaven in this life.

So why, then, on this afternoon, were his thoughts unable to focus on the joys of Bella Collina? Why did he keep looking from the painting out the window to the garden, his thoughts wandering again and again to Lizzie: Lizzie laughing as she ran barefoot with her skirts flying, Lizzie at the oars of the little boat, Lizzie climbing up the wall, Lizzie chuckling and sighing with wanton delight as he made love to her on the grass?

He groaned, rubbing his palms across his face as if that would be enough to settle his thoughts. He loved Lizzie. He’d known that almost from the first time he’d seen her. He loved her more than most men ever loved their wives, and certainly loved her more than he’d ever
loved any other woman—a staggering realization. But did he love her so much that he’d forget his life at Bella Collina to live here with Lizzie in London? Could his flesh-and-blood wife truly rival his stone-and-mortar mistress?

It was clear to him that Lizzie was perfectly content, even eager, to follow the life and duties that the harpies and the rest of society had laid out for her and, in time, their children, too. While she might have been his own Lizzie Wyldest in those first blissful weeks together, he’d be a fool if he believed she’d forever throw over the traces of her breeding for his sake. Becoming his duchess would be only the beginning for her, not the end. She’d heed the harpies’ advice, just as she’d once again begun pinning up her hair, and no matter how in love he was, he’d no intention of being hauled along into docile obedience with her.

He was his own man, a duke, and not even marriage could change that. Over and over he repeated it to himself, as if repetition were enough to make it so.

So why, then, could he not imagine living without Lizzie?

“Your Grace?”

Swiftly Hawke sat upright, pretending he’d been doing anything but wallowing in his own despair—not that Giacomo would ever be so ill-mannered as to notice.

“What is it, Giacomo?” he asked. “Why do you disturb me now, you impudent rascal?”

As usual, Giacomo took no offense, but merely bowed. “As you requested, sir, Monsieur Theobault has arrived. He waits in the hall.”

“Where, like all Frenchmen, he is doubtless ogling every one of my parlor maids,” Hawke said dryly, or at least as dryly as he could given the gloominess of his thoughts. Monsieur Theobault came to him highly recommended.
“Fetch my small sword, Giacomo, and have Theobault meet me in the sunken garden.”

Art might have failed him today, but surely violent exercise would not, and with a sigh Hawke left behind his paintings and headed for a lengthy, exhausting session with the French swordsman.

Lizzie ran up the stairs as soon as she returned home, certain she’d find Hawke at his desk in his study. He’d told her he’d intended to spend the afternoon reviewing accounts and correspondence, matters he’d ignored since they’d wed. Men could lose themselves in business affairs, she guessed. She couldn’t: though they’d been apart only three hours, she’d missed Hawke almost as much as if the time apart had been three months. It wasn’t that she’d not enjoyed herself at Marchbourne House—she’d loved seeing her mother and sisters again, enjoyed laughing and gossiping and playing with Charlotte’s children—but being there had only made her realize how much she longed to be back here with Hawke.

It wasn’t just love that had pulled her back. There was concern mixed in, too, an uneasy concern that she couldn’t quite explain. Ever since the ride in Hyde Park, Hawke had not been the same.

Oh, outwardly he was unchanged, as generous and attentive as ever, but something intangible was different. It was almost as if he’d become
reserved
, holding back from her in a way the Hawke she’d wed never would.

Lizzie suspected that at the heart of it was what he’d said about not being like his father. She wasn’t certain, because he refused to speak of it, but she knew him well enough by now to realize that he wouldn’t deny it so vehemently if in fact it weren’t true. Tonight they were to go to Lord and Lady Merton’s house, and it was that invitation that had begun his unhappiness. Lizzie wasn’t sure what might happen, or even if, at the last moment,
he’d decide they wouldn’t attend after all. Whatever he chose to do, she wished to share it with him, which had been much of her reason for hurrying back home.

But to her surprise Hawke’s study was empty, with no sign of him having done any work, and she ran through his rooms until she found Giacomo.

“Where is His Grace?” she asked breathlessly. “I thought he’d be here, but he’s not.”

“His Grace is in the sunken garden, Your Grace,” Giacomo said, bowing grandly as he always did. “He is entertaining Monsieur Theobault, ma’am.”

“Monsieur Theobault?” The name meant nothing to her. “Who is that?”

“A master in swordsmanship, ma’am,” Giacomo said.

Immediately Lizzie thought of the long scar across Hawke’s chest, and how he claimed he’d received it fighting an outraged husband.

“What need does he have for swordsmanship?” she asked, more confused than suspicious. “Surely he has no need to defend himself in that fashion here in London.”

“No, ma’am,” Giacomo said. “It is my understanding that His Grace wishes the challenge of the exercise alone, with no further purpose.”

“Then he will not mind if I watch him,” Lizzie said, turning to leave. While she and her sisters had engaged in a greater number of mannish activities than most girls, even their mother had drawn the line at sword fighting, and she was curious to see it done.

“Forgive me, ma’am, if you please,” Giacomo said, actually daring to step forward. “If you would watch His Grace, ma’am, pray take care not to alarm him. A startlement when armed, a surprise—ah, I would not wish it!”

He threw his hands skyward, too horrified (and melodramatic) to explain further.

“I understand, Giacomo,” she said, though she
couldn’t tell if his concern was more for her or for Hawke. “It’s never a wise idea to surprise anyone who has a sharp blade in his hand. I will take care.”

She did, too, slipping out a side door to make as little noise as possible, and taking off her shoes and stockings as well. By now she knew her way around the Chase’s gardens, and it was easy enough to find the sunken garden. Despite the name, it never had truly sunk, but simply sat three steps lower than the walk around it. It wasn’t much of a garden, either, but more of a large, square area paved with flat stones, used by an earlier Hawkesworth for outdoor banquets when such events were in fashion.

But as Lizzie drew closer, she realized that the garden was being used for a much different activity now. Not wishing to be a distraction, she stayed behind the thick hedge that surrounded the garden, watching through the leaves and branches.

The only time she’d seen gentlemen fighting with swords had been on the stage, with actors who artfully swung tin blades at each other. This wasn’t like that, not at all.

Hawke and the Frenchman stood several paces apart, slowly circling the outside of the paving stones. The swords in their hands were not pretend but wickedly real, the blades gleaming dully in the fading light. This was an exercise, not a true duel, but the possibility of injury was undeniable, and the master’s young assistant standing to one side oversaw not only water and wine for refreshment but a small surgeon’s kit, open and ready on the ground at his feet.

Both men were dressed almost identically, in white shirts, dark breeches, and polished boots, the simplicity of their attire accentuating the drama of their movements. Theobault was shorter than Hawke, powerful and stocky as a bull, with black leather gloves and a
leather strip wrapped tightly around his queue in a military fashion. Clearly they had been here a long time: their shirts hung damp and heavy with perspiration and their breeches clung to the muscles in their thighs and buttocks. Both were breathing hard, their lips parted, their hair damp, and their chests rising and falling from exertion.

This was a side to Hawke Lizzie hadn’t known existed. Every muscle in his body was taut as he watched the other man with fierce concentration. He swung the sword gently in his hand, almost as if the blade had a life of its own, while he watched for his opponent to move.

Abruptly Hawke lunged forward, his blade catching the other man’s with a sharp, metallic clash that made Lizzie jump. The men came close together to engage, then retreated, and engaged again, their swords crashing and scraping together with the violence of each parry and thrust. Just as suddenly—at least to Lizzie’s untutored eyes—both once again retreated to the outside of their invisible circle. Breathing hard, they let their arms drop for a moment of rest before they once again began their attacks.

Safely behind the hedge, Lizzie watched, her hands clenched tightly with excitement and her breath coming in quick little gasps. She’d never seen such studied, mannered aggression, such barely controlled male power, especially not from Hawke. It was astonishing, alarming, and infinitely more arousing than she’d ever thought possible. No wonder ladies weren’t usually privy to such exhibitions.

“Once more, Monsieur?” Hawke asked, and Theobault bowed his acquiescence. Again they took their places and positions, making ready. This time the Frenchman moved first, lunging forward. Deftly Hawke parried his attack, twisting sideways with animal grace. He turned, charged, and with the tip of his blade caught
the guard of the other man’s sword. Before Theobault realized what had happened, Hawke snapped the Frenchman’s sword from his fingers and flipped it spinning up into the air, where Hawke caught the hilt with his free hand.

But instead of being angry at being caught out like this, Theobault only laughed and applauded.

“Bravo, sir, bravo,” he said, bowing extravagantly. “You’ve learned the lesson so well that you outdo my own humble skills.”

Hawke grinned, handing both swords to the assistant. “Rather, I learned your own trick sufficiently well that you could permit me to win without dishonor.”

Theobault bowed again and cocked one brow, as much as admitting that Hawke was right. Again they laughed together, with Hawke clapping the Frenchman on the shoulder for good measure, and when the assistant brought them glasses of wine, each attempted to be the first to raise his glass to the other.

It was, decided Lizzie from her hiding place, one of the most bewilderingly male sights she’d ever seen: how one moment the two could have fought with such murderous intent, and then the next acted as if the other were his dearest companion.

But the surprises weren’t quite done. As she watched, Hawke emptied his glass, gave one final thump to Theobault’s shoulder, and then headed directly toward where Lizzie was hiding.

She gulped and began to scuttle away, not wanting him to catch her, but apparently it was too late for that.

“Lizzie, my love,” he said, coming around the hedge to block her way with the same swiftness he’d just demonstrated with his sword. “Did you enjoy that?”

“How did you know I was there?” she said defensively.

He smiled wickedly. “I saw you through the hedge as
soon as you came. The sunlight caught you. Now tell me: did you like seeing your husband perform so admirably?”

“It frightened me,” she admitted. “I kept thinking of what would happen if you slipped, or were caught off guard, or—”

“That wouldn’t happen,” he said, blithely dismissing her worries. He caught her arm and drew her close. “Theobault is good, but I am better. Come, kiss me.”

She fluttered her hands a bit against his chest, weakly protesting such a bold command, but because she did wish to kiss him as much as he did her, she soon was doing exactly that, even if he was sticky with sweat and smelled worse than a stable. Or perhaps she kissed him because he was like that, reminding her of his animal grace as he’d lunged with the sword; she wasn’t going to stop to philosophize over her reasons.

But Hawke would, and did.

“So you did like it,” he said, his voice a low growl. “I can tell. All women are bloodthirsty at heart. There’s nothing that warms your fair hearts like witnessing men fighting.”

“That’s rubbish,” she said, even though it was completely true, as she relished the delicious way he was kissing the side of her throat. Still, she felt she should defend womankind in general from his male assumptions. “Completely. Though perhaps it excites men to believe it so.”

“Rubbish yourself,” he said, sliding his hand down to caress her bottom through her petticoats. “I say it warms your heart, your blood, and other parts of you, too.”

She shoved him away, laughing, and glanced back over her shoulder to see if the Frenchman and his assistant were gone.