“Who else?” she retorted. “And who are you to speak of him in such tones?”
“We are business acquaintances.”
“You are a guest here?”
He smirked at her. “Of course.”
Olivia’s heart sank even as her anger increased. Did Mr. Cummings know what sort of ruffian he had loosed upon his household? “I assume then that you must be Mr. Hawke.”
He straightened, smiling with satisfaction. “So he has mentioned me to you.”
“He did. You are purported to be something of a horseman.” Olivia jutted out her chin with more belligerence than she felt, and studied him closely. At least the man appeared sober this morning, though that affected neither her anger nor her caution. He was again well dressed in buckskin breeches and a tawny colored frock coat, and their fine cut set off his tall, manly figure. Broad shoulders, trim hips. He was younger than she would initially have guessed.
But his eyes were old, she realized, as if they’d seen more than a man needed to see.
Still, that was neither here nor there.
She crossed her arms and narrowed her gaze. “Have you taken my journal from the library, Mr. Hawke?”
“It’s Lord Hawke,” he said. “But you may call me Neville. And yes, I do have your journal in my possession. Olivia.”
At once the alarm bells in her head which had sounded only a muffled din began wildly to clang. “It is Miss Byrde to you,” she stated, her voice cold and haughty. She stuck out her hand. “I’ll have it from you now.”
He stepped nearer; she snatched her arm back.
“I’d like to speak to you about that very topic.” He pushed open the door to the sitting room. “Shall we?”
Olivia took two hasty steps backward. “I don’t think so. All I want from you is my book, Lord Hawke. Nothing more. Just give it to me now and I will try to forget your appalling behavior last night—and your rudeness this morning.”
He grinned, a wicked half-grin that showed strong white teeth against his sun-browned face. She saw now the details she’d had no time to see last night: the crooked scar along his jawline, the thick black hair and slashing brows, and the moody blue eyes. A Gypsy horse trader in gentleman’s attire, that’s what he looked like. Dark and dangerous with nothing of the true gentleman beneath his handsome exterior.
“I’m afraid I shall never be able to forget last night,” he said in a husky, intimate whisper. “I’d hoped you felt the same.”
“I’m sure I shall never forget it,” she snapped right back at him. “It was a figure of speech, as you well know. I meant only that I would not mention it to our hosts and thereby ruin what Mr. and Mrs. Cummings mean to be a pleasant holiday for their guests.”
“I don’t see why—” He broke off and stared intently at her, his head cocked slightly to one side. Slowly his smug expression faded. “Our hosts? You are acquainted with Mrs. Cummings—or rather, she is acquainted with you?”
“Of course. Like you, I am her guest in the company of my mother, Lady Dunmore. What did you think—”
“You are a guest here?”
Olivia frowned. Something was more than strange about this conversation. “I said that I was. Why else would I be here—”
“What were you doing wandering around before dawn?” he interrupted her, his tone hard and accusing.
“I could not sleep, not that it is any concern of yours. Why were you up? No. No, you needn’t answer. ’Tis clear enough why you were up: to make a drunken fool of yourself.”
It was a sharp set-down—deserved, to be sure. Nonetheless, Olivia was not accustomed to flinging insults at anyone. She’d never had the need. But this Mr. Hawke—Lord Hawke—seemed hardly to hear her curt remark.
“Bloody hell,” he swore under his breath.“You are a lady.”
“What else did you think?” She stared harder at him, then suddenly let out a sarcastic laugh. “Oh yes, you thought I was a servant, didn’t you? You thought I was a servant and therefore amenable to the attentions of a peer, no matter how repugnant those attentions might be. You were hoping to compromise an innocent housemaid.” She laughed at his discomfiture, though with little true mirth.
A muscle began to tick in his jaw. It was plain she’d figured him out, and plain also that he did not relish being made a fool of. Served him right, the cad.
“Actually,” he said, his eyes dark and piercing upon her. “What I thought was that you were Cummings’s paramour, come fresh from his bed.”
Olivia gasped. “What?”
“Then I read your journal,” he continued, scowling at her as if she had somehow done him wrong. “Endless entries and every one of them concerning a different man. Their habits, good and bad. Their financial situations. If you are as proper as this morning you profess to be, then what do all those entries signify?”
“You read my private journal!” Olivia had been angry before but that puny emotion paled beside the full-blown rage that gripped her now. “You read my journal. How dare you!”
“I read it,” he admitted, clearly unrepentant. “And what I read casts grave suspicion on its writer’s activities—” The crack of her hand across his face stopped him cold.
In the aftermath they glared at one another. A part of Olivia was horrified by what she’d just done. But she was more horrified by what he’d done—and what he’d implied. The list of his crimes was unforgivable. Were she a man she would call him out. By contrast, a slap was little enough punishment.
She drew herself up—she was trembling with emotion—and extended her hand palm up. “I’ll have my journal back. Now,” she added through gritted teeth.
She wasn’t sure what to expect of so graceless a creature and so was hugely relieved when he reached inside his coat and pulled out the volume in dispute. But when she reached for it, he raised it just beyond her grasp.
“I am taking you at your word, Miss Byrde, that you are indeed a guest of the Cummingses.”
“You have the gall to doubt it? Give me my book.”
“On one condition.”
“And what is that? God help you if it is anything vulgar.”
“God help me?” He chuckled. “A true lady would be concerned more about her reputation than mine.”
“Believe me, your reputation matters naught to me.”
“But it does matter to me,” he stated, serious once more. “You may have your book on the condition that this incident—this misunderstanding, shall we say—remains strictly between us.”
“Why, you disgusting—”
“I have business to pursue with Cummings and his guests, and I would prefer this incident not impede it. I apologize for my mistake,” he added. “And for any insult I may have cast upon you.”
Olivia shut her open mouth with a snap. Finally, an apology. She stared at him. She supposed a true lady would accept it with chilly grace, then make her exit with her head high and her moral victory firmly in place. But Olivia was still furious. After all his insults she was supposed to let him off on the strength of that brief apology? She wanted him to beg. She wanted to see him grovel.
“Give me my journal.”
“What of my condition?” One of his brows quirked upward. He appeared far less apologetic than before. She could swear he was more amused by the incident than concerned for his reputation, no matter what he said. Still, what she wanted was her journal. Having him plead for her forgiveness was something she instinctively knew this man would never do.
At least it had not fallen into the hands of someone familiar with the London scene. She’d neither seen nor heard of a Lord Hawke during the past three seasons. If he was unfamiliar with London society, he would not be able to figure out the identities of the various men referred to. That would be humiliating in the extreme.
“Regarding your condition, I assure you,” she said in her coldest, haughtiest tone, “that I will not relish speaking of this unpleasant encounter with anyone of my acquaintance.”
“Not even
your mother?”
“Especially not her,” she retorted, then wished at once she’d not been so forthright, for his other brow arched in interest. “If you will please hand it over,” she demanded, forestalling any further inquiries from him.
With an insolent shrug of his wide shoulders he did so. But Olivia’s relief upon reclaiming her journal was tempered by one unsettling fact. During the transfer his fingers met with hers. It was only for the merest part of a second, just a fleeting graze of his fingers along the side of hers. The impact, nevertheless, was stunning.
She averted her eyes and clutched the journal at once to her chest, praying he did not detect the sudden panic that assailed her. But she detected it—racing pulse, damp palms, a giddy turmoil in her stomach. Why had she not worn her gloves?
She turned wordlessly to depart, intent only on escape. But his next words stopped her. “I meant my apology most sincerely, Miss Byrde. I can only beg the ill effects of too much spirits for my appalling behavior last night.”
Olivia looked up at him, somewhat mollified by his words though she did not wish to be. It was safer to be angry with him than to feel these strange stammering emotions that made no sense. She nodded. “Good day, Lord Hawke.”
“One more thing before you go. Something I don’t understand,” he continued. “You have not explained the meaning of those entries in your journal. Why do you write of so many men?”
Anger rushed in to save her. “That is none of your concern.”
“Perhaps not. But I’ve a curious nature and I find myself often beguiled by matters not entirely of my concern.” He was grinning now, a cynical, one-sided smile that made a mockery of his apology.
“Well, that is simply your misfortune.” She stared at him with frosty eyes. “I expect you to honor me with the same discretion you demanded.”
“Of course.” Then he added, “I wish it had been otherwise.” She gave him a smug, utterly false smile. “If you refer to our initial meeting, I’m afraid it’s much too late to undo what has already transpired.”
Rather than chastening him, however, her contemptuous tone seemed to challenge him instead, for those moody blue eyes of his swept over her, head to toe, darkening as they went. “I’m afraid you mistake my meaning. What I wish to be otherwise is you, Miss Byrde. Were you the sort of woman I initially believed,” he continued, “I’d be a far happier fellow than I presently find myself.”
For a moment Olivia did not precisely understand him. Then his meaning—his lewd and insulting meaning—dawned on her, and color flooded her face. To make matters worse, the outrageous rogue had the effrontery to wink at her and grin. “Good day,” he said without the least show of remorse for his unforgivable behavior.
Then he strode nonchalantly away, and Olivia could only gape at him—insulted, appalled, and perversely enough, flattered.
Chapter 5
Neville ran his hands down the filly’s flank. She was ready. He had worried about her, but Otis had assured him that the trip from Woodford Court would only strengthen her leg. He smoothed his palm down her rump and along the muscle she’d injured two months previously. Yes, she was ready.
“All right, Kitti. Let’s show them what you’ve got beneath that pretty little exterior of yours.”
As if she understood, the filly whickered, then butted him with her head. She was as fine an animal as had ever come out of the Woodford stables. Even his father’s mare, Valentine, had not been so perfect as young Kittiwake.
Bart Tillotson, his trainer, leaned over the stall door. “She’ll take the ladies’ race,” he said, then spat into the corner for emphasis.
“But can she race two days afterward against the gents? Can she hold her own against Fleming’s horse or that deep-chested animal of Wagner’s?”
Bart nodded. “If the leg holds tomorrow, she’ll be good when the three-year-olds run.” He came into the stall and knelt beside the leg in question. “She’s a brave one, our Kittiwake.” He patted the horse with true affection. “She won’t back down against those bad boys. She’ll show ’em her pretty rump and lead ’em a merry chase.”
That she would, Neville agreed as he moved on to check Kestrel, the acknowledged star of his stables. But as he crooned a nameless tune to the rambunctious animal and slipped him a dried apple from his pocket, Bart’s words echoed in his head. She won’t back down from those bad boys. She’ll lead’em a merry chase. Only it was not the thoroughbred Kitti he was thinking of. It was the thoroughbred Miss Olivia Byrde.
With just a few discreet inquiries he’d determined that she was precisely who she said she was: the daughter of the widowed Lady Dunmore and the late Cameron Byrde. Of more interest, however, was the fact that her family owned the estate that lay south and across the Tweed River from his own. For years now that land had lain fallow, its fertile fields and grassy valleys unavailable for farming or grazing. The steward there was old and crusty, and had refused Neville’s several offers to lease the land.
He should have made the connection between her and that estate the moment she’d revealed her name, but he hadn’t. Perhaps he’d been too distracted by the woman and his physical reaction to her. But now that he knew who she was he needed to keep that reaction under control.
Neville scratched down the arc of Kestrel’s powerful neck. This was his chance to approach Lady Dunmore about the lease. It would be a great boon toward his efforts to revitalize the district if he could return that land to good use. First, however, he would have to improve Lady Dunmore’s starchy daughter’s opinion of him.
For a moment he let himself recall Olivia’s outraged expression when he’d left her standing in the hall. Even furious, with her eyes shooting daggers at him, she was magnificent. Did she know that he was her Scottish neighbor? he wondered.
Did she know he lusted after her?
He snorted at that. How could she not? He’d made it clear enough. She would be a long time forgetting or forgiving his insulting manner.
Stewing over that, Neville checked Kestrel’s water bucket, then let himself out of the stall. Though he had been crude and boorish in his behavior toward her, he was not entirely to blame for his mistaken assumption about Miss Olivia Byrde. What else was a man to think of a woman possessed of so lush a body, so fiery a temperament, and so husky and compelling a voice? Add to that rich auburn hair, flashing green eyes—no, hazel, he amended, grinning as he recalled her words—and a tendency to wander around in the dark hours before dawn. It was no wonder he’d been mistaken about her.
Then there was that curious journal she valued so highly.
He paused in the stable door and surveyed the yard without really seeing anything. He’d been wondering all morning what those entries meant, and he’d come to the only conclusion left. It was not the men’s values and shortcomings as customers she had noted. Rather, it was their value as husbands. Like every other woman of her age and class, Miss Olivia Byrde was searching for a husband.
He chuckled out loud. What a mercenary little thing she was, weighing the positive and negative aspects of every man she met. How well they danced; their personal habits; their gambling and drinking and devotion to their mothers.
Neville laughed again. He supposed to a young woman those might appear important aspects of a potential husband’s temperament. But there had been thirty-eight entries in her book. He knew because he’d counted them. Did that mean she’d considered and rejected all of them? Or were some of the men still under consideration?
Was she even now entering her opinion about him?
That sobered him at once. For if she wrote anything about him in that book it was certain to be unflattering. What would she say? A drunken boor. A lecherous cad, crude and insulting. And unrepentant.
Though she might conceal the circumstances of their first meeting, as they’d agreed, that did not mean she wouldn’t discourage her mother from entering into a lease agreement with him.
“Damnation,” he swore. Once again he’d let this
unholy thirst of his make a fool of him. Only this time it was no milkmaid or tavern wench he’d revealed his baser nature to. Olivia Byrde was a gentlewoman, a peer’s daughter, and a virgin, protected from men like him. With her striking looks and bold manner she’d no doubt slapped several faces before his.
He rubbed his cheek, remembering her furious expression and the fire in her eyes more than the pain of her blow. He also remembered the lust she’d roused in him, a lust he’d not felt in many a year.
He’d not been celibate since his return from the war. There had been women enough willing to pleasure the young heir to Woodford, and he’d been willing to use them. But that lust had been much like his drinking: he’d take whatever was available to slake his thirst.
What he felt for Olivia Byrde was somehow different. He wanted the same thing from her that he’d wanted from all the others: her pale body naked and eager for his. But he wanted her in particular. Not just any available woman, but her.
A breeze blew warm and fragrant in his face. Perhaps he wanted her because she’d made it clear just how much she disliked him. He’d never before had to work to gain a woman’s interest. Maybe that was the attraction she held, a challenge to be met and overcome. She was a smart, opinionated beauty, the like he’d never known. Yes, she’d roused a mighty lust in him. He felt it still.
He had to keep his wits about him, though. He had to remember his reason for coming to Doncaster in the first place, and that reason was the primary source of his problem. Like him Miss Olivia Byrde was a guest of the Cummingses. It followed that they were bound to be thrown in one another’s paths. If he behaved civilly, he had every reason to hope she would do the same. He’d come to Doncaster to sell horses and run races, and hopefully that purpose would not be subverted.
But he had another purpose now as well. He needed to ingratiate himself with her mother, and to do that he must somehow make amends with the daughter. Though he’d enjoyed the stunned look on her face after his parting words to her this morning, they’d been impulsive—and unwise. That she’d roused his ire with her contemptuous dismissal of him was no excuse. In the future he would have to restrain himself better. That was unfortunate, considering that the last thing he felt toward Miss Olivia Byrde was restraint.
The Matchmaker Page 5