“The most beautiful woman in the room,” she echoed, flicking her fan open and closed. “I should expect a more original piece of flattery from a rogue such as you. But save your breath,” she added before he could respond. “You are correct about my mother. Sad to say, but it is easier if I dance with you than explain to her why I refuse to do so.”
Haughty as a queen, Olivia reluctantly extended one hand to him. But instead of leading her onto the floor to line up for the cotillion, Lord Hawke simply stood still, holding her gloved hand in his and studying her intently. Though only a moment, it seemed to stretch out forever and it completely unsettled her—she, whom no man ever affected. Just like before, his touch unnerved her and left her positively breathless.
“I wish to apologize again for my boorish behavior,” he said, so softly that no one but she could hear. “And I will continue to apologize to you until I am convinced you have forgiven me.”
Olivia firmly ignored the little knot that tightened in her stomach. “I told you. It is forgotten.”
“Forgotten. But forgiven?”
Thankfully the musicians struck up the call for the dancers and he had to escort her to their position. That provided a little time for Olivia to compose herself. The fact that she needed the time to do so was vexing in the extreme. But between the warm intimacy of his hand and the low intimacy of his voice, she found herself almost dizzy.
She tried to concentrate as the caller explained the figure, but all the time she fumed at the man beside her. He had deliberately picked a cotillion because it was such a lengthy dance and she would have to remain long in his presence. Well, he would not upset her, she vowed. He might think to continue his fun at her expense, but he would not succeed.
“So, Lord Hawke,” she said at the first pause in the dancing. “Are you satisfied with the first day of the horse racing?”
“I am. Tell me, do you have an interest in horses?”
Olivia hesitated. She adored horses and riding, whether a long ramble, a rousing steeplechase, or an impromptu race. However, she did not wish to provide the two of them with any common ground. “I suppose I appreciate them as much as the next person.”
They met and circled. His hand was warm.
“Do you keep your own saddle horse?”
“Yes,” she admitted. “But she is too old for more than a sedate ride these days.”
They bowed and parted and faced one another across the aisle of dancers. Again her stomach knotted and twisted as he studied her. Which was worse? she wondered. When their hands touched, or when they stood apart and he observed her with those dark hooded eyes?
The second change of the dance brought them back together. “Perhaps you might like to try one of my animals,” he offered.
“Perhaps. I’m afraid, however, that my stay here may be too brief to arrange it.”
“How about tomorrow afternoon?” His hand on her waist guided her in the promenade. Though his touch was light, Olivia felt it very clearly.
“I should think you will be occupied in Doncaster with your horses.”
“Won’t you be there also? After all, why else have you come to Doncaster except to see the races?”
“I haven’t consulted with my mother yet, so I cannot say what our plans are for the morrow.” She mentally crossed her fingers at that lie. Where Lord Holdsworth was, her mother would surely be, and Olivia knew that meant the racecourse. “I would like it very much if you were there, Miss Byrde. My filly, Kittiwake, is running. Having you there is bound to bring her luck.”
Olivia rudely rolled her eyes. “Another cliché. I’m sure your Kittiwake will be quite oblivious to my presence.”
He grinned. “You do not consider it more than coincidence that a pretty bird has fallen into the path of a Lord Hawke, who is running Kittiwake and Kestrel in the races? And you, my long-absent neighbor? Clearly it is fate which has cast us together, Miss Byrde.”
Olivia tossed her head. “I acknowledge the play on bird names and the coincidence. But as for fate, no. I will attend the races, and perhaps I shall even wager on your horses. If they are as fast as their master they should outdistance all the rest,” she finished in scathing tones.
He grinned once more, a sinfully handsome grin that sent an unwonted quiver through her. When he spun her in the next figure, his touch was more forceful than before.
“Fast, you say.” He released her as the ladies did their centre moulinet, and her heart was thumping by the time she returned to his side. There was a glimmer of devilment in his eyes, and she felt a perverse surge of anticipation. A scoundrel he might be, rude and dangerous one moment, and nothing but charming the next. But he could never be said to be boring.
“Too fast for the likes of me,” she replied before he could make another leading remark. “I will, however, be certain to wager on your horses.”
Better that you wager on me, Neville thought as he guided the stimulating Olivia Byrde through the cotillion’s next change. It was truly amazing the effect a chance encounter with this woman had wrought in his attitude. Or was it Kitti’s good showing today? Either way, he was actually enjoying himself. He’d not done that in years. He stared at his partner, trying to understand why she affected him so. One thing he knew. Olivia Byrde might disapprove of him, but she did not shy away from confrontation.
He smiled down at her, vitally aware of everything about her. Her eyes sparkled with life; her cheeks were flush with it. And her hair … The rich auburn mass was tamed into a sedate topknot tonight. But two curls framed her face, two warm, springy coils of vibrant color. How he ached to see the full length of her hair released to cascade gloriously over her alabaster skin—
“Ah! Excuse me,” he muttered when he misstepped and nearly trod upon her toe. “Unlike your Lord S., it seems I am out of practice with dancing.” And with wooing. If he were not careful, his wayward thoughts would prove most embarrassing to him. As it was, they certainly astounded him.
They danced the next two changes in silence, though her expressive eyes spoke volumes. She was still angry with him, and wary of his intentions. That was plain. But she had just enough wildness in her nature to be intrigued. It was to that little wildness he instinctively addressed himself.
“Why are you yet unmarried?” he asked after the gentlemen made their centre and circinate.
“What a rude question! Are you also out of practice with the good manners of polite society? Too much time in the stables, I’ll warrant.”
He grinned at her pursed expression, and it occurred to him that she’d drawn more smiles from him in two days than anyone else had in four years. “Perhaps you are too strong-willed to suit the milksops that populate society’s upper crust,” he replied, ignoring her barbs. “Certainly you are beautiful enough to have gone in your first season.”
She gave him a withering look. “If I wished to wed just anyone, I could have done so years ago.”
“Years ago. Oho, she speaks as if she were an ancient. Years ago. You could be a grandmother by now, I suppose.”
That drew a tiny smile from her, one that left Neville wanting to see more. “You are an unrepentant rogue,” she said.
His hand tightened against her waist, slender without the aid of heavy undergarments, and it was with regret he released her for the final figure. “Is that what you wrote of me in that little volume you keep? That I am an unrepentant rogue?”
Her eyes flashed, green and gold in the lamplight. “You assume quite a lot, my lord. What makes you think I bother to write of you at all?”
They came together with arms crossed and hands held. “Because I understand you, Olivia,” he whispered. “You are not a woman to do things by halves. No doubt you have already scribbled a page full of invective directed at me. My hope is that this night, as you sit in your dressing gown with your hair loose about your shoulders, you will write kinder words about me.”
Then they parted, each to their respective position, and made their proper curtsey and bo
w. The music ended with a triple crescendo and the dance was done. There was nothing left but for him to return her to her friends or her mother. But damn, he did not want to do so. He wanted to dance her out that open ballroom door and sweep her into his arms—
He bowed stiffly again, aware of the pooling warmth in his loins. Surely he could control himself better than this! “I hope you will afford me another dance before the evening is done, Miss Byrde.”
She stared up at him with troubled eyes, beautiful hazel eyes, green and brown with liveliness and worry. “I don’t think that would be wise,” she said, very quietly. Then she turned and fled his presence.
An hour later the supper room opened, and Olivia advanced in to dine on the arm of a Mr. Thompson, eldest son of the Cummingses’ solicitor. If she could have begged off and retired upstairs to her bedchamber with a headache, she would happily have done so. But her mother would have wondered at that—and so would Lord Hawke.
What was wrong with her to be acting like such a ninny? First he frightened her, then he insulted her. Now he charmed her despite her personal knowledge of his untrustworthy ways. He was just like her father.
And she was just like her mother.
That dreadful thought made her stumble.
“Watch yourself, Miss Byrde,” Mr. Thompson said. “The room is so crowded it’s a wonder any of us can make our way through.”
“Thank you,” she murmured. Yet her thoughts remained fixed upon that uneasy revelation. Not that she disapproved of her mother. She loved her very much. But Augusta felt incomplete without a man at her side, and Olivia had always prided herself on being nothing like that. Yet here she was, fascinated by a man—for there was no other way to term it—fascinated by a man sure to bring her nothing but woe.
What a dangerous dilemma to find herself in.
But she was wiser than her mother, she told herself. And she knew enough of Lord Hawke’s true personality to be amply forewarned. His final words to her—far too intimate for their casual acquaintance—was proof enough that he was a well-practiced seducer. In less than twenty-four hours he had shown himself to be a drunkard, a womanizer, and a determined flirt. In short, he was a rake. That he was handsome and charming only made him more dangerous to any young woman of good breeding. She, however, had no reason to fear, for she had only to remember her father and the heartache he had visited on her mother.
Fortunately, she had only four more days to endure Lord Hawke’s proximity.
What of Scotland?
She stared blankly at the heavily laden buffet table. In Scotland they would be neighbors. But she would have her guests—and her brother as protection. She might be forced to see Lord Hawke once or twice, but otherwise she would keep well away from the man. Well away from him, she vowed.
Her appetite restored, she filled her plate and endured the obligatory small talk with the eager Mr. Thompson. Yes, how fortunate that the weather was so fine for the races. No, she did not mean to return right away to London. Yes, the musicians were very good for a country ensemble.
She ate and she nodded and she was immensely relieved when her mother approached. “Darling, are you enjoying yourself? Mr. Thompson,” she continued, turning to favor the young man with her brightest smile, “would you be so good as to fetch me a glass of punch?”
He was no sooner away to his task than Augusta rounded on Olivia. “Well, my dear, I see you are quite enjoying yourself.”
“As, I note, are you. How is dear Archie?” she asked, hoping to divert Augusta from the subject she suspected had drawn her here.
“He is delightful. A true gentleman. We danced twice before he was drawn away by that horse-mad crowd. But speaking of horse-mad,” she said, her eyes shrewd. “Tell me about Lord Hawke. Will he have a favorable review in that little matchmaker of yours?”
Olivia dabbed her mouth with her napkin. “Really, Mother. One dance is hardly sufficient to determine anything about anyone.”
“I don’t know that I agree with that. He and I did not dance, but we did converse and I have already formed a most congenial opinion of the man.”
“That’s because he is a man, and a handsome, charming one at that. But if I considered handsome and charming sufficient attributes to commend a man, I would have wed Edward Marshton my first season out.”
Augusta pursed her lips. “And how terrible would that have been? Oh, never mind all that. The point is, Lord Hawke is more than presentable. For heaven’s sake, he is an avid horseman. I should think that sufficient on its own merit to commend him to you. Plus,” she added, leaning forward, her eyes flashing dramatically. “Plus, he likes you.”
Olivia ignored the ridiculous flutter in her chest. “And I suppose he told you that?”
Augusta flitted her hand impatiently. “No, no. Not in words, of course. But I saw his eyes, Olivia. They followed you when you danced with Mr. Lowell and with that skinny old man, what’s his name.”
“Lord Edgerton,” Olivia automatically supplied.
“Even when he was dancing with Mrs. Gregory his eyes sought you out.”
Olivia frowned. That silly tripping of her heart was not triumph, she told herself. Only a fool would believe a womanizer like him serious on the basis of such flimsy evidence.
“Really, Mother. You prattle like a girl fresh from the schoolroom. Believe me when I say Lord Hawke has no more interest in me than I have in him. He is a good dancer, and he is an interesting conversationalist. Beyond that we have nothing in common.”
Augusta’s face took on a mulish expression. “What of his horses? You know you adore horses. And then there’s the added benefit that your lands run together.” She tilted her head to the side and eyed Olivia closely. “He was very interested when I told him Byrde Manor is not mine but, rather, held in trust for you.”
“I’m sure he was,” Olivia answered through gritted teeth. “I’ll thank you, Mother, not to tout my assets as if I am some mare on the auction block. I am not interested in Lord Hawke, so let it be.”
“But Olivia—”
“Let it be, Mother.”
Olivia spent the remainder of the evening in determined gaiety. She laughed and danced and never allowed herself to be without a partner. Even the obnoxious Lord Hawke could not be so rude as to break in on her when she was partnering another gentleman. Her only bad moment came when he escorted her mother onto the floor for a galop. The audacity of the man!
Augusta was at her best tonight. But then, elegant parties and handsome men always complemented her. As Lord Hawke whirled her around the floor, Olivia conceded that her mother looked much the same age as he did, and he could not be past thirty. Olivia stared over the shoulder of her own dance partner, the portly Sir Minturn, and watched as Augusta laughed at something Lord Hawke said. He smiled down at her and the tiniest spark of jealousy flickered to life in her chest.
Stifling a groan, Olivia tore her gaze away from them. She would not be jealous of her own mother!
Standing among a trio of gentlemen, Lord Holdsworth also watched Augusta and Lord Hawke. Now that was jealousy, Olivia decided when she spied him. Whatever she’d felt had been but a little nick of wounded pride. In truth, she felt much better to have been proven correct about Lord Hawke: he was quite the ladies’ man. But one woman was much the same as another to that sort of man, and it behooved her to remember it.
So she finished the galop, then sat down to a game of whist as the final cotillion was formed up. She did not care whom her mother danced with, nor upon whom Lord Hawke bestowed his dubious charm. She did care that she lost a half-crown at the card tables. But that was better than losing her dignity or her self-esteem, she decided once the final dance ended and the guests began to depart. She could suffer the financial setback far better than the emotional one.
“Good night, darling,” Augusta said to her. “You needn’t wait up for me, for several of us plan to sit down to breakfast in the garden. Penny has several tables arranged with torches all around. Isn’
t it just the perfect ending for such a lovely evening?”
“Will your Archie be there?” Olivia asked, her brows raised.
Augusta smiled. “Yes. And Penny and Mr. Cummings and the Thompsons, both father and son. I’d ask you to join us, but Penny tells me Lord Hawke may be there—though I still cannot understand your disinterest in the man.”
Olivia ignored that remark. “I’m afraid I am far too weary to do anything but seek my pillow,” she said. “And far too weary to fend off your foolish matchmaking schemes,” she added under her breath.
When Olivia turned for the stairs she did not scan the ballroom before she left, searching for a tall man with dark hair and a wickedly seductive grin. Nor did she glance down the hall that led to the library where they’d had their first unpleasant encounter. She only trudged up the stairs, determined to put him out of her mind. She would sink into the mattress and the oblivion of sleep. She would rise late, then attend the afternoon races. Tomorrow evening a fireworks display was scheduled in the town square, weather permitting, to be followed by an open-air dance.
It was really too bad Sarah had declined to come. She would have enjoyed the fireworks immensely.
When Olivia stopped before the door to her room, however, her gaze was arrested by a curious sight: a bit of coral-colored lace tied upon the latch with a small rosette attached to it. Was it from her dress? She bent down to examine her skirt hem and sure enough discovered a torn section along one side.
Why had the maid not laid it upon the dresser?
She untied the lace scrap and started to enter when she heard a footfall behind her.
“It’s yours, isn’t it?”
Olivia spun around, her heart unaccountably in her throat. Lord Hawke stood but three paces away with his legs spread apart and his hands clasped solemnly behind his back. He was unbearably handsome. That was the idiotic thought that surfaced first in her temporarily stupefied brain. Despite that scar, despite the ruffian he hid behind his polished manner tonight, despite everything she knew about him, he remained unbearably handsome. She swallowed hard.
The Matchmaker Page 7