“I wasn’t aware the rosette had come loose. I must have caught it on something,” she muttered.
“I could have kept it, you know.”
Like a panicked creature’s, Olivia’s heart began madly to pound. “Why should you wish to do that?”
He smiled and rocked a little on his heels. But he did not approach her and she thanked a merciful God for that. “Because it is yours,” he said. “I seem to be making a habit of returning your misplaced possessions. First your entertaining journal and tonight this—”
“I thought we agreed that you would forget about the contents of my journal if I did not mention your drunken misbehavior toward me.” Her hands knotted around the innocent rosette. “Is it your intention to continue to plague my every movement? Good night, Lord Hawke.” She turned to enter her room.
“Now who’s being rude?”
“Did I forget to thank you for this?” She shook the bit of lace at him, knowing she was being far more nasty than circumstances required. But she could not help herself. He seemed to bring out the absolute worst in her. “Thank you for my torn lace. And I’ll thank you also not to linger outside my door where anyone might see you and draw the worst sort of conclusion.”
Then she jerked open the door, slammed it behind her, and locked it with a decisive click.
In the aftermath she stood just inside the room with the blood roaring in her ears and her knees threatening to buckle. That she should feel so only increased her agitation. Why did she allow this ruffian to unsettle her? This ruffian in gentleman’s attire. She blinked and cocked her head warily. Was he still outside her door?
Three ominous footsteps gave her the answer. She fell back from the door, then immediately rushed forward to make certain the lock had caught. Surely he would not force his way into her room. Even he could not be so lost to propriety as that!
His soft knock sounded like the bells of doom.
“Go away,” she ordered, finally dredging up the remnants of her courage. “Begone from my door, Lord Hawke. Our earlier agreement does not include your continued poor conduct.”
“It is not my wish to frighten you, Miss Byrde. I am aware that my presence here is not strictly proper.”
“Then go away.”
There was a short silence.
“Would you like to go riding with me tomorrow?”
Olivia shook her head, only belatedly realizing he could not see her. “No. I … I told you, tomorrow is not a good day.”
“Then perhaps the next.”
“I don’t believe that would be wise.”
She heard him shift positions. “Because you will be busy searching for a husband?”
“No! Besides, that’s hardly your concern.”
“What did you write about me in your little book?”
“Nothing at all,” she swore, crossing her fingers. “Why should I?”
He chuckled. “Liar. We both know you’ve written a full page at least of unpleasant observations about my character. Isn’t that so? I’d wager a sovereign that you termed me a poor choice for a husband.”
She felt a twinge of guilt. If he only knew. Still, what she wrote was her affair. “Whatever I might write—if I write anything at all—you would deserve every bit of it. Good night!” She turned away, determined to ignore him. But his soft, persistent knock was more demanding than if he threatened to beat down the door.
“Go away before someone comes along and my reputation is destroyed.”
“Do you play chess?”
Olivia stared at the door. She could picture him so clearly standing there. Too clearly. She frowned. “Yes. But not with untrustworthy men such as you.”
“Untrustworthy? I never cheat, Olivia. Not at anything. You can trust me.”
“Do not call me that. I’ve not given you leave to address me so familiarly. Go away!”
“Very well. But should you have a change of heart, I will be in the library with the chessboard at the ready. I think we shall make the best sort of opponents. Hazel,” he added.
Taken aback by his use of that name for her, Olivia was slow to reply. “You mean the worst sort.” But there was no answer this time, and after several long moments, she leaned cautiously nearer and placed her ear against the door.
He was gone. Thank God for that. But still she stood there tensed and waiting. Her hand crept to the key. Did she dare unlock the door and check the hall?
No, she decided, turning away from temptation. Determined to drive the aggravating Lord Hawke out of her mind, she swiftly disrobed. Once she had donned her nightgown she clambered into the high bed with her hairbrush, her journal, and her novel. She wanted to reread the page she’d started about Lord Hawke and consider what else she might add. Then she would settle in with Emma and immerse herself in that young woman’s entanglements and thereby forget her own.
But when Olivia opened the journal, a folded piece of foolscap fell out. Puzzled, she set the book aside and opened the note. Where had it come from? She was certain she’d not inserted anything in her journal.
Her heart plummeted when she spied the slashing, masculine script.
My dear Hazel,
I cannot like the words you have written about me. They are, however, your opinions, based upon your initial impressions of me, and therefore not to be disputed. That I have behaved badly I cannot argue. That my behavior continues to be outrageous, I will also not deny. But in you I detect a boldness that is intrigued by the outrageous, though you may deny it. I can only hope that time will improve your opinion of me.
Until tomorrow, N. H.
Olivia stared at the small white square in her hand, completely dumbfounded. That, he would write so boldly to her was outrageous. That he’d invaded her private chamber, and slipped the missive within the pages of her private journal—and on the very page where she’d written of him—why, that was beyond belief!
She threw the note and the journal to the foot of the bed and snatched up her brush. With a ferocity that should have been painful, she thrust the brush through her hair, fuming with every stroke. She would have to do something, she decided. Something that would stop him in his tracks. She would tell her mother and consult with Penny Cummings.
No. She scratched that notion at once. Penny Cummings would find such goings-on much too juicy to keep to herself. Plus, the woman would never be able to hold her tongue about the existence of Olivia’s little book.
She threw down the brush and snatched up the note once more. As she reread it, her outrage hardened to resolve. Lord Hawke had insulted her and he had invaded her privacy. He continued to provoke her and, furthermore, showed no signs of ending his unwanted attentions. Hadn’t he just invited her to play chess in the library? As if an unmarried woman could safely spend time alone with such a rogue in the middle of the night. But if he thought he could best her, he was sadly mistaken.
She crumpled the note in one fist, then lay back on the big bed and pulled the yellow counterpane up to her chin. Her mind churned. He was not the only one who could be annoying and he was not the only one who could play this game. It remained only for her to discover his weakness and exploit it. No doubt he had more than one, but she could start with the one she’d already had experience with. He had been careful not to drink very heavily tonight, but tomorrow …
Tomorrow, if she could restrain her temper, she would ply him with drink. He’d already admitted how important his business was with Mr. Cummings and the other guests. If he drank too much and made a fool of himself, Mr. Cummings would have to reprimand him and perhaps he’d send him packing. Fitting justice, Olivia decided. He would be exposed for the ruffian he truly was, and denied access to the society he sought.
And he would be sorry for the day he first crossed paths with Olivia Byrde.
Chapter 7
“I won! I won!” Augusta jumped up and down, for once forgetting her dignity. She grabbed Lord Holdsworth by the arm. “I won!”
He threw an arm around her wi
th equal enthusiasm, for he, too, had wagered on the filly, Kittiwake. Beside them Penny Cummings and Mr. Garret joined in the victory toast. Of their entire party, only Olivia did not celebrate Lord Hawke’s victory.
Like the others, she’d bet on his handsome filly. By her reckoning, she’d won close to ten pounds, no small sum, and for that she was grateful. But Lord Hawke had won far more than that, and she was not presently of a mind to wish him success.
“Oh, let us go down to the winner’s circle,” Augusta said, and in a moment the others all surged forward. But Olivia hung back.
She’d spent a restless night, tossing and turning and plagued by angry dreams. As before she’d risen early, though after dawn this time. On her way to breakfast she had impulsively peered into the library. She’d not known why. But when she spied the curtains open, the big chair turned to the window, and the chess set sitting at the table beside it, her fury at Lord Hawke had modified to a more confusing emotion.
She did not understand the man at all. Added to that, he seemed never to sleep. Frowning, she searched the crowd for him. She ought to go down and join the others. She was being petulant, yet she could not help it. For all her plotting in the night against the arrogant Lord Neville, following through was another matter altogether.
So she sat alone in the pavilion that Mr. Cummings had erected for the duration of the races, she and the two menservants tending to the small party.
Below she saw the excited filly prance up to the winner’s circle. The jockey grinned and waved, then angled the animal toward Lord Hawke, who enthusiastically clapped the fellow on the back. Even when the throng closed in around them, Olivia could not mistake Neville Hawke. It was not just his height, or his night-dark hair, gleaming in the afternoon sunlight. There was something about him, some presence, some sense of authority and command.
Then she recalled what Sally had said. He had been a military man, a war hero.
She stared harder at him, oblivious to the dust swirling in little eddies, or the constant hum and flow of people around the oval racetrack. Somewhere a dog yapped. A horse whinnied and the smell of stables and fried pies wafted over all. But Olivia focused solely on Neville Hawke.
The man sat up all night. He flaunted all the rules of society. And he did not behave at all like the other war veterans she’d met who were wont to go on and on about their wartime exploits. Not Neville Hawke. Despite his arrogant manners and supreme self-confidence—despite the fact that he was said to be a hero of the battle at Ligny—he did not boast of his war accomplishments. To her knowledge he hadn’t made mention of his military career once since he’d arrived in Doncaster.
No doubt he’d had some horrifying experiences during those years. How could he not have? But some instinct told her there was more to it than that, something specific he did not like to recall. Perhaps she should make some inquiries. It was no more than she would do regarding any new man come on the scene, she told herself. Research for her little matchmaker. Besides, he had no qualms about tormenting her. Why should she hesitate to return the favor?
As she watched the jubilant crush below, she saw her mother make her way to Lord Hawke’s side. He greeted her warmly and the others also, accepting their congratulations. He was quite the center of attention and appeared to play the part most graciously. Then he lifted his head and stared up at the pavilion, directly into Olivia’s eyes.
The impact was stunning, and for a moment Olivia hesitated. She did not really wish to continue this conflict with him. What good could possibly come of it, save to mollify her insulted feelings?
Then he winked at her—winked at her!—and any inclination she had to relent vanished. The unmitigated gall of the man!
And when her mother, following the direction of his gaze, spied Olivia and smiled, Olivia’s resolve became as fixed as that of a bull taunted by a waving red flag. He wanted to torment her? Well, she would teach him the meaning of the word.
So she smiled back and saw the faint arch of his dark brows. Then lifting her betting receipt in salute, she started toward him.
The crowd had begun to thin by the time she reached the jubilant circle around Lord Hawke and Kittiwake. Another race had been called and the betting queues soon would close.
Lord Hawke and Augusta were the only ones who took note of Olivia’s arrival, and it was clear they both were pleased. His eyes glittered with mocking anticipation, her mother’s with gleeful scheming.
“Olivia also bet upon your pretty filly,” Augusta said, lightly tapping Lord Hawke’s sleeve.
“Come, my dear,” Lord Holdsworth said, steering Augusta away. “I’ll show you where we collect our winnings. Remember,” he added to Lord Hawke. “I made the first offer on this animal. I’m holding you to your promise not to sell her to anyone else—nor her first foal.”
“I won’t forget. You have my word as a gentleman.”
It took all Olivia’s will not to glare at him. His word as a gentleman? Hah!
As if he heard her very thoughts he smiled at her. Fortunately for Olivia, her mother interceded.
“Come. Give me your ticket, Olivia, and I’ll collect your winnings for you. You’ll keep her company while we’re gone?” This last she directed to Lord Hawke.
“It will be my pleasure.”
Olivia only gritted her teeth and smiled. She needed to have a heart-to-heart talk with her mother. Meanwhile, however, she must deal with Lord Hawke.
After Augusta and Lord Holdsworth and the others departed, the jockey slid down Kittiwake’s rump and Lord Hawke turned to him.
“It was just like you said, milord. I pushed Dorsey—just sat with Kitti’s nose at his animal’s flank—and he panicked and went too early to the whip. Then in the end our girl came through with that kick of hers—” He broke off, shaking his head and grinning. “She’s better than ever, milord. I could swear she was faster today e’en than yesterday.”
Hawke took out his watch. “A second and a half faster than the trials.” Then he clapped the tiny fellow on the back. “Go ahead and celebrate. Bart’s holding a pint for you. I’ll walk Kitti myself.”
“Are you sure?” The jockey’s eyes slanted toward Olivia.
Lord Hawke grinned. “Miss Byrde is mad for horses, or so her mother tells me.” Then he asked her, “Will you walk Kitti with me?”
His voice sounded sincere, but his eyes, oh, how they mocked her. Olivia, however, was more than up for the challenge. Indeed, sparring with Neville Hawke and prying into his personal life might be the only thing to make the next three days interesting.
“Do not take my mother entirely at her word,” Olivia replied. “For she is wont sometimes to exaggerate. To answer your question, however, yes, I will walk Kittiwake with you.” She turned to the animal and rubbed the white streak of her forelock, amazed that she could sound so calm while her emotions churned. “Kitti is quite a remarkable girl. Will you run her again? I do believe she can best all the three-year-olds, not simply the fillies.”
“Remind me to introduce you to my trainer,” Lord Hawke said as he took the reins from his rider. They turned away from the racecourse. “You and he are in complete agreement on that score.”
“Why then, I’d say he sounds like an enlightened man, not underestimating the value of the female of the species.”
He laughed. “There is no need to be subtle with me, Miss Byrde. I assume you refer to women now, not horses.” That familiar one-sided smile curved his well-formed lips. “Be assured that I never underestimate women.”
“No?” She allowed herself the same sort of smug smile. “And I never underestimate men.”
“That is probably wise.”
“It occurs to me,” she continued, “that were I to know more of you, I might find attributes to cast you in a better light than our brief encounters have yet done. Certainly the past two nights’ unpleasantries do not encourage me to either like you or trust you.”
“But they did intrigue you, didn’t they? ‘Lord H.
Tall and reasonably handsome. Proves the rule that looks can be deceiving,’” he quoted from her journal. When she sent a dagger-sharp glare his way, he laughed. “All right, then. I am encouraged that you wish to know me better.”
Olivia did not respond to that. They had progressed far enough from the racecourse to be relatively alone now. Behind them the horn blew to call the next set of horses. Ahead of them the temporary horse stalls were only partially occupied. Kitti nickered and Olivia instinctively stroked her neck. As much as she mistrusted the man, there was a dark sort of pleasure to be had in this cat-and-mouse game they played. “I hope, Lord Hawke, that you will not lend some coarse interpretation to my simple request.”
“Why not? Will that send you running away? It seems that my coarseness toward you is the only reason you are here now. Have you considered that?” He halted and turned to face her.
“Do not flatter yourself,” she stated with a frankness unusual even for her. “It is merely a measure of my boredom.” She met his bold gaze with a determined boldness of her own. Inside, however, she was quivering. Heavenly day, but he could be incredibly beguiling when he set his mind to it. She had better tread very carefully else he might actually suck her in.
She gave a wave of her hand, and recklessly forged on. “You are more entertaining than some men I have met. Unfortunately, you are also far more irritating.”
“And yet you are here with me.”
“So I am. As I said, I am bored.”
“Then let me entertain you.” That last was said in a husky tone, low and most unsettling.
Olivia snapped open her fan and began briskly to ply it. Oh, but he was beyond the limit! “I hardly know you,” she retorted. “And what little I do know does nothing to encourage a continuation of our acquaintance. You drink too much; you are not above seducing your host’s household staff. You leap to wild conclusions about completely innocent persons, and you do not scruple to hold a person’s private belongings hostage. Oh, and lest I forget,” she added with increasing asperity. “You think it a prank to enter a person’s private chambers and pry among her personal possessions.”
The Matchmaker Page 8