Hawk! However did he come by that nickname? Frances wondered.
Clare brought out several of her paintings.
They were quite good, and Hawk found he could praise her without deception. There was a charming rendition of Viola that must have been done recently. The girl was laughing, her lap filled with colorful flowers. There was no portrait of Frances, he realized, but added to himself that likely the oils would curdle if used for painting her.
Viola amused him with a practiced series of local jests.
Hawk laughed. The chit had wit and was droll.
“Play for us now, Frances,” Ruthven said, his voice so stern that Hawk stared at him. He watched Frances walk to the pianoforte, her head lowered, and seat herself on the stool. She hunched her shoulders forward and he could see her shoulder blades. A most unappetizing female, he thought, then scolded himself. He had to be fair. In the next moment, he had stiffened. Her voice was as wooden as the piano stool, and when it reached for several high notes, he fancied that any glasses present would shatter. She missed many notes.
Ruthven glared at his daughter. He would thrash her, he thought. He met his wife’s baleful eye and nodded toward her.
When Frances finished, Hawk dutifully applauded. There was no applause from either Ruthven or Sophia. He heard Viola giggle. Clare was looking at her sister in the oddest way. No one requested an encore.
Hawk rose, and said in an expressionless voice, “Thank you, Lady Frances. Ma‘am,” he continued to Sophia, “I thank you for a charming evening, and an excellent dinner. I fear I am rather fatigued from my long journey. I bid all of you good night.”
Escape. He mopped his brow as he strode up the stairs and down the drafty corridor toward his bedchamber.
Grunyon was waiting for him, his round face alight with curiosity.
“An enjoyable evening, my lord?”
“God-awful,” said Hawk, and walked to the narrow windows. He pulled back the brocade drapery and stared out. What bit of moon there was didn’t lighten the black landscape.
He closed his eyes a moment. “I feel like a piece of meat on display at the butcher’s shop. Worse than that, I am to charm my butcher!”
“I should say that the young ladies must feel the same way.”
“Bosh,” said Hawk, turning around. “Oh hell, ignore me, Grunyon.” He raked his fingers through his thick hair.
“Two of them, I noted, are really quite lovely, and they speak English.”
“Oh yes, indeed they do. They would likely fit quite well into London society.” Hawk paused the moment the words were out of his mouth. He stared thoughtfully at Grunyon, but said no more.
Frances pretended sleep, but it didn’t work. Viola lit the candles on her dressing table, then carried the branch to the bed and set it on the small night table.
“Come on, Frances. I know you’re awake. Ah, here’s Clare.”
Frances gave up and pulled herself to a sitting position as Clare quietly closed the bedchamber door behind her.
“Papa is furious with you, Frances,” said Clare.
“And so is Stepmama. As for Adelaide, she just sits there and smiles.”
Both Viola and Clare arranged themselves on the bed, something they’d done as children, with cups of hot chocolate and Doris’ broonies.
Now everything was different. Frances sighed.
“Why did you do it, Frances?” Viola asked.
Frances didn’t immediately respond, and Viola said thoughtfully, “I don’t understand you. The earl is very handsome—even with those wretched spectacles you could see that.”
Frances drew her thick braid over her shoulder and began pulling it loose out of habit. “Yes,” she said finally, “He is. But that has nothing to do with anything, Viola.”
Clare sat forward, drawing her dressing gown closer about her. “I know you were appalled when Papa told us about the debt of honor and all that. But I thought you would be reasonable about it.”
“I am being reasonable,” Frances said.
Viola continued in mid-thought, “And he’s rich and titled, everything a girl could want in a husband.”
“He wants nothing to do with us, Viola,” Frances said. “He has to offer for one of us. How could you want to marry a man who didn’t love you or even care about you?”
Viola shrugged. “Ian cared about you, yet you didn’t want to marry him.”
Frances shot a look toward Clare and saw her sister stiffen just a bit at Viola’s thoughtless words. Clare had wanted Ian, but the damned man had been blind. Frances was in the mood to believe that Ian had wanted her simply because she would care for all his wretched animals.
“No,” she said finally, “I didn’t want to marry him. There simply has to be something more, something ...” Her voice dropped off, for she didn’t know what that something more was, she simply knew it had to exist, somewhere.
“You’re being a silly romantic,” Clare said. “Goodness, I am the only one who loves poetry, but I realize that marriage has nothing to do with all those high-flown, lovely sentiments.”
“Papa loved our mother,” said Frances.
“Frances, that has nothing to do with us! Now, I don’t mind that you appear like a witch because it will make the earl’s decision easier. He now has to choose only betweeen Clare and me.”
“He’s awfully large and dark,” said Clare, and she shivered.
“If you would stop giggling long enough, Viola,” Frances said, “you would see that he’s also cold and arrogant.”
“He doesn’t like being here, that’s all,” said Viola, shrugging. “But once married, things would be different. Besides, what choice do we have? None, I tell you. I heard Papa telling Sophia that whichever of us the earl picks, he won’t argue, and neither will we. There’s the ten thousand pounds from the earl’s father that will come to Papa upon the marriage.”
“It’s sordid,” said Frances.
“Well,” Viola said, “I for one don’t wish to talk you out of your marvelous disguise. I want to marry a rich man. I want to be somebody. What else can a woman look forward to anyway?”
That was perfectly true, of course, Frances thought, suddenly depressed, but it wasn’t fair. She repeated her thought aloud. “It’s not fair. We should be able to do anything we wish to do.”
Clare shook her head. “I fill my time with my painting and my poetry. Viola enjoys flirting and her stitchery. You, Frances, you fill your time with animals, and swimming, and wandering about the hills. But it’s not enough. A woman must marry, or she becomes less and less every year. She becomes an object of pity, an embarrassment to her family. I agree with you, Frances, it isn’t particularly fair, but there is nothing else.”
“And the Earl of Rothermere is the grandest gentleman available,” said Viola. “I know Papa doesn’t have enough money to send us to Edinburgh, much less to London, to meet many different men.” Viola giggled suddenly and tossed a pillow at Clare. “We shouldn’t try to talk her out of this. Heavens, the poor man would have a very difficult time if he had three equally beautiful daughters to choose from!”
Frances looked closely at each of her sisters. “You, Clare, you would marry the earl gladly if he chose you?”
“Yes, yes, I would. I would even bear the ... other. Titled gentlemen in particular must have an heir.”
“And what else is a woman good for?” Frances said, her eyes darkening to a cold gray.
Viola said in a reminiscing voice, “I kissed Kenard, and I didn’t mind it at all. With all the earl’s experience, I’ll wager he’s even better at it than Kenard. That’s another thing, you two. Gentlemen husbands are taught to be very sensitive to their wives’ feelings about that sort of thing, at least that’s what Adelaide said. They don’t act like animals with their wives.”
“You’re not making sense, Viola,” Frances said. “Do you want the earl to kiss you passionately or do you want him to be a gentleman husband?” Unbidden, Frances saw the earl striding ou
t of the loch, his beautiful body glistening with water. Stop it, you fool!
“I don’t know,” Viola admitted. “He is awfully handsome. And just think of all the fun! Parties, routs, balls! Oh dear, I hope I’m not talking you out of your spectacles, Frances!”
“No, Viola, you’re not.” Frances smacked her fist into a feather pillow beside her. “This is awful, all of it! I wish ...”
Both Viola and Clare looked at her patiently.
Frances drew a deep breath. “I wish I could meet a man I could respect and like ... perhaps fall in love with.”
Clare said in a soft, resigned voice, “But then again, maybe the man you wanted wouldn’t feel the same about you.”
“Oh Clare, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“I know. I also know that if the earl selects Viola, I will still get to go to London. Maybe there, I will find a gentleman who will feel properly.”
There was a soft tap at the door and the daughters swiveled about. Adelaide peeked in, took in the scene, and smiled. “How lovely you look, Frances,” she said. “I can hear the earl pacing. This will prove most interesting. Yes, most interesting. Good night, girls. Come along, Clare.”
Clare dutifully slipped off the bed and followed Adelaide from the bedchamber.
“Well,” said Viola, not bothering to stifle her yawn, “I for one don’t want smudges under my eyes. Let’s go to sleep, Frances. And I’ll thank you not to flail about during the night.”
And like the woman-child she was, Viola was breathing evenly within five minutes of dousing the candles. Frances lay awake staring into the darkness. Something more, she thought. There must be something more.
Ruthven reined in his stallion, Sterling, and pointed toward the southern end of Loch Lomond. “A sight I never tire of,” he said to Hawk. “All the small islands—quite uninhabited, you know. But Frances and I have always enjoyed rowing out to them and tromping about.”
“Frances?”
“Yes,” said Ruthven, “Frances.” He eyed Hawk and saw that the younger man looked quite surprised; then he nodded, and Ruthven realized he was thinking that a homely little thing like Frances would like that sort of thing. He said no more.
“I bathed in the loch before I arrived. It was cold, but most invigorating.”
It was on the tip of Ruthven’s tongue to say that Frances loved to swim in the loch, but he didn’t say it. Lord, what to say to him? What gentleman wanted a hoyden for a wife, and that would certainly add to the impression he’d already given the earl. How to describe his daughter? Warm and loving and pigheaded and honorable, and looks like a hag. “Damn,” said Ruthven.
“Pardon?” said Hawk.
“Nothing, my boy. Ah, here comes Alex on his pony. A shaggy little beast, isn’t it? It’s from the Shetland Islands, you know.”
“Papa! Adelaide told me you’d ridden out with his lordship. Good morning, sir,” Alex added, staring up at the English earl.
“Good morning, Alex,” said Hawk. “Are the ladies up and about yet?” He knew he should use all available time to study Viola and Clare.
“Just Frances,” said Alex. “She went off to help Robert.”
Ruthven lurched forward in his saddle at that bit of information. Surely Frances as an animal healer wouldn’t appeal to an English nobleman. “Enough, Alex,” he said sharply. “Hawk and I are riding back soon. You have lessons, do you not? You mustn’t keep Adelaide waiting.”
Alex carped and complained, but nonetheless, from the set expression on his father’s face, knew it was no use. He click-clicked Dancer about and returned to the castle.
Frances wasn’t at the breakfast table, Ruthven saw immediately, and determined to take a strip off her hide. Damned little fool! He’d give her an ultimatum, he’d ...
“Alexander?”
“What m‘dear?” Ruthven said to his wife.
“Viola and Clare are going to take his lordship visiting this afternoon. The Campbells are visiting the Dugals, you know.”
“Excellent,” said Ruthven without much enthusiasm.
“Yes, indeed,” said Hawk. He’d spoken briefly to Ruthven before they’d entered the castle. He would meet briefly with Clare, alone. It was only fair that he meet with the eldest daughter first.
Some thirty minutes later, Hawk was pacing the drawing room waiting for Clare to appear. A damned interview, he thought. It was humiliating for him and for the ladies. But a wife was an immense responsibility, a lifelong responsibility. That brought another shudder. Something deep within him rebelled, but just as quickly, he saw his father’s pale face, heard that deep, hacking cough. He heard a swish of skirts and turned, planting a smile on his lips.
“Lady Clare,” he said, bowing slightly.
“My lord,” said Clare.
He took her proffered hand in his large one. She is lovely, he thought. He was partial to blond hair and fair-complexioned women, and she was endowed with both. He cleared his throat. “I realize that this situation is a bit difficult for the both of us.”
“I understand, my lord. More so for you, of course.”
“I doubt that sincerely, my lady.”
Clare’s hands fluttered a bit, and she forced down her nervousness. He was so very large. It was disconcerting. “Have you seen the Elgin Marbles, my lord?” she asked abruptly.
“Yes,” Hawk said. He saw that she was leaning forward, her eyes wide with interest. Damned hunks of marble! Who cared? “They came from Greece,” he said inadequately, then proceeded to listen to Clare explain everything about their origins and current condition. At least it passed the next fifteen minutes. He nearly collapsed with dread when she asked his opinion of George Gordon.
“He has become an overnight sensation,” said Hawk of Lord Byron. “The ladies are most enthusiastic about his poetry, I understand.”
“As am I, my lord,” Clare assured him. “Have you read this passage, my lord?”Earth! render back from out thy breast
A remnant of our Spartan dead!
Of the three hundred grant but three,
To make a new Thermopylae!
Hawk didn’t know whether to applaud or bow his head. He was spared doing neither.
“I should like to paint him,” Clare said. “Indeed, my lord, I should like to paint all your family and your friends.”
“It would perhaps be a bit difficult.”
“Why? Shouldn’t we live in London? Shouldn’t we meet everyone?”
He suddenly pictured himself introducing Clare: “This is my wife, she would like to paint you, after Lord Byron of course. You are not family, but you are a friend, or at least an acquaintance. She will sing Lord Byron’s praises to you whilst you sit there not moving a muscle.”
“I am not certain,” he said finally.
Clare continued. “And all the museums! How I should love to meet Mr. Turner!”
“I do not like Mr. Turner’s work,” Hawk said, finally honest.
Clare skittered to a mental halt. “How odd,” she said, “but of course, I am certain you are correct.”
“Why would you think that?” he asked.
“You are a man, my lord, a gentleman of learning.”
“I am more a soldier than a scholar, Clare,” Hawk said.
“Still,” Clare said, softly insistent, “Papa tells us that ladies should always be guided by their menfolk.”
“I wonder,” Hawk mused aloud, “what Sophia has to say to that?”
Clare blushed. Sophia would, of course, pay lip service to that sentiment, but nothing more.
“My stepmother is most wise,” Clare finally managed.
Hawk stared at her. The last thing he wanted was to have a wife. The next-to-last thing was a wife who wanted to be guided by him. That meant dependence and propinquity. Would that mean then that he would be responsible for Clare’s happiness? Would she fall in love with him?
He sent a surreptitious look toward the clock on the mantel. The thirty minutes were blessedly up. One down.
<
br /> “Well, my lord?” Grunyon asked some minutes later in Hawk’s bedchamber.
Hawk sighed. He wanted to say that she would suit him about as well as a six-fingered glove, but he knew he wasn’t being fair. Then again, life had ceased being fair.
“She is lovely and talented. And excessively malleable, I would say.”
“Oh dear,” said Grunyon.
“She told me all about the Elgin Marbles.”
“Gracious, no!”
“Hell and damnation,” said Hawk. “Pour me a glass of something strong, Grunyon, I am due to see Lady Viola in ten minutes.”
Like night and day, Hawk was thinking after five minutes in Viola’s fluttering company.
She was so young and so anxious to please, and she chattered endlessly.
“Please tell me of Almack’s, my lord,” Viola said, her voice a blend of pleading and flirting. “I cannot wait to visit and meet all those marvelous people.”
“It is a boring place,” Hawk said, “and the refreshments are niggardly, to say the least.”
He was not cooperating in the least, Viola thought. “A lady must mind her figure,” she said. “There is dancing, is there not?”
“Oh yes,” said Hawk. Some nasty imp made him add, “I do not like to dance.”
“Even that new German dance I have heard about, my lord? The waltz?”
Hawk felt a stab of guilt at the wistful tone of her voice. He sighed. She was so eager. Lord, he would feel like a rapist taking her to wive. “I enjoy the waltz,” he said finally, “but it is rarely danced in public. The patronesses of Almack’s haven’t approved of it yet, you see.”
Viola beamed at him, and gave him one of her practiced smiles. It worked quite well on Kenard; indeed, it made him blush adorably and stammer.
Hawk arched a dark brow. The little minx was trying her feminine wiles. He wanted to laugh at her budding efforts, but of course he wasn’t completely lost to good breeding. He thought suddenly that within a year, with practice, Viola could flirt with the best of them. It was a chilling thought. “Do you like poetry, Viola?” he asked, clutching at one of Clare’s straws.
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