Rexanne Becnel (10 page)
Authors: The Matchmaker-1
Olivia did not linger to hear Augusta’s response to that. The shocked expression on her mother’s face was sufficient to know she’d made her point. They did not often discuss her father, for Augusta tended to ignore the man’s faults, and that generally caused Olivia to magnify them.
She strode determinedly toward the little market that had sprung up in Doncaster’s town green, determined to avoid Penny, her mother, and the impossible Neville Hawke. Untying her bonnet, she let it fall and dangle at her back—a rather unladylike gesture. But she did not care. At least now her mother would drop the subject of Lord Hawke, for above all things, her mother disliked arguing about Cameron Byrde.
The strings of Olivia’s reticule cut into her wrist as she walked, and it swung in rhythmic thumps against her thigh. It was heavy with the weight of her winnings. She had Lord Hawke with his fast hands and bold ways to thank for her fattened purse, and it galled her to no end.
She would spend it, she decided on the spot. She would spend every last shilling and purchase frivolous things that he could not possibly approve of.
That was stupid, she immediately decided. Frivolity was all he understood. Drinking and loose women and wagering large sums of money on horse races. No, she amended. Better to spend her winnings sensibly, on items that enlightened the mind.
She scanned the festive arc of market stalls and the regular shops beyond them. Ribbons of every hue fluttered, creating a rainbow. The scent of roses and lavender and honeysuckle alerted her to the perfumers’ corner. A young boy shouted the benefits of Dr. Smythe’s Universal Antidote, while a woman exhorted a man to purchase a posy for his sweetheart. There were pastries and fried pies and ale and punch and wine. She spied Irish linens and Scottish wools, and garments beaded in the far-off Orient.
There was every sort of vendor in town for the races and Olivia’s eyes ran restlessly over their booths, seeing everything and rejecting all. Then her gaze landed on a table laden with books and she headed straightaway for it. Her ten pounds in winnings could purchase more books than she could ever carry. Perfect.
By the time Olivia had made her purchases the sun had begun its descent to the horizon, the next two races had been
run, and the bookseller was giddy with delight. “I’ll send a boy with your purchases directly, miss.”
run, and the bookseller was giddy with delight. “I’ll send a boy with your purchases directly, miss.”
“I’m staying with the Cummingses,” she said. She’d spent eight pounds ten, and she held out her hand for the change.
When he glanced at her torn glove he bobbed his head. “Begging your pardon, miss, but my wife’s brother has a leather goods stall around t’other side.”
Olivia folded her fingers in a fist around the tear, for it reminded her of her flight from Lord Hawke and their kiss. She pressed her lips together and trembled at the disturbing memory. She did not want to remember that, or anything else having to do with that man. Unfortunately, everything seemed to remind her of him.
“Thank you,” she said, as she turned away from the bookseller. She sighed, then bolstered her spirits with spite. Perhaps she should purchase something for Lord Hawke to remember her by—the one woman who was not taken in by his dashing manner. She allowed herself to indulge in that fantasy. A gift that would transmit her utter disdain to him. What could it be?
A bottle of cheap wine.
She grimaced. Though that was perfect, it would only make her look as low as him. Better to ignore him, she decided, and to brace herself for his ill behavior tonight. Despite her warning that she would not dance with him again, she did not put it past him to try to force the issue.
The change jingled in Olivia’s reticule as she returned to the pavilion, irritating her. She would give it to the poor box in the village church, she decided. Then she spied a fine gray gelding being led by its trainer and she had a better idea. She would bet it on Lord Hawke’s opponents and deposit all those winnings in the poor box.
And if the blasted man did not lose?
Olivia opened her hand and stared at the torn palm of her glove. He could not win every race. His horses could not all be that fast.
Kittiwake was, though. Olivia climbed the three steps up into the raised pavilion. That filly was as fine an animal as she’d ever seen. There was no way she could lay a wager
against Kitti. In truth, she wouldn’t mind owning the spirited animal herself.
against Kitti. In truth, she wouldn’t mind owning the spirited animal herself.
But that was out of the question. She would no more do business with Neville Hawke than she would dance with him again.
Or kiss him.
NEVILLE groomed Kestrel with a vengeance, paying close attention to the big animal’s mane and tail, until the horse snorted and stamped in impatience.
“Easy, lad,” Neville murmured, then shifted just before the horse struck out with its near back leg. “Easy, lad. I’m going. I’m going.”
“He’s more than ready to run,” Bart commented, leaning over the stall wall and hanging a bucket of oats on a recessed hook.
“Tomorrow he’ll have his chance.” Neville slipped out of the stall, then hooked his arms over the gate and stood as Bart did, staring at the magnificent stallion.
“How are you managing?” Bart asked after a while.
“Well enough. And you?”
“Never better, though I’ll be pleased to return home.”
“You miss Maisie?” Bart was ten years married to Woodford’s cook.
“Aye. And the little ones.” When Neville did not say anything, Bart cleared his throat. “Have you never thought of marrying, milord?” He ducked his head when Neville shot him a sharp look.
“I’ve thought about it.”
Another long silence ensued and Bart shifted. He was nervous, Neville realized. As well he should be. While their relationship was much closer than lord and hired man, there were some boundaries they’d never crossed. But today for some reason the man seemed determined to push those boundaries and broach the subject of marriage.
“Meself, I’ve never been so content,” the horse trainer forged on. “What with a woman welcoming me home with a good meal, and the children all eager for their father’s attention.” He spat into the straw. “That kind of homecoming, well, it makes even a poor man feel like a king.”
Neville turned and faced his trainer. “Out with it, Bart. What bush are you beating around?”
Bart stared at him without blinking. “If you wed, you might be able to sleep in the night. If you had a woman to lose yourself in—a good woman, not merely a convenient one—you might sate yourself with her instead of whisky. You might find peace that way, lad.”
Neville had stiffened at the first mention of his night miseries. The reference to his drinking only riled him more. But this was Bart, a good and loyal employee. With an effort Neville tempered his response. “Your concern is noted.”
When he turned to leave, however, Bart continued. “It’s not only me as is concerned.”
Slowly Neville pivoted, his jaw clenched. “Am I to understand that my personal habits are discussed among the people I employ at Woodford?”
Neville had faced down many a man with just such a dark glare and dangerously soft words. But Bart did not back down. His face blanched and his throat convulsed in a swallow, but he did not back down. “Your habits, as you say, are sometimes discussed by those who work for you—but only by those who care for you beyond their quarter day wages.”
Simple words, and Neville could not in good faith doubt their sincerity. He exhaled slowly and rubbed the back of his neck. He would not be angry at the man’s well-meant interference. “I thank you for your concern, Bart. But I’m not sure a woman is the answer to my problems.”
“What of Miss Byrde, her being your neighbor after a fashion?”
Neville shook his head in amazement. “Have you been spying on me?”
Bart smiled faintly. “A blind man could see the attraction between the two of you. And I ain’t blind.”
Again Neville rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t think she holds a charitable opinion about me.”
“You didn’t insult the girl, did you? She’s a lady—”
“She can take care of herself.”
Bart’s gaze narrowed. “If you want a woman to like you, you can’t begin by treatin’ her like some casual bit of—”
“I’m not looking for a wife!”
“Well, you should be.”
“That’s enough, damn you!” Neville caught a shuddering breath. “That’s enough on that subject.” They faced one another across the shadowed center aisle of the Cummingses’ ancient stable. “Tend to the horses. I’ve other matters to occupy my mind.”
When Bart did not answer back, Neville gave a curt nod and strode away. But the horse trainer seemed determined to have the last word. For when Neville reached the archway that led to the paddock he heard the man call out.
“Waltz with her. They act scandalized but all the women love waltzing. Waltz her, lad.”
Neville fortified himself with a glass of brandy, but just one. He’d made a point to limit his drinking after his first night at Doncaster. Ever since his earlier conversation with Bart, however, he’d been consumed with a restless sort of energy. The sun neared the horizon. Already the common folk drifted toward the town square where the public dance was to be held. It was rare, a dance attended by peer and drudge alike. Silks would mingle with fustian. Embroidered slippers would dance to the same music as freshly cleaned work boots.
Had the queenly Miss Byrde ever joined in so lusty a celebration as this annual dance was purported to be? Though there was more than one area designated for dancing, and like tended to gather with like, Cummings had made it clear to his male guests that this was a rougher sort of dance than the ladies would be accustomed to. But that was its appeal, it seemed, and it was always well attended. It fell to the men of their party to ensure that no woman was ever left alone.
Neville combed his hair and retied his stock. He would
make certain that Miss Byrde was adequately chaperoned. Let her fume and stamp her foot and flash her amber-green eyes at him. He would not care. In fact, he anticipated the release of her temper with great eagerness. There was a mighty passion held in check beneath her properly sophisticated demeanor, and he seemed driven to see it released.
make certain that Miss Byrde was adequately chaperoned. Let her fume and stamp her foot and flash her amber-green eyes at him. He would not care. In fact, he anticipated the release of her temper with great eagerness. There was a mighty passion held in check beneath her properly sophisticated demeanor, and he seemed driven to see it released.
He paused and bent to stare at himself in the looking glass. Why was he doing this? Why had he fixed his attentions on her, when no other woman had compelled him this way since he was a green lad? It was more than the land lease, otherwise he would never have acted so recklessly toward her. If all he wanted was the lease of her properties, he would not have left that note in her journal, nor would he have kissed her so thoroughly by the stream.
Just to remember that kiss and her artless response to it caused his blood to warm.
No. It was not merely the lease. He wanted the woman too, fool that he was. And she wanted him. Bart had said a blind man could see the attraction between him and Olivia.
He pondered that a moment, then allowed himself to consider the rest of what Bart had said: that a wife might ease his nightmares; that a woman in his bed each night might give him the relief he sought. The distraction. The satisfaction.
Neville stared at himself, seeing the face so like his father’s —and the scar on his jaw, a constant reminder of that fateful night in Ligny. He turned away and spying his tumbler, lifted it once more.
If he were a gentleman he would stay away from Miss Olivia Byrde. Then he laughed. If he were a true gentleman, there would be no reason to stay away. He would be perfectly acceptable to her and her mother.
But he was no gentleman. Once he might have been, but he was that man no longer. And he was not in the market for a wife.
He finished the brandy slowly, savoring its heat and bite, and anticipating the easing of his tension that would shortly follow.
He set the tumbler down. Bart had overstepped his bounds
this afternoon, but he’d been right about one thing. Women loved the waltz. He’d learned the dance in France, and though he’d not danced it recently, as with last night’s cotillion, the steps would come back to him.
this afternoon, but he’d been right about one thing. Women loved the waltz. He’d learned the dance in France, and though he’d not danced it recently, as with last night’s cotillion, the steps would come back to him.
He would waltz with Olivia tonight, he vowed, bolstered by the brandy that surged through his bloodstream. She would avoid him, he would pursue her, but in the end she would be in his arms, sweet and yielding, as she’d been today beside the stream. Just the thought roused an unseemly lust in him.
But they would not end up in bed together, he reminded himself. That was out of the question. She was, after all, a lady. Unfortunately. Added to that, ruining her would ruin any hope he had of leasing her fallow fields and pastures.
Still, if he could tempt her, just a little, he would consider the night a success. He would expose her passions to her so that she would have to admit their existence. She might tell herself now that she despised him, but soon enough she would have to admit to her desire.
Even Bart knew that.
“You are coming, and that is my final word on the subject,” Augusta declared. “You have no call to slight the Cummingses that way when they have been nothing but hospitable.”
Olivia glared at her mother, hating that she was right.
“Besides,” Augusta went on. “Penny tells me this public dance verges on the scandalous, what with it being open to everyone in the entire countryside. I should think it quite your cup of tea.”
This time Olivia turned away. Again her mother was right. She would be quite ecstatic over this evening’s entertainment if it were not for Lord Neville Hawke. And the worst of it was, that though she would be mortified to face him again, a part of her—the wickedest part of her—wanted to see him.
She pressed her fingers against her eyes, willing herself to a calm she’d been unable to attain all evening, ever since he’d kissed her.
Why on earth had she followed him to that private spot beside the river? Why had she let herself be alone with him,
knowing the perverse attraction she felt for the man?
knowing the perverse attraction she felt for the man?
Because she’d thought reason well able to combat the primitive passion he roused in her.
She let out a sigh. She was not a stupid woman, nor a frivolous one, so there was no excuse for such infantile behavior. Goodness, she’d had three seasons. If nothing else, she’d learned how to handle unwelcome suitors. Not that he was acting remotely like a suitor. Rather, he was behaving like a boor. A wretch. One of those vile men with no good intentions, only bad ones.
But he was so very good at kissing.
“Olivia! I am speaking to you.”
Olivia shuddered back to reality. Her mother would not give up until Olivia either went along with her plans or else explained precisely why she would not. And even if Olivia did try to explain about Lord Hawke, Augusta would probably advise her to encourage the man. If it was Augusta who kept a notebook on eligible men, she would consider Neville Hawke perfect: handsome and dashing, with both title and property.
Olivia picked up her hairbrush. “I heard you, Mother. I just didn’t like what you said.”
“When have you learned to be so willful toward your mother?”
“I’m sorry.” Olivia sighed again. “You are right. I have no reason to avoid tonight’s festivities. But promise me one thing, Mother. Please? Promise me you will not push any men at me tonight.”
Augusta paused in the act of fastening a bracelet over her glove. She cocked her head and studied her daughter. “If you refer to Lord Hawke, as I think you must, I doubt I need push him at you. He seems interested enough without encouragement from me.” At Olivia’s stubborn expression, her eyes narrowed. “I cannot understand how you can possibly find him unacceptable!”
Olivia could have groaned. She did not want to have this conversation. “As always you jump to conclusions,” she said peevishly. “I was not referring specifically to him. It’s just that
I left London because the marriage mart has become so tedious. I certainly do not wish it to follow me here.”
I left London because the marriage mart has become so tedious. I certainly do not wish it to follow me here.”
Augusta returned her attention to her bracelet. “Very well, then. I will refrain from introducing you to any unmarried gentlemen. Is that what you want? Only you must indulge me by answering one question. Just one. Agreed?”
Olivia gritted her teeth. What a choice. But one question was easier than an evening dodging her mother’s machinations. “Just one.”
“Very well. Here it is.” She lifted her head and fixed Olivia with a wounded gaze. “Do you intend never to wed? Have you set your standards so impossibly high that no man can ever hope to meet them?” She pressed her clasped hands to her chest. “Have I wasted the past three years in futile hope? For I assure you, I do not wish to waste another three.”
That was hardly what she had expected, and for a moment Olivia was nonplussed. “That’s more than one question,” she replied in lieu of answering.
“Perhaps, but they are essentially the same. Tell me the truth, Olivia, for I grow weary of this game you play.”
Olivia bowed her head. How to answer? “Yes. I do wish to marry someday. But when I wed it will be to a man I love.”
Augusta drew back. “That sounds like an accusation. Do you think I did not marry for love?”
Olivia could have groaned. As usual her mother turned everything around to focus upon herself. “That’s not what I meant, Mother.”
Augusta sniffed. “Yes. Well, you should nevertheless know that I loved all my husbands, though perhaps each of them in a different way.” She stared into the distance. “George was much older, but he was a dear and very good to me. Your father, well, he was wild. I’ll admit that. But I loved him passionately. As for Humphrey, surely you cannot doubt my love for him.”
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