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The marquess pried himself loose of Frances’ clinging arms. “Enough, my girl!” he roared.
He watched Frances fall into a fit of giggles, then turned to meet his son’s eyes. Hawk’s expression was filled with murderous irony.
The marquess frowned at himself. He was bloody tired, having traveled at top speed from Chandos Chase upon word that Hawk wasn’t in London, and that his letter had followed his son northward. “I think,” he said slowly, “that I have made a miscalculation.”
“You, sir,” said Frances, “are an unprincipled old fraud! Now, come along, you must be weary. Your room is ready for you.”
“You expected me, hmmm?”
“Of course,” Frances said, placing her hand on his arm. She whispered in a wicked voice, “Marcus can’t wait to see you, my lord.”
“Frances!”
How very odd, she thought. The marquess’s voice sounded exactly like his son’s.
22
A woman’s strength is in her tongue.
—SEVENTEENTH-CENTURY PROVERB
Frances sat back in her chair and regarded the two silent gentlemen. “I suppose,” she said quite happily, “that the two of you have realized your foolishness.”
“Frances,” Hawk said, sounding close to the end of his tether, “why don’t you rest your mouth for a bit?”
She blinked at him in guileless surprise, “But, my lord, ‘twas you who came galloping into the stables ready to slay me with your false ire.” She chuckled. “The cuckolded husband, a marvelous performance, my lord!”
“Frances, be quiet,” the marquess said.
“Cook prepared your favorite dishes, my lord,” she continued blandly to her father-in-law. “Don’t you care for the mutton cutlets? Ah, and the soubise sauce ... so very tasty, don’t you agree? And the mashed potatoes are so very fluffy, the secret is very fresh cream, you know—”
“Frances,” Hawk said “if you do not cease shooting your barbs into my father’s hide, I will haul you upstairs and bind and gag you.”
The two gentlemen, father and son, were standing together, Frances thought, perhaps for the first time in a good many months. She grinned at them and chewed on a bite of mutton.
“Belvis said that Lord Danvers’ prize mare is here,” the marquess said to his son after a few moments of peaceful silence. “Lady Margaret, a Barb?”
“Yes, indeed,” said Hawk. “Gentleman Dan doubtless believes he’s expired and gone to stallion heaven. Of course, one imagines that mare is in the same exhalted state,” he added, sending Frances a leering look.
The marquess continued after digesting this ironic observation, “Frances wrote to me that Belvis has great hopes for Flying Davie in particular. Says he can take all comers at Newmarket, despite the fact he’s only a four-year-old.”
“Did she now?”
Retrench just a bit, the marquess decided. He helped himself to some dumplings.
“Belvis is letting me assist in Flying Davie’s training,” Frances said.
“I’ve never even seen you ride,” Hawk said.
“I ride astride usually,” Frances said, her chin going up. “It is much safer, as you well know.”
“Yes, I believe I told you that.”
Hawk pictured his wife in her trousers and felt his groin tighten. How, he wondered, would he seduce her this evening? Her passion of the night before did seem to have softened her toward him. It was perplexing. In his experience, when he gave a woman pleasure, she was his. He thought of her astride him and felt a dull flush mount his cheeks. He thought of covering her as a stallion would a mare, and his flush deepened.
“Where is your dear Marcus this evening, my dear?” Hawk asked.
Frances grinned. “I believe he is a bit taken with Cloris Melcher.”
