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Frances forced a bright smile to her lips and said, “I suppose that I have a good deal of work to do. Since we will be traveling to Newmarket in August, I must find the papers on Flying Davie and Clancy’s Pride.”
“Tamerlane will probably also be an excellent contender,” Belvis said. “I believe his former lordship kept such things in the estate room. Mr. Carruthers should know.”
Frances stopped at the eastern paddock and watched Tully take Flying Davie through his paces. The thoroughberd had beautiful strong shoulders, long legs, a deep, powerful chest. And he had the will to win. He was sleek now, even in a canter, his desire to break free apparent in the tossing of his head, his impatient snorts. She loved to stroke the vivid white star in the center of his forehead. His coloring was unique and she imagined that Davie knew it. He was a winner, and magnificent, and he was ready for the racing world to admire him. “You will get your chance,” she said softly toward him.
Tully looked up and waved at her. She raised her hand, then turned and walked back to the house.
She spent the afternoon searching through boxed papers for the racers’ pedigrees. She was dusty and tired by the time she had found them. Hawk hadn’t yet returned and it was near to dinnertime, but she returned to the stables to show Belvis what she had found.
“You are reverted to your mouse facade, my dear Frances?” the marquess asked, observing his daughter-in-law’s quiet, thoughtful face. He rather missed the feroucious badinage between his son and her. Marcus, as was his current wont, was dining again with the Melchers at the vicarage.
She smiled at that, and shook her head. “No, ‘tis just that I have much on my mind. Would you care for some more braised ham, my lord?”
“No, I’ve quite stuffed myself on the calf’s liver,” said the marquess. “I wonder what the devil Hawk is doing in York. Gambling away his fortune, do you think?”
“Don’t be silly,” said Frances sharply, then flushed at her rudeness. “I apologize, sir. But you know as well as I that Hawk would never be so foolish. He ... ”
“He what, my dear?”
“He is a lot of things, but he isn’t a wastrel.”
“You know my son so well, Frances?”
She stared a moment at her brussels sprouts. Nasty things, she thought vaguely, resolving to speak to Cook. “No, sir,” she said, “I don’t know him well at all. I fancy that he will leave soon now, back to London I suspect.”
“And the stud and racing stables?”
“I don’t know. He doesn’t confide in me.”
“I know, he merely yells at you, and baits you until you want to pound his head.”
She smiled but her face felt stiff. Oh yes, that is true enough, my girl, but he also makes you wild, makes you forget yourself, makes you want to consume him.
“Why do you believe he will leave soon, Frances?”
“He ... he doesn’t like me.”
“I should say rather that he escaped today because he doesn’t know his own mind. Men are rather easily confused creatures, Frances.”
“Did you yell at your wife, my lord?”
“Rarely. She was much too restrained to do anything that might appear ill-bred. She was a duke’s daughter, you know, and very aware of her own worth.”
“I never wanted to marry,” Frances said. “My experience with men was primarily with my father. I love him dearly, do not mistake me, ‘tis just that he and he alone rules Kilbracken, and poor Sophia is forced to the most subtle underhanded measures to gain her way.”
“I imagine that many women are in that position.”
“Life is very short, sir, for such silly subterfuge.”
“Is your stepmother unhappy, my dear?”
“No, certainly not. She and my father deal well together, actually. Indeed, I believe his rages are a source of pride to her, in an odd sort of way.” She grinned at him suddenly. “Actually, Sophia is most successful in managing my father. He blusters and rants and carries on, and she just says, ‘yes, dear, of course, dear,’ ‘it shall be just as you wish,’ and does as she pleases.”
“She sounds an intelligent woman.”
“Yes, she is, unlike me.”
“Ah,” said the marquess. He saw Otis glide into the dining room, and said quickly, “Shall we adjourn to the drawing room, my dear? You seem quite off your feed this evening.”
