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“My brother is a gentleman, of course, and you know quite well what I mean! Your levity is not at all becoming, Frances.”
Frances wiped her eyes and said in a very thick Scottish brogue, “I think I shall play the pianoforte. Be ye fond of a particular tune?”
She didn’t await an answer, but walked to the pianoforte and seated herself. She played until her arms began to ache. She looked only once to see Beatrice yawning. She launched into a Mozart sonata. When she finally paused, she was startled to hear enthusiastic applause.
She turned on the stool and smiled. “Had I known you had come in, gentlemen, I would have spared your ears.”
“Not at all, Lady Frances,” said Edmund. “You play most delightfully.”
“She does many things most delightfully,” said Hawk.
“Rather a surprise,” said Beatrice. “Your technique is most reasonable, for someone raised in Scotland.”
Hawk wondered if he could muzzle his sister. She was quite on her high horse, her lance targeted at Frances. He no longer had to wonder about the purpose of this visit. Edmund hadn’t said much, but Hawk knew that he was here to encourage the sale of the Desborough stock. It was just a matter of time before he came right out with it. But not, Hawk realized, when the marquess was present. Edmund wasn’t at all stupid; he would realize that the marquess would stick his oar in.
He heard his father suggest that the young folk play four-handed piquet.
“Well, Frances?” Hawk asked, sending her that new intimate smile of his that made sweat break out on her neck. “Shall we take on these two? They are both quite proficient, I warn you.”
“I should like very much to play,” said Frances.
When the marquess kissed her cheek, he whispered, “You are doing splendidly, my dear. I am quite proud of you. Go for Bea’s broadside, she is well-endowed in that area.”
With that very unfatherly observation, the marquess took himself to his bedchamber.
Serious players indeed, Frances thought some minutes later as she sorted her hand. She felt as if she were in a life-and-death match. Her husband was a demanding partner, but she didn’t mind, for she had the suddenly overwhelming urge to win. She concentrated with all her faculties. She played with speed and finesse and when Edmund finally tossed down his last card, he exclaimed, “My dear Bea, I believe we have met our match! You two are killers. Pity you can’t take Frances to White’s, Hawk.”
“And have her destroy all the collective manly pride? I thank you, no, Edmund. I shall keep her and all her talents right here, with me.”
She frowned at him, wondering what was in his mind, what his motives were. Did he mean with those somewhat double-edged words that he wasn’t returning to London?
Tea had come and gone long ago. It was time for bed, but Frances wasn’t at all tired. She felt terribly excited, filled with anticipation. She looked to see her husband studying her intently, and she flushed, wishing she could kiss him and throw her cards in his smug face.
He grinned, a very masculine, satisfied grin, and she decided she would prefer to stuff the playing cards down his throat.
Hawk rose and stretched, yawning elaborately.
“Frances, my dear, are you ready too for your bed?”
“I believe so,” she managed to say with just a slight tremor to her voice.
She wanted him to come to her—she wasn’t about to deny it to herself. She waited patiently for the sound of his footsteps at the adjoining door. He entered some moments later, eyed her from across the room, and smiled.
“Hello,” he said, stuffing his hands into the deep pockets of his dressing gown.
Time to beard the lion in his den, Frances thought. “Hawk,” she said, “what are you doing?”
“Preparing to love my wife until she wraps herself around me and yells and becomes hot and—”
“I mean, what are you up to? You are not behaving as you should.”
“That worries you, my dear?”
“You are so slippery,” she said, frowning at him. “I wish you would stay exactly where you are until I understand.”
“May I sit down at least?”
“I suppose so,” she said grudgingly. She hadn’t intended that he sit on her bed, but he did, of course. He sprawled on his back, his head resting on her thighs.
