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“Damn you, Frances, he even applauded your miserable performance last night!”
“Yes, he did. What did you expect? That he would start laughing, howling, cover his ears with his aristocratic English hands?”
Ruthven was silent a long moment, and Frances didn’t like that, not one bit. Please roar, Papa, she pleaded silently. Instead, Ruthven said finally, “Very well, Frances.”
He turned on his heel and strode away.
What, she wondered, worrying her lower lip, was he up to?
4
Was this the face that launch’d a thousand ships?
—CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE
“Good Lord! Isn’t that your sister?”
Hawk held back the curtain on the carriage window for Viola to look out. He felt her stiffen; then she gave a trilling laugh. “Oh no, that’s not Frances. That’s one of the crofter women.”
He didn’t see the quick glance that passed between the two sisters.
Hawk said nothing, but he did gaze out the window one more time. It was Frances, he thought, not a crofter woman. She looked a rumpled, filthy mess, and those were men’s boots on her feet. The sleeves of the fading gray wool gown were rolled up beyond her elbows, and she was striding—yes, striding about like a damned man. He leaned back, a frown puckering his brow.
“Did you enjoy the Campbells, my lord?” Clare asked.
Hawk wondered at the nervousness in her voice. As for Viola, he could have sworn that she was snickering.
“Yes, of course,” he said, lying fluently. He had been so bored he’d believed death by slow torture would have been preferable, then decided that he’d had the torture.
“We so enjoy visiting witty, charming people,” said Viola. “And London, so many parties to attend! How thrilling it will ... must certainly be.”
Hawk was suddenly blessed with a very clear vision of his future. Either Viola or Clare as his countess, his hostess for an endless series of boring routs and soirees and balls and dinners. Giggling, gossiping, demanding his time, flirting with his friends. Or painting his friends and quoting Lord Byron. Life as he knew it would be over. It would die without a whimper. He wished at that moment that he’d never sold out, that he’d never left Wellington’s command. Dammit, he wanted to be free, and that included freedom from a wife. He wanted his newly found life of the past fourteen months to continue intact. He wanted to continue keeping Amalie, wanted to see the sheen in her eyes when he came inside her, feel her fingers digging into his shoulders as she arched up against him. He remembered vividly Saint Leven’s words to him, said in his slow, lazy drawl: “My boy, you’ve harangued me about this damned oath your father made. A wife won’t be a bad thing, you know.” Then he’d paused, and a wolfish grin had curved his lips. “Incidentally, I’ve always found Amalie very ... endearing. Will you continue to keep her?”
“Yes,” Hawk had said between gritted teeth. “Damn you, Saint Leven, yes I will.” In his fourteen months in London, he’d realized that most gentlemen, married or not, kept mistresses.
But how could he, with a wife dangling on his sleeve in London? He couldn’t, wouldn’t embarrass a wife in that way. Neither little Viola nor well-meaning artistic Clare would understand it, of that he was certain. And he knew as clearly as he could see, that with a wife in London, discretion wouldn’t be enough. There was a pronounced streak of maliciousness in the ladies of the ton. He cursed under his breath.
“Oh yes,” he heard Clare say with great enthusiasm, drawing his thoughts away from a future that chilled him. “So much to see, so very much to do.”
“Indeed,” added Viola. “To meet all your friends, all the famous ladies in London—I cannot wait!”
Hawk wanted to cry and howl at the moon.
Frances was present at afternoon tea. She bore no resemblance at all to the frowsy woman he’d seen from the carriage window. She was neatly dressed, her hair in a severe knot at the back of her neck, and looked so homely that he felt a spurt of pity for her. She said absolutely nothing.
Viola regaled him with spicy gossip, and flirted outrageously.
Clare gave him wistful looks, but thankfully made no more mention of the Elgin Marbles.
Lady Ruthven refilled his teacup until he thought he would float away.
He was on the point of excusing himself when he saw Frances ease out of her chair and walk briskly toward the door.
He had to do it, he had no choice.
“Lady Frances,” he said, rising quickly. “May I have a moment of your time?”
So, Frances, thought, her back still toward him, it was her turn to be interviewed for the post of wife. Well, she had to admit, at least he was fair.
