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Well, he would take care of that ... eventually. First, he had to find out from his new daughter-in-law the reason for her elaborate charade.
Then he would deal with hi
s son.
He was not allowed any conversation with Frances that evening, for she sent word through Agnes, who informed Mrs. Jerkins, who very straightly told Otis, who in turn announced to Hawk that “Her ladyship is not feeling well, my lord. She begs to be excused.”
“Just as well,” Hawk said. He could enjoy his dinner without chancing to gaze upon that fright in the middle of a bite.
“Pity,” said the marquess, frowning a bit. “I trust Frances is not sickly?”
“Nary a bit,” Hawk said, then frowned. “Well, she was ill during our journey from Scotland. She mistakenly quacked herself with horse-colic medicine—thought it was laudanum. Lord, what a fracas!”
The marquess appeared thoughtfully silent throughout their very formal dinner, and Hawk, still peeved with his sire, said little to enliven things. No, he was thinking, Frances wasn’t ill, not this time. What she was was a damned coward.
After three snifters of brandy, consumed in splendid solitude in the Smoking Room, Hawk was in a proper way of blaming Frances for all his misfortunes. “I want nothing more than to escape this place,” he said aloud to the empty room. His voice reverberated off the high ceiling. “But I can’t, not until she’s conceived.”
He had to do it and keep doing it. Hawk rose, doused the candles, and made his way to the Eastern Corridor.
He stripped off his clothes in his own bedchamber, shrugged into a velvet dressing gown, and strode purposefully to the connecting door.
If it weren’t for her, everything would be as it should be.
He opened the door and strode in.
The room was in darkness.
“Who is it? Who’s there?”
Hawk heard her sit up in her bed, heard the shrillness in her voice.
“It’s just me,” he said.
“What do you want?” Frances felt her heart begin to pound, felt herself begin to sweat. Not sweat, she thought wildly, perspire. She could picture Adelaide in her mind’s eye, lecturing her in her placid way.
“Just be still, Frances. I’ll be gone in no time at all.”
“No!”
“You certainly cozied up to my father, didn’t you? Did everything he asked of you?”
“My lord—”
“Philip.”
“I want you to leave me alone ... please!” How she hated herself and the damned pleading, nay, begging. “Go away!”
But he was now standing beside her bed, and she could hear his breathing. “Just lie on your back,” he said. “It would help if you pulled up your nightgown.”
Bastard! Cold, unfeeling, selfish oaf!
“No,” she said, and quickly scurried to the far side of the immense bed.
Hawk gritted his teeth, all thoughts of treating her gently fleeing his mind. “This gives me little pleasure, Frances. It must be done. Now, just lie still!”
She sucked in her breath on the helpless sob. “God, I hate you,” she whispered.
He grunted, but she wasn’t certain whether or not it was a grunt to signify he’d heard her and didn’t care, or just an isolated male sound.
