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Hawk went riding. He returned late in the afternoon and closeted himself with his new steward, Marcus Carruthers. An intelligent young man, the son of a vicar, Marcus felt his head reel with all the bits and pieces of gossip he’d heard since the earl’s return to Desborough Hall with his homely little wife.
“Well?” Hawk asked as he seated himself behind the huge mahogany desk in his estate room.
Marcus cleared his throat. Why, he wondered silently, was this man, younger than he, so intimidating? Marcus took his time gathering the appropriate papers. “My lord,” he began, “it’s about the stud.”
“What about it?”
“It is not being used. The estate is losing a good deal of money. There are three superb stallions, their bloodlines as grand as the king’s, who are moldering in the fields. Two are thoroughbreds, one is an Arab. Stud fees would be enormous.”
“Speak to Belvis if you wish,” Hawk said, but not caring one way or another.
“Very well, my lord,” Marcus said. He wasn’t up to telling the earl that Belvis, a crusty old man and an excellent trainer and manager, had left the estate some three months before, mumbling to Marcus that there was nothing for him here, not anymore.
Hawk laughed suddenly, very harshly.
“My lord?”
“Nothing, Carruthers. If we wish to treat our stallions as trollops, and charge for their services, who am I to quibble? Any worthy lightskirt, or mare in this case, would do the same thing.”
Marcus had nothing to say to that observation. Their meeting continued for another hour, and by the end of it, Marcus was ready to pound his lordship into a desk drawer. The man was infuriating, and utterly uninterested in the running of his own estate. No, Marcus amended to himself, it wasn’t lack of interest exactly, it was a barely suppressed abstraction. His lordship was miles away in the middle of more pressing problems.
“It is teatime,” Hawk said finally, rising. “I will have the dubious honor of sharing this precious time with my ... family. I will see you sometime tomorrow, Carruthers.”
Marcus shook his head as the earl strode from the estate room.
Hawk found his father and Frances seated comfortably in a cozy room called the Double Cube. He’d never understood the genesis of that particular name, and although he was interested, he didn’t feel this was precisely the right time to seek enlightenment.
Frances looked her usual self, perhaps even more so, for when she looked up at his entrance, she paled to the color of the white walls.
“Good afternoon,” Hawk said, nodding to the two of them. He walked to the ornately carved fireplace and leaned his shoulder against the mantelpiece.
“Tea, my lord?”
“Philip,” he corrected loudly.
“With or without milk?”
“Hawk likes his tea strong and plain, Frances,” the marquess said. “Doubtless because there weren’t enough goats to milk in Portugal.”
“Exactly, sir,” Hawk said, giving his father an ironic nod.
“I was just speaking to Frances of bridal visits. Your neighbors will want to meet her, of course.”
The horrified look on her husband’s face was enough to make Frances thrust up her chin and declare, “I should enjoy meeting everyone, my lord.”
“Not,” Hawk said very slowly and very precisely, “until you do something with yourself, Frances.”
Frances gave him a long, squinting look, rose, and walked out of the room, her back ramrod straight.
“She’s still wearing that same ghastly rag,” Hawk said to no one in particular. “Twenty years out-of-date if it’s a day. And that cap—it should have been burned before it was sewn.”
The marquess wanted to plant his beloved son a facer. Stupid half-wit! Stubborn idiot! He’d tried to speak with Frances before Hawk’s belated arrival, but hadn’t gained much ground. In fact, he hadn’t gained anything. He hadn’t known what to say to her.
“What do you plan to do, Hawk?” he asked finally, waving a cup of tea toward his son.
Hawk walked to his father, took the tea, and downed it in one gulp. “Do, Father? Why, I plan to get my wife pregnant as quickly as possible.”
“And then?”
