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“Philip.”
“I don’t have a riding habit.”
Hawk paused at that daunting bit of news. Then he said, “Tomorrow evening, Lord and Lady Bourchier are coming to dinner. As I recall, Alicia is about your size. Perhaps she would lend you a riding habit until you can have several made. We will just have to postpone your ride for a day or two. I will go see Alicia and John now and borrow one for you.”
“There are guests coming tomorrow evening? To dinner?”
Hawk frowned at the sound of her set voice. “Why not? They’ve been friends of mine since we were children. I suppose you should meet with Mrs. Jerkins and plan the menu.” He didn’t tell her that this damned dinner hadn’t been his idea. His father had taken the liberty of doing the inviting.
“Yes,” Frances said, coming gracefully to her feet. “Yes, I suppose I should. Another wifely duty.”
“You will come down to dinner this evening, will you not?”
“I haven’t yet decided,” she said over her shoulder.
Hawk watched her stride back towa
rd the house—like a damned man, he thought. Not a feminine bone in that body of hers. But her body was very soft, her skin smooth and sweet-smelling. He clearly remembered the feel of her thighs, their slenderness, their long, graceful shape, and the softness of her between her thighs. He found himself wondering about her breasts. Tonight, he thought, he would satisfy his curiosity on that score.
Frances, knowing she had no choice, dutifully rang for Mrs. Jerkins when she returned to the house.
“Yes, my lady?” came the formidable response.
“Mrs. Jerkins, my husband informs me that we will have two guests for dinner tomorrow evening.”
“Yes, my lady. His lordship—that is, the earl’s father—informed me of the invitation. I have the menu planned. Here it is.”
So, she thought, the marquess had done it. She was surprised that her husband hadn’t pleaded a vile illness to keep his friends from coming. She lowered her eyes to the paper. It was the first time she’d tried to read with her spectacles on. The words blurred. She couldn’t make them out. She shot Mrs. Jerkins a look, but knew it would be odd in the extreme to that intimidating woman if she were to remove her spectacles in order to read. She sighed, forced her eyes over the blurred words, then said, “This is fine, Mrs. Jerkins. Thank you.”
Mrs. Agatha Jerkins nodded, and took back the paper. She didn’t realize until she had left her new mistress that she hadn’t given her the menu. She’d given her a list of the linens that needed to be replaced.
She told Otis, “ ‘Tis exceeding odd, James. Do you suppose that in Scotland they don’t teach people how to read?”
“It is a brutish, uncivilized country,” said Otis.
“Our poor master,” she said, shaking her gray head. “To be tied to such as her ...” Mrs. Jerkins broke off suddenly, quite aware that it was not at all acceptable to speak thus of her betters, particularly to Otis, the stiff-necked old goat.
“I shall contrive,” she said, and hastened away.
That evening at dinner, Frances said not a word. She listened to the marquess relating tales from bygone days, scandals of this lord or that lady, fortunes won or lost at the gaming tables.
When she’d come into the drawing room, Hawk had taken one look at her and become as silent as she.
The marquess carried on manfully. He wasn’t a military man like his son, but he knew well enough when the battle was well lost.
Frances excused herself at the first moment possible and returned to her room. Agnes was seated next to the fireplace stitching one of Frances’ impossible gowns.
“That won’t be necessary, Agnes. You may go now.”
Agnes brightened. “You are expecting new gowns, my lady?”
“No,” said Frances. “Please, Agnes, go to bed.”
Frances was wide-awake when she heard the adjoining door open some two hours later.
“Frances.”
“Yes,” she said. “Just a moment, my lord, allow me to raise my nightgown for you. There.”
