AllFreeNovel
Share Us
That brought Beatrice up short, but only for a moment. “Oh, that,” she said, waving a pale, elegant hand, oblivious of the fact that she’d insulted her future husband. “Well, I suppose if my dear brother agrees to the sale, I shall have it in any case.”
“Yes, that is quite true.”
“You know, all Hawk ever knew was the army, and now he’s like a bird let out of his structured cage. He told me once some months ago that he’d never wanted Nevil’s title and fortune. Is he gambling much, do you think?”
“He is not a fool, Beatrice. Even if he were, he would have to lose vast sums at the table before he would have to consider selling the stock.”
Beatrice grew silent and Edmund watched her, amusement deepening the rich amber color of his eyes. She was a witch, no doubt about that, but he would control her quite nicely once they were married. And she need never know that he needed her fortune to help pay for the stock, once Hawk agreed to sell. Ah well, they would both be getting what they wanted. Edmund didn’t love her, but he wanted to bed her, and planned to do just that very shortly. She was a widow, after all, and he reckoned that her ancient relic of a husband hadn’t given her much satisfaction, if any. She was also quite pretty, her features so like her brother’s, but feminine at the same time. Her hair was glossy black, her eyes a gleaming leaf green. She was tall, deep-bosomed, and if she was gaining flesh, she would retain her bodily charms for a number of years yet. It occurred to him that there wasn’t much love lost between brot
her and sister. He trusted that he hadn’t made a miscalculation. He had assumed that Beatrice would assist him in gaining Hawk’s agreement for the sale.
“Why do you not invite your brother to dine, Beatrice? I would be there also, of course. It might prove an appropriate time to broach the subject again.”
Her eyes flashed. “An excellent suggestion, Edmund. Would you like to search him out?”
“I cannot pay a visit to his mistress,” Edmund said dryly.
“He cannot be with her all the time!”
Edmund merely smiled at her; then he caught her hand, drew it to his lips, and kissed her palm. “Ah,” he said with satisfaction, feeling the pulse quicken at her wrist. He looked directly into her eyes, and slowly stroked his hand over her breasts. He felt her nipples harden beneath the thin muslin. “Soon,” he said, turned, and left her without another word.
He could hear her quickened breathing behind him. She was a witch, he thought again, but she would be such a passionate witch in bed.
Edmund Lacy tracked his future brother-in-law down at White’s, not in the gaming room, but in the immense reading room, whose usual inhabitants were two generations removed from him.
The silence was disconcerting. There was only an occasional rustling of paper, an occasional snore.
“Hawk,” Edmund said quietly, lightly touching his shoulder.
Hawk was reading the war news in the Gazette, his brow furrowed. “Not going well at all,” he muttered under his breath. “Oh, Edmund, how are you? How is Bea?”
“She is well, as am I. In fact, I am here as her emissary. Would you care to dine with us this evening at Dunsmore House?”
More damned impertinent questions about my marriage, Hawk thought, but his face remained impassive. He felt a stirring of guilt that he hadn’t yet seen his sister. She looked so much like him that he should have felt closer to her, but he didn’t, never had, in fact. Not that he’d ever seen her very much during their growing-up years at Desborough Hall. Then, when his grandfather had died and his father had moved his family to Chandos Chase, he saw even less of her, for he was off at Sandhurst. He realized suddenly that he hadn’t replied, and quickly said, “I should be delighted, Edmund.”
They chatted amiably about the war, and Hawk found himself impressed by his future brother-in-law’s knowledge. Neither an empty-headed fribble nor a fool was Edmund Lacy.
When Edmund rose finally to take his leave, he said gently, “Incidentally, Hawk, you needn’t worry that Beatrice will quiz you about your marriage. I have assured her that it is none of her affair. Nor, of course, is it any of mine.”
“What courage you possess,” Hawk remarked, grinning. “I have heard it said that poor old Lord Dunsmore cocked up his toes as his last and only independent act.”
“Hawk,” Edmund chided, “what a thing to say about your sister. She is high-spirited, ‘tis all. You cannot imagine, old boy, that she would drive me to a similar fate?”
Hawk laughed, only to close his mouth at the snorting sounds of disapproval from one of the ancient members of White’s.
He obligingly shook his head, sat back in the high-cushioned leather chair, and watched Edmund Lacy leave the room. A fine specimen of a man, Hawk thought. Not a flabby macaroni nor a pompous idiot. Fashionable, yes, but he didn’t carry on with excessive rings and fobs. He was trim, his features well-formed. He would make Beatrice a good husband, keep her in her proper place.
Frances. Oh hell, he thought, rising, disgusted with himself. He didn’t want to think of her. He wondered, as he strolled out onto St. James, if his father were still at Desborough Hall. He probably was, Hawk thought, holding her little hand and trying to make the servants regard her as something of a mistress. Perhaps his father would encourage her to buy some new gowns. Perhaps he would encourage her not to cower and hide. Hawk decided he should write her a letter. Yes, he would do that. He returned to the Hawksbury town house in Portland Square. There were only two servants in residence besides Grunyon, but it didn’t matter, since he never dined there in any case.
Rolland, his majordomo, was older than Otis at Desborough Hall and made Shippe at Chandos Chase look like a frisky young pup. He managed to answer the door knocker, but other duties beyond that were, at the very least, a decade behind him. Thus, it was Grunyon who brought him a quill and paper in the library.
“Is Rolland still breathing?” Hawk asked, grinning at his valet.
“After a fashion,” said Grunyon.
“I’d put him out to pasture, but he has no relatives. Lord, he’s outlived the lot of them, and he was, as I hear my father tell, the ninth of twelve children.”
“A case of longevity,” said Grunyon. “You are writing to Lady Frances?” he asked with the assurance of a longtime retainer who knew quite well his head wouldn’t be removed from his shoulders.
