Authors: The Matchmaker-1
Rexanne Becnel (11 page)
“No, of course not. It’s just …” Olivia wrung her hands. “I just don’t want to make a mistake. I want to be sure.”
“What you want, my darling, is the perfect man. Unfortunately, the perfect man does not exist. But I suppose you must
determine that for yourself.” She came up to Olivia and softly patted her cheek. “Come along now. Finish dressing your hair. And do not wear your best slippers, for there will be dirt and mud.”
determine that for yourself.” She came up to Olivia and softly patted her cheek. “Come along now. Finish dressing your hair. And do not wear your best slippers, for there will be dirt and mud.”
Olivia nodded and focused on dressing for the evening’s activities. Their conversation had not been as difficult as she’d feared, yet it nonetheless left her dispirited. Was she seeking the impossible? Was it too much to expect a man to be steady and kind and well read? Surely not. It was just that she’d been searching in the wrong places. And since when had love become a requirement of marriage for her?
With a heavy sigh she stuck a pair of glittering combs in her hair. She would have a pleasant time tonight and not worry about it, she resolved. Nor would she worry about Lord Hawke, she told herself.
At least she would try.
The three women rode in the carriage with Mr. Cummings. Mr. Garret, Mr. Harrington, Lord Holdsworth, and Lord Hawke all rode attendance on horses beside them on the short trip into town. Even so, Olivia was relieved not to have to face Lord Hawke yet. Instead she concentrated her thoughts on the other men, trying to drum up some enthusiasm for them, to no avail.
Once in town there was much to distract her. The entire square was lit with torches, and in the center of all was a raised platform for the musicians. Around the perimeter refreshments were placed, punch in one area, wine and brandy elsewhere, and at one corner, the ale carts.
“You ladies should confine your activities to this area between the musicians and the punch tables,” Mr. Cummings instructed them. “None of the rowdies will be allowed in here.”
“I should like to make a tour of the other areas, to see the maids and stablemen dancing. And the vicar,” Olivia added with a faint grin.
“And we shall do so,” Penny said. “That’s all a part of the fun. But only as a group,” she cautioned. “Do not go off alone, Olivia. You must promise me that.”
“I assure you, I am no more eager to expose myself to the unwelcome attention of a shop clerk than to that of a peer.”
Penny’s brows lifted at that remark, but Olivia just turned away and took a deep breath. She was glad now that she had come. The evening air was redolent of torch smoke and summer dust, of earthy horses and forbidden French perfumes. From all directions people streamed into the square, every one of them dressed in their best.
A trio of young women strolled arm in arm. Probably merchants’ daughters or housemaids, but Olivia stared after them, envious. They were laughing and shooting flirtatious looks at a stand of eager young men, most of whom appeared uncomfortable in starched collars and freshly slicked-back hair. But one sharp fellow hooted and called, “Say, Annie, will you save a dance for me?”
That sent the girls into gales of laughter. But the center girl, Annie, Olivia presumed, gave a nod, which started all the fellows cackling and punching one another in the arms as they laughed.
Olivia reluctantly turned away. Oh, to be that free, to choose a man based on nothing more than her sincere interest in him.
Penny clucked her disapproval at the casualness of the young people’s exchange. But Augusta laughed with enjoyment. In her mother’s eyes Olivia spied the sparkle that drew men so eagerly to her side. It struck her suddenly that her mother truly adored men. She saw the good in them first, whereas Olivia, always focused first upon their flaws.
Across the way the musicians had begun to warm up, but Olivia was too caught up in her sudden revelation to notice. If she meant what she told her mother about hoping someday to marry, then perhaps she must begin to follow her mother’s lead. She must strive to see the good in the men she met and not simply catalogue their flaws.
Someone jostled her from behind and she stumbled to the side—only to be caught by a strong hand on her arm. The heat of that grasp should have warned her. Nevertheless it was
a shock to stare up into Neville Hawke’s darkly handsome face.
a shock to stare up into Neville Hawke’s darkly handsome face.
“Will you dance with me, Olivia? Despite your anger with me and your hasty words, I still would like to dance with you. And I believe you wish the same from me.”
She did. It was humiliating—it was unimaginable. But Olivia did want to dance with him. Or at least her body did, traitorous creature that it was. She stared up into his fathomless blue eyes, almost black tonight, and felt every fiber of her being strain to fall into his arms. Only her pride and the remnants of good sense prevented her from doing just that.
“I believe … I believe I have already made my feelings clear on the subject. Anyway,” she added, remembering only belatedly to extricate her arm from his firm hold, “I wish to stroll around first. And besides, the musicians have not yet begun.”
He smiled, making it impossible for her to tear her gaze away from his. She was aware of her mother very near, watching them, and of Penny whispering something to her husband. But Olivia was trapped in Neville Hawke’s intent gaze.
“I ask only for one dance, Miss Byrde. Surely you are not so heartless as to deny me that humble request.”
Olivia’s heart thundered; her mouth had become dry and thick. Like an idiot she could neither reason nor speak. Then someone nudged her—her mother?—and her senses began once more to function. After their candid conversation, was her mother already pushing her at a man Olivia could not want? She was so close to him now that she could smell the soap he’d used, and the brandy he’d drunk. Brandy. He was drinking again. It was just the fuel her flagging resolve needed.
“But I am heartless,” she said. “Anyone in London could tell you that. I’m surprised you have not already determined as much. If you will excuse me?” And just that rudely she turned her back on him.
There was a little gasp. Olivia did not know from whom. But it was not from Neville Hawke. From him came only silence.
Olivia wanted to slink away, she was that ashamed of her
rudeness. But he deserved it. She tugged at her trailing satin-edged shawl. She’d warned him not to ask her to dance but he’d been too arrogant to believe her. He deserved the set-down she’d just given him, she told herself. He did.
rudeness. But he deserved it. She tugged at her trailing satin-edged shawl. She’d warned him not to ask her to dance but he’d been too arrogant to believe her. He deserved the set-down she’d just given him, she told herself. He did.
But as the evening’s gaieties began in earnest, Olivia could take no comfort in the rightness of her behavior. The music began, lively, raucous tunes, and it seemed that everyone participated in the dancing. Her mother and Penny never sat down. They scarcely had a chance to finish a glass of punch between sets. All the men of their group danced with them, and several other gentlemen they knew—everyone, that is, except Lord Hawke.
As Olivia circulated, morose in her chats with varying acquaintances, she tried not to search for him. But she could not help it. He was nowhere to be seen. Surely her slight had not wounded him so deeply as all that.
It didn’t matter, she told herself as her gaze swept restlessly across the mass of gentlemen and ladies queuing up for a country line dance. Even if he were wounded, he would take consolation with his brandy or whisky, or even ale. She had no reason to think twice about him.
But try as she might, Olivia could muster no enthusiasm. She danced once, with Mr. Garret. But she was not a good partner and decided to spare any others the ignominy of her company. Perhaps another glass of punch.
As a galop began she backed up and circled around the dancers who were becoming more energetic as the evening wore on. The line of onlookers was thin between the group of gentlemen and ladies she was a part of, and the merchants and shopkeepers dancing in their own circle behind her. She bumped into someone and turned around to apologize, then stood watching this less finely dressed circle of dancers.
There was the girl she’d seen before, dancing with that same eager fellow. The girl’s hair had come loose and her wheat-colored locks flew prettily around her shoulders. Her eyes sparkled and her cheeks glowed warm from the dancing. As for the fellow, he gazed down upon her with a look halfway between possessive man and smitten boy. There was no
mistaking the attraction between them and Olivia could not help but follow their progress through the dance.
mistaking the attraction between them and Olivia could not help but follow their progress through the dance.
Was that what her mother had seen when she’d watched Olivia dance with Lord Hawke? Olivia’s own cheeks grew warm. Surely not!
She stood there watching until the galop ended. But before the dancers could depart the dance area, another song struck up. This time a waltz. As Olivia watched, the young man spun the pretty girl into his arms—
And just as swiftly, someone did the same to her. Lord Hawke! One of his arms circled her waist; his free hand enveloped hers, and within a few mad moments they were a part of the swirling mass of dancers.
This could not be happening!
Yet Olivia could find no words to protest. The music was too insistent. Her mood was too mercurial. Or perhaps she knew the relentless Lord Hawke would not release her no matter what she said or did. At any rate, Olivia found herself clasped in Lord Hawke’s implacable embrace, whirling to the frankly seductive music amidst an amorous crowd of complete strangers, and all the while staring up into the darkest, most compelling eyes she had ever beheld.
“If Miss Byrde will not dance with me,” he murmured, “I’m glad to seek out sweet Hazel among the common folk.”
With an effort Olivia averted her eyes from his and instead stared at his jaw and the scars that ran alongside it. Bad enough that she’d allowed him this liberty. She refused to appear a tongue-tied idiot. With an effort she marshaled her wits. “I’ve heard it said that the element of surprise is a key tool in military strategy.” She watched in fascination as his mouth curved into a half-smile.
“It is.”
“And you have much experience in the military.”
“You might say that.” His voice sounded more careful.
She raised her gaze to his. “I hear also that one battle does not constitute a war.”
One of his dark brows arched. “We are speaking of you and me now, I presume.”
She shrugged.
“Be forewarned, Hazel, that one battle can turn the tide.”
Before she could respond he spun her around and in the process pulled her close so that their thighs bumped and his chest grazed her breasts. At once every nerve in her body went on alert. She was hot and breathless and she did not know if it was the dancing or the man.
“You take liberties you should not.”
“Isn’t that what you’ve come to expect of me?” His voice lowered. “Isn’t that what attracts you to me?”
“If I am attracted to you, Lord Hawke, it is in the same manner that I am attracted to any tragedy: a house on fire; a carriage mishap.”
He laughed at that. “A house on fire?”
But she only continued more heatedly. “Yes, or a carriage mishap. One cannot help but stare and hope never to experience such misfortune oneself.”
“Too late, Hazel.” He spun her out of the dance circle, his hand firm on her waist. Before she knew it, they were in a darkened alley between a cobbler’s shop and an empty wagon. “Too late, Hazel, I’m afraid misfortune has found you after all.”
“IF you kiss me again I shall … I shall scream,” Olivia blustered.
“I’m willing to take that chance.”
Olivia’s heart, already racing from the dance, increased to a painful rate. “You are worse than I thought. No gentleman at all.”
“Perhaps not, for I am not normally attracted to young ladies of so-called good breeding. Then again, you are not like other ladies of that ilk.”
“That’s not so!”
“But it is.” He smiled faintly and his eyes ran over her face. “By day you may be Olivia Byrde, proper young miss, planning coldheartedly how to snare the perfect gentleman of society so you can go on to live the perfect life of a society matron. But by night …” His hand at the small of her back pressed her closer until their bodies touched and sizzled with awareness. “By night you become Hazel, my lovely, willful Hazel.”
Olivia could not move. She was too mesmerized by his words; too exhilarated by his touch. There was a terrible truth to what he said, and a certain relief. This Hazel he liked to invoke, was undeniably curious and a little wanton.
But she was not really Hazel, she reminded herself, and so she must fight her pull—and his. “I am afraid you delude yourself, Lord Hawke.” She was breathless. “This Hazel is a figment of your imagination—”
He squelched her argument with a kiss. In the dark, against a slat-sided cart that smelled of sheep’s wool and tallow candies,
with a hundred people not a shout away, he kissed her—slowly, thoroughly—and in the process drew Hazel up to the surface.
with a hundred people not a shout away, he kissed her—slowly, thoroughly—and in the process drew Hazel up to the surface.
Somehow her arms came free and circled his neck. Somehow she tilted her head up to him, and he was quick to take advantage. He was tall and well muscled, lean but hard, and she felt the heretofore mysterious outline of the male form against hers. Beyond them the music picked up tempo, and the ebb and flow of genial conversation blurred to a hum. Male voices, female voices, all entwined, thrumming together in a way she’d never before noticed.
But in the dark quiet of their hideaway, Lord Hawke kissed Olivia.
Neville kissed Hazel.
“How old are you?” he asked between kisses.
She was almost too breathless to answer. “One-and-twenty.”
“You’re very good at this.” His breath fanned her ear with heat and she arched instinctively in response. “Very good,” he said, recapturing her lips with more force than before.
Insane as it was, Olivia was absurdly pleased by his words. No man had ever kissed her with such complete authority, such prowess and absolute conviction. His lips teased hers apart. His tongue probed and caressed and stroked within her mouth in the same blood-poundingly erotic manner he’d done beside the river—
Dear God, what was she thinking?
She pulled back abruptly and twisted her head to the side. He still held her, though, imprisoning her between his powerful body and the solid cart. “Have you kissed all the men you list in that little book of yours?”
“No!” She stared indignantly at him. “You can let go of me now.”
“For if your research did include kissing those men,” he continued, ignoring her words, “I owe them my sincere thanks, all thirty-eight of them.”
“I told you before, I did not kiss all of those men! Now, let go of me.” She shoved against his chest—his solid hard-as-a-rock
chest—acutely aware of the contradictory emotions that wrestled within her: fury at his insulting assumption; satisfaction at his sensual approval; and humiliation at her easy capitulation.
chest—acutely aware of the contradictory emotions that wrestled within her: fury at his insulting assumption; satisfaction at his sensual approval; and humiliation at her easy capitulation.
She needed to get back to her area of the dance, away from Neville Hawke and his dangerous appeal. Despite everything, she could not deny that he was dangerously appealing. Disastrously appealing. Fatally appealing.
But he was not of a mind to let her go. He made that very clear. “How many did you kiss?”
Four, at most
. “Not nearly as many as you have—kissed women, that is.”
. “Not nearly as many as you have—kissed women, that is.”
A distant torch limned his face with gold, just enough for her to see an arrogant male smile curve his lips. “Is that a compliment to my talent?”
“Only you would think so. It’s an insult to your morals, of which you clearly possess none.”
“To the contrary. I consider it my moral duty to please any woman who decides to kiss me.”
“I did not decide to kiss you.
You
decided to kiss
me
!”
You
decided to kiss
me
!”
“I was reading your mind,” he countered. “I’m doing it again,” he added, lowering his head.
Though she was somewhat better prepared this time, the impact of his lips on hers was every bit as powerful. Perhaps even more so. Olivia had kissed four men in her life, only two of whom had ventured the intimate invasion that this man had so boldly taken. Only one had progressed beyond the barrier of her tightly clenched teeth, however, and she certainly hadn’t enjoyed it. That Neville Hawke succeeded with so little effort was a wonder to her. That he so thoroughly delighted her in the process was truly amazing. She should make him stop and recoil from him in disgust. But she simply could not.
He kissed her and, fool that she was, she kissed him back. The music in the distance was the only other thing that registered in her pitifully besotted brain.
One of his hands cupped the back of her head, slanting her mouth better against his. His fingers tangled in her hair, almost as intimate an invasion as his tongue. Their bodies fit together
despite the considerable difference in their height, and the profound difference in their anatomy. Hard chest to soft breasts. Muscular thighs to slender ones. And against her flat belly the growing evidence of his true interest in her.
despite the considerable difference in their height, and the profound difference in their anatomy. Hard chest to soft breasts. Muscular thighs to slender ones. And against her flat belly the growing evidence of his true interest in her.
This time when she pulled away from him, he let her go. As she gasped for breath, pressing one shaking hand to her lips and the other to her stomach, he leaned heavily on the cart, his hands clenched on the slats, his arms straight and rigid. “You,” he said, nearly as breathless as she. “You should be kept under lock and key.”
“Me?” Her chest hurt, her heart beat so rapidly. “This is your doing, not mine!”
“As I recall, we did it together—and very well, I might add.”
Ruthlessly she suppressed the perverse pleasure that coursed through her. “Well, we shan’t be doing it again.”
“I’d wager a very large sum that we do.”
“Then you’d lose.” She turned to go, intent on stalking away and determined to abide by her avowal to avoid him. But his next words stopped her.
“Your hair is all mussed, Hazel. And your lips look distinctly well kissed. Whoever sees you will know at once what you’ve been up to. And probably with whom.”
“Don’t call me that!” Unfortunately, a quick hand to her hair confirmed the worst. Her neat coiffure was now a tousled mess with pins lost and curls dangling about her neck. “Botheration!” she muttered, turning her back to him as she attempted to repair the damage. For her lips, however, she had no remedy. She licked them once. Was it really so obvious?
She stole a peek at him, for she did not put it past him to lie to her. He had turned and leaned now with his back against the cart and his hands shoved into his pockets. Not a very lordly pose, and yet he looked more appealing than any man she’d ever seen. ,
More physically appealing, she amended as she jabbed the last hairpin in place. The passion he roused in her—for she could not deny he did rouse her to passion—that passion was the same sort of disastrous emotion that had drawn her mother
to her vastly appealing father. Even she could remember how her father charmed every female in sight, from her mother to her to the housekeeper and serving girls and village women. She suspected that there had been other women as well, for there were at least three women of the ton to whom her mother refused to speak, though she would never say why.
to her vastly appealing father. Even she could remember how her father charmed every female in sight, from her mother to her to the housekeeper and serving girls and village women. She suspected that there had been other women as well, for there were at least three women of the ton to whom her mother refused to speak, though she would never say why.
Mostly, however, Olivia remembered the many tears her mother had shed over Cameron Byrde, and not just after he’d died.
She slid her knuckles across her sensitive lips. This had to stop, she told herself. This fascination she had for him must end at once.
She raised her chin and faced him with more courage than she felt. “My father was a man like you. Handsome and charming. Outrageous. He broke my mother’s heart. Though I was young, I still remember how unhappy he made her.” She stared up into his dark eyes, which showed no flicker of emotion. “I have no intention of making the same mistake she did.”
She turned to go, unwilling to hear any response he might make, unwilling also to discover how weak her resolve might be. But before she could return to the crowd of revelers, he caught her by the arm. He did not stay her progress, but he tucked her hand firmly in his arm and matched her stride for stride.
At her bitter glare he remarked, “I’m certain even your blackguard of a father delivered his dance partners back to the safety of their family and friends.”
“Don’t forget to their husbands,” she snapped, tugging futilely to free herself.
“Unless you are wed and have not so informed me, you cannot accuse me of that.”
They were on the edge of the dancers once more and with a quick glance Olivia ascertained her whereabouts, then started toward the safety of the rest of their party. But even then Neville would not release her arm.
“I’ll see you all the way back. I cannot risk being termed less than perfectly charming.” They threaded through the crowd milling between the two areas of dancing, her arm
firmly clamped against his. Once restored to the circle of silks and muslins and worsted wools, Olivia scanned the area for her mother. She found her dancing with a man Olivia did not know. Archie, Lord Holdsworth, danced near to her, with Penny Cummings as his partner.
firmly clamped against his. Once restored to the circle of silks and muslins and worsted wools, Olivia scanned the area for her mother. She found her dancing with a man Olivia did not know. Archie, Lord Holdsworth, danced near to her, with Penny Cummings as his partner.
“Your chaperones are occupied,” Neville noted. “Shall I wait with you—”
“No. You need not wait here with me. You need not dance with me, either, and you need not dog my footsteps one moment longer.”
“Do I not dance well enough for you?”
“That has nothing to do with it.”
“Don’t I kiss well enough?” His eyes ran over her face. “I could swear you enjoyed it, Olivia.”
Olivia sucked in a painful breath. “That … that has nothing to do with it either,” she croaked out most unconvincingly. Then she rallied. “In truth, were you less expert at kissing, I might more easily approve of you.”
She was saved his response when the music ended and the dancers parted to much applause.
At last
, her flustered mind thought when Penny spied her and headed her way.
At last
, her flustered mind thought when Penny spied her and headed her way.
The woman’s keen gaze skimmed Olivia head to toe. “Where have you two been?” she asked, a knowing glint in her eyes.
Olivia swallowed hard. Could Penny tell what they’d been doing? Was it as obvious as Lord Hawke had said? For a moment she was at a loss for how to respond. Then thankfully her wits rejoined her and she arrogantly raised her head. “Why, dancing, of course. And you?” She stared brazenly at Penny, daring her to imply anything, anything at all.
“Me? Oh, me.” Penny giggled, then turned to Lord Holdsworth. “Why, Archie has been teaching me how they waltz in Spain. So energetically. And what of you, Lord Hawke? Is it your energetic dancing that has put roses in our Olivia’s pretty cheeks?”
“’Tis
my
energetic dancing that brings color to
his
cheeks,” Olivia retorted before he could. Then she added, “Where is my mother?”
my
energetic dancing that brings color to
his
cheeks,” Olivia retorted before he could. Then she added, “Where is my mother?”
The rest of the evening was excruciating. To depart early was to invite all sorts of inquiry, and there was always the chance that Lord Hawke might follow her. The last thing she wanted was to be alone in that monstrous house with him.
So she spent the remainder of the evening as she had the previous one: avoiding Neville Hawke, pretending to be supremely unaware of him while in actuality she made note of his every move. Whom he spoke with, which, women he danced with, and how often he filled his cup. This so-called pleasant diversion from town life was turning out even worse than she’d anticipated. And all on account of that horrible, troublesome man!
She danced with Mr. Garret and Mr. Cummings and a red-faced squire’s son Penny introduced her to. She was aware of Neville’s eyes upon her as she danced with that young man, and so redoubled her efforts to appear exuberant and gay. But it was terribly difficult and completely exhausting. At midnight when the fireworks were set off, her jaw hurt from clenching her teeth, and she had a raging headache.
It didn’t help that she spied the girl she’d seen earlier go off arm in arm with her eager beau. If only her own life were so easy and uncomplicated.
“You are very quiet,” her mother noted on the carriage ride home. “Did you not enjoy yourself?”
“I believe she and Lord Hawke have had a tiff,” Penny put in, giggling behind her hand. In the darkened carriage Olivia’s glare was quite lost on her tipsy hostess.
“I’m afraid Olivia is not impressed by handsome men possessed of great charm and wit,” Augusta remarked..
“That’s right, Mother. Find me an ugly, uncouth half-wit and I vow I shall drag him straightaway to the altar.” She flung open the window curtain and stared moodily into the dark passing countryside.
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