“We saw them other riders,” the gap-toothed girl said. “How come you didn’t go with them?”
For a moment Olivia did not answer, she just kept staring at the boy. Had she seen him somewhere before? He looked so familiar. “I … um … I overslept,” she finally replied.
The third child, obviously unwilling to be left out of the
conversation, piped up with, “My mother says the quality always oversleeps.”
Olivia’s eyebrows arched. “Does she now?”
Just then the woman hurried over, abandoning her laundry. “Mary. What are you saying? And Margaret. The two of you get home to your mother this very minute.” She snatched the boy down from his perch on the wall, then held him close, pressing him back against her legs while her hands crossed protectively over his chest. Her expression seemed resentful, but her words were polite enough. “Can I be helping you, miss?”
Olivia smiled at her, but received no more response from the woman than she had from her son. That it was her son, Olivia had no doubt, even though they looked nothing alike. Her eyes were brown, as was her hair. With the spattering of freckles across her cheeks, she was a soft, warm-looking woman, despite her cool expression. The boy, however, had raven hair to contrast with his striking blue eyes, and his summer tan emphasized his coloring.
In that regard he reminded her of Neville.
Neville!
She must have gasped, or in some other manner revealed the shocking turn of her thoughts, for the woman’s hold on the child tightened. She whispered in the boy’s ear, then gave him a little shove toward the cottage. With disbelieving eyes, Olivia watched him head over to his two playmates, only once turning to give her a last unsmiling look.
Could it be true? Was that little boy fathered by the lord of Woodford Court?
“I’ll thank you not to single my boy out for your animosity.”
Olivia’s head jerked around at the woman’s belligerent words. “Animosity? I assure you, I would never—”
“You’re Miss Byrde, aren’t you? The lady as has come to live at Byrde Manor.”
“Well, yes, I am. But—”
“If I could’ve kept his parentage hidden I would’ve,” she broke in again. “But I can’t. He looks too much like his father
to be deceiving anyone. But I’ll not have him slighted for it. Not even by you high-and-mighty types. An’ you needn’t complain to Lord Neville about me oversteppin’ my bounds.” She sniffed and folded her arms across her chest. “He’s made it clear he’ll provide for me and my Adrian, no matter what.”
Olivia had been taken aback by the sight of the child Adrian: No denying that. And the woman’s unexpected confrontation had caught her completely off guard. But she bristled at the woman’s assumption that she would do anything to slight an innocent child, and her temper flared at the woman’s contemptuous tone.
Her tightened grasp upon the reins caused Goldie to snort and stamp. The animal was impatient to be off. For that matter, so was Olivia. But first she needed to conclude this awkward conversation. Her chin jutted forward. “I assure you, madam, that I would never blame a child for its parents’ behavior. As for you, you have my complete sympathy. It’s plain that your past associations with the gentry have soured your disposition. Understandably so. Rest assured that I shall keep your experience in mind in my future dealings with Lord Hawke.”
Then she turned Goldie and urged her up the road. She heard the woman call out to her, but she ignored her. What she wanted was to gallop, to escape from her emotions in the dangers of a headlong dash up the narrow curving road. But she did not gallop. She rode as a lady ought: straight back and decorous pace, never revealing the emotions that seethed just beneath her composed exterior.
She should not be so disappointed in the man, Olivia told herself repeatedly on the short ride to Woodford Court. She should not be so angry with him. It was not unheard of for men of the peerage and landed gentry to get babes upon lesser folk. Servants; working women; the daughters of their tenants. For all she knew, her father might have gotten a child on some poor woman. But young ladies were not supposed to understand about such things.
At least Lord Hawke was supporting his child, she told herself. But she was angry and disappointed. And hurt.
At least he was single and not dallying behind his wife’s
back, she rationalized. But would he cease such behavior once he wed?
Her mouth turned down. Not likely. Her father certainly hadn’t. He’d continued to drink and he’d continued to dally where he ought not. Why should she expect any better of Neville Hawke? Olivia squared her shoulders against the disappointment she felt. To think she’d actually been considering marriage to the man!
But there was no way she could agree to an alliance with him now, she told herself as she reached the pair of massive pillars that marked the entry to Woodford Court. If she’d had the slightest doubt on the subject of marrying him, she had it no more. Whatever trials she might face in the weeks to come, they would surely be easier than marriage to a drunken philanderer.
But her relief at having escaped his clutches did nothing to assuage Olivia’s anger at him. As his property revealed itself—the long shaded allée of spruce trees, the carefully tended wood lot that framed several picture-perfect vistas—even the pair of swans that glided across a lily-ringed pond increased her ire. His estate was magnificent, with the mature trees and moss-edged stone fences that bespoke centuries of loving care. Many a lord with considerably higher title did not possess nearly so lovely a home.
Then she came around a bend in the drive, the house appeared beyond another small lake, and she actually drew Goldie to a halt.
It was a castle, or more accurately a fortress. An old Scottish fortified house, built during an earlier, more tumultuous time. A tall stone tower punctuated the roof, providing a view over the surrounding lands. A stout wall formed a protected courtyard in front of the U-shaped house, giving the distinct feeling of a bailey. Today, however, instead of fending off invaders, the tall metal-strapped gates stood open to welcome the lord’s guests.
As Olivia rode slowly between the two gate towers, she felt very like a poor medieval maiden might, being thrust into her
enemy’s stronghold—and everyone but she blind to the danger he presented.
A skinny young man ran out to greet her. “Good morning, miss. Are you come to see Lord Hawke?”
Despite her simmering rage she forced an appropriate smile. “Yes. I believe the rest of my family is already here.”
In short order he took Goldie in hand, then directed her toward the small party touring the stables. She spied Neville at once. His back was to her as he strolled between Lord Holdsworth and James, the three of them deeply immersed in talk of horses and bloodlines and racing times. Sarah hung on a stall door, offering a dried apple to a pretty young blaze-faced animal. The others meandered behind them, Viscount Dicharry in the clutches of Mrs. Wilkinson and her aging daughter, the Skylocks behind them, and bringing up the rear, Augusta and the animated Mr. St. Clare.
For a moment Olivia held back and just observed the scene. Her mother looked particularly beautiful today, dressed in a shade of blue that never failed to flatter her, much that Archie seemed to care. But Augusta was not sulking. Instead she made the most of her present companion, while at the same time studying her environs with a calculating expression. It was the expression Olivia had come to think of as her “society mama in search of a son-in-law” expression. Augusta already approved of Lord Hawke as a man—more was the pity. It was plain to see that she approved equally well of his properties.
It was enough to make Olivia reconsider and retreat before anyone noticed her.
There was, unfortunately, no time for her to do that, for as Augusta scanned the long row of stalls filled with valuable horseflesh, her eyes fell upon Olivia. At once her face lit up with satisfaction.
“There you are!” She patted Mr. St. Clare on the arm, then disentangled herself from him and made her way over to Olivia. Her arms spread wide in greeting, but her eyes gleamed with speculation.
Olivia could have groaned. Of course Augusta would choose to believe the worst, that Olivia had been drawn to
Woodford Court despite the splitting headache she’d claimed, drawn here by the lure of Neville Hawke-which was on one level partially true.
When Augusta pressed her palm to Olivia’s brow, Olivia ducked her head. “It was a headache, not a fever. And I’m much better.”
Augusta pursed her lips knowingly. “I’m so pleased to hear you’re better. It must be that wonderful tisane Mrs. McCaffery makes. I swear, that concoction cures nearly every ill known to mankind. But come. Come, my darling, and join us. Look, everyone!” She gestured to the others. “Olivia has come after all.”
Olivia wanted to cringe. What had possessed her to come trailing after them? She must appear like some child afraid to miss out on the least amount of fun. As for what Neville Hawke thought …
She didn’t care, she told herself. She didn’t care at all, for she already thought the very worst of him.
Still, she did not want to reveal her feelings here in front of everyone, and so she was relieved when James made his way to her side. “That’s more like the sister I know.” He circled her shoulders with one arm and drew her over to where Neville and Lord Holdsworth stood. “There’s not much that can keep our Livvie down.”
“We’re to have a picnic,” Sarah announced, leaping down from the stall door. “But first Lord Hawke is going to show us this year’s foals.”
“How lovely,” Olivia replied, assiduously avoiding Neville’s avid gaze.
Fortunately Augusta stepped in and, hooking one arm in Neville’s and the other in Lord Holdsworth’s, she imperiously steered the two men down the stable’s long central aisle. “Well I, for one, have worked up an appetite. All this outdoor air, you know. Let us continue on with the tour, Lord Hawke. You, Archie, and James may finish your debate about grain-fed cattle versus open range over tea and biscuits.”
Olivia had to give her mother credit, for she had a way of taking people in hand, especially men, and then charmingly
directing them precisely where she wished them to go. It was the same talent Sarah had begun to develop of late. Too bad
she
was not so adept at it, she fretted, as they wandered down the stables, then out toward a fenced field spotted with horses.
Woodford Court was a handsome and industrious estate, that was plain to see as the tour wended along. Neatly maintained. Humming with activity. People, horses, chickens—even the dogs and cats appeared healthy and well fed. Yet still Olivia glared daggers at its lord’s back. Competent he might be in matters of property and money—much more so than she had been with Byrde Manor—but he was still a despoiler of women and sire to who knew how many children outside the bounds of wedlock.
As if he sensed her sharp glare, he turned his head and gave her a brief but intense smile—the wretch! When he turned back to his other guests, she was left with the unpleasant sensation of dangling on tenterhooks, breathless, nervous, and furious. Still, she had no alternative but to go along, at least for now, with this charade.
Honestly, she didn’t know which was worse: confrontation or suspense!
So their party strolled in Augusta’s wake. They viewed the several colts and fillies that had been born the previous spring, and watched as Bart, Woodford’s trainer, introduced one leggy chestnut-colored animal to the long lead. They looked over the breeding mares grazing peaceably in the late summer sunshine, their swelling stomachs so handsome with the new lives inside them. A square table laden with dishes awaited them in an oak grove beside an oval lake where more swans and a small flock of ducks congregated. Truly it would have been a lovely day with every detail attended to, if not for the guillotine blade hovering over Olivia’s head. Between avoiding his knowing gaze and expecting him at every turn to allude by word or expression to his threat or their encounter, she was twitching with nervousness.
By the end of the afternoon she almost wanted him to bring it up. But he did not, and as they packed for their return trip to Byrde Manor she found herself exhausted.
“Come, darling, ride in the phaeton with us,” Augusta implored. “You’re looking a little peaked. Has your headache returned?”
“No. I’m quite fine.” This lie was quite the opposite of the morning’s lie, for now her head really did ache.
“You’ve been working so hard to get the house in order. And you did a lovely job of it,” Augusta added. “But tomorrow I want you to just relax. I’ll see to everything. You won’t have to lift a finger.”
“And we’ll be out of your hair,” James said, mounting his spirited animal. “We’ve got up our first shooting party. Lord Hawke’s going to show us all the best spots for grouse.”
“It will be my pleasure,” Neville said.
Now when had he sneaked up beside her?
“Do you hunt, Miss Byrde?” he asked. For the first time that day their eyes met and held.
“No.” If it were possible to stumble over a monosyllabic word, at that moment Olivia surely would have done so. Her heart had begun to pound that violently.
He smiled. “May I give you a hand up?” Then without waiting for her reply, he caught her about the waist and set her squarely on Goldie’s back. “Have you thought further on our conversation of yesterday?”