When next he saw her, she was quite dirty, smelled of sweat and horses, and her hair hung in damp tendrils about her face. He wondered if she’d taken a toss and felt a brief spurt of alarm. But no, she came dashing into the drawing room waving a dirty envelope in one hand, a single sheet of paper in the other.
“From my father and Sophia,” she announced, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. She had forgotten for the moment that she wished neither to see nor to speak to her wretched husband.
“Yes?” he drawled with great disinterest.
“They are all well, and Sophia asks to send my sisters here. Of course they will need new wardrobes and Sophia asks that I supply them. Perhaps within the month—”
Hawk stared at her, then roared, “I had to marry you, Frances, you have to be here of necessity, but I’ll be damned in hell before I have your sisters underfoot, nipping at my heels! Nor have I any intention, madam, of allowing you to waste more of my money! Tell your bloody father that he can supply the blunt!”
Frances gaped at him, silent for an instant.
“And if Sophia thinks that I shall have the three of you in London with me, parading you all about to balls and such, she can just think again!”
She felt herself swelling with fury. “You bastard!” she yelled at him, unaware and uncaring in any case that Otis and Mrs. Jerkins were frozen in the hall outside the open door.
“You mean, petty, self-righteous prig! You are ridiculous and utterly horrible and I hate you!”
He watched her actually stomp her foot in rage, whirl about, and leave him alone. Only the horse scent remained.
I shall leave for London very shortly, he told himself. At last he had managed to make her despise him.
Frances fumed and paced in the estate room, cursing him in the most colorful language she could remember from her father’s verbal rages.
“Ho, what’s this?” asked the marquess. The whole point of loyalty, he knew, was to have a butler inform one of everything of interest that occurred. Otis, that pillar of loyalty, had filled his ears.
“Your damned son!” Frances yelled, turning on him.
“Yes?” he asked in an encouraging voice.
“He refuses to spend any of his precious money on my sisters! He even refuses to let them come here or to London or anything! I hope his toes rot off, I hope he smashes his hard head on the ...” She ground to a halt, unable to find a suitable obstruction for his head.
“I should be delighted to provide money for your sisters, Frances. And if it would please you, I have a somewhat improvident far-removed cousin who would be delighted to sponsor them. So you see, my dear, there
is no reason for you to be so ... concerned.”
That drew her up. To her father-in-law’s chagrin, Frances burst into tears.
“My dear!”
She turned her back to him, not wanting him to see her horrible loss of control. Finally she managed to get a hold on herself.
“Also,” the marquess continued after a moment, “Hawksbury House in London belongs to me. Hawk merely avails himself of it when he is there. He has no say who may stay there, Frances.”
“You are very kind, sir,” she said, still sniffing a bit. Then she drew herself up, and her gray eyes, now nearly black, gleamed with purpose. “It is not your responsibility. It is his, and I shall force him to meet his obligations!”
“How?” the marquess asked.
“I ... well, I’m not certain just yet. Perhaps I shall blackmail him when I find out his mistress’s name in London.”
“I shouldn’t go quite that far,” the marquess said quickly. “Really, my dear, I am a very rich man. There is no reason at all for you not to allow me—”
“No, sir,” she said quite firmly. “No. I thank you, but it is not right and I could not accept your generosity. You have done too much for me as it is.”
“Very well then,” the marquess said, already determined upon his next move in any case. He patted his daughter-in-law’s flushed cheek and took himself off.
He found his son butchering the billiard balls in the gentlemen’s smoking room. He watched him strike a ball with such force it should have punched a hole in the black felt.
“Hello,” the marquess said. “I should say, my boy, that your technique is lacking, just a bit.”