“I trust Frances is,” Hawk said. “She had a most exhausting ... day. She needs her rest.” He wasn’t aware that his face was a study of a contented man, but Edmund was.
“Marriage appears to agree with you,” he observed.
“Yes, I concur. I found it most alarming, until I gave it up, so to speak. Have you and my sister set a date yet?”
“Yes, in September. I trust you and Frances will come to London?”
“Of course.” Hawk allowed Rosie to serve him, then dismissed her. “I will tell you immediately, Edmund, that I have decided not to sell.”
Edmund sucked in his breath at the stark, very final words. He was surprised. He supposed that he had assumed Hawk would allow him to convince and argue and cajole. But he hadn’t, damn him!
“I see,” he temporized.
“The stud, the thoroughbreds, they all mean a great deal to Frances.” He took a bite of kippers, staring thoughtfully in front of him at nothing in particular. “I suppose,” he said more to himself than to Edmund, “that I wanted to avoid taking over. It was Nevil’s, after all. I felt, perhaps, that I would be stepping into his shoes and that it wasn’t right.”
“But you have changed your mind. Irrevocably?”
“Yes, I have.”
“Well,” Edmund said slowly, “I guess there is nothing more to say on the matter.”
“No, I guess there isn’t. You and Beatrice will stay with us awhile, won’t you?”
“I would be delighted. However, it is possible that your wife may wish to pull out Bea’s locks before too long.”
This proved, unfortunately, to be quickly the case.
Hawk strolled to the paddock to see Beatrice instructing Frances on the training of Tamerlane. He groaned inwardly. Frances looked ready to spit in his sister’s face. Belvis looked mildly amused, and poor Henry, an assistant trainer, stood gawking, his rather protruding blue eyes going from one lady to the other.
“Your method is all wrong,” he heard Beatrice say in her ringing voice. “Must I keep reminding you that—”
“Good morning, ladies, Belvis.” Hawk planted himself between the two women and began to stroke Tamerlane’s nose. “He is quite a winner, don’t you think, Bea? Frances, my dear, you aren’t in your riding habit and I told you explicitly to be ready by eleven o‘clock. Go along, now.”
Frances escaped with alacrity. Although Beatrice put her back up, she had to admit, albeit grudgingly, that she certainly knew about racers.
When she returned to the stables but a half-hour later, dressed in a severely tailored dark blue riding habit, a jaunty hat over her hair, Hawk was waiting for her, quite alone. She skittered to a halt, suddenly very embarrassed.
He, however, was very matter-of-fact. He tossed her into the saddle, quickly mounted Ebony, and motioned for her to follow him.
“As the master instructs,” she said to her mare, Violet, and sent her into a canter.
Hawk said nothing until they reached his special, private place by the River Ouse. He dismounted, tethered Ebony to a low branch of a yew bush, and lifted Frances from her mare’s back.
“Hello,” he said very softly as he eased her down the length of his body. Then he kissed her, most thoroughly.
He eased her back in the circle of his arms, delighted with her quickened breathing and her flushed face. “Now, how am I to get you out of all those ridiculous clothes? Not that you don’t look charming, indeed you do. Perhaps I shall simply raise those skirts. Yes, that is what I shall do.”
“Hawk!”
He grinned at her, lifted her gently, toppling her onto her back. She felt the soft grass beneath her, smelled the sweet scent of wildflowers.
“Lift your hips, sweetheart.”
She did, her expression bemused.
She felt his hands on her body, felt him ease her skirts up about her chest. Then his hands were roving up her thighs to touch her.
“It’s daylight,” she said stupidly, watching him unfasten the buttons on his riding pants.