“Lady Clare,” he said, bowing slightly.
“My lord,” said Clare.
He took her proffered hand in his large one. She is lovely, he thought. He was partial to blond hair and fair-complexioned women, and she was endowed with both. He cleared his throat. “I realize that this situation is a bit difficult for the both of us.”
“I understand, my lord. More so for you, of course.”
“I doubt that sincerely, my lady.”
Clare’s hands fluttered a bit, and she forced down her nervousness. He was so very large. It was disconcerting. “Have you seen the Elgin Marbles, my lord?” she asked abruptly.
“Yes,” Hawk said. He saw that she was leaning forward, her eyes wide with interest. Damned hunks of marble! Who cared? “They came from Greece,” he said inadequately, then proceeded to listen to Clare explain everything about their origins and current condition. At least it passed the next fifteen minutes. He nearly collapsed with dread when she asked his opinion of George Gordon.
“He has become an overnight sensation,” said Hawk of Lord Byron. “The ladies are most enthusiastic about his poetry, I understand.”
“As am I, my lord,” Clare assured him. “Have you read this passage, my lord?”Earth! render back from out thy breast
A remnant of our Spartan dead!
Of the three hundred grant but three,
To make a new Thermopylae!
Hawk didn’t know whether to applaud or bow his head. He was spared doing neither.
“I should like to paint him,” Clare said. “Indeed, my lord, I should like to paint all your family and your friends.”
“It would perhaps be a bit difficult.”
“Why? Shouldn’t we live in London? Shouldn’t we meet everyone?”
He suddenly pictured himself introducing Clare: “This is my wife, she would like to paint you, after Lord Byron of course. You are not family, but you are a friend, or at least an acquaintance. She will sing Lord Byron’s praises to you whilst you sit there not moving a muscle.”
“I am not certain,” he said finally.
Clare continued. “And all the museums! How I should love to meet Mr. Turner!”
“I do not like Mr. Turner’s work,” Hawk said, finally honest.
Clare skittered to a mental halt. “How odd,” she said, “but of course, I am certain you are correct.”
“Why would you think that?” he asked.
“You are a man, my lord, a gentleman of learning.”
“I am more a soldier than a scholar, Clare,” Hawk said.
“Still,” Clare said, softly insistent, “Papa tells us that ladies should always be guided by their menfolk.”
“I wonder,” Hawk mused aloud, “what Sophia has to say to that?”
Clare blushed. Sophia would, of course, pay lip service to that sentiment, but nothing more.
“My stepmother is most wise,” Clare finally managed.
Hawk stared at her. The last thing he wanted was to have a wife. The next-to-last thing was a wife who wanted to be guided by him. That meant dependence and propinquity. Would that mean then that he would be responsible for Clare’s happiness? Would she fall in love with him?
He sent a surreptitious look toward the clock on the mantel. The thirty minutes were blessedly up. One down.