“I will return to London, where I belong.”
“That is what you said yesterday,” the marquess said, “more or less.”
“Yes,” said Hawk, pouring himself another cup.
“Belvis is gone, left some months ago.”
Hawk blinked at his father. “Marcus didn’t tell me.”
“You probably had the poor young man quaking in his shoes. I told you because nothing you do or say makes me quake.”
“I suppose not.”
“Belvis is not someone to lose lightly.”
Hawk shrugged. “I told Marcus to do what he wished about the stud. If he wishes Belvis back, he can fetch him.”
The marquess rose. He was a meddler; he freely admitted it to himself. He wondered if it wouldn’t be for the best if he left the two of them alone and returned to Chandos Chase.
No, he couldn’t do it. He had to get the truth out of Frances first.
Frances pulled her shawl more closely about her shoulders and escaped through the garden door off the immensely intimidating library. It would take three lifetimes to read all those vellum tomes. She breathed in the sweet, clean air. Spring was making itself felt. There were full buds on the trees and some flowers were coming back to life. It would be lovely here in the summer. She tried quite successfully for the next ten minutes to extol the virtues of the estate. After all, it was now her home. She felt a wave of homesickness and sank down under a very old, gnarled oak tree, leaning back against the rough bark. She closed her eyes and saw her husband, and heard his hateful words play over and over in her mind. Well, what he said is only the truth. You look ghastly. Do you expect that he’ll want to introduce you as his wife?
She was on the point of pulling off her spectacles and taking the cap from her head when she saw Hawk striding toward the small ornamental lake. His head was lowered and he appeared lost in thought. His thick black hair glistened under the afternoon sun. She let her eyes rove down his body, looking at him with complete objectivity. He was a handsome man, a powerfully built man. There, she thought, she would allow him that. But nothing more.
It was as if he sensed her presence, for in the next moment, he whipped about and stared at her.
“Frances,” he said.
“My lord,” she said.
“Philip. ”
“Yes. It is a lovely prospect, is it not? Do you know when the lake was built?”
“In the early part of the last century. One of my late, unlamented ancestors with a head filled with foolishness.” He paused a moment, raking his fingers through his hair. “Look, Frances, I apologize for what I said to you. It wasn’t fair of me. After all, it’s not your fault that you ...”
“Yes?” she pressed in a very sweet voice.
“Well, quite a bit of it is your fault.”
“I should say that it is all my fault. But it matters not, at least to me.”
“I don’t understand,” Hawk said slowly.
Frances shrugged, not looking up at him.
“Look, Frances, I’m sorry about last night. I won’t do that again ...”
She shot him a look of undiluted relief. “You won’t touch me again? You’re leaving Desborough Hall, then?”
“Not just yet. What I meant to say was that I won’t ever approach you again without some cream. I did not mean to hurt you.”
Cream, she thought dully. She found herself looking at his firm mouth for a moment. He had never kissed her.
“Should you like to go riding with me tomorrow morning?”
An olive branch. “Yes, I should like that, my lord.”