“There won’t be any further need of the cream either,” he continued, his voice deep and certain.
The red flush started at her knees, she knew, and traveled quickly to her hairline.
“Unless, of course, my dear, you much enjoyed my finger inside you, stroking you, easing you, stretching you for my—”
“Stop it! You are disgusting, hateful—”
He laughed. “Would you like to know why we won’t need the cream anymore, Frances?”
But she was dashing toward the tack-room door.
He was ahead of her, his hand smashed flat against the door above her head. Her hand clutched uselessly at the door handle. “As I was saying, Frances, we won’t need the blasted cream. Why? I’m sure you want to ask me. Well, my dear, we won’t because when I finally come into you, you will be quite ready for me—wet, warm, and quite wild for me.”
“You are disgusting,” she said in a low shaking voice.
He drew back his hand and stepped away. “We will see, Frances. I don’t think we’ll be downstairs for tea this evening.” He watched her frantically jerk the door open. “Frances,” he called after her, “don’t invite any more of our neighbors to dinner.”
“The ... the Melchers are to arrive at five o‘clock!”
“The vicar, Frances? You will send a message immediately, my dear. Plead illness, plead anything you like. If they come, Frances, I shall tell them that my beautiful wife and I are anxious to get back to our marriage bed. Don’t doubt me, Frances.”
She fled. Hawk strolled to the doorway and watched her run in the rain back toward the house. He smiled to himself. He’d regained control and the little witch knew it, and hated it. Still, he thought, frowning slightly, that kiss had surprised him.
It stopped raining in the early afternoon and Hawk took himself off to see John and Alicia. If he remained at Desborough Hall, he feared he would be sorely tempted to attack his wife on the floor of the drawing room.
Alicia, John told him proudly, raising a glass of sherry in salute, was with child. Hawk felt something deep and wonderful clutch at his insides.
“Hawk!” Alicia exclaimed, a bit pink. “You’re grinning like a fool! ‘Tis not your child!”
He was still grinning as he rode back to Desborough Hall.
He was humming as Grunyon assisted him into his evening clothes.
“Most heartening,” Grunyon said as he handed Hawk a neckcloth.
“What is?”
“All the changes Lady Frances has made.”
Hawk grunted, concentrating on the folds of his cravat.
“The three new trainers she hired seem to be good men, not all that experienced, of course, but willing and eager.”
Hawk said nothing, but his jaw tightened.
“Ah, indeed,” Grunyon continued, as if he hadn’t a worry in the world, “it is about time that Desborough Hall had a mistress, and one who cares about everything. Why, I was speaking to Mr. Carruthers, a most excellent young man, incidentally, and he was telling me—”
“I don’t give a farthing for what that excellent young man has to say!”
“I believe, my lord,” Grunyon continued, unperturbed, “that you must file down that nail. It’s just a bit ragged.”
Hawk looked at the fingernail on the third finger of his left hand. He blinked, suddenly afraid that the nail had been jagged the night before. That was the finger he’d covered with cream and eased into his wife. Had he hurt her? “Bring me the file,” he said.
When he entered the drawing room, his step was light, his face filled with anticipation. The room was empty.
“Otis!”
The damned man walked like a shadow, Hawk thought, when Otis glided in but a moment later.