His last thought before he fell into a deep sleep was whether or not he should have her watch Gentleman Dan in action again tomorrow.
Agnes said not a word. She’d known well enough that she shouldn’t enter her mistress’s room, but she was frankly nosy. She smiled, gazing but briefly upon the man and woman in the bed, their bodies twined together, Lady Frances’ head snuggled into the hollow of her husband’s shoulder. She left, and her smiling, smug expression gave truth to all the belowstairs gossip.
“Oh dear,” Frances said, coming abruptly awake and sitting up. “Oh dear,” she said again, gazing down at her still-sleeping husband. His cheeks were dark with morning whiskers, his black hair tousled, and he looked utterly marvelous. She reached out her hand to touch his face, then moaned softly. She became aware that her head was pounding horribly, and she felt as if she had drowned a vat of wine. Brandy, you twit, she corrected herself. She felt stickiness between her thighs, and blushed.
“Oh dear,” she said once again, this time so quietly that he couldn’t possibly hear her.
But he did, of course.
“Good morning, wife,” Hawk said, and grinned at her chagrined face. “How do you feel?”
“My head aches abominably.”
“It should. I’ll have Grunyon make you up one of his special potions. They are most efficacious, you know. Your breasts are exquisite.”
Frances jerked the cover over her breasts, and the abrupt movement made her head spin.
“Unfortunately,” Hawk continued blandly, “I didn’t have time last night to give them their proper due. You rushed me most thoroughly, my dear. I wonder,” he added thoughtfully, “if your breasts are as sensitive as the rest of you.”
“Shut up,” said Frances, not at all tipsy this bright, brittle morning.
Her husband gave her an inexcusably pleased grin.
“Had you believed me as ugly as you used to, you wouldn’t have wanted to even bother!”
“My, my,” he said, his voice softly mocking, for he knew well the pain of a head the morning after a night of brandy, “it doesn’t say much for my intellect that I actually understand what you mean.”
“You are a man and—”
“I am a man, to be sure, and last night you never minded that in the least bit.”
“No,” she said, frowning toward the far wall, “I didn’t mind. I wasn’t myself.”
“Ah, then I must continue the winning combination, eh? Horses mating and brandy. I will never lose to you at piquet, at any rate. I should probably tally up the score from last night.”
“I want you to leave now,” she said.
“Why? I thought we were having a splendid morning chat.”
“My head is going to burst.”
“Then I shall win any argument if you are so silly as to begin one.”
Frances clutched the cover against her breasts. She wanted to howl, to punch his smug face, but she said only, “I don’t want you to do that again.”
“Why?” he asked with great interest, staring at her beautiful white back. Her hair was in tangled disarray nearly to her waist. He reached up a hand to smooth her hair, and she froze.
“It isn’t what I am used to,” she said.
“No, I don’t suppose that it is. But you will become quite used to it, I promise you.”
He stretched on his back, pillowing his head on his arm. He realized well enough that she would like to leave him, but was too embarrassed to parade about him in her exquisite natural state.
She remained stubbornly silent, and Hawk continued lazily after a moment, “Would you like another lesson, Frances? Men enjoy morning lovemaking, you know.”
That fond suggestion made her slither off the bed with a good deal of haste, dragging the covers with her. When she turned, it was to see her husband, naked, his legs slightly parted, lying on his back, grinning at her.
She stared at him, and she knew that he knew she was staring at him. “Oh,” she said stupidly, wrapped herself like a mummy in the covers, and dashed behind her dressing screen.