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Authors: The Matchmaker-1

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“What else did you think?” She stared harder at him, then suddenly let out a sarcastic laugh. “Oh yes, you thought I was a servant, didn’t you? You thought I was a servant and therefore amenable to the attentions of a peer, no matter how repugnant those attentions might be. You were hoping to compromise
an innocent housemaid.” She laughed at his discomfiture, though with little true mirth.
A muscle began to tick in his jaw. It was plain she’d figured him out, and plain also that he did not relish being made a fool of. Served him right, the cad.
“Actually,” he said, his eyes dark and piercing upon her. “What I thought was that you were Cummings’s paramour, come fresh from his bed.”
Olivia gasped. “What?”
“Then I read your journal,” he continued, scowling at her as if she had somehow done him wrong. “Endless entries and every one of them concerning a different man. Their habits, good and bad. Their financial situations. If you are as proper as this morning you profess to be, then what do all those entries signify?”
“You read my private journal!” Olivia had been angry before but that puny emotion paled beside the full-blown rage that gripped her now. “You read my journal. How dare you!”
“I read it,” he admitted, clearly unrepentant. “And what I read casts grave suspicion on its writer’s activities—” The crack of her hand across his face stopped him cold.
In the aftermath they glared at one another. A part of Olivia was horrified by what she’d just done. But she was more horrified by what he’d done—and what he’d implied. The list of his crimes was unforgivable. Were she a man she would call him out. By contrast, a slap was little enough punishment.
She drew herself up—she was trembling with emotion—and extended her hand palm up. “I’ll have my journal back. Now,” she added through gritted teeth.
She wasn’t sure what to expect of so graceless a creature and so was hugely relieved when he reached inside his coat and pulled out the volume in dispute. But when she reached for it, he raised it just beyond her grasp.
“I am taking you at your word, Miss Byrde, that you are indeed a guest of the Cummingses.”
“You have the gall to doubt it? Give me my book.”
“On one condition.”
“And what is that? God help you if it is anything vulgar.”
“God help
me
?” He chuckled. “A true lady would be concerned more about her reputation than mine.”
“Believe me, your reputation matters naught to me.”
“But it does matter to me,” he stated, serious once more. “You may have your book on the condition that this incident—this misunderstanding, shall we say—remains strictly between us.”
“Why, you disgusting—”
“I have business to pursue with Cummings and his guests, and I would prefer this incident not impede it. I apologize for my mistake,” he added. “And for any insult I may have cast upon you.”
Olivia shut her open mouth with a snap. Finally, an apology. She stared at him. She supposed a true lady would accept it with chilly grace, then make her exit with her head high and her moral victory firmly in place. But Olivia was still furious. After all his insults she was supposed to let him off on the strength of that brief apology? She wanted him to beg. She wanted to see him grovel.
“Give me my journal.”
“What of my condition?” One of his brows quirked upward. He appeared far less apologetic than before. She could swear he was more amused by the incident than concerned for his reputation, no matter what he said. Still, what she wanted was her journal. Having him plead for her forgiveness was something she instinctively knew this man would never do.
At least it had not fallen into the hands of someone familiar with the London scene. She’d neither seen nor heard of a Lord Hawke during the past three seasons. If he was unfamiliar with London society, he would not be able to figure out the identities of the various men referred to. That would be humiliating in the extreme.
“Regarding your condition, I assure you,” she said in her coldest, haughtiest tone, “that I will not relish speaking of this unpleasant encounter with anyone of my acquaintance.”
“Not even your mother?”
“Especially not her,” she retorted, then wished at once she’d not been so forthright, for his other brow arched in interest.
“If you will please hand it over,” she demanded, forestalling any further inquiries from him.
With an insolent shrug of his wide shoulders he did so. But Olivia’s relief upon reclaiming her journal was tempered by one unsettling fact. During the transfer his fingers met with hers. It was only for the merest part of a second, just a fleeting graze of his fingers along the side of hers. The impact, nevertheless, was stunning.
She averted her eyes and clutched the journal at once to her chest, praying he did not detect the sudden panic that assailed her. But she detected it—racing pulse, damp palms, a giddy turmoil in her stomach. Why had she not worn her gloves?
She turned wordlessly to depart, intent only on escape. But his next words stopped her. “I meant my apology most sincerely, Miss Byrde. I can only beg the ill effects of too much spirits for my appalling behavior last night.”
Olivia looked up at him, somewhat mollified by his words though she did not wish to be. It was safer to be angry with him than to feel these strange stammering emotions that made no sense. She nodded. “Good day, Lord Hawke.”
“One more thing before you go. Something I don’t understand,” he continued. “You have not explained the meaning of those entries in your journal. Why do you write of so many men?”
Anger rushed in to save her. “That is none of your concern.”
“Perhaps not. But I’ve a curious nature and I find myself often beguiled by matters not entirely of my concern.” He was grinning now, a cynical, one-sided smile that made a mockery of his apology.
“Well, that is simply your misfortune.” She stared at him with frosty eyes. “I expect you to honor me with the same discretion you demanded.”
“Of course.” Then he added, “I wish it had been otherwise.”
She gave him a smug, utterly false smile. “If you refer to our initial meeting, I’m afraid it’s much too late to undo what has already transpired.”
Rather than chastening him, however, her contemptuous tone seemed to challenge him instead, for those moody blue eyes of his swept over her, head to toe, darkening as they went. “I’m afraid you mistake my meaning. What I wish to be otherwise is you, Miss Byrde. Were you the sort of woman I initially believed,” he continued, “I’d be a far happier fellow than I presently find myself.”
For a moment Olivia did not precisely understand him. Then his meaning—his lewd and insulting meaning—dawned on her, and color flooded her face. To make matters worse, the outrageous rogue had the effrontery to wink at her and grin. “Good day,” he said without the least show of remorse for his unforgivable behavior.
Then he strode nonchalantly away, and Olivia could only gape at him—insulted, appalled, and perversely enough, flattered.
NEVILLE ran his hands down the filly’s flank. She was ready. He had worried about her, but Otis had assured him that the trip from Woodford Court would only strengthen her leg. He smoothed his palm down her rump and along the muscle she’d injured two months previously. Yes, she was ready.
“All right, Kitti. Let’s show them what you’ve got beneath that pretty little exterior of yours.”
As if she understood, the filly whickered, then butted him with her head. She was as fine an animal as had ever come out of the Woodford stables. Even his father’s mare, Valentine, had not been so perfect as young Kittiwake.
Bart Tillotson, his trainer, leaned over the stall door. “She’ll take the ladies’ race,” he said, then spat into the corner for emphasis.
“But can she race two days afterward against the gents? Can she hold her own against Fleming’s horse or that deep-chested animal of Wagner’s?”
Bart nodded. “If the leg holds tomorrow, she’ll be good when the three-year-olds run.” He came into the stall and knelt beside the leg in question. “She’s a brave one, our Kittiwake.” He patted the horse with true affection. “She won’t back down against those bad boys. She’ll show ‘em her pretty rump and lead ’em a merry chase.”
That she would, Neville agreed as he moved on to check Kestrel, the acknowledged star of his stables. But as he crooned a nameless tune to the rambunctious animal and slipped him a dried apple from his pocket, Bart’s words echoed in his head.
She won’t back down from those bad boys.
She’ll lead ’em a merry chase
. Only it was not the thoroughbred Kitti he was thinking of. It was the thoroughbred Miss Olivia Byrde.
With just a few discreet inquiries he’d determined that she was precisely who she said she was: the daughter of the widowed Lady Dunmore and the late Cameron Byrde. Of more interest, however, was the fact that her family owned the estate that lay south and across the Tweed River from his own. For years now that land had lain fallow, its fertile fields and grassy valleys unavailable for farming or grazing. The steward there was old and crusty, and had refused Neville’s several offers to lease the land.
He should have made the connection between her and that estate the moment she’d revealed her name, but he hadn’t. Perhaps he’d been too distracted by the woman and his physical reaction to her. But now that he knew who she was he needed to keep that reaction under control.
Neville scratched down the arc of Kestrel’s powerful neck. This was his chance to approach Lady Dunmore about the lease. It would be a great boon toward his efforts to revitalize the district if he could return that land to good use. First, however, he would have to improve Lady Dunmore’s starchy daughter’s opinion of him.
For a moment he let himself recall Olivia’s outraged expression when he’d left her standing in the hall. Even furious, with her eyes shooting daggers at him, she was magnificent. Did she know that he was her Scottish neighbor? he wondered.
Did she know he lusted after her?
He snorted at that. How could she not? He’d made it clear enough. She would be a long time forgetting or forgiving his insulting manner.
Stewing over that, Neville checked Kestrel’s water bucket, then let himself out of the stall. Though he had been crude and boorish in his behavior toward her, he was not entirely to blame for his mistaken assumption about Miss Olivia Byrde. What else was a man to think of a woman possessed of so lush a body, so fiery a temperament, and so husky and compelling a voice? Add to that rich auburn hair, flashing green
eyes—no, hazel, he amended, grinning as he recalled her words—and a tendency to wander around in the dark hours before dawn. It was no wonder he’d been mistaken about her.
Then there was that curious journal she valued so highly.
He paused in the stable door and surveyed the yard without really seeing anything. He’d been wondering all morning what those entries meant, and he’d come to the only conclusion left. It was not the men’s values and shortcomings as customers she had noted. Rather, it was their value as husbands. Like every other woman of her age and class, Miss Olivia Byrde was searching for a husband.
He chuckled out loud. What a mercenary little thing she was, weighing the positive and negative aspects of every man she met. How well they danced; their personal habits; their gambling and drinking and devotion to their mothers.
Neville laughed again. He supposed to a young woman those might appear important aspects of a potential husband’s temperament. But there had been thirty-eight entries in her book. He knew because he’d counted them. Did that mean she’d considered and rejected all of them? Or were some of the men still under consideration?
Was she even now entering her opinion about him?
That sobered him at once. For if she wrote anything about him in that book it was certain to be unflattering. What would she say? A drunken boor. A lecherous cad, crude and insulting. And unrepentant.
Though she might conceal the circumstances of their first meeting, as they’d agreed, that did not mean she wouldn’t discourage her mother from entering into a lease agreement with him.
“Damnation,” he swore. Once again he’d let this unholy thirst of his make a fool of him. Only this time it was no milkmaid or tavern wench he’d revealed his baser nature to. Olivia Byrde was a gentlewoman, a peer’s daughter, and a virgin, protected from men like him. With her striking looks and bold manner she’d no doubt slapped several faces before his.
He rubbed his cheek, remembering her furious expression
and the fire in her eyes more than the pain of her blow. He also remembered the lust she’d roused in him, a lust he’d not felt in many a year.
He’d not been celibate since his return from the war: There had been women enough willing to pleasure the young heir to Woodford, and he’d been willing to use them. But that lust had been much like his drinking: he’d take whatever was available to slake his thirst.
What he felt for Olivia Byrde was somehow different. He wanted the same thing from her that he’d wanted from all the others: her pale body naked and eager for his. But he wanted her in particular. Not just any available woman, but her.
A breeze blew warm and fragrant in his face. Perhaps he wanted her because she’d made it clear just how much she disliked him. He’d never before had to work to gain a woman’s interest. Maybe that was the attraction she held, a challenge to be met and overcome. She was a smart, opinionated beauty, the like he’d never known. Yes, she’d roused a mighty lust in him. He felt it still.
He had to keep his wits about him, though. He had to remember his reason for coming to Doncaster in the first place, and that reason was the primary source of his problem. Like him Miss Olivia Byrde was a guest of the Cummingses. It followed that they were bound to be thrown in one another’s paths. If he behaved civilly, he had every reason to hope she would do the same. He’d come to Doncaster to sell horses and run races, and hopefully that purpose would not be subverted.
But he had another purpose now as well. He needed to ingratiate himself with her mother, and to do that he must somehow make amends with the daughter. Though he’d enjoyed the stunned look on her face after his parting words to her this morning, they’d been impulsive—and unwise. That she’d roused his ire with her contemptuous dismissal of him was no excuse. In the future he would have to restrain himself better. That was unfortunate, considering that the last thing he felt toward Miss Olivia Byrde was restraint.
Frustrated by this new complication, Neville shoved his hands in his pockets and scowled down at his boots. He was
no good at moving about in proper society anymore. He should have stayed at Woodford Court, far from the social circles he’d abandoned four years ago. There he could drink himself into oblivion every night and not care whom he insulted with his crude manner.
But Woodford Court was in dire straits and its people relied on him to improve their lives. It was the one thing that kept him going. He’d failed everyone else in his life, but the people of Kelso still needed him, and he was terrified of failing them too. That’s why he’d ventured down to the races at Doncaster with its large purses and so many wealthy nabobs in attendance. Success with the stables was the fastest way to accumulate the funds he needed to increase the productivity of his people. And putting the fallow fields of Byrde Manor to good use was the surest way to
keep
them productive.
“I’ve saddled Robin for you,” Bart said, coming up behind him. “I’ll bring Kitti around shortly.”
Neville turned to his trainer and took the reins of the spirited bay gelding. “Good. Good,” he repeated. “Today the trial runs. Tomorrow the first of the races.”
But tonight … tonight would be his trial run, his first test. For Miss Byrde and her mother were certain to attend the reception and ball the Cummingses had planned to kick off the week of festivities at Doncaster. He could either continue to act like the crude oaf he was, or he could call on the manners his own mother had so long ago drummed into him and behave as he knew he should. For that, however, he might have to swear off drinking, and the very thought chilled him.
“Business first,” he muttered. “You can drink yourself blind once you return home.”
“What’s that?” Bart said, coming out of the stables leading the racehorse.
“Nothing. Just … Just a prayer. For success,” he added, knowing his devout trainer would approve.
“Aye, a prayer for success for our noble Kitti,” Bart said, smoothing the mare’s forelock.
But Neville felt no compulsion to pray for Kitti. She was a natural racer and her success was ensured. It was his own
that worried him. And though it should not, Miss Olivia Byrde’s unsettling entrance into his life had somehow made it seem much more difficult.
 
Olivia spent the morning seething. She’d barricaded herself in the library, even going so far as to lock the door. But Neville Hawke had not followed her this time. He’d been every bit as crude and insulting as before, but at least he’d not followed her.
How was she possibly to keep these two incidents to herself? It wouldn’t be so bad if she weren’t going to be cast in his path again. But they were guests in the same household, come to Doncaster for the same purpose, and bound to encounter one another at all the same social and sporting events.
Her stomach let out an unbecoming growl and she halted her pacing. She hadn’t gone in to breakfast for fear of finding him there. The fact that she’d spied him and another man riding out with several horses a half hour ago hadn’t been sufficient to draw her to the dining room either. For her mother and Penny Cummings must be up by now, and she had no particular desire to face them. She was that angry and unsettled by the awful Lord Hawke.
Her stomach growled again and she flung herself into a chair. She flipped her journal open and ruffled through the pages. How could he have thought her that sort of woman? What in her writing could possibly suggest that sort of lewd behavior?
“He needs no such excuses,” she muttered. “A coarse mind such as his could create filth in anything.” Still she searched.
Keeps a fine stable
. She turned a page.
Rather an earthy sort. Generous natured.
She flipped to still another entry.
Excessively attached to his mother.
What was there to misunderstand in any of that? Then she turned to a blank page and reached for the pen and inkwell she’d located in a desk drawer.
“Lord H.,” she began, saying the words out loud as she wrote. “Drinks too much. Ill-mannered and altogether too bold.” She tapped the feather end of the quill against her chin.
“Though rough-edged, he is tall and reasonably handsome,” she continued, pursing her lips in disapproval. “But he proves the rule that looks can be deceiving.”
Ill-suited for marriage
, she added, underlining it twice.
She would write more about him later, she decided. It would be interesting to see whether he tried to correct her initial reaction to him. As for herself, she meant to stay aloof and distant from him. Very distant. Under no circumstances would she allow herself to be caught alone with that man again. But she should not appear so rude as to arouse her mother’s suspicions. That would never do. Fortunately Lord Holdsworth would capture most of Augusta’s attention.
Olivia blotted her entry with a bit of felt then closed her book. Only four more days, then she would be gone from here, never to deal with the awful Lord Hawke again.
God grant her the strength to endure it.
 
Neville was elated—and he wanted a drink to celebrate. He wanted it in the worst way. But he had set himself a test and he was bound to pass it. No drinking until tonight’s ball, and then only watered wine.
“She’s a mover,” Holdsworth admitted, clapping him on the back. “How many years will you run her before breeding her?”
“A season or two on the courses is all I expect of her.”
“I want her first foal—colt or filly, it matters naught. I want her first foal, Hawke, unless you will change your mind and sell her to me now. The offer I made earlier still stands, and I’ll match any other offers you might receive.”

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