Virginia Henley (5 page)

Nicholas put his arm across his brother’s shoulders. “He isn’t obtuse, Kit. He is well aware that I have a passion for horses, and you have a passion for guns.”

Kit clenched his fists impotently and swore between his teeth. “I hate the son of a bitch, don’t you?”

Nick’s gray eyes darkened as they stared after their father. He shook his head slowly. “No, Kit, I don’t hate him. I pity him.”

 

Because Lady Longford, Alexandra, and Rupert arrived on Saturday before the rest of the weekend guests and were old family friends, they were given their choice of bedchambers. Alexandra had a special request for Mr. Burke, the majordomo, and asked for the room that was directly above Nicholas Hatton’s. She remembered once, when they were children, she had caught Rupert and Christopher spying on Nick through a peephole in the floor. Alexandra hoped the hole was still there, because she had plans to put it to good use.

As she opened the tall window that overlooked the ornamental lake, the sight of the wooden punt floating at the lake’s edge evoked happy childhood memories. She spotted Christopher Hatton on the far side and remembered that today was his birthday, while Nick’s was still two days away. She knew it was Kit because, even from this distance, she could see the easel and canvas. She decided to join him and picked up her sketchbook.

“Happy birthday, Kit. You’ve come out here to avoid your guests, so naturally I couldn’t resist disturbing your peace and tranquility.”

“Hello, Imp. How did you know I was avoiding them?”

“Your birth sign, of course. I know everything about you—your fluctuating moods, how you hide from things like a crab withdrawing into its shell. You are a well of secrecy, with a sensitive soul.”

He was painting a still life of a pair of pheasants that he had shot earlier. The game lay on the ground beside a hunting rifle he had propped against the bole of a tree. Though his subject of dead birds was rather morbid, the variegated colors of the feathers in the painting were exact.

Alexandra would have preferred that he paint live pheasants, but she could not deny his talent. “You are a true artist, Kit. I wonder if you really do hide a sensitive nature beneath your brash exterior?”

“No, my brash exterior hides a brash interior.” He lifted amused gray eyes to watch her laugh. “Why the devil did you chop off your hair?”

“I’m amazed you noticed; you’re usually far too self-absorbed,” she teased, drawing closer to admire his work. “Perhaps you should give the painting to Dottie. I noticed two Thomas Lawrence works of art missing from the walls of the formal dining room this morning. When I asked her where they were, she said she put them in the attic because she couldn’t stomach the simpering females Lawrence portrays.”

“If she prefers me to Lawrence, she’s more than eccentric,” he said with unusual humility.

Alexandra kicked off her slippers, which were damp with dew, curled her long legs beneath her, and took up her sketchbook. “Open your shirt at the neck, Kit. I want to draw you.”

“Is this to be one of your cruel caricatures?”

“Of course not! You are one of the handsomest men I’ve ever laid eyes on. You endlessly fascinate me.”

Kit Hatton was accustomed to women reacting with fascination when they looked at him, but he didn’t welcome it in Alexandra. Though he found her beauty dazzling, he never allowed it to show. She was the only female safe from his lechery in three counties, and the reason for this was simple: If he had even looked askance at her, his father would have had them betrothed, and the trap of marriage was the last thing Kit Hatton desired at twenty-one. “I only fascinate you because I’m a twin.”

“Most probably,” she admitted. “At least, that’s part of it.” Alexandra had decided to sketch both Nicholas and Christopher, then study their discernible differences. Nick usually brushed his dark hair straight back, while Kit had a curl that fell forward on his forehead. It puzzled her that though the two magnificent males were physically identical, only one made her weak with longing.

Within a quarter of an hour, Rupert arrived on the scene. “So this is where you two are hiding yourselves. Come on, Kit. We have to lay out a racecourse. Hart Cavendish has arrived and he insists we race our horses this afternoon.”

“You don’t mean Lord Hartington, the Duke of Devonshire? How the devil do you know him?” Alexandra demanded. William Spencer Cavendish was the son of the late infamous Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire, and he had come into his father’s dukedom last year.

Rupert said casually, “We were all at Harrow together when we were ratty schoolboys.”

“Oh, I want to have a good look at him,” Alexandra declared. “He’s the one who had a fit of hysterics when his cousin Caroline Ponsonby wed William Lamb, because he thought of her as his
wife
!”

“I’ll bet he was bloody glad Caro was William Lamb’s wife when she caused the scandal with Byron, who by the way was another school chum!”

“Oh, Kit, why did you never tell me?” Alex was wildly curious about Caro Lamb, who was reputed to be unstable and had sent George Gordon, Lord Byron, a lock of her pubic hair. “Do you know the ins and outs of that affair?” Alexandra asked with avid interest.

Kit rolled on the grass with laughter. “
Ins and outs!
Christ, Alexandra, you have a sly way with an innuendo.”

Alexandra blushed and pretended her witty remark had been quite intentional. She gathered up her sketchbook and charcoal and hurried back to Hatton Hall. Young Lord Hartington—here indeed was material for one of her cruel caricatures!

By lunchtime, more than half the guests had arrived, and though Alexandra knew the people who were neighbors, there were many unfamiliar faces present. Her grandmother introduced her to her friend Lady Spencer, and it was only when a tall, attractive young man with fair hair and deep blue eyes took her fingers to his lips that she realized who they were. Hart Spencer Cavendish was the grandson of Lady Spencer, her grandmother’s friend.

“I cannot believe my eyes, Dottie. Alexandra is the image of my daughter, Georgiana. At seventeen she was just such a tall, slender beauty, with the same brilliant red-gold curls.”

“Then it is no wonder my father fell in love with her,” Hart Cavendish said gallantly. He openly gazed at Alexandra, unable to hide the fact that the long-legged redhead had bedazzled him and caught his fancy. “Would you allow me to join you?”

“With the greatest pleasure, Your Grace.”

“Please, you must call me Hart. I had no notion Rupert had such a ravishing sister.”

Alexandra wanted to ply him with a million questions. Here was a young man who must have had an erratic childhood, growing up at infamous Devonshire House with that rag-tag assortment of children simultaneously sired by his father upon Georgiana and his mistress, Elizabeth Foster. The scandalous
ménage à trois
utterly fascinated Alexandra. She gazed at Hart Cavendish hungrily, not seeing him as a man but as a rich lode of unmined scandal and gossip; more than enough to fill a book. The things he must know about his mother and His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales!

“Will you come and watch us race this afternoon?” Hart invited.

Alexandra had had every intention of joining the race herself and wearing breeches to boot, but now she realized she didn’t wish to appear to be an incorrigible hellion to Hart Cavendish, at least not quite yet. He had been surrounded by such females all his life. He obviously admired her and wanted to be friends, and Alexandra realized the wisdom of nurturing the friendship of a duke of the realm. Here was her
entrée
to the
beau monde
.

“I would love to watch you race,” Alexandra enthused and rushed upstairs, not to don breeches but rather her prettiest day dress of sprigged muslin with the green ribbons fluttering at the high waist to draw attention to her pert breasts.

In the stables a short time later, Christopher Hatton offered his new Thoroughbred, Renegade, to Hart Cavendish for the race.

“I say, Kit, that’s damn sporting of you.”

“Not really,” Kit drawled. “He’s an unknown quantity. I’ll stick with my hunter—better the devil you know, I always say.”

Nicholas, busy saddling his own horse, Slate, realized his twin had found a way to save face, and was glad. The horse to beat was definitely Renegade; now he could try to win without holding back.

The course they had set ran through Hatton Great Park, around the lake to the banks of the River Crane, through the meadows of Hatton Grange, then through the Longford woods, and ended at the stables where it started. The lawn and the stable courtyard overflowed with laughing guests, making wagers.

Alexandra could overhear a conversation Henry Hatton was having with a group of older men. She recognized John Eaton, a cousin of Lord Hatton’s who was a financial advisor, and she also knew retired Colonel Stevenson who had served in India under Major-General Arthur Wellesley, now known as Lord Wellington and so much in the news these days. Their talk was all of war, because Wellington had just won the Battle of Vitoria in Spain, which put him closer than he had ever been to France.

“No need to worry,” the colonel declared. “Wellington has put an end to the power of Napoleon in the Peninsula. He’ll beat the French hollow—no finer general ever lived!”

Suddenly, Alexandra saw her grandmother in their midst. “Bloody warmongers, the lot of you! The poor hooked-nosed bugger will have a devil of a hard time beating the French if the Horse Guards keep sending him idiots like General Lighthume and Colonel Fletcher! He needs more men with iron testicles like Sir Rowland Hill!”

“Ah, I always thought you were a Whig, Lady Longford,” one of the men declared. Dottie’s blue language was perfectly acceptable because of her age and great wealth.

“Whigs and Tories—they all piss in the same pot! Just so long as they are making money, they’re happy to let England go to hell in a handbasket.”

Henry Hatton grinned. “I’m not above making a profit from war. Eaton here will be glad to advise you about investing in some lucrative government contracts.”

Dottie made a raspberry. “What a load of caca! I wouldn’t dream of disturbing my investments. They’ve returned me a thousandfold over the years.”

Alexandra saw the look of speculation on Lord Hatton’s face. “Will you take tea with me, and a spot of brandy, this afternoon, Dottie? There’s a certain matter I’d like to discuss.”

Alexandra’s curiosity was whetted, but at that moment she felt the ground rumble with approaching hoofbeats. She elbowed her way to the front of the crowd to watch the climax of the race. Two horses were neck and neck, far ahead of the others. One was black, the other gray. Nick Hatton’s horses had always been gray, as far back as she could remember. The one he was riding he had bred himself. If Alexandra had had a million pounds, she would have unhesitatingly bet it on the gray, yet it had little to do with the horse. It was the man riding the gray on whom she would put her money.

The horses were full-out now. They were well matched, and their satiny sinews strained forward with brutal strength. The animals were even, head to head, and it looked as if the race would end in a draw, but Alexandra knew better. She raised her eyes to the man riding the gray and saw his teeth flash in a smile that told how much Hazard Hatton was enjoying himself. She shivered as she saw his male power dominate and harness the power of the animal beneath him. Then, triumphantly, his mount surged over the finish line ahead of the black Thoroughbred Hart Cavendish rode.

Alexandra was mesmerized just looking at Nick. Her blood pounded exactly as his did. Simply watching Nick thrilled and excited her; he had a deep and abiding lust for life, and he was more man than any male she had ever encountered. His linen shirt clung to his chest and the cords of his neck pulsed with the glory of being alive. She knew that it was not so much that he liked to win; rather, she knew he could not bear to lose. Twin he might be, but to Alexandra, there was no man on earth like him.

She watched Hart Cavendish shake his head in disbelief, then laugh aloud as he congratulated Nick Hatton. Alexandra liked the fair-haired young man immediately because he was so good-natured. At least half a dozen young women crowded past Alexandra to congratulate the winner and to flirt with all the young men who had raced. As the horses were returned to the stables, the talk was all of wagers and who would collect and who would pay. Jeremy Eaton, a second cousin to the twins, had appointed himself to handle the money, and none objected since his father was a financial advisor.

“If I’d been riding Renegade, I would have beaten you,” Kit informed his brother.

“That’s quite possible,” Nick acknowledged generously.

Overhearing the twins, Alexandra wondered if Nick would have held back and allowed Kit to win. The Hatton twins had a close bond that was sometimes hard to fathom.

As Kit and Rupert turned their horses over to Hatton grooms, they suggested a swim in the lake to cool off. All the young men agreed, and the young women began to giggle and whisper, making plans to follow and watch.

Alexandra did not join the other young people but entered the stables, knowing Nicholas would tend his own horse rather than turn it over to a groom. She watched him cool down the Thoroughbred as well as his gray, curious about his special touch with horses. When she posed a question about it, Nick grinned at her.

“Mr. Burke says I inherited it through my mother’s Irish blood. Her family bred horses and practiced the ancient secret rituals known as horse whispering.”

“I’ve never heard of horse whispering,” Alexandra said raptly.

“You learn the animals’ natural behavior and train them with kindness rather than mastering them with brute force.”

“It seems to work like magic.”

Nick’s grin widened. “There is a lot of myth surrounding horse whispering, but I doubt there’s any magic involved. I suspect that kindness works best with humans and all living creatures.”