When the Duchess Said Yes (29 page)

“She’s a fine little mare,” he said, stroking the horse’s nose as the groom held her at the block for Lizzie to mount. “They told me she’d only been ridden by ladies and gently at that, but she’s young enough that she’ll have sufficient spirit for you.”

“She’s quite beautiful,” Lizzie said, hooking her knee
around the sidesaddle’s horn and arranging her skirts over her legs. She could tell already that the mare was a much better horse than she’d ever had as a girl; Mama had only bought ponies and horses of advanced age, preferring to trust the horses rather than her daughters to keep to a respectable gait. “I’m sure we’ll get along admirably. Do you know her name?”

“Her name?” He came around to the side, waving away another groom and checking her saddle himself. “She’s yours now. Call her whatever you wish.”

“Mine?” She grinned. “Oh, Hawke, thank you so much!”

She leaned down, intending to kiss him, but before she could, he’d moved away. It might have been simply that he’d already begun to turn toward his own horse, but Lizzie doubted it, and her joy in the new horse vanished. She’d had enough of this, she decided, watching him climb easily into his own saddle, take the reins of his large chestnut gelding, and urge him on, his thighs tensing in those white buckskins.

No, she ordered herself sternly, she would not be distracted. Buckskin breeches were no compensation for churlish behavior. As soon as they’d left the stable yard and were on the path with no other riders within hearing, she nudged her mare close beside him.

“I cannot begin to fathom what has made you so irksome this morning, Hawke,” she began, “or why you are insisting upon carrying that irk here to Hyde Park, where it will plague and ruin this day—”

“
Irk
is not a proper word, Duchess,” he interrupted, looking straight ahead and pointedly not at her. “At least not as you are employing it.”

“It is so!” she said indignantly. “It’s an entirely proper word, and entirely appropriate to your behavior at this very moment. Irk, sir, as in you are being a most grievous,
huge
irk
in the bottom. What is wrong with you, Hawke? What has put you in such a black humor?”

He whipped his head around to her. “Perhaps you would do better to look to yourself for the answer to that question.”

“Look to
myself
?” she asked, her voice squeaking with such incredulity that the mare’s ears swiveled about in protest.

“What else am I to say, Duchess, when I am forced to begin my day in utter confusion,” he said warmly, “waking to find my wife is gone from my bed?”

“You were asleep, Hawke,” she said fiercely. “Deeply asleep.
Snoring
asleep. You had no notion whether I was beside you or not.”

“All the more reason that you should be there,” he said firmly. “I trusted that you would be. I believed it so, even as I slept.”

“And that is what has you in such distemper?” she asked. “Because I chose to rise before—”

“Stop,” he said sharply. “That’s Lord and Lady Merton directly before us, and I’ll not have it said that we are quarreling.”

“Whatever became of not caring what others thought?” Lizzie said, showing she didn’t by not bothering to lower her voice. “What of setting our own fashions, and doing what we pleased, and—”

“Hush,” he ordered, even as he was forcing himself to smile at the earl and countess riding toward them.

If they’d all been in their carriages, riding through the park on the South Carriage Drive, then everyone would have nodded and tipped their hat and passed on by.

But here on Rotten Row, with everyone on horseback, a simple salute could often lead to a conversation that could not be rebuffed without appearing surpassingly rude, and so it was now with Lady Merton. As soon as
Hawke murmured some sort of polite greeting toward her, she seized upon it, and the rest became unavoidable.

“Good day, Your Graces,” she said, her voice ringing over the sandy track. “Might I offer our warmest congratulations on your recent marriage?”

Lady Merton’s name was on that list of ladies who were supposed to be receiving wedding calls, calls that Lizzie had not so much as thought of making. Not only was Lady Merton a close friend of both Lady Allred and Aunt Sophronia, but she was also considered an important hostess whose assemblies and parties were much anticipated. Lord Merton was an active member of the House of Lords, with fingers in many political pies at the palace, even if his success was whispered to be as much because of his wife’s social skills as his own merits.

They were, in short, people best not offended even by dukes and duchesses, and when Hawke failed to reply to Lady Merton’s greeting, Lizzie swiftly did.

“Thank you, Lady Merton,” she said, smiling as she reined in her mare. “It is a lovely day, is it not?”

“Indeed, Duchess,” Lady Merton said, already shifting her gaze toward Hawke. She had once been considered a great beauty, and though age had diminished her allure, she clearly still expected gentlemen to pay attention to her. “Your Grace, your fair wife is a prize—a prize! Why have you not brought her to see me?”

“We have not called on anyone as yet, Lady Merton,” Lizzie said quickly, before Hawke could reply, fearing another version of the amorous rabbits. “We’ve been, ah, enjoying each other’s company.”

“You’ve every reason to lock yourself away with such a bride, Duke,” Lord Merton drawled. He smiled a bit too warmly as he appraised Lizzie, his eyes wolfishly keen in his full, florid face. “Doing your duty by her in those honeymoon nights, are you?”

“I assure you, Lord Merton,” Hawke said, drawling in return, “that duty was never so pleasurable.”

The two men laughed broadly, and Lizzie flushed, while Hawke’s smile was so knowing and male that she could have gone after him with her riding crop.

Fortunately, Lady Merton chose to ignore them. “Now that you’ve emerged to rejoin the world, Duchess, I do hope we can lure you and the duke to us. We have a small group of friends who join us regularly on certain evenings. I hope we might be so honored as to include you among our party next Thursday?”

“Oh, yes!” Lizzie said eagerly. She had read of Lady Merton’s gatherings in the scandal sheets, and she’d never dreamed she’d be considered either sufficiently interesting or fashionable to be included. “We would be pleased.”

“I am glad of it,” Lord Merton said. “It will be a fine way to welcome the duke back among us here in London.” Addressing Hawke, he added, “Since you are newly returned from Naples, I would ask your advice on several small affairs relating to King Ferdinand and his views.”

“I fear I must disappoint you, Lord Merton,” Hawke said, a wariness to his voice that was unmistakable to Lizzie. “I was an infrequent visitor to the Neapolitan court and know next to nothing of Ferdinand’s views.”

But Lord Merton only smiled. “You are too modest, Duke, too modest by half. You are your father’s son, and never was there a more sage gentlemen where foreign policies were concerned.”

“I cannot deny that I am my father’s son, Lord Merton,” Hawke said, the edge to his voice a little sharper, “but I assure you that I inherited none of his political sagacity.”

Lord Merton chuckled, his chin quivering over the top of his neckcloth. “That I doubt, Duke. I am certain your
nothingness will be worth more than a score of the dimwitted dispatches from our addlepated ambassador.”

“No more of your politics, my lord,” said Lady Merton, teasing and scolding combined. “We mustn’t keep these newlyweds from each other a moment longer. Your Graces, good day. Until Thursday.”

Lizzie nodded, as did Hawke, and together they rode away from the earl and his wife. As Hawke had predicted, every gentleman they passed looked at her, just as every lady ogled Hawke. Somehow everyone seemed to know who they were, greeting them with a murmured “Your Graces,” polite if curious. But there were no further halts for conversations, nor did Hawke choose to break his silence, either—a silence that Lizzie sensed was the quiet before the storm. She was right.

“Why the devil did you agree to go to their house?” Hawke asked at last. It wasn’t the furious demand that she’d been expecting, but more of a resigned query. “Why?”

“Because we should,” she said calmly, or at least as calmly as she could, fearing worse to come. “Because neither of us has made any wedding calls, and if Lady Merton was willing to overlook that slight and invite us anyway, then I thought it best that we accept.”

“Refusing to obey foolish, outmoded custom as dictated by the harpies is not a slight,” he said. Usually when Hawke mentioned the harpies, it was a jest, or at least a wry commentary, but not this time. “I’ve no desire to make wedding calls, and I don’t want to attend Lady Merton’s gathering, either.”

“We needn’t stay long,” Lizzie said, surprised by his vehemence. “You enjoy company. I’ve seen you. I’ve heard that Lady Merton invites artists and writers, too. You’ll likely find all manner of people to amuse you.”

“What I’ll find are all manner of men who wish to inveigle me into politics,” he said, his words marked
with unexpected despair. “What could I possibly tell Merton of the Neapolitan court?”

She turned to look at him with concern, the plume on her hat blowing across her face. “You don’t have to speak to Lord Merton if you don’t wish it, Hawke,” she said, brushing aside the feathers. “Likely the rooms will be so crowded you won’t even see him.”

“He will find me,” Hawke said, “just as he found me here today. I give you leave to attend by yourself if you wish.”

“Don’t be foolish,” she said, stunned he’d even suggest such an option. “I belong with you. If you don’t go, then I won’t, either. I’ll send an excuse for us.”

“You can’t,” he said wearily. “We must go. Merton was one of my father’s closest friends. Now that you have accepted, no excuse would be considered acceptable.”

“I’m sorry, Hawke,” Lizzie said softly, sadly. “I’d no notion that accepting would distress you so.”

“You’ve no need to apologize, sweeting,” he said. They’d reached the end of the row, and he urged his horse to turn about. “I’ve no right to keep you locked away. We shall attend. Lady Merton and the harpies will be pleased. And if there’s anyone who should be sorry, it’s I, not you.”

She neatly wheeled her mare about after him, following his lead, if not his logic. “That makes no sense, Hawke,” she said. “If I needn’t apologize, then you couldn’t have a reason for doing so, either.”

“But I do.” His smile was quick and without humor, as if telling a jest that he knew wasn’t funny. “I’m sorry I’m not my father.”

Hawke stood on the top of the front steps of the Chase, the afternoon sun warm on his face. He knew he shouldn’t be here—as a rule, dukes were not supposed to stand bareheaded on their front steps like shopkeepers—but today was an exception. Lizzie was going to call on her sisters and mother at Marchbourne House. She would be gone only a few hours at most, and she would be back at the Chase in time to sup with Hawke this evening. It was an ordinary though pleasant event in a London lady’s life.

Except that it wasn’t, not for Hawke. It was the first time since he’d married Lizzie that she’d gone anywhere without him. He hadn’t objected, of course; he didn’t intend to be one of those overbearing boors of a husband.

Since that disastrous ride in the park last week, he’d done his best to be agreeable and obliging, playing the part of a devoted, ardent lover. He’d taken Lizzie to the opera and the playhouse, to stroll in Green Park and toss bread crumbs to the ducks, to the fairground to marvel at the rope dancers and eat strawberries and cream, and to Spring Garden to the museum of curiosities.

He hadn’t mentioned his father again. Hesitantly she
had tried to introduce the subject once or twice, but as gently as possible he’d refused to answer. He had long ago closed the door on his father, and there was nothing to be gained by opening it once again, not even for Lizzie—especially not for Lizzie—to peer inside.

All he wished was for her to be happy. Visiting her sister this afternoon had even been his idea, not hers, a way for them both to forget that tonight was Lady Merton’s gathering. Hawke had walked down the stairs with Lizzie, praised her gown one more time, smiled at her excitement, and helped her into the carriage himself, saving that privilege for himself instead of a footman. Now he stood here on the step, his hand raised in farewell as the carriage rolled away from the door and down the drive and away.

Away
. How could it be possible to miss her already?

He squared his shoulders and walked past the footmen and back into the house, and he didn’t stop until he reached the ballroom and his pictures. Since his marriage, he had been neglectful of these old friends, and he almost felt like a stranger now among them. To be sure, he’d enjoyed sharing his favorites with Lizzie, but somehow it hadn’t been the same. Now, alone, he was determined to rediscover the old magic that the paintings had held for him, and he quickly made his way to the far corner. If any picture could still be respite for him, it would be this one, and with a happy sigh he set his chair before the oversized landscape.