as well, a muslin puce that had seen better days twenty years ago. She saw that Alex kept glancing over at his daughter, his gaze questioning, then somber, then narrow with anger.
English tea was served by Tottle, a relic, Hawk thought, that belonged firmly to the last century. He thought of Shippe, his father’s noble butler, and shuddered. I don’t believe this is happening! My God, surrounded by a gaggle of females, one of whom will be my wife!
He couldn’t bring himself to look closely at any of the girls, save Viola. It was impossible not to notice her. She was young, as pretty as any young lady in London, and was staring at him with admiration and something akin to awe. Stiff, formal conversation floated about him, and he responded with all the breeding with which he’d been blessed, but very little of the charm for which he was noted. Somehow, he couldn’t find it in himself—an animal on the block, smiling at his butcher?
Drinking his tea, he could fancy that he was in England. All the ladies spoke without a Scottish burr. The Earl of Ruthven spoke an odd mixture, interspersing his very English comments with Scottish idiom.
“I’m sorry, what did you say?” Hawk asked, suddenly aware that he’d been addressed by the Countess of Ruthven.
“Please, call me Sophia, my lord. I was just telling you that our Clare here is something of a painter.”
That was at least something, Hawk thought, and forced himself to study Lady Clare again. She was leaning toward him, her face rendered more lovely by its intensity.
“What is it you paint?” he asked.
“Mostly people, my lord,” said Clare.
“Ah,” said Hawk.
Frances looked at him, but he was blurred by the wretched spectacles. She allowed them to slide down to the tip of her nose, and squinted. At that moment, his eyes slide toward her, and she saw him wince at the sight.
Good, you damned bounder, she thought, and squinted all the harder. She smiled to herself. Hawk thought: Poor little dowd, surrounded all her life by beauty. He had to admit to himself that Clare and Viola weren’t at all difficult to look at. He felt sorry for Frances.
“Tell us about his lordship,” said Alexander. “He does well?”
“No, sir,” said Hawk, a glimmer of pain in his eyes. “He is quite ill at the moment.”
“Damn,” said Ruthven, running his fingers through his thick head of hair. His eyes settled on Hawk’s face for a long moment, and he nodded silently, realizing why the young man was here. The Marquess of Chandos wanted his debt of honor paid before he died. He frowned. Something was odd here, very odd. He rose, and said to Sophia, “I shall show his lordship to his room now. And I promised Alex that he could meet him.”
Hawk rose with alacrity, and after murmuring his thanks to his hostess and nodding to each of the daughters, followed the Earl of Ruthven from the drawing room.
Ruthven said without preamble as they climbed the stairs, “You’re here to wed quickly?”
“Yes,” said Hawk. “My father wishes to see my bride before he dies. The wedding must take place as soon as possible.”
“Ah,” said Ruthven. “It’s sorry I am, my lord. I’ve a great fondness for your father.” He frowned a moment, then said, “His illness came upon him quickly?”
“Very quickly. A congestion in his lungs.”
Ruthven said nothing more for a moment. The Chandos servant who had been here but five days before had said nothing about any illness, and the marquess had merely written in his letter that his son would be in Scotland very soon. Yes, all of this was most odd.
“You are fortunate that none of my daughters has wed, my lord.”
“Yes,” said Hawk.
“There was a nice boy, Ian Douglass, who wanted Frances, but she would have none of him.”
Hawk threw Ruthven an incredulous look. At his host’s bland smile, he decided he’d said the wrong daughter’s name.
“So,” Ruthven continued, “since your father is ill, you are in something of a hurry?”
“I fear so,” said Hawk. He drew a deep breath. “I have no intention to insult you or your family, my lord, but I must needs be quick to make my choice. I have promised my father that he will see his daughter-in-law before he ...” Hawk broke off, fear, concern, frustration clogging his throat. He felt Ruthven’s hand gently touch his shoulder.
“ ‘Tis all right, lad. You have something of a schedule, then?”
“Yes,” Hawk said. “I’ve given myself three days to make my ... oh hell, sir, my selection! Then another four to prepare for the wedding, and it’s back to England.”
“Your father is proud of you,” Ruthven said unexpectedly. “He wrote to me of all your exploits. With Wellington on the Peninsula?”