“Ha! She detests me, she spits on the ground I walk, she—”
“Bosh. You bring her pleasure and she melts all over you, n‘est-ce pas? After all, you are an excellent lover, and not at all a bête.”
Hawk realized it was most odd to be speaking of his wife to his mistress, but the floodgates had burst open. “Amalie, you must realize that a gentleman doesn’t treat his wife as he would his mistress.”
“He doesn’t? How very curious.”
“It isn’t curious at all. A wife is a lady and isn’t ... well, she doesn’t want to be bothered with sex. I have been most respectful of her feelings, I promise you.”
Amalie could only stare at him. “You do not make her melt all over you, Hawk?”
Hawk shuddered. “I’ve never even seen her,” he said. “I’ve never even touched her above the waist. As I said, Amalie, things are different between a gentleman and his wife.”
Amalie was thoughtfully silent. She saw Hawk gazing intently at her breasts, and stretched lazily, seductively. She was a bit sore, but what matter? She quickly removed the remains of their tea and food. “Come,” she said softly.
Hawk didn’t leave Curzon Street until gray streaks of dawn were lighting the London darkness.
13
She pays him in his omn coin.
—JOHNATHAN SWIFT
Marcus Carruthers stared at Frances, reminding her forcibly of Mrs. Jerkins’ initial reaction.
“But, my lady, I ... well, I don’t think it would ... no, ‘tis quite impossible, his lordship, what will—”
“I am fro
m Scotland, sir, and yet I am capable of stringing together a logical thought.” Her eyes twinkled at him, and her tone was teasing, robbing her words of any offense.
Marcus Carruthers mopped his brow with his white handkerchief.
“Now, listen, Marcus. You are new here. I am new here. I am telling you all about my outlay of money, not only for my own wardrobe, but also for household items, and you have no real choice but to agree. After all, my husband isn’t present, as I’m certain you notice, nor is he particularly interested in this estate of his.”
“We spent a good deal of time together before he left,” Marcus said defensively, but he was thinking: His lordship gives not a damn about Desborough Hall. What am I to do?
“I see, but now he is gone, Marcus. What instructions did he leave you?”
“He, ah, well, he told me to continue.”
“Continue what?”
“Well, keeping things afloat, I suppose.”
“That is not acceptable, Marcus.” Frances sat forward in her chair, clasping her hands in her lap. “I am taking over management of the Desborough stud and racing stables. I have spoken at length with my father-in-law. I have learned of the former grandeur of Desborough. Indeed, his lordship’s brother, Nevil, kept up the tradition until his death. Things are now in utter disarray. It is outrageous and I will not allow it to continue.”
She drew to a temporary halt and stared at Marcus Carruthers.
“But you are a lady,” he began.
“Thank you for remarking on that, Marcus. Now, I have seen at least four three- and four-year-old colts, thoroughbreds, mind you, that are wandering about the paddocks, getting no training, eating their heads off, in short, costing us money, rather than winning us money. For heaven’s sake, the stableboys ride them for sport! Thoroughbreds! In addition, we have two magnificent Arabians and three Barbs, all with impeccable bloodlines, that could be earning us quite respectable sums in stud.”
“I know,” said Marcus, warming a bit. “I told his lordship that.”
“And he said?”
“He ... well, he wasn’t much interested.”