Flying Davie butted his nose against Belvis’ sleeve at that moment. The old man smiled. He said to Frances, “I shall stay until we know—one way or the t‘other.”
“Excellent,” Frances said, and shook his hand. She was smiling until she sat down in the estate room, a quill in her hand, a blank sheet of pressed paper before her. “Oh curse you, my lord!” she muttered, and set the quill to paper.
14
There was all the world and his wife.
—JOHNATHAN SWIFT
Hawk tapped his long fingers against the sheet of paper. He hadn’t appreciated being reminded of Frances’ existence, and here she had written him a letter! And what a letter ...
Odd, he thought, frowning as he studied her neat black script. Why the devil did she care about the stud? And she knew nothing of racing, at least he didn’t think she did. He felt a moment of sheer perversity, then grinned at himself. He slipped the page back in its envelope and shoved it into his desk drawer. No, he wouldn’t sell anything, but not because of her letter.
Such a show of excitement, of passion, from such a little dowd. He shook his head. He simply couldn’t imagine Frances interested in his high-strung race horses, for God’s sake. Certainly she would cower, afraid that they would bite her. He wondered if his father had set her up to do this, then shook his head at himself. That was not, to his firsthand knowledge, his sire’s way.
He toyed with the idea of writing to her to assure her that he had no further plans to sell. No, he decided, memory of her coldness, her ill-mannered behavior toward her husband rekindling his anger at her. Let her stew in her own juices.
He took himself off to another ball that evening, danced with Constance and a multitude of other ladies, flirted shamelessly with his hostess, Aurelia Mark-ham, and left at eleven o‘clock.
He thought to go to White’s, but changed his mind. He wanted, needed Amalie.
Amalie was ensconced in her favorite chair in her small drawing room reading Voltaire’s Candide. She was laughing in delight when she heard the door knocker. Hawk, she thought, and quickly stuffed the volume beneath the chair cushion.
Marie was in bed in her small bedchamber. Amalie opened the door, her smile welcoming. “Bonsoir, mon faucon,” she said, and opened her arms to him.
“I’m a horny goat,” Hawk said by way of greeting, and began to nibble her earlobe.
“You are always that randy animal,” she agreed, and lovingly stroked her hand over the ready bulge in his trousers.
He was also a randy animal husband, and that bothered Amalie. She wanted to laugh at herself for this most odd display of principle.
Because he was an exquisite lover, Hawk brought her pleasure first even though his own need was urgent.
“Most acceptable for a goat,” Amalie said, rubbing her hands over his strong smooth back. He was still breathing heavily, his face beside hers on the pillow.
“Thank you,” Hawk said dryly, heaving himself off her. He lay on his back, pillowing his head on his arms, and stared at nothing in particular.
“Something has happened to disturb you?”
He started at that, but shook his head vehemently.
“Come, mon cher,” she said gently, speaking before her mind had censored her thoughts, “you know very well that what the famous Corneille says is quite true: By speaking of our misfortunes we often relieve them.”
“Corneille?” he repeated in some astonishment. He turned to look at her closely and saw that she was flushing. Actually flushing! He grinned and ran his fingertip over her full lips. “A bluestocking mistress? How very delightful!”
“I am not this bluestocking,” she said, frowning at him. “I am no ignorant person, that is all.”
That drew him up short yet again. A person. He had always been fond of Amalie. She was pretty, she was gay, and she pandered to his every wish. She wasn’t rapacious or greedy, she was loving. She’d feigned pleasure with him but once, but never again. Oh no, he hadn’t allowed that. But she was a mistress, for God’s sake. Had he been so very blind to her?
“And there is another thing,” Amalie said, her lips tightening at what she thought was her lover’s amusement. “Voltaire says that we should cultive our garden. A noble sentiment. And you, my lord, have left your garden in the north ... well, untended!”
“The devil you say,” H
awk said slowly. “This is incredible ... a mistress championing a wife?”
She continued frowning at him.
“Done in by a damned Frenchman,” he said, running his fingers through his hair. “Look, Amalie, let’s not speak of her, all right? Indeed, I don’t want to speak at all this moment.”