“Ambition,” said the marquess. “I believe Edmund has aspirations of equaling the records of Jersey and Derby. Can’t fault a man for that.”
“No, I suppose not,” said Hawk. But why, he wondered, had Lord Dempsey spoken of the Desborough stock? What would be “all over”?
For some reason Hawk couldn’t explain to himself, he made no mention of anything to Edmund. Their last evening together was amiable, and it seemed to Hawk that Edmund’s wishes for racing success were sincere. Beatrice was not so amiable, of course, but Hawk didn’t expect it from his sister.
Frances, sensitive to her husband’s moods, a consequence that troubled her not a little, found herself yet again entering her husband’s bedchamber late that night. This time he was in his dressing gown, not in his lovely natural state, sitting in front of the fireplace. A lone candle burned by his elbow.
She saw that he was holding a piece of paper in his left hand.
“What is this?” she asked, coming around his chair to face him, her finger pointing to the paper.
“Oh, Frances.” He grinned at her. “I was on my way to you, my dear. Are you so very anxious for my company?”
She refused to be drawn. “Something has disturbed you, Hawk. What is it? What is that?”
“Surely a husband is entitled to keep some things to himself, Frances,” he said. He carefully began folding the paper into a small square.
“Hawk ...” she began, straightening herself for battle.
“When are your sisters to arrive?” he asked, deflecting her charge.
“Oh, did I not tell you? I suppose I thought it my secret.” Hawk merely smiled at her. “Very well, my lord, Sophia wishes to wait until the fall. She said something about a Little Season and my sisters gaining their polish before they’re tossed into the marriage mart in the spring.”
“We shall contrive to gain you a bit more polish before you squire them about,” he said.
She watched him slip the small square of paper into the deep pocket of his dressing gown. He patted his thighs, and she decided a bit of guilt was in order. She gingerly set herself down, but made no move to cuddle against him.
“I sent the two hundred pounds I won at York to Sophia,” she said, her voice a challenge. “She told me of a grand seamstress in Glasgow.”
“Then the girls will likely be arriving in royal procession, for I sent another three hundred pounds to your father.”
That was something of a shock, and Frances gave him a brilliant smile. He felt the familiar stirrings of lust and drew her against his chest.
“You are so very unexpected,” she said, relaxing at the feel of his large hands roving up and down her back. He shifted his position and she felt his hardness against her bottom.
“Not really,” he said, grinning at her. “Just a simple man who wants to bed his wife.”
Frances could find no fault with this pronouncement. She could find no fault either with the following hour, and it wasn’t until she awoke the following morning that she remembered the square of paper Hawk had placed in the pocket of his dressing gown. Even then it was but a vague memory.
She was in Hawk’s bed, alone, and she was, she knew, smiling a very satisfied smile. I adore you, Frances. And then he’d come inside her, deeply and fully. She remembered vaguely telling him something, but she couldn’t recall her words. Had she told him she loved him? That made her frown a bit. She forced her mind to her other concern.
What was written on that piece of paper? Why hadn’t he wanted her to see it?
Two days later, Frances made her usual rounds in the stables. She’d gotten into the habit of working out Flying Davie over the five-mile track that wound over flatlands on the northern part of Desborough property, circling back to the paddock.
“You’ll be working out Tamerlane today, Lady Frances,” Belvis said.“Davie is to remain in the paddock this morning. I’ve got Timothy trying some of my special defense strategies.”
“I think he should carry a pistol,” Frances said, remembering the slash on Timothy’s thigh from another jockey’s riding crop.
Belvis chuckled. “Not a bad idea. Lord, it might come to that. I hear that the Duke of Portland is trying his damnedest to improve racing standards, but it’s slow going.”
Belvis gave Frances a toss onto Tamerlane’s back. “Remember to keep him close for the first mile.” He added on a grin, “You might imagine jockeys beside you—mean devils, the lot of them. Kick at them, my lady. Try some of your more colorful Scottish curses on them.”
She saluted him and click-clicked Tamerlane into the stableyard. She waved at her husband, then guided the stallion past the paddock to the flat field beyond. She laughed aloud with pleasure when Tamerlane snorted, jerking at the reins.
“You want to run, my boy,” she said, patting his glossy neck. “All right, let us show everyone what you are made of.”
Her riding hat was firmly fastened to her head, but when she loosed Tamerlane, she felt the wind tearing at it, and she smiled, feeling that mad exhilaration. Every so often, she turned her head to the side, growled at a vicious-looking jockey, and kicked out at him. Tamerlane held to his course.