Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

H awke would not have thought it possible, but somehow the persuasive Miss Lovie Wright finagled a yes from her brother and Hawke's newest friend, Rochester. His plans included being on his best behavior, but that didn't mean he wouldn't enjoy a dose of healthy banter.

Such a grim trip now held the promise of a positive memory. If all went well, they'd be back in Mayfair by Christmas day and celebrating with punch and mistletoe, and perhaps he'd be granted that kiss by Miss Wright. The whole ridiculous idea was all in fun, but he couldn't deny that he held out hope of her relenting and giving in to her own wish. It wouldn't do for him to initiate something so daring, but if she did, it would be a request he could not afford to refuse.

As with most things in life, reality could not bear the burden of speculative planning, and after Miss Wright bid her brother ado, the day collapsed into awkward silence. He felt as if he were in a cave that had no exit. Even the posting houses were but a small break because making good time on the road had been paramount.

But he'd done it. He'd traveled the countryside with a near stranger, which was nothing like his trip across the Atlantic. Crossing an ocean was not the same as sharing a coach with a beautiful woman, but the banter they had shared at the house had vanished, replaced by quiet indifference. Or so it seemed.

As they neared his grandmother's estate, the confines of the coach felt less suffocating. The misty winter scenery was like fresh air.

"Is that the place?" Miss Wright asked, her voice filled with wonder as she leaned to peer out the window.

Hawke dipped his head to see, searching the horizon and spotting the grand manor set on a sprawling rise that overlooked the expanse of property. He couldn't tell from that distance what kind of shape it was in, but his expectations were few, though his memories of the place were grand. "I believe it is."

"How long has it been since you've seen it?" She turned her attention toward him.

His gaze held to the scenery, and he swallowed a measure of panic. "A long time." His voice came out whisper thin, and he wondered if she'd heard. He took a deep breath and sat back. "I was seventeen." He shook his head. "Lord, twelve years it has been. How could I have stayed away so long?" Internal questions spoken out loud rarely require an answer. When he turned his attention to Miss Wright, she was staring at him with a look of concern and sympathy. He welcomed neither.

"I am but a couple of hours from here, near Saffron Walden. We passed it if you recall."

He nodded.

"I'll see you in a few days. Will you be all right on your own? I imagine there are servants about. Yes?"

He blinked away the melancholy that came over him when they pulled into the drive. "I believe so. Honestly, I'd prefer to be alone. Don't worry about me." He tried for a genuine smile but couldn't be sure if he achieved it.

Mr. Evans, the current butler, greeted him when he knocked on the ominous front door and proceeded to introduce Mrs. Baker, the housekeeper. Both looked to be in their fifties. Mrs. Baker's hair still held some hint of color, possibly a brunette if he had to guess. Mr. Evans had white hair that circled his head like a wreath, leaving the top as bare as a baby's bottom. There were several gardeners, a half dozen or so maids, and footmen. The house looked well-kept and attended, but what he wanted—what he needed—was privacy. Mr. Evans balked when Hawke suggested the entire staff be given a few days off for the Christmas holiday. He even offered to pay for their travel and any expenses. He felt the extravagant use of his inheritance would be well spent if it gave him added time to process the experience.

In the end, the cook insisted on stocking food for a few days, which Hawke appreciated, and most of the staff gladly took advantage of the free holiday he offered.

He roamed the house well into the night, starting with the attic. Toys, old clothes, furniture, and trunks. He picked up a tin elephant, gray with spiky tusks, its feet attached to wheels rusted stiff. He wondered if his father had played with it, pulling it along by the long string attached to a metal ring soldered to the curled trunk. There were also dolls whose eyes, round and vacant, seemed to watch over the stowed, forgotten items. Were they his grandmother's, or did she once have a daughter? His father never spoke of siblings, and he always assumed there had been none.

He wandered the second floor looking for an appropriate place to sleep, finding his grandmother's stateroom instead. He ran a hand down the sunny yellow counterpane, pausing near the pillow and looking on as if she were there. His eyes misted. He missed her, of course, but most of all, he missed the idea of family. His had been a rich upbringing, with love. He'd even corresponded as often as possible with his grandmother.

On her side table was a likeness of him at fifteen years and another as a young man of two-and-twenty. They were a comfort. On her bureau, a half dozen miniatures graced an intricately tatted doily—his father, his mother, another one of him as a young boy, a woman who might have been an aunt, and one of his grandfathers who Hawke recognized himself in. But the one he searched for was placed next to his grandfather. In it, his grandmother, Beverly Doris Hawke, was a young woman with hair painted hazelnut brown and eyes shaded as blue as cornflowers.

He'd missed so much of his extended family while living an ocean away. He was a man of two continents, and although he would not have given up the life he led, he equally missed the one he would never know.

On day two, he roamed the property as much as the weather permitted. The ground was ripe for planting, and he imagined a pasture green and spotted with sheep. The paperwork spoke of cottagers, but he didn't go so far as to find them. Instead, he trekked back to the manor, found a bottle of brandy, and threw himself into a club chair. On the second night, he drank his dinner and passed out in the drawing room.

* * *

Lovie spent two days reading over the household accounts, relishing the time away, and not looking forward to the drive home tomorrow. She'd pick up Mr. Hawke and endure another ten hours of virtual silence on the way back to London.

Part of her had worried about him, and more than once, his chiseled jaw and laughing eyes interrupted her dreams. He looked so lost when she left his estate, but there were servants to care for him, and she could only imagine the ghosts in that house. The few memories he carried would surely be difficult enough, but the memories that truly hurt are the kind that eat away at one's conscience. And if she recognized anything in that hooded expression, it was grief. He'd lost his chance to see his grandmother again, and he would wander that house playing out scenarios that might have been. She knew this feeling too well, as she had often done the same with dreams of her mother.

For the first time since Mr. Hawke had arrived at Rochester's, she painfully realized what kind of holiday the poor man had in front of him. No family, only strangers. No comfort dishes to consume. No memorable reverie around the pianoforte. In a room full of strangers, he was more apt to feel more alone than if he had stayed on the other side of the world.

Had she been a little hard on him? Possibly.

When she picked him up tomorrow, she purposed to be happy, friendly, and talkative. Neither of them had spoken much during their journey there, and she meant to alter that on their return trip to London.

Good cheer, good attitude, and good company—that was her only thought the following morning when she set out to retrieve Mr. Hawke.

For the two-hour trek, she mused and planned their greeting. "Hello, Mr. Hawke. I hope you fared well," she'd say. And then he'd say, "Why yes, Miss Wright." And then he'd probably suggest something about a kiss, and she would not be riled by it but understand he was a hurting soul and needed her comfort, even if that meant taking a ribbing from him. She practiced not blushing, which was pointless because the man made her blush with a look.

Buried deep under a strict veneer of self-discipline, she was aware of her attraction to him, and she had little doubt of his for her, but it was simply an infatuation for something new. She gave the fluttering heart and dropping stomach no more than a passing thought. She certainly wasn't dwelling on the shape of his mouth curved into a devilish smile, the way his cheek dimpled and made him look like a pirate, or his eyes, a deep earthy brown that warmed her whenever he looked her way.

Well, hang it all, she felt a blush rise just thinking about it.

As the drive came into view, she composed herself, pulled her coiled hair over her shoulder, fixed the hood of her cloak, and prepared to stay calm, cool, and in control.

"Allow me, my lady," her footman said after she tried to knock on the door for the fourth time. The footman gave a forceful clang of the brass hammer, which he repeated thrice.

Lovie made a fist banging the heavy oak door with her gloved hand. "Where do you suppose the butler is, Mr. Jakes?"

"I couldn't guess, my lady."

"Well, there's nothing for it. Here's to hoping the door is unlocked and we're not taken for thieves." She tried the handle, and the door gave way. She couldn't hazard a guess where the occupants might be.

The foyer appeared tended, swept, artfully decorated in warm, ruddy tones set off by a beautiful black-and-white checkered marble floor. She eyed a grand staircase that rose from the middle of the room, and several spacious hallways leading from the first floor to God knows where. Like a child's game, she randomly selected the left hallway and cautiously peeked around each corner until she came upon an open room where a fire glowed from within.

"This must be it," she said to the footman, who looked as curious as she felt. Tugging her traveling costume into place, she rounded the doorway to a stately drawing room, where half the furniture was covered in white sheets, revealing one occupant. She nervously turned to the footman and quickly excused him from the room.

"What have we here?" she asked the room at large.

Hawke sat with his back to the drawing-room door. His arms extended like bird's wings across the back of the sofa with a drink in hand and his booted feet crossed on the tea table. He groaned at her question.

"Did you not hear me banging on the front door? And where are all the servants?" She came around the sofa to see him with his head lolled back, peering at her with one eye open. He was obviously soused.

"There weren't many, to begin with, and I sent them away."

"Your feet are going to scuff that perfectly beautiful table." She advanced, her reticule hanging from one arm, swinging while she shoved his dirty boots from the polished wood with her clean gloved hands.

Thrown off-balance as his feet hit the floor, he abruptly sat forward, holding out his hand in an attempt to keep the contents of his glass from sloshing out. His wrist took the brunt of the splash, leaving a stain of spirits clinging to his open shirt cuff. "You're back early." He had taken on a blaming tone as if finding him drunk was her fault.

"I am not." She dusted off her gloves. "If you don't know what day it is, I'll tell you. It's three days past a good shave, according to your beard."

He toasted her with a half-lidded gaze, raising his close-to-empty glass. "Does it offend you, darling?"

"In your current compromising condition, yes." In truth, he looked rather handsome and piratical, and she was secretly tempted to pull off her gloves and rub a palm against his rough cheek.

"My current condition is spinning. Or the room is spinning. I can't tell which. I'm rather sick to my stomach." He closed his eyes again.

"What have you eaten?"

He held up the tumbler in answer, grinning and eyeing her dreamily through his dark lashes. When she put her hands to her hips, he smirked, a handsome half smile, to be sure, mischievous almost.

"What a lovely way to break your fast."

"Lovely," he said the word with a far-off look of contemplation. "Lovely Lovie." He turned his gaze on her. "Lovie? Who the hell named you?"

"If you were sober, I vow I would take offense. However, seeing you in such a dreadful state simply makes me feel sorry for you."

"I meant no offense." He waved his hand as if a fly were irritating him. "I happen to think it's adorable."

"The name or me?"

"Aha! You do care what I think. You will kiss me, Lovie Wright, mark my words. And of your own free will." He laid his head back, his eyes closed, and he sighed with pleasure. "I cannot wait."