answer, then you do not deserve to know it.”
And what did that mean? With that faraway look in her eyes, Hawk had feared she was dreaming of Chesterfield, the bloody knave, but now he was not so certain.
“Tell me,” Hawk said, to turn her thoughts. “How stands ‘the house that Jack built?’”
“It stands.”
“Always a promising beginning.”
Alex nodded. “It is improved in some respects,” she said. “And worse in others.”
“I regret that I did not make provisions for you all,” Hawk said. “You were right. I ought to be drawn and quartered.”
Alex tilted her head, considering his offer, as if perhaps he ought, and Hawk felt that old need to suffer for his failures. What better did he deserve? “You must have wanted to trounce me when you found out.”
“When you believe someone has died, your thoughts do not usually run toward vengeance,” she said. “But you should have realized, Bryce, that you could die in the war and that your heir might inherit. What were you thinking?”
He could offer no excuse, damn his eyes. He thought only of pleasing his dead father, but if he told her so, she would despise him the more, which he would deserve.
“What did faring off to glory get you, anyway?” she asked, “but dead, which might more easily be true, than not.”
“You are not telling me something I have not told myself a score of times. Now I have to undo the whole blasted mess, and my countenance does not help. Few people, if any, recognize me, though my voice, in some cases saves the day.”
“Your voice frightened me witless, coming from a derelict off the street, or so I thought you.”
Hawk paled and sat straighter. “My sincere apologies, Madam, but my physiognomy is not something that can be altered. God knows, I would, if I could.”
Alex sighed. “I have no aversion to your appearance, Bryce, which is not entirely unpleasing, you may not know. You were simply unknown to me at the time.”
“A derelict, Alex?”
“Look at your hair,” she said. “Did you ever, in your stylishly-groomed life, wear it wild and flowing away from your face, for all the world as if it were a lion’s mane? Though it is too devilish dark to be any such thing, of course. And those clothes. They are not even yours.”
Hawk fingered the frockcoat he might have tossed on the flames a war and a lifetime before. “Do you not appreciate my stylish attire? Is the weave of the fabric not fine enough for you?”
“As if clothes ever mattered a jot to me.”
“These clothes were a gift from the peasant family who nursed me back to health, I will have you know.” Hawk shook his head, but he could not help looking back. “I remember that they were as pleased to present them as I was to receive them. I have nothing else to wear, as things stand, and by the time Sabrina told me of your upcoming nuptials, I had less than an hour to stop you. I could think of no better way than to go myself, my destitute appearance notwithstanding.”
His words furrowed Alex’s brow. “Had you been in London long? And Sabrina knew you were there?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Hawk could not precisely say why he had been back so long without contacting Alex, because he could no more explain it to himself than to her, but knowing the length of time would only hurt her, so he decided on a temporary half-truth. “I have been back long enough to discover that you were no longer living in my London house and that you did, in fact, sell it, for which I planned to teach you some vengeful lesson.”
“I most certainly did not sell your house. What kind of lesson?”
“I learned the truth before your lesson was ever devised.” He shrugged. “I soon discovered that my heir tossed you out and later disposed of the townhouse, that you were living at Huntington Lodge and taking excellent care of the family. Again, thank you.”
“It was my pleasure,” she said. “I love them.”
Hawk grew uncomfortable with his inability to say
And what did that mean? With that faraway look in her eyes, Hawk had feared she was dreaming of Chesterfield, the bloody knave, but now he was not so certain.
“Tell me,” Hawk said, to turn her thoughts. “How stands ‘the house that Jack built?’”
“It stands.”
“Always a promising beginning.”
Alex nodded. “It is improved in some respects,” she said. “And worse in others.”
“I regret that I did not make provisions for you all,” Hawk said. “You were right. I ought to be drawn and quartered.”
Alex tilted her head, considering his offer, as if perhaps he ought, and Hawk felt that old need to suffer for his failures. What better did he deserve? “You must have wanted to trounce me when you found out.”
“When you believe someone has died, your thoughts do not usually run toward vengeance,” she said. “But you should have realized, Bryce, that you could die in the war and that your heir might inherit. What were you thinking?”
He could offer no excuse, damn his eyes. He thought only of pleasing his dead father, but if he told her so, she would despise him the more, which he would deserve.
“What did faring off to glory get you, anyway?” she asked, “but dead, which might more easily be true, than not.”
“You are not telling me something I have not told myself a score of times. Now I have to undo the whole blasted mess, and my countenance does not help. Few people, if any, recognize me, though my voice, in some cases saves the day.”
“Your voice frightened me witless, coming from a derelict off the street, or so I thought you.”
Hawk paled and sat straighter. “My sincere apologies, Madam, but my physiognomy is not something that can be altered. God knows, I would, if I could.”
Alex sighed. “I have no aversion to your appearance, Bryce, which is not entirely unpleasing, you may not know. You were simply unknown to me at the time.”
“A derelict, Alex?”
“Look at your hair,” she said. “Did you ever, in your stylishly-groomed life, wear it wild and flowing away from your face, for all the world as if it were a lion’s mane? Though it is too devilish dark to be any such thing, of course. And those clothes. They are not even yours.”
Hawk fingered the frockcoat he might have tossed on the flames a war and a lifetime before. “Do you not appreciate my stylish attire? Is the weave of the fabric not fine enough for you?”
“As if clothes ever mattered a jot to me.”
“These clothes were a gift from the peasant family who nursed me back to health, I will have you know.” Hawk shook his head, but he could not help looking back. “I remember that they were as pleased to present them as I was to receive them. I have nothing else to wear, as things stand, and by the time Sabrina told me of your upcoming nuptials, I had less than an hour to stop you. I could think of no better way than to go myself, my destitute appearance notwithstanding.”
His words furrowed Alex’s brow. “Had you been in London long? And Sabrina knew you were there?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Hawk could not precisely say why he had been back so long without contacting Alex, because he could no more explain it to himself than to her, but knowing the length of time would only hurt her, so he decided on a temporary half-truth. “I have been back long enough to discover that you were no longer living in my London house and that you did, in fact, sell it, for which I planned to teach you some vengeful lesson.”
“I most certainly did not sell your house. What kind of lesson?”
“I learned the truth before your lesson was ever devised.” He shrugged. “I soon discovered that my heir tossed you out and later disposed of the townhouse, that you were living at Huntington Lodge and taking excellent care of the family. Again, thank you.”
“It was my pleasure,” she said. “I love them.”
Hawk grew uncomfortable with his inability to say
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