than a man needed to see.
Still, that was neither here nor there.
She crossed her arms and narrowed her gaze. “Have you taken my journal from the library, Mr. Hawke?”
“It’s Lord Hawke,” he said. “But you may call me Neville. And yes, I do have your journal in my possession. Olivia.”
At once the alarm bells in her head which had sounded only a muffled din began wildly to clang. “It is Miss Byrde to you,” she stated, her voice cold and haughty. She stuck out her hand. “I’ll have it from you now.”
He stepped nearer; she snatched her arm back.
“I’d like to speak to you about that very topic.” He pushed open the door to the sitting room. “Shall we?”
Olivia took two hasty steps backward. “I don’t think so. All I want from you is my book, Lord Hawke. Nothing more. Just give it to me now and I will try to forget your appalling behavior last night—and your rudeness this morning.”
He grinned, a wicked half-grin that showed strong white teeth against his sun-browned face. She saw now the details
she’d had no time to see last night: the crooked scar along his jawline, the thick black hair and slashing brows, and the moody blue eyes. A Gypsy horse trader in gentleman’s attire, that’s what he looked like. Dark and dangerous with nothing of the true gentleman beneath his handsome exterior.
“I’m afraid I shall never be able to forget last night,” he said in a husky, intimate whisper. “I’d hoped you felt the same.”
“I’m sure I shall never forget it,” she snapped right back at him. “It was a figure of speech, as you well know. I meant only that I would not mention it to our hosts and thereby ruin what Mr. and Mrs. Cummings mean to be a pleasant holiday for their guests.”
“I don’t see why—” He broke off and stared intently at her, his head cocked slightly to one side. Slowly his smug expression faded. “Our hosts? You are acquainted with Mrs. Cummings—or rather, she is acquainted with you?”
“Of course. Like you, I am her guest in the company of my mother, Lady Dunmore. What did you think—”
“You are a guest here?”
Olivia frowned. Something was more than strange about this conversation. “I said that I was. Why else would I be here—”
“What were you doing wandering around before dawn?” he interrupted her, his tone hard and accusing.
“I could not sleep, not that it is any concern of yours. Why were you up? No. No, you needn’t answer. ’Tis clear enough why you were up: to make a drunken fool of yourself.”
It was a sharp set-down—deserved, to be sure. Nonetheless, Olivia was not accustomed to flinging insults at anyone. She’d never had the need. But this Mr. Hawke—Lord Hawke—seemed hardly to hear her curt remark.
“Bloody hell,” he swore under his breath. “You are a lady.”
“What else did you think?” She stared harder at him, then suddenly let out a sarcastic laugh. “Oh yes, you thought I was a servant, didn’t you? You thought I was a servant and therefore amenable to the attentions of a peer, no matter how repugnant those attentions might be. You were hoping to compromise
an innocent housemaid.” She laughed at his discomfiture, though with little true mirth.
A muscle began to tick in his jaw. It was plain she’d figured him out, and plain also that he did not relish being made a fool of. Served him right, the cad.
“Actually,” he said, his eyes dark and piercing upon her. “What I thought was that you were Cummings’s paramour, come fresh from his bed.”
Olivia gasped. “What?”
“Then I read your journal,” he continued, scowling at her as if she had somehow done him wrong. “Endless entries and every one of them concerning a different man. Their habits, good and bad. Their financial situations. If you are as proper as this morning you profess to be, then what do all those entries signify?”
“You read my private journal!” Olivia had been angry before but that puny emotion paled
Still, that was neither here nor there.
She crossed her arms and narrowed her gaze. “Have you taken my journal from the library, Mr. Hawke?”
“It’s Lord Hawke,” he said. “But you may call me Neville. And yes, I do have your journal in my possession. Olivia.”
At once the alarm bells in her head which had sounded only a muffled din began wildly to clang. “It is Miss Byrde to you,” she stated, her voice cold and haughty. She stuck out her hand. “I’ll have it from you now.”
He stepped nearer; she snatched her arm back.
“I’d like to speak to you about that very topic.” He pushed open the door to the sitting room. “Shall we?”
Olivia took two hasty steps backward. “I don’t think so. All I want from you is my book, Lord Hawke. Nothing more. Just give it to me now and I will try to forget your appalling behavior last night—and your rudeness this morning.”
He grinned, a wicked half-grin that showed strong white teeth against his sun-browned face. She saw now the details
she’d had no time to see last night: the crooked scar along his jawline, the thick black hair and slashing brows, and the moody blue eyes. A Gypsy horse trader in gentleman’s attire, that’s what he looked like. Dark and dangerous with nothing of the true gentleman beneath his handsome exterior.
“I’m afraid I shall never be able to forget last night,” he said in a husky, intimate whisper. “I’d hoped you felt the same.”
“I’m sure I shall never forget it,” she snapped right back at him. “It was a figure of speech, as you well know. I meant only that I would not mention it to our hosts and thereby ruin what Mr. and Mrs. Cummings mean to be a pleasant holiday for their guests.”
“I don’t see why—” He broke off and stared intently at her, his head cocked slightly to one side. Slowly his smug expression faded. “Our hosts? You are acquainted with Mrs. Cummings—or rather, she is acquainted with you?”
“Of course. Like you, I am her guest in the company of my mother, Lady Dunmore. What did you think—”
“You are a guest here?”
Olivia frowned. Something was more than strange about this conversation. “I said that I was. Why else would I be here—”
“What were you doing wandering around before dawn?” he interrupted her, his tone hard and accusing.
“I could not sleep, not that it is any concern of yours. Why were you up? No. No, you needn’t answer. ’Tis clear enough why you were up: to make a drunken fool of yourself.”
It was a sharp set-down—deserved, to be sure. Nonetheless, Olivia was not accustomed to flinging insults at anyone. She’d never had the need. But this Mr. Hawke—Lord Hawke—seemed hardly to hear her curt remark.
“Bloody hell,” he swore under his breath. “You are a lady.”
“What else did you think?” She stared harder at him, then suddenly let out a sarcastic laugh. “Oh yes, you thought I was a servant, didn’t you? You thought I was a servant and therefore amenable to the attentions of a peer, no matter how repugnant those attentions might be. You were hoping to compromise
an innocent housemaid.” She laughed at his discomfiture, though with little true mirth.
A muscle began to tick in his jaw. It was plain she’d figured him out, and plain also that he did not relish being made a fool of. Served him right, the cad.
“Actually,” he said, his eyes dark and piercing upon her. “What I thought was that you were Cummings’s paramour, come fresh from his bed.”
Olivia gasped. “What?”
“Then I read your journal,” he continued, scowling at her as if she had somehow done him wrong. “Endless entries and every one of them concerning a different man. Their habits, good and bad. Their financial situations. If you are as proper as this morning you profess to be, then what do all those entries signify?”
“You read my private journal!” Olivia had been angry before but that puny emotion paled
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