next words stopped her. “I meant my apology most sincerely, Miss Byrde. I can only beg the ill effects of too much spirits for my appalling behavior last night.”
Olivia looked up at him, somewhat mollified by his words though she did not wish to be. It was safer to be angry with him than to feel these strange stammering emotions that made no sense. She nodded. “Good day, Lord Hawke.”
“One more thing before you go. Something I don’t understand,” he continued. “You have not explained the meaning of those entries in your journal. Why do you write of so many men?”
Anger rushed in to save her. “That is none of your concern.”
“Perhaps not. But I’ve a curious nature and I find myself often beguiled by matters not entirely of my concern.” He was grinning now, a cynical, one-sided smile that made a mockery of his apology.
“Well, that is simply your misfortune.” She stared at him with frosty eyes. “I expect you to honor me with the same discretion you demanded.”
“Of course.” Then he added, “I wish it had been otherwise.”
She gave him a smug, utterly false smile. “If you refer to our initial meeting, I’m afraid it’s much too late to undo what has already transpired.”
Rather than chastening him, however, her contemptuous tone seemed to challenge him instead, for those moody blue eyes of his swept over her, head to toe, darkening as they went. “I’m afraid you mistake my meaning. What I wish to be otherwise is you, Miss Byrde. Were you the sort of woman I initially believed,” he continued, “I’d be a far happier fellow than I presently find myself.”
For a moment Olivia did not precisely understand him. Then his meaning—his lewd and insulting meaning—dawned on her, and color flooded her face. To make matters worse, the outrageous rogue had the effrontery to wink at her and grin. “Good day,” he said without the least show of remorse for his unforgivable behavior.
Then he strode nonchalantly away, and Olivia could only gape at him—insulted, appalled, and perversely enough, flattered.
CHAPTER 5
NEVILLE ran his hands down the filly’s flank. She was ready. He had worried about her, but Otis had assured him that the trip from Woodford Court would only strengthen her leg. He smoothed his palm down her rump and along the muscle she’d injured two months previously. Yes, she was ready.
“All right, Kitti. Let’s show them what you’ve got beneath that pretty little exterior of yours.”
As if she understood, the filly whickered, then butted him with her head. She was as fine an animal as had ever come out of the Woodford stables. Even his father’s mare, Valentine, had not been so perfect as young Kittiwake.
Bart Tillotson, his trainer, leaned over the stall door. “She’ll take the ladies’ race,” he said, then spat into the corner for emphasis.
“But can she race two days afterward against the gents? Can she hold her own against Fleming’s horse or that deep-chested animal of Wagner’s?”
Bart nodded. “If the leg holds tomorrow, she’ll be good when the three-year-olds run.” He came into the stall and knelt beside the leg in question. “She’s a brave one, our Kittiwake.” He patted the horse with true affection. “She won’t back down against those bad boys. She’ll show ‘em her pretty rump and lead ’em a merry chase.”
That she would, Neville agreed as he moved on to check Kestrel, the acknowledged star of his stables. But as he crooned a nameless tune to the rambunctious animal and slipped him a dried apple from his pocket, Bart’s words echoed in his head. She won’t back down from those bad boys.
She’ll lead ’em a merry chase . Only it was not the thoroughbred Kitti he was thinking of. It was the thoroughbred Miss Olivia Byrde.
With just a few discreet inquiries he’d determined that she was precisely who she said she was: the daughter of the widowed Lady Dunmore and the late Cameron Byrde. Of more interest,
Olivia looked up at him, somewhat mollified by his words though she did not wish to be. It was safer to be angry with him than to feel these strange stammering emotions that made no sense. She nodded. “Good day, Lord Hawke.”
“One more thing before you go. Something I don’t understand,” he continued. “You have not explained the meaning of those entries in your journal. Why do you write of so many men?”
Anger rushed in to save her. “That is none of your concern.”
“Perhaps not. But I’ve a curious nature and I find myself often beguiled by matters not entirely of my concern.” He was grinning now, a cynical, one-sided smile that made a mockery of his apology.
“Well, that is simply your misfortune.” She stared at him with frosty eyes. “I expect you to honor me with the same discretion you demanded.”
“Of course.” Then he added, “I wish it had been otherwise.”
She gave him a smug, utterly false smile. “If you refer to our initial meeting, I’m afraid it’s much too late to undo what has already transpired.”
Rather than chastening him, however, her contemptuous tone seemed to challenge him instead, for those moody blue eyes of his swept over her, head to toe, darkening as they went. “I’m afraid you mistake my meaning. What I wish to be otherwise is you, Miss Byrde. Were you the sort of woman I initially believed,” he continued, “I’d be a far happier fellow than I presently find myself.”
For a moment Olivia did not precisely understand him. Then his meaning—his lewd and insulting meaning—dawned on her, and color flooded her face. To make matters worse, the outrageous rogue had the effrontery to wink at her and grin. “Good day,” he said without the least show of remorse for his unforgivable behavior.
Then he strode nonchalantly away, and Olivia could only gape at him—insulted, appalled, and perversely enough, flattered.
CHAPTER 5
NEVILLE ran his hands down the filly’s flank. She was ready. He had worried about her, but Otis had assured him that the trip from Woodford Court would only strengthen her leg. He smoothed his palm down her rump and along the muscle she’d injured two months previously. Yes, she was ready.
“All right, Kitti. Let’s show them what you’ve got beneath that pretty little exterior of yours.”
As if she understood, the filly whickered, then butted him with her head. She was as fine an animal as had ever come out of the Woodford stables. Even his father’s mare, Valentine, had not been so perfect as young Kittiwake.
Bart Tillotson, his trainer, leaned over the stall door. “She’ll take the ladies’ race,” he said, then spat into the corner for emphasis.
“But can she race two days afterward against the gents? Can she hold her own against Fleming’s horse or that deep-chested animal of Wagner’s?”
Bart nodded. “If the leg holds tomorrow, she’ll be good when the three-year-olds run.” He came into the stall and knelt beside the leg in question. “She’s a brave one, our Kittiwake.” He patted the horse with true affection. “She won’t back down against those bad boys. She’ll show ‘em her pretty rump and lead ’em a merry chase.”
That she would, Neville agreed as he moved on to check Kestrel, the acknowledged star of his stables. But as he crooned a nameless tune to the rambunctious animal and slipped him a dried apple from his pocket, Bart’s words echoed in his head. She won’t back down from those bad boys.
She’ll lead ’em a merry chase . Only it was not the thoroughbred Kitti he was thinking of. It was the thoroughbred Miss Olivia Byrde.
With just a few discreet inquiries he’d determined that she was precisely who she said she was: the daughter of the widowed Lady Dunmore and the late Cameron Byrde. Of more interest,
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