“You needn’t worry. I will proceed from here.”
“Do you intend to look for Lady Farnwell yourself?”
“Perhaps. I want to discuss the plan with Macky.”
“If you go to Ireland, I ought to accompany you. Uncle Cornelius is my family. I should be part of finding his true love. If we do, I hope to persuade her to return to England to be reunited with him and her daughter.”
“You can write her a letter.”
“Lady Farnwell might not heed a letter. I would stand a better chance if I make my request in person.”
“You are jumping the gun,” Hawkhurst replied patiently. “We must find her before moving on to the next step. You may trust me to act appropriately.”
She did trust him, Skye acknowledged. He was intriguing to watch in action—dynamic, decisive, sharp-witted, but with a kindly touch that had put an old woman at ease. This was the real Lord Hawkhurst, she decided … a far different man than the dour recluse or the grieving widower she had known over the past two days.
When they reached his home, however, the familiar grimness seemed to descend over Hawkhurst once more. His tone was curt when he escorted her inside the front hall. “I have asked the housekeeper to stay the next few nights at the castle to act as your chaperone.”
“Do you fear being alone with me?” Skye asked lightly, but apparently he was done bantering. He gave her a dismissive look before turning to stride off toward his study.
“May we at least dine together this evening?” Skye called after him.
“Yes,” he answered gruffly. “For now I have your uncle’s business to attend to. I will see you at seven.”
At the arranged hour, Hawkhurst appeared in the kitchens, dressed once more in his casual attire. Her body was instantly aware of him, but Skye tried to suppress her desire when he joined her at the servants’ dining table.
The dinner this time was more in keeping with the usual fare suitable for an earl. They enjoyed less privacy also. Mrs. Hannah Yeats, the housekeeper, along with two of the maids, Maria and Betty, bustled to and fro, serving a variety of dishes.
Over the meal, Hawkhurst reported that he had sent a messenger to London to summon Macky. Beau Macklin was his real name, Skye learned, and he had formerly been an actor, but she gleaned nothing more except that he would likely arrive on the morrow.
When they were finished eating, Hawkhurst made to excuse himself.
“Would you care for a game of chess?” she asked. “Aunt Isabella says you play, and I brought my own set.”
“Indeed?” His gaze fixed on her. “You were awfully certain of gaining admittance, weren’t you?”
She sent him a bright-eyed look. “Not certain, merely hopeful. I must warn you, I am rather good at chess since my brother taught me. Quinn is actually quite brilliant when it comes to strategy.”
“Perhaps some other time.”
“Are you afraid you will be beaten by a woman?”
A knowing glimmer lit his eyes and turned the hue to silver. “This is your latest attempt to distract me, isn’t it, Lady Skye?”
She dimpled. “Well, yes—but I think a little distraction would stand you in good stead at the moment. Otherwise you will just hide away in your study and drink brandy all evening.”
His mouth twisted. “After last night, I have temporarily lost any taste for brandy.”
Skye felt it was progress if he could refer jokingly to his overindulgence.
He
was a superb chess player, she soon discovered when they repaired to his study. He beat her soundly twice, although the third game was closer. When she stifled a yawn, he proposed they retire for the evening.
“Separately?” she asked although she knew the answer. “I suppose with Mrs. Yeats here, we ought not sleep together in the same room.”
His response was very dry. “You suppose correctly. In fact, we will never sleep in the same room again.”
Skye refrained from arguing that point, even though she had every hope of changing his mind. “What if I have another nightmare? Or what if you do?”