It was huge, with cupolas and dormers and so many windows that the setting sun flashed back in such brilliance that it looked almost as if the house were on fire.
The edifice reminded him of a wedding cake, white and tiered. But the tiers did not end with the house. Even the surrounding lawn was built up in a series of beautifully landscaped terraces that worked up from the road to the base of the house itself.
A large white-graveled driveway made a U in front of the house where a coach and four sat at the ready, its highly polished paint job glistening in the setting sun. A crest of some sort was on the door of the coach.
Hawke had started toward the broad steps leading up to the front porch when Pamela and her father came out to meet him. Seeing Pamela, Hawke couldn’t hold back a gasp of surprise. He would have been hard pressed to identify her as the same bedraggled-looking young woman he last saw wearing his rolled-up jeans and flannel shirt.
The woman who greeted him now looked as if she had just stepped down from a fine oil painting. She was wearing an off-the-shoulder dress with a neckline that plunged low enough to show the top of her breasts, though a red silk rose strategically placed at the cleavage helped preserve some modesty. The dress itself was clinging yellow silk, overlaid with lace. Her coiffure featured a pile of curls on top and a French roll that hung down her neck.
The intensity of Hawke’s gaze made Pamela uneasy. With a nervous laugh she touched her hair.
“Have I gone green?” she asked.
“What?”
“You are staring with such concentration,” she said.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Hawke apologized. “It’s just that…well, you must admit, this is quite a change from the way I last saw you.
“Well, I would hope so,” Pamela said. “And speaking of changes, I must say that you do look more like a knight now than when you rode to my rescue. Oh, wait, you didn’t exactly ride to my rescue, did you? As I recall, you had clumsily killed all the horses.”
Hawke laughed as well. “I had indeed,” he agreed. “And speaking of horses, I want to thank you, Mr. Dorchester, for the loan of the horse tonight. He is certainly a fine animal.”
“It isn’t a loan,” Dorchester said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“It isn’t a loan,” Dorchester repeated. “It is a gift. I have the bill of sale inside.”
Hawke held out his hand in protest. “Oh, no, Mr. Dorchester, I could never accept such a gift.”
“Why not? Do you think Pamela isn’t worth a horse?”
“What? No, no, I didn’t mean to imply anything like that.”
“Then prove it by accepting this gift.”
Hawke was about to protest again but stopped, sighed, then chuckled. “All right, Mr. Dorchester. I’ll be glad to accept the horse, and I offer you my sincerest thanks for it.”
“You are welcome,” Dorchester replied.
“Good,” Pamela said. “Now that that is all settled, shall we go inside?”
“Show him around a bit, would you, Pamela?” her father said. “I’ll check on our dinner.”
“Your arm, sir?” Pamela said, reaching for Hawke.
He held his arm out and she took it, then led him inside. She was so close to him, her body pressed against his, thathe could feel the warmth of her curves. There was a suggestion of perfume—heady, but not overpowering.
They walked down a long, wide hall, on a floor so highly polished that it reflected the items of furniture standing on it as clearly as if it were a mirror. Along the way, as if standing guard, were several polished suits of armor and painted shields. All the shields were decorated with the same crest: Against a white background, a blue mailed fist clutched a golden sword, placed at the intersection of a red St. Andrew’s Cross.
“Your father’s coat of arms?” Hawke asked, nodding toward one of the shields.
“That’s the coat of arms of the Earldom of Preston. I am told, by the way, that a distant ancestor of mine, the first Earl of
The edifice reminded him of a wedding cake, white and tiered. But the tiers did not end with the house. Even the surrounding lawn was built up in a series of beautifully landscaped terraces that worked up from the road to the base of the house itself.
A large white-graveled driveway made a U in front of the house where a coach and four sat at the ready, its highly polished paint job glistening in the setting sun. A crest of some sort was on the door of the coach.
Hawke had started toward the broad steps leading up to the front porch when Pamela and her father came out to meet him. Seeing Pamela, Hawke couldn’t hold back a gasp of surprise. He would have been hard pressed to identify her as the same bedraggled-looking young woman he last saw wearing his rolled-up jeans and flannel shirt.
The woman who greeted him now looked as if she had just stepped down from a fine oil painting. She was wearing an off-the-shoulder dress with a neckline that plunged low enough to show the top of her breasts, though a red silk rose strategically placed at the cleavage helped preserve some modesty. The dress itself was clinging yellow silk, overlaid with lace. Her coiffure featured a pile of curls on top and a French roll that hung down her neck.
The intensity of Hawke’s gaze made Pamela uneasy. With a nervous laugh she touched her hair.
“Have I gone green?” she asked.
“What?”
“You are staring with such concentration,” she said.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Hawke apologized. “It’s just that…well, you must admit, this is quite a change from the way I last saw you.
“Well, I would hope so,” Pamela said. “And speaking of changes, I must say that you do look more like a knight now than when you rode to my rescue. Oh, wait, you didn’t exactly ride to my rescue, did you? As I recall, you had clumsily killed all the horses.”
Hawke laughed as well. “I had indeed,” he agreed. “And speaking of horses, I want to thank you, Mr. Dorchester, for the loan of the horse tonight. He is certainly a fine animal.”
“It isn’t a loan,” Dorchester said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“It isn’t a loan,” Dorchester repeated. “It is a gift. I have the bill of sale inside.”
Hawke held out his hand in protest. “Oh, no, Mr. Dorchester, I could never accept such a gift.”
“Why not? Do you think Pamela isn’t worth a horse?”
“What? No, no, I didn’t mean to imply anything like that.”
“Then prove it by accepting this gift.”
Hawke was about to protest again but stopped, sighed, then chuckled. “All right, Mr. Dorchester. I’ll be glad to accept the horse, and I offer you my sincerest thanks for it.”
“You are welcome,” Dorchester replied.
“Good,” Pamela said. “Now that that is all settled, shall we go inside?”
“Show him around a bit, would you, Pamela?” her father said. “I’ll check on our dinner.”
“Your arm, sir?” Pamela said, reaching for Hawke.
He held his arm out and she took it, then led him inside. She was so close to him, her body pressed against his, thathe could feel the warmth of her curves. There was a suggestion of perfume—heady, but not overpowering.
They walked down a long, wide hall, on a floor so highly polished that it reflected the items of furniture standing on it as clearly as if it were a mirror. Along the way, as if standing guard, were several polished suits of armor and painted shields. All the shields were decorated with the same crest: Against a white background, a blue mailed fist clutched a golden sword, placed at the intersection of a red St. Andrew’s Cross.
“Your father’s coat of arms?” Hawke asked, nodding toward one of the shields.
“That’s the coat of arms of the Earldom of Preston. I am told, by the way, that a distant ancestor of mine, the first Earl of
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