Midsummer Magic (Magic Trilogy 1)

The Earl of Ruthven, Hawk thought, and managed to plant a smile on his lips.

“Yes,” he said, and strode forward. Ruthven extended his hand and Hawk clasped it. A strong hand, Hawk thought.

“That your man?”

“Yes.”

Ruthven raised his head and roared, “Ethelard!”

A scruffy boy appeared from behind the stables and raced forward. “See to the horses, boy. You, my lord, and your man come with me.”

Hawk followed the earl through the great oak doors into an entrance hall that was in fact an old great hall, complete with blackened beams high overhead, and a cavernous fireplace that could roast an ox. There were ancient suits of armor lying about, and weapons fastened to the walls between huge flambeaux. The very air felt heavy and somehow old. Hawk felt as though he’d just stepped back in time.

He waved his hand about him and asked, “How old is Kilbracken?”

“Built back at the time of James IV, in the sixteenth century, you know. Tottle,” he continued to a rheumy-eyed individual who had come up behind them in utter silence, “see to his lordship’s man here. Feed him and show him his master’s room.”

“Aye,” said Tottle.

“Been drinking again, curse him,” Ruthven said under his breath. “Come my lord. The ladies are all in the drawing room. Used to be the armory long ago, you know, but things change. English wives and all that.”

Hawk followed the earl silently across the huge expanse of hall toward another set of double doors. He flung them open and said grandly, “The Earl of Rothermere.”

Hawk was aware of three sets of feminine eyes all trained on his person. One of the women rose and came forward, a smile on her face. “Hello, my lord, I am Lady Ruthven. Welcome to Castle Kilbracken and to Scotland.” An English wife, Hawk thought, and hoped devoutly that all the daughters spoke with such clipped, clear English speech.

He kissed her offered hand and murmured something polite. She was much younger than Ruthven, in her mid-thirties, he guessed, and quite pretty. She had soft brown hair and large brown eyes, and, he saw with some appreciation, a very impressive bosom.

He was introduced to Clare and thought: She’s lovely. As for Clare, she felt a moment of alarm. He was a large man, his jaw, her artist’s eyes noted, was stubborn. Not an easy man. But handsome.

“My lord,” Clare said, giving him her slender hand, whiter now from all the cucumber lotion. Hawk, dutifully, kissed the hand.

Hawk received a giggle when introduced to Viola, a little minx whose coloring was as lively as the gleam in her green eyes. “My lord,” she said in a lilting voice, “I—we—have awaited your coming with great interest. I wish to hear all about the ton.” There, Viola thought, seeing that he was a bit taken aback, I have shown him that I am not a provincial nobody. He will realize that I will fit perfectly into his life.

“I will tell you all that I can,” said Hawk, grinning unwillingly at this charming confection of budding womanhood.

“And here is Frances,” said Sophia, turning to greet her middle stepdaughter, who had just slipped into the room. Her eyes widened and she felt herself choke. She heard a snort from her husband, and felt for a moment an insane urge to laugh.

The Earl of Rothermere’s thoughts didn’t show on his face as he turned to study the third daughter. But he was thinking as he took the tanned, somewhat roughened hand, a strong hand, he added to himself, that at least two of the three daughters were worthy of a second look. Good Lord, this one should be locked in a closet, a water closet.

“Charmed,” he said shortly.

Frances merely nodded, saying nothing. Nor did she raise her head to look at him.

How is that apparition possible, Hawk wondered as he watched her move away from him. Her hair was scraped tightly back into a fierce bun at the nape of her neck. Her eyes looked like little raisins behind the distorting glass of her ugly spectacles. And her gown—it was shapeless, the color a sickening puce. He could just hear Grunyon saying philosophically, “Well, my lord, all three of them pretty would have been heaven. Be thankful you’ve got two to choose between.”

The moment he released her hand, Frances walked toward a chair she’d carefully placed in the corner early that morning. She sat down, picked up the stichery, only to find her eyes following the Earl of Rothermere. He was speaking to her father, and Viola and Clare were looking at him as if a Greek god had just come to earth. She heard swishing skirts and saw that Sophia was standing over her.

“This is not at all amusing, Frances.”

Frances said nothing.

“You look like a ...” Words failed her. “What is the meaning of this, Frances?”

“Of what, Sophia?” Frances said, striving for bravado. She stuck up her chin. “Adelaide has always told us that the good Lord loves us for what we are, not what we look like.”

Sophia snorted. “We’re not talking theology, Frances! Your father will whip you for this, young lady, you may be certain of that!”

Sophia marched away from Frances, striving to regain her polite-hostess manners. She saw that Viola and Clare were staring at their sister, and she heard Viola giggle. She shot them a look that threatened retribution and they immediately quieted. She closed her eyes a moment, wondering where the devil Frances had found those immensely hideous glasses that perched on her nose. And her hair! Pulled back from her face so severely that it looked painful, and plaited into the ugliest bun Sophia had ever seen. She’d stolen the old lace cap from one of her mother’s trunks, she imagined, and the gown