Midsummer Magic (Magic Trilogy 1)

“At least change out of that rag you were wearing,” he said, his voice rough. “And rid yourself of those wretched spectacles.”

“Very well, Papa.”

“And you will not be rude.”

“All right, Papa.”

That stopped him cold. Frances was never so submissive. Ruthven sighed, then winced at the sight of her hair. Her beautiful hair looked like a hag’s crop. Even if he forced her to appear as she should, he knew well enough that she would manage to make herself exceptionable. He wouldn’t put it past her to spit in the earl’s face if provoked. No, he amended, she’d insult him down to his boots, and so cleverly that he would in all likelihood look like a gape-mouthed fish. And no one would be able to accuse her of being precisely rude. It was too much.

“I will see you later, Frances,” he said, and left her. What was he to do? He finally decided after two glasses of his finest sherry that he would study the Earl of Rothermere’s behavior very closely, then decide if he was worthy of Frances. If he was, then he would act.

Frances stared after her father, so relieved that she wanted to shout. She already had selected a gown for dinner. Its pale yellow color made her look so sallow as to appear ill with the plague. “I’m sorry, Papa,” Frances said to the spindly gorse bushes with their budding yellow flowers, “but you don’t really want me to leave. Who would see to the sick animals? Who would drink whiskey with you and listen to all your stories? Who would trade jests with you? Who would ride with you, spend long nights camping in the mountains in the summers?”

Frances rose and stared about her. Why couldn’t life be simple again? She forced herself to shrug. The earl would select either Viola or Clare. There would be peace again at Kilbracken.

She could look worse, Ruthven thought as he settled himself into his high-backed chair at the head of the long dining table. Still, she didn’t hold a candle to Viola or Clare, both of whom looked as delicious as treats from a confectioner’s shop.

The Earl of Rothermere, even to Frances’ jaundiced eye, was immensely handsome in his black evening clothes. She heard Viola suck in her breath at the sight of him, and Clare sat forward, thinking, in all likelihood, that it was in evening clothes that she wanted to paint him.

If I could paint, I’d paint him naked, striding out of the loch.

Stop it, you silly fool. No matter. He will leave soon and take either Clare or Viola with him. I’ll remain here, safe and sound.

Hawk was polite. He seated himself on Ruthven’s right, and regarded his dinner, silently served by Tottle. The butler’s black sleeve, close to Hawk as he leaned over him, looked shiny and smelled musty. Did he normally wear a kilt? Was a man normally bare-assed under a kilt? Hawk wondered. Weren’t kilts still outlawed?

“ ‘Tis partan bree, or crab soup,” Sophia said brightly as Tottle served a goodly amount into the earl’s bowl.

“It looks delicious,” said Hawk, dubiously eyeing the anchovies that floated darkly in the light stock.

“It is not so tasty as your English dishes,” Viola said. “Perhaps you can tell us some of the foods you enjoy.”

Oh, shut up, Viola! From what Papa says of English cooking, it is unimaginative and boring! Frances toyed with her soup, not looking up, her lips a thin, flat line.

“I doubt it,” said Hawk somewhat obliquely. He turned to Ruthven. “I find your coat of arms most fascinating.” He smiled upward at the colorful Ruthven shield, and read slowly, “ ‘Vivit Post Funera Virtus.’ ”

“Aye,” said Ruthven. “A good motto—‘Virtue outlives the grave.’ Nonsense, of course, but our ancestors had noble causes and ideals. The fork-tongued lions guarding the crown—they look noble and strong enough, but there is our history to disprove it.”

A sticky subject, thought Hawk, and merely nodded.

“What is your family’s motto, my lord?” asked Clare.

“ ‘With a strong hand—manu forti.’ ”

“Just like the English,” said Frances under her breath. “More accurate would be ‘With a strong fist.’ ”

“What did you say, Frances?” asked Ruthven, tickled that his daughter had finally opened her mouth.

Frances didn’t move a muscle, but continued to study her soup. “Nothing, Papa,” she said in an emotionless voice.

Hawk spared a glance at

the girl. At least her nose was naked of the spectacles, but her hair looked a bird’s nest beneath the ghastly cap. He wondered if she could even see her soup. He noticed that Adelaide was looking at Frances, her expression bemused and, he thought, wondering a bit, somewhat amused as well.

He brought his attention back to his dinner as he was served kippers with rice balls, and something thankfully that he recognized—salmon.

He knew that he should be studying the girls. He had set a time limit on his delibrations, and he had to get on with it. Beginning in the morning, he would meet with each daughter individually. Oh hell, he thought, he might as well get started now. He asked Viola a question, something about her interests, and she regaled him with her domestic talents. Talk about outlandish stories for a winter’s night, Frances thought.

Hawk, all polite attention, then turned to Clare, and she too seemed all too ready to say anything that would please him. “I should like to see your painting,” he said, and she agreed readily.