Midsummer Magic (Magic Trilogy 1)

I can’t completely ignore her, Hawk thought, turned his eyes to Frances, and said politely, “What do you enjoy doing, Lady Frances?”

Frances quivered a bit with anger. The arrogant, conceited pig was pitting sister against sister. “Nothing,” she said, not looking at him. That won’t do, ninny!

She heard her father say quickly, “Frances plays and sings beautifully.”

“Almost as well as a performing dog,” she muttered, earning a glare from Sophia, who had heard her.

“I should like to hear you perform, perhaps after dinner,” Hawk said, wondering how he would hide his bored yawns. Lord, this was worse than a London Season with all its terrified little debutantes trying to make good impressions on the eligible gentlemen.

“An excellent idea,” said Sophia, sending Frances a dagger’s glance.

The dinner drew to a close with a trifle. Poor Doris, in an excess of exuberance, had used too much sherry and the cake was soggy. Hawk thought he would be ill.

Ruthven saved him. “Tottle, remove the stuff if you please. If it is all right, Hawk, we will continue on to the drawing room with the ladies.”

Hawk! However did he come by that nickname? Frances wondered.

Clare brought out several of her paintings.

They were quite good, and Hawk found he could praise her without deception. There was a charming rendition of Viola that must have been done recently. The girl was laughing, her lap filled with colorful flowers. There was no portrait of Frances, he realized, but added to himself that likely the oils would curdle if used for painting her.

Viola amused him with a practiced series of local jests.

Hawk laughed. The chit had wit and was droll.

“Play for us now, Frances,” Ruthven said, his voice so stern that Hawk stared at him. He watched Frances walk to the pianoforte, her head lowered, and seat herself on the stool. She hunched her shoulders forward and he could see her shoulder blades. A most unappetizing female, he thought, then scolded himself. He had to be fair. In the next moment, he had stiffened. Her voice was as wooden as the piano stool, and when it reached for several high notes, he fancied that any glasses present would shatter. She missed many notes.

Ruthven glared at his daughter. He would thrash her, he thought. He met his wife’s baleful eye and nodded toward her.

When Frances finished, Hawk dutifully applauded. There was no applause from either Ruthven or Sophia. He heard Viola giggle. Clare was looking at her sister in the oddest way. No one requested an encore.

Hawk rose, and said in an expressionless voice, “Thank you, Lady Frances. Ma‘am,” he continued to Sophia, “I thank you for a charming evening, and an excellent dinner. I fear I am rather fatigued from my long journey. I bid all of you good night.”

Escape. He mopped his brow as he strode up the stairs and down the drafty corridor toward his bedchamber.

Grunyon was waiting for him, his round face alight with curiosity.

“An enjoyable evening, my lord?”

“God-awful,” said Hawk, and walked to the narrow windows. He pulled back the brocade drapery and stared out. What bit of moon there was didn’t lighten the black landscape.

He closed his eyes a moment. “I feel like a piece of meat on display at the butcher’s shop. Worse than that, I am to charm my butcher!”

“I should say that the young ladies must feel the same way.”

“Bosh,” said Hawk, turning around. “Oh hell, ignore me, Grunyon.” He raked his fingers through his thick hair.

“Two of them, I noted, are really quite lovely, and they speak English.”

“Oh yes, indeed they do. They would likely fit quite well into London society.” Hawk paused the moment the words were out of his mouth. He stared thoughtfully at Grunyon, but said no more.

Frances pretended sleep, but it didn’t work. Viola lit the candles on her dressing table, then carried the branch to the bed and set it on the small night table.

“Come on, Frances. I know you’re awake. Ah, here’s Clare.”

Frances gave up and pulled herself to a sitting position as Clare quietly closed the bedchamber door behind her.

“Papa is furious with you, Frances,” said Clare.