Midsummer Magic (Magic Trilogy 1)

Hawk finally found him in the north tower, gazing out over the barren landscape.

“Tottle told me where you were. I think the bloody butler was drunk. I have reached a decision,” he continued baldly.

Grunyon searched his master’s face. He seemed calm, morbidly so.

“If I wed either Lady Viola or Lady Clare, my life will change. I will have a prattling wife hanging on my sleeve, demanding my time, quoting poetry, painting, giggling, flirting.”

“I see,” said Grunyon slowly. “There is, however, Major Hawk, the matter of the oath.”

“I know. God, I know. I will wed Lady Frances.”

Grunyon could only stare at his master. “Wh—what, my lord?”

Ruthven stood below, listening with unabashed interest. He’d planned to discuss things with Hawk this very evening, in his library, over a brandy. He leaned outward, his ears ready to be filled, a crooked smile on his face.

“Lady Frances,” Hawk repeated. “Yes,” he went on doggedly, as if convincing himself. “She is homely. That is her only failing. On the other hand, she dislikes people and parties, she doesn’t carry on like a damned magpie. She would leave me alone. The servants would learn to put up with her wretched singing and playing.”

“That appears to be true,” said Grunyon, “but I do not believe I understand.”

“For God’s sake, Grunyon, I could take her to Desborough Hall, breed a child on her, then take myself to London. Everyone would be content, especially the lady. Lord knows, if I don’t wed her, she’ll end up a spinster.”

“You pretend that you are doing her a favor?”

“Don’t you try your damned sarcasm on me! It is the solution, I tell you.”

Ruthven wanted to laugh at the poor earl’s misguided impressions, and he had to press his hand over his mouth to keep himself quiet. Ah, my smart little Frances, you’ve done it this time. Outsmarted and outflanked. As for you, my boy, you don’t know what you’re in for.

“It still doesn’t seem very fair,” said Grunyon, digging in. He felt sorry for the lady.

“Fair be damned! My father is responsible for this wretched debacle, not I. I am making the best of it. I wouldn’t be a proper husband to either Viola or Clare, that is, I’d try to be, but it would be a misery. I would never be alone, I could no longer visit Amalie. Lord, I’d probably have to make intelligent conversation over the breakfast table. As for Frances, you’ll see, Grunyon, she’ll be happy as a lark in Yorkshire. The only thing missing is a loch and some heather. She can stride about the moors to her heart’s content, read Chaucer aloud to the servants, and do in essence what she does here.”

Ruthven very quietly left his post and wandered back into his bedchamber from the balcony. He was thoughtful, examining the consequences of the earl’s decision. The decision was, after all, cold-blooded in the extreme. But Frances, his thinking continued, Frances wouldn’t allow him to stay cold-blooded. She’d give him fits. His Frances wouldn’t be able to keep her tongue quiet in her mouth for very long. “It will work out,” Ruthven said to the empty bedchamber. “Ah yes, it certainly will. I must write to the marquess immediately.”

If he could have justified it to himself, he would have arranged the marriage between the earl and Frances, but he’d realized he couldn’t exclude Clare or Viola. Now the earl had fallen in with Ruthven’s wishes, for all the wrong reasons. He shrugged, then grinned widely, picturing the look on his daughter’s face. He wanted to dance a jig.

He saw Frances that evening before the family met in the drawing room. She looked as awful as possible, and he smiled at her. “Good evening, my dear,” he said. “How are you feeling?”

Frances stared at her father. “What is wrong?”

“Wrong? Don’t be a fool, my girl. Why should there be anything wrong?”

“You are not behaving as you should,” Frances said slowly, studying his face. “Has the earl offered for Viola or Clare yet?”

“No, no yet,” Ruthvan said. “But I suspect that he will speak to me soon enough now.”

“Ah yes, he did allow himself three days, did he not?”

“You have a sarcastic mouth, Frances.” On those less-than-loving words, he patted her shoulder, leaving her to flounder like a ship in a storm, sails flapping in the wind. What was he up to? she wondered, but there was no answer, none at all. She squared her shoulders, then immediately hunched them roundly, and went forward into dowdy battle. The mouse cometh, my lord earl, she thought, and laughed.

She was pleased with her performance of the afternoon. She was certain the earl was disgusted with her, and not just her face. Her answers, short and curt, had been inspired. She felt smug and safe.

She was unaware that during the interminable meal, the earl was gazing at her beneath half-closed lids. He was relieved that she ate like a lady. He was more than relieved that she said not a word, unlike her sisters, who seemed to be competing with each other for his attention. The time he would have to spend with Frances in the future stretched out before him in peaceful silence.

He could always have the pianoforte removed from Desborough Hall when he visited.

He determined to take an ax to the pianoforte himself after a half-hour of Frances’ singing and playing. He’d known the servants at Desborough Hall since he was a boy. They were loyal. He didn’t want them to run from the hall with their hands over their ears, and leave his employ. He forced himself to applaud when she finished. To his surprise, this time both Sophia and Ruthven applauded also.

He did notice the odd looks passing between Viola and Clare. It was as if they were restraining themselves from bursting out in laughter. It angered him. How could they treat their sister with such barely veiled contempt? It wasn’t her fault, after all, that she lacked so much of everything that they had in abundance.