Midsummer Magic (Magic Trilogy 1)

Frances stiffened at his ill-disguised scrutiny. She quickly fished in the pocket of her gown for her spectacles. She slipped them on and squinted at him. The lecherous man was looking at her. Her hands curled into fists at her sides.

She squinted all the harder. “What is it you want, my lord?”

“I have selected you, Lady Frances,” Hawk said.

She understood immediately, but could only gape at him. Was he blind? Utterly without taste? And he was looking at her as if her very presence gave him pain.

She said without thinking, her voice clipped and as cold as the loch in January, “Then unselect.”

Hawk blinked. He couldn’t have heard her aright, could he? He repeated himself, trying to keep the awful fatalism from his voice. “Lady Frances, I am ... choosing you as my wife.”

“Are you mad?” Frances asked, looking him squarely in the eye now, no longer squinting over the spectacles hanging precarously on the tip of her nose. “Why?”

Her clipped voice, her words, startled him. He’d expected her to accept him immediately, in all likelihood with gushing pleasure. After all, how often did the ugly sister win out over the other two? Perhaps, he thought, she didn’t believe he was truly serious. The poor girl probably couldn’t believe her good fortune. He smiled at her and said, “I do not believe I am mad. I believe we shall suit admirably. Now, your father and I have worked out the details of the marriage settlement; I am leaving for Glasgow. I will return on Friday for our wedding. As you know, my father is quite ill. We will leave immediately after the ceremony for England. Here, this is for you.”

He took three steps forward, clasped her hand, and shoved his grandmother’s exquisite emerald ring upon her finger.

She’s speechless, overcome with disbelief, he thought, but that was fine. If she never spoke, he would be pleased. He forced himself to lightly kiss her forehead and look down into her face. She’d shoved her spectacles back up and her eyes looked small and distorted behind the thick lenses. At least at night, in bed, he wouldn’t have to see her. He’d allow no lamps to be lit, otherwise it was a strong possibility that he wouldn’t be able to do his duty in the marriage bed.

“I shall see you on Friday, Lady Frances,” he said, and strode from the room. It didn’t occur to him that she should have said at least a brief yes to his approval, expressed some opinion after he’d given her his very clipped, detailed plans.

He closed the door of the gun room behind him and strode through the great hall to the drawing room, where Ruthven awaited him.

He thought he heard Frances say something, but the thick door muffled the sound. He kept going.

Frances stood still as a stone, her mind numb, disbelieving of what had just happened. Then she looked at the ring and shouted, “No! This is ridiculous! No!”

There had to be some mistake. Lord, all he had to do was but look at her. What about Viola? Clare? The man was mad, she was certain of it. Well, she would just have to put a stop to it now. She jerked the door open and marched into the great hall. Sophia was coming from the drawing room, an odd look on her face.

“Where is Papa?” Frances asked. “Where is that man?”

“Come with me, Frances,” said Sophia. “You’ve been well caught, my girl. Come.”

“No, I must speak to Papa,” Frances said, her voice thin and shrill. “It’s a mistake, Sophia. All a mistake.”

“I think so too,” said Sophia, “but the earl has made his decision and you, my girl, will abide by it.” She caught Frances’ arm as she tried to pass her.

“No, Sophia!” Panic rose to choke her. “No! This can’t happen!”

“You listen to me, Frances Kilbracken,” Sophia said in a fierce whisper, tightening her grip on her stepdaughter’s arm. “You thought you were being so very clever, didn’t you, appearing like a troll, a diffident little mouse? Well, for whatever reason, the earl has picked you, not Viola, not Clare. And you, you devious creature, will abide by it.”

“It makes no sense,” Frances said. “No sense at all.” She tried to pull away. “I must see Papa. I won’t do it, Sophia!”

“Oh yes you will! Look about you, you idiot. Yes, look at all the glory of Kilbracken! The castle is crumbling about us, Frances, and what will be left for your brother? Clumps of heather, that’s what, and an empty title! You heard what your father said before the earl arrived—the old marquess is turning over ten thousand pounds upon this marriage. Ten thousand pounds, Frances! The earl cannot be turned down!”

“But what about Viola? Clare?” Frances felt herself sinking into deep waters, felt herself being dragged down, suffocating.

Sophia looked at her, her eyes stern and commanding. “I wanted him to pick Viola, I will admit it to you. She is a lovely girl, and she deserves to be rich. She needs flattery and parties, and masculine attention. As for Clare, well, the same holds true for her. But it is not to be. You will wed the earl, my girl; then you will see to providing for your sisters.” She shook Frances’ arm. “Do you understand me?”

Frances stared down at her stepmother, her mouth working, but no sounds emerging.

“Well, no matter. Once you are the Countess of Rothermere, you will do all that is proper for your sisters. You will not fail me in that, Frances. Now, if you dare throw a tantrum in front of the earl, your father will never speak to you again. Have I made myself clear?”

Frances stumbled from the castle. It took her several minutes to realize that it was raining, a thick, muzzling rain that was as cold against her skin as she was inside. She ripped the spectacles off her nose and stuffed them in a pocket. The cap was the next to go. She watched it sink under the weight of the rain into a mud puddle. She started to shiver, and began running toward the stable. Once inside, she climbed up into the loft and flung herself down upon the rotting hay. There was a leak in the roof, she thought vaguely, smelling the moldy, sodden hay.

Why?

The one word kept careening through her mind. It made no sense, none at all.