Midsummer Magic (Magic Trilogy 1)

Why?

Suddenly Frances sat up and wrapped her arms about her knees. She forced herself to think slowly and clearly. Why would an admittedly handsome bachelor select a dowdy mouse to wed when two quite lovely and amiable non-mice were available? Even if her father had told him that it was a disguise, what man would want a wife who obviously didn’t want him? Had he seen through her disguise himself? She shook her head, remembering his look when his eyes had roved over her. He’d

been disgusted, yet he had still selected her.

It made no sense, none at all. How could it be true, particularly after he’d heard her sing and play?

She could think of nothing until an offhanded remark of Viola’s flitted through her mind.

I daresay the earl is most popular with the ladies in London. He told Clare and me that he spends much of his time there. All the entertainments, I suppose. I’ll wager he has a mistress. I wonder what I shall do about that? Certainly he will have to give her up, and then we will be very happy together. Oh yes.

The Earl of Rothermere was a handsome man, Frances thought objectively. And it was quite true that he must have ladies fawning all over him. And mistresses. And the last thing a gentleman like that would want is a vivacious, charming, demanding wife.

“My God,” Frances said, expelling her breath in a long, disbelieving sigh. “He couldn’t. It is too vile, too outrageous a thought.” She heard a nicker from one of the horses in the stall below.

She refused to dismiss the idea. Could he have picked her because she wasn’t any of those things? Had he chosen a dowdy mouse so that he could continue in his carefree, likely profligate ways?

Frances had to know. She rose to her feet and shook her skirts free of the moldy hay. She paused in the doorway of the stable. It had stopped raining. To her consternation, she saw the earl’s man, Grunyon, climb into the carriage. The earl was driving, whipping up the horses now. She rushed out of the stable, waving and calling out.

But it was no use. Muddy water splashed up from the wheels. The horses snorted. The earl was paying no heed to anything except driving.

Frances watched the carriage disappear down the winding road. How long had she stayed in the stable loft? Long enough so that the bastard could escape.

She squared her shoulders and marched back to the castle.

5

Marriage has many plains, but celibacy has no pleasures.

—SAMUEL JOHNSON

“Put the ring back on, Frances.”

The heavy ring bounced and slid across the table. Frances made no move to retrieve it. Its weight was unconscionable on her finger.

“No,” she said. “I shan’t, Papa.”

Ruthven prepared to give her the full blast of his temper, when Viola and Clare burst into the gun room, Sophia trailing behind them, her face a study of conflicting emotions.

“I don’t believe this!” Viola stamped her feet. Oh, Viola, Frances wanted to yell at her sister, you are still such a little girl. The earl would make you utterly miserable.

“What did you do, Frances?” Clare demanded. “What did you promise him? Stepmama told us that the earl has offered for you, but that’s impossible! You look awful, you look—”

“That’s enough!” Ruthven shouted over the female din.

“I agree,” said Frances, eyeing her two very furious sisters. “Listen, you two, I don’t wish to marry the earl any more than he wishes to marry me.”

“Then why?” Clare asked. “He could barely bring himself to look at you, just as you planned.”

“I think I know why,” Frances said, keeping an eye firmly on her father’s face. “The earl selected me because I am a dowd, a miserable excuse for a female. He selected me because he didn’t think he would have to change his life. I imagine he plans to dump me somewhere, probably one of his moldering estates, and go about his business as if none of this had ever happened.”

Ruthven couldn’t help it. His eyes widened and his fingers clutched the table edge until the knuckles were white. How could she have guessed so quickly?

“So,” Frances said, expelling a deep breath, “it is true, isn’t it, Papa?”

Bluster and rage, thought Ruthven, but he said nothing.

“I don’t understand,” wailed Viola.