Midsummer Magic (Magic Trilogy 1)

“You are acquainted with our good hostess?” Hawk asked as he served Frances’ plate.

“Yes, of course. We are not that far from Kilbracken. I should like a lot of everything, if you please, my lord.”

Hawk obliged. He took a gingerly bite of the bridies and nodded. “Quite acceptable. What is it?”

“Steak pies.”

“Ah.”

“Where is Grunyon?”

“In the kitchen eating his dinner. Incidentally, perhaps you should call me Philip or Hawk, as you wish.”

Frances’ hand halted its progress to her mouth. “Where did you get the nickname Hawk?”

“During my army days—in Spain, to be exact.”

She would have liked to know more, but was so hungry she didn’t

want to interrupt herself. How kind of him, she thought acidly as she chewed on a rather tough piece of steak. His lordship giving the pitiful savage permission to call him by his given name, or the name of a stupid bird. She swallowed the bite, then drank more of her wine. The meal continued in silence.

“I prefer Philip, I think,” she said sometime later.

“I shall try to answer to it,” Hawk said. “It’s been some time since anyone called me that. Do you prefer being called Frances?”

It’s better than “ugly hag,” which is what you’re thinking.

“Frances is fine,” she said.

Silence again.

Frances was licking her lips free of the thick sugar from the clooties when Hawk said suddenly, “After you have seen my father, we shall buy you some clothes.”

Frances stiffened as straight as a board. She swallowed at least three thoroughly insulting retorts. So now she was the poor little mouse whose husband didn’t want to be embarrassed if someone chanced to see her with him. She chose to say nothing.

Hawk found himself wondering aloud, “Both Clare and Viola dress beautifully. I find I am curious as to why—”

“I am very fatigued,” Frances said, pushing back her plate. No, she thought quickly, that wasn’t the way to proceed. She carefully schooled her features, her brain working furiously. Finally she said coldly, “I do not find lovely clothes at all desirable. ‘Tis sinful to turn oneself out in a gawdy fashion. It goes against all my ... religious beliefs.”

My God, Hawk thought, astounded, staring at her. I’ve got a religious bigot on my hands! He felt ill, and was uncertain if it was from the clooties or the frightful realization of the real woman he had married.

Take that, you bounder! Frances rose slowly and said, “I am going to my room now. I assume that you will wish to leave early on the morrow, my lord?”

It was nearly painful to look at her, but he did. Odd, he thought during the visual passage up to her face, but her body was really quite acceptable. She was slender—indeed, his hands could span her waist—and her breasts looked full and well-formed.

Frances wasn’t stupid, nor that ignorant. She understood that look, indeed had seen it on Ian’s face, and sucked in her breath, backing away. “Good night, my lord!”

His eyes were on her face then and he saw the fear and panic.

“Frances,” he said, his voice gentle now, “we are husband and wife. I know too that we are strangers. We will, however, consummate this marriage—”

His very calm orders made her forget herself. “Why? There is no reason I can think of for you to want to ... Well, you understand what I mean.”

“As I said, we are husband and wife.”

“No! I will not allow it! I—”

“Frances, stop carrying on so. We will consummate this marriage, but not tonight. You are tired and so am I.” He saw the utter relief make her shoulders sag and smiled ruefully to himself. Never in his life had a woman not wanted to share his bed when he wished it.