Midsummer Magic (Magic Trilogy 1)

“I’m all right,” she managed.

Her husband, curse his vitality, strode over to her and announced in a nauseatingly enthusiastic voice that he’d ordered up a neat dinner for them.

“I’m not certain—” Grunyon began, only to be cut off by Frances.

“I wish to dine in my room.”

“Do you feel ill?”

“Yes, I do. A headache.”

Hawk’s lips thinned. Damnable excuse for a wife to present a husband on their second night of marriage. Well, it wouldn’t do her any good.

“Fine,” he said, and strode into the inn.

A few moments later, he found himself watching her climb the stairs, a chattering maid in her wake.

“You’re pushing too hard, my lord,” said Grunyon.

“What do you expect me to do? Stop every hour and let her smell the daisies alongside the road?”

“There ain’t any daisies.”

“Dammit, Grunyon, you know what I mean! Do you so easily forget about my father?”

He saw that his valet would remonstrate further, and raised his hand. “No, no more. I’m dining now, then I’m going to see to my bride. I fancy she doesn’t know that her bedchamber is also mine.”

Grunyon stared at him and Hawk suddenly realized that such a speech was most inappropriate. He cursed under his breath and strode into the parlor.

Frances stared at the tray of food and quickly covered it. The headache was ferocious, one of the worst she’d ever experienced. But then again, she’d never been forced to spend ten hours in a closed carriage.

She didn’t like to dose herself, but the thought of sleep induced by laudanum was appealing. She searched through her valise and unearthed a small vial of laudanum. She poured several drops into a cup of now tepid tea and drank it down.

She undressed quickly, donned her nightgown, and staggered to her bed.

It didn’t occur to her until she crawled to the center of the bed that both the bed and the room were much larger than the one of the night before. She fell back against the soft pillow, too ill to think about anything.

Hawk finished off his meal in fine style. Every few minutes he found himself thinking about the woman upstairs. He had to get it done tonight. He had no idea how many times one had to have sex to bring about conception, but he couldn’t be so lucky to manage it the first time. No, he had to get started tonight and keep it up.

He drank three more glasses of brandy. It was close to ten o‘clock when he finally made his way up the stairs toward his bedchamber. He was pleasantly drunk, but not too drunk to do his duty. And do his duty he would.

He paused a moment outside the bedchamber, aware that there was a light coming from beneath the door. So, his bride was awake and waiting for him. He started to turn the knob, and paused yet again. What the devil was that noise? He frowned, then resolutely turned the knob and pushed the door open.

He stepped inside and came to an urgent, appalled halt.

Frances was on the floor, on her knees, vomiting into the chamber pot.

Her white nightgown flowed about her and a thick braid fell over her shoulder perilously close to the chamber pot. He felt like a monster. He’d believed her blasted headache all an act.

“My God, what is the matter with you?”

He strode toward her.

7

I was struck all in a heap.

—RICHARD SHERIDAN