Midsummer Magic (Magic Trilogy 1)

He said suddenly, “Was I the first man you’d ever seen?”

She understood him very well, but she said slowly, “Perhaps you believe Kilbracken to be isolated, my lord, but both sexes were present from time to time.”

“Philip,” he said.

She said nothing, merely toyed with her wine goblet.

“Naked, I meant.”

“Of course not.”

That drew him up short. “You’ve seen a lot of naked men?”

“No, a couple of boys, that’s all. And my little brother, Alex, of course. They didn’t have any hair.”

For a moment he thought she was mocking him, but no, that couldn’t be true. She was too timid, to damned dull for that. And far too ugly. No, not really ugly, just ...

“Frances, you’ll have to accustom yourself to me sooner or later.”

“I suppose that’s true enough.”

“Just as I will have to accustom myself to you.”

Aha, she thought, wishing she could smack his handsome face, it’s a thought that turns your stomach, isn’t it?

“I hope that you will not,” she said in a flat voice.

Hawk said, his voice equally flat and emotionless, “Well, you needn’t worry about it tonight. You have your own bedchamber.”

“Excellent,” said Frances, and squinted up at him. She saw him stiffen and quickly lowered her head to hide her triumphant smile.

They reached York two nights later, near to ten o‘clock. The horses were exhausted, as was Hawk. It was still a fifteen-mile trek to Desborough Hall. He wanted to push on but knew he couldn’t.

Frances was so bored she wanted to scream. And she was ravenous.

English fare, she thought, staring some thirty minutes later at the boiled beef and tasteless potatoes. But she ate.

Hawk had made up his mind. He had let her be for the past two nights. Tonight, he thought, he had to consummate their union. The last thing he wanted was for his servants at Desborough Hall to find her virgin’s blood on the sheets. They’d been married five days. It was time. I will make her relax, he thought, and said, “Tomorrow before luncheon, we’ll arrive at my estate, Desborough Hall.”

“Hmmm,” said Frances, not looking up.

“It belonged to my older brother, Nevil, you know. Indeed, he was the Earl of Rothermere until his death some fifteen months ago.”

“I am sorry,” said Frances.

“It was very odd,” Hawk continued, speaking now for his own peace of mind rather than to her. “It was a yachting accident, near to Southampton. He drowned. I’ve been to Desborough Hall only three times since I returned to England.”

“Why?”

A woman of few words. He fiddled with his brandy snifter for a few moments, then shrugged. “I don’t know. I suppose it’s because Desborough Hall was never mine, never meant to belong to me. I suppose I’m still not used to being my father’s heir and the Earl

of Rothermere. It’s a beautiful estate.”

So, Frances thought, now seeing the light clearly, this is where I’m to be immured. Well, it could certainly be worse.

“Gentlemen in London will call me Rothermere and I won’t respond. I feel like an interloper, I guess. As I mentioned to you, most people call me Hawk.” He grinned and she noted with dissatisfaction that he had very straight, very white teeth. “Thank God for the number of army friends. They got it started, you see. The Hawk part, that is.”

He was sounding positively human, and it made Frances uncomfortable. As long as he acted arrogant and conceited, she could keep him in excellent perspective.