Midsummer Magic (Magic Trilogy 1)

“Do not you care when I shall be back, or where I am going, for that matter?” His tone was irascible, his words perverse, and he knew it.

“No,” she said. She began to spread the soft sweet butter on a slice of bread, concentrating to her full powers on the strokes of her knife.

His hands clenched, and he said in a nasty voice, “I shall visit you again tonight. I wouldn’t want to be at all remiss in my duty, now, would I?”‘

Frances felt her heart plummet to her toes. She had begun her monthly flow. Oh dear, what was she to do? It was time to attack, she knew it. The mouse couldn’t lie still for this. It was her only hope. She said very coldly, “Why do you not leave a list of eligible gentlemen who live in the neighborhood? If you have indeed not succeeded in your ... husbandly endeavors, perhaps one of them will.”

Hawk stared at her, for a moment completely taken aback, then threw back his head and burst into laughter. “Look, Frances,” he said at last, seeing her sitting there rigid as a statue, “even if one of the gentlemen could be induced to bed you, he wouldn’t treat you with as much, ah, respect as I do. Lord, he might even expect, nay, insist on seeing your body, perhaps thrust his tongue in your mouth. You would detect that, wouldn’t you? He would, I venture to point out, even force you to touch him. A ghastly prospect, wouldn’t you say? All that disgusting hair?”

It was difficult, but Frances maintained a hold on herself. He was a conceited, selfish beast, a bounder, a ... “Why do you not leave today, my lord? The weather is quite acceptable for travel, I think.”

Hawk regarded her in thoughtful silence. He supposed that a homely, very dowdy female would feel some bitterness about her looks, but this very agile sarcasm? It didn’t set right on her hunched shoulders. Somehow it didn’t fit her nondescript character.

Frances realized she’d make a mistake. She bit her tongue. Fool, don’t give him reason to question you, to bait you into anger. Give him no reason to stay. She tossed her napkin beside her plate and quickly rose.

“Perhaps I shall see you before you leave, my lord,” she said, and nearly ran from the room.

Hawk sat quietly, looking at nothing in particular. What the devil was the matter with her? Hell and damnation, he’d picked her instead of her sisters, given her a title, given her a home, given her consequence. And she detested him. And he did treat her well at night. Didn’t embarrass her or insist upon seeing her naked or demand that she touch him. He decided at that moment that he would leave today.

But it wasn’t to be.

Two hours later, Grunyon interrupted him in his bedchamber. “My lord, Otis informs me that you have a visitor. It is Lord Saint Leven.”

“Good God,” Hawk said blankly. “I wonder what Lyonel is doing here. I thought he was firmly ensconced in London.”

“I heard him mention to your father, my lord, that he was visiting a great-aunt who lives near Escrick.”

“Oh yes,” Hawk said, dredging up a bit of memory. “It must be his Great-Aunt Lucia, an old tartar, he told me once. He likes her immensely.”

He joined his father and Lyonel Ashton in the Smoking Room.

“Hawk, old fellow,” Lyonel said, coming forward to clap his friend on his shoulder, “you are now a married man. My congratulations. About time, I should say.”

“You say, Lyonel? You, as I recall, arrived on this earth only one year before I did.”

“Some of us fellows mature more quickly, Hawk,” said Lyonel, his dark blue eyes twinkling. “Where is your lady wife? I should like to meet his paragon who pulled you into the parson’s mousetrap.”

Mouse. Hawk felt as if his tongue had become dead meat in his mouth.

Lyonel frowned at the sudden silence. He heard the marquess clear his throat, but still Hawk stood there like a stupid puppet.

“Where is Frances, Father?” Hawk said finally.

“I don’t know,” the marquess said. “I sent word to find her, but no one has yet succeeded.”

Hawk remembered the awful scene at breakfast and imagined that Frances had indeed escaped.

“Frances,” Lyonel said. “A very nice name. Who is her family, Hawk?”

“Her father is the Earl of Ruthven, a Scot. She lived near Loch Lomond until a week ago.”

Lyonel felt at least a score of questions hovering, but he held himself silent. Not in front of Hawk’s father. There was a mystery here.

“Brandy, Lyonel?”

At that moment, Frances slithered into the room. That was the only word for it, Hawk thought, frowning at her. Damnation, she looked ready to be whipped.

He cleared his throat. “My dear,” he said in his most pleasant voice, “please come in. I should like you to meet one of my best friends, Lyonel Ashton, Earl of Saint Leven. Lyonel, my wife, Frances.”