Midsummer Magic (Magic Trilogy 1)

“Scandalous, I call it!”

Lady Alicia Bourchier was a very pretty woman who had been much infatuated with Lord Philip Hawksbury some six years before when he was in London at the Hawksbury town house on leave, his arm in a sling. He’d flirted with her, healed, then left again. She’d met her childhood friend John again after a distance of two years, fallen in love, and now felt only an occasional twinge of regret when thoughts of the handsome Philip took her unawares.

She looked over her teacup at Philip’s wife. She had felt so sorry for him upon her first meeting with Frances. Perhaps, she thought ruefully, she should feel more sorry for him now.

“So, Alicia, you must come see the rest of my new wardrobe when we finish our tea. I do thank you for all your help. Ah, I must tell Mrs. Jerkins that the tea is much too weak!”

“Frances,” Alicia said suddenly, “I really do not understand, you know.”

“It doesn’t matter, truly. And to be frank, I do not wish to discuss it. Now, you haven’t told me what you think of this gown.”

“You look beautiful,” Alicia said quite honestly. Indeed, she did, Alicia thought to herself. It was a round dress of thin jaconet muslin over a lemon-colored sarcenet slip. The bodice was trimmed with a triple fall of lace at the throat, the hem flounced with matching rows of like lace. The fitted bodice, though quite modest, did nothing to deceive the viewer of the abundant bosom beneath.

Frances was elegant, there was no other word for it, Alicia admitted to herself, from the tip of her glossy chestnut curls—or was her hair more auburn or perhaps blond—she couldn’t decide.

She realized for the first time that she was Frances’ elder by at least three years. It was a daunting thought, and one that she tried earnestly to dismiss. She wanted to be Frances’ friend, after all, for Philip’s sake. Even though she was from Scotland. Even though she was Philip’s wife. However had she attracted him in the first place? Why had she played the shy dowd?

It was a mystery Alicia did not despair of unraveling, in time.

She said brightly, “Have you heard from Philip?”

“No,” Frances said, sounding not at all downcast.

“But it’s been nearly two weeks, Frances! Whatever is he doing in London?”

Frances shrugged, a glimmer of a smile playing about her mobile mouth. “I am fairly certain that he amuses himself.”

“I shouldn’t approve of that if I were you!”

Frances said very gently, “But you are not me, Alicia. Ah, here are my dear father-in-law and Marcus! Come in, gentlemen, and make your bows.”

Amenities were the order for the next few minutes.

“You’ve a letter from your father, Frances,”the marquess said, handing her a rather disreputable, wrinkled envelope.

“Thank you, sir. Now, here is your tea. Marcus, you like milk, do you not?”

“Yes, my lady,” Marcus Carruthers said. He felt still in something of a state of shock. The new countess had turned from a toad into a prince—or something along that order, he amended to himself—and she was charming to him. She’d requested his assistance for the following day. He didn’t yet know what to make of it.

Frances saw that her father-in-law was gazing pointedly at the letter she’d laid on the tea table. “I shall get to it later, sir,” she said. “All outright lies and jests and advice I shall pass on to you, you may be certain.”

The marquess nodded. “I like the gown, Frances. It suits you quite nicely.”

That was an understatement, thought Marcus.

“Thank you,” Frances said in a very demure voice, but there were demons dancing in her gray eyes. “Incidentally, sir, I saw a portrait of Lady Beatrice in the gallery. She is quite lovely.”

The marquess said nothing for a long moment; then he shrugged. “That’s as may be,” he said obliquely, and Frances’ left brow arched upward.

“I haven’t seen Beatrice for a goodly number of years,” said Alicia. “She goes well, sir?” At his nod, she continued to Frances, “She is recently betrothed to Edmund Lacy, a quite charming gentleman, from all I hear. He was a good friend of Nevil’s and now a friend of Philip’s. He owns quite a respectable stud and racing stable. Isn’t it in Devonshire, sir?”

“So I hear,” the marquess said.

Frances wasn’t blind. She saw that the marquess was discomfited by this talk, and though she didn’t understand why, she took pity on him and quickly changed the topic. “I was just on the point of asking Alicia how one goes about meeting all our neighbors. I believe I am ready for the assault.”

“Indeed you are,” said Alicia. “Now, we must have your visiting cards made up. Mr. Crocker in York is quite accomplished. Something simple yet elegant, I think.”

“An excellent combination,” said Frances, thinking that she’d been through the simple, and now elegant was the order of the day.