Midsummer Magic (Magic Trilogy 1)

“I see that someone took you in hand,” he said, his voice a sneering drawl.

“Yes,” she said calmly, willing herself not to react to his baiting. “I did, though it didn’t really require much of a hand-taking.”

She smiled at him then, and he sucked in his breath. His eyes roved over her face, noting the high cheek-bones, the beautifully shaped brows, the high smooth forehead. How could he have thought her eyes looked like tiny mean raisins? How could he have believed her complexion sallow as a dead prune? His eyes fell to her breasts and he saw their fullness.

“Why, damn you?”

Frances cocked her head to one side as if in question, but she knew well enough exactly what he meant. She had known that when she saw him again he would ask, and her response was well-rehearsed. She realized now that she’d never intended to retreat into her dowdy shell again, even though she’d told herself she would. Oh no, she had lied to herself. She’d consigned the dowdy mouse to oblivion, once and for all.

She said straightly, “I didn’t want to marry a Sassenach, that is why.”

That drew him up and he stared at her in stunned silence. He couldn’t quite comprehend that. He spoke aloud his confusion. “But I am an English nobleman, I am not a pauper, I am neither old nor ugly, and I have all my teeth. There could be no woman who wouldn’t want my hand in marriage.”

Frances laughed, she cou

ldn’t help herself. “You have an excellent opinion of yourself, my lord, not that I ever doubted it for a moment.”

“Philip,” he said, his voice filling with rage.

“Well, yes, as you wish,” she said. “You are correct. You have excellent teeth. Very white and straight.” She smiled, an ironic smile, showing him her own very white, straight teeth.

“What was Carruthers doing hanging all over you? Is he your damned lover?”

That was straight talking, but no more than wounded male vanity, of which he had more than his fair endowment. “No,” she said, the smile still fixed, her eyes now a lighter gray, mocking him.

“You have made a fool of me, Frances!” There, he’d said it, said what he really thought He felt enraged, so angry that he wanted to spit nails.

“It wasn’t difficult,” she said, enraging him all the more. He took a step toward her, and she took a quick step back.

He saw the length of her now, and his face paled even more with anger. God, had he seen her in London as she was now, he would have been sniffing after her like a rutting stoat, along with all the other gentlemen of his acquaintance.

“You didn’t want to see anything more than I presented,” she said quickly, alarmed by the steely narrowing of his eyes.

Yes, I saw her. That was what Lyonel had said. “Damn you,” he said aloud. “No woman has played me false.”

“I told you that Marcus Carruthers wasn’t my lover,” she said, a bit of a sneer in her voice.

“And you’re no timid little mouse, are you? Not a diffident bone in that body. Did you build a bonfire, Frances? Did all your ugly gowns and caps go up in flames? Were you laughing at me as you did it?”

“No, actually, I donated all those gowns to the rector. He was most grateful, I assure you.”

“I am not a blind man,” he said, knowing that he had been, knowing that he’d not only been blind, he’d been an abject fool.

“No, I am certain you are not, at least not in the normal course of events,” Frances said, willing to be a bit conciliating now. “Your being forced to come to Kilbracken wasn’t at all normal, however, but you see—” she continued, only to break off abruptly when Otis appeared in the doorway.

“My lady, is there anything you wish? Tea perhaps?”

Hawk swung around to see Otis, standing tall and unintimidated in the doorway, his eyes fixed on Frances.

Frances smiled. “That would be quite nice, thank you, Otis. My lord, should you like tea now?”

Hawk couldn’t believe it. There was his butler, looking as stolid as a rock, speaking to her, protecting her!

“Yes,” he nearly roared, then said, more quietly, despising himself for allowing this ridiculous situation to rile him, “Yes, I should. In the drawing room, Otis.”

To his further chagrin, Otis looked toward Frances. He saw her nod. The damned butler, his damned butler, was looking at her for her approval! He never should have left, he never ...

“In the drawing room,” Hawk said again, his voice as icy as a winter Yorkshire frost.