Midsummer Magic (Magic Trilogy 1)

“Go back to your mistress, my lord!”

“No.”

“I want nothing to do with you!”

“How very curious,” he said thoughtfully, drawling out his words so his brain could formulate more. “The dowdy mouse lay as still as a martyr, suffering my attacks on her body. But the beautiful woman now believes to deny me my husband’s rights?”

Frances was silent. Why hadn’t she realized that he would be far more interested in sex with her new appearance? What would he do? Would he treat her as he had before—abruptly, quickly, with determined silence save for his curt instructions?

“I don’t know,” she said, her shoulders slumping for the first time.

He’d won, and he smiled. He had her now where he wanted her. He realized that he wanted to take her upstairs this very moment, strip off her clothing, and throw her on his bed. He wanted to kiss every inch of her, he wanted ...

“I shall give you until this evening to think about it, Frances. You know,” he continued thoughtfully, “I have never had a wife. Perhaps I will enjoy sleeping with you the entire night, perhaps waking you to love you, perhaps—”

“Shut up! I don’t have to listen to your ... cruelty!”

“Cruelty? Making love to my wife is cruelty?”

“Making love?” she nearly shouted at him. “Is that what you wish to call it now? Now that you don’t regard me as beneath your exhalted notice? Now that you don’t believe you’ll become ill touching me? You, my lord, are a despicable animal!”

“I suppose you are a bit justified in saying that, all save that final insult, of course.”

Frances saw that he would rise, and quickly retreated. “I have much to do. You will excuse me, my lord. We have ... guests for dinner. John and Alicia Bourchier are to arrive. I must speak to Cook, I must ...”

It was a lie, he knew it, but said nothing. He watched her rush from the drawing room, and knew her next task was to send a plea to Alicia and John to come to Desborough Hall.

He couldn’t wait. The evening should prove to be like the second act of the bad comedy. Only this time, he knew his lines, and Frances didn’t.

He was grinning broadly as he rose and left the room.

16

The best laid schemes o‘mice and men

Gang aft a-gley.

—ROBERT BURNS

“It’s not fair, Alicia! Oh, why did he have to come back? I had thought that he wouldn’t return until Christmas! All my plans, everything is in a heap!”

“Now, Frances, calm yourself,” Alicia said, gently patting Frances on her bare arm. “I’m pleased that you didn’t retreat again—indeed, my love, you look quite lovely. The blue silk does wonders for your eyes. I am not certain what color they are now. I am almost persuaded to be jealous of you. John looks at you like he does at a lovely dessert.”

“So will Hawk,” said Frances, her voice sounding as dispirited as she felt. She banged her fist against her dressing table and her hairbrush jumped and slid onto the carpet. “He told me it was guilt that brought him back! Likely tale, that!”

Indeed he would think her beautiful, thought Alicia. What a marvelous tangle! So Hawk had told her he felt guilty? Most curious. She said, “Come along, Frances, we must go downstairs. The gentlemen will be waiting. You don’t wish to take the chance of Hawk coming up and dragging you down, do you?”

“He would, wouldn’t he? Alicia, stop laughing! None of this is in the least funny! Oh, very well, let us join the precious gentlemen!”

John Bourchier, a slender, somewhat myopic young gentleman, was standing next to the fireplace, speaking in his measured way about his estate. He had said nothing about Frances’ transformation. He was a gentleman. Still, he couldn’t wait to observe Frances and Hawk together.

He droned on about drainage problems in his northern acres, and Hawk, barely concealing his impatience with his longtime friend, downed more sherry.

“Good evening again,” Alicia said gaily, sweeping into the drawing room. She trusted that Frances was following her. “John, dear, may Frances and I have a glass of sherry?”

“Certainly,” said John, not daring to look at Hawk’s face.

Frances looked so lovely it was like staring directly into the sun. Hawk felt something deep inside him tighten, but he was easily able to ignore it at the sight of two angry spots on her cheeks and the wary, irritated look in her eyes. Were they more blue than gray? His eyes fell to her bosom. “How very charming, my dear,” he said, his voice honey smooth, his gaze moving reluctantly from her breasts back to her face. Frances merely nodded, and let him lift her hand and plant a light kiss on her wrist. He held it and she shot him a look that could kill were it a pistol.