Midsummer Magic (Magic Trilogy 1)

“I am going to bed!” She squared her shoulders and walked resolutely toward him.

“My idea exactly,” he said. “Come, my dear. I wish to begin my knowledge of the real Frances Hawksbury.”

What to do? He was standing in front of the door, blocking her way. Pretend, she thought. Yes, pretend. She said in a very shy, frightened voice, “I ... well, all right, my lord.”

“Philip,” he corrected, smiling down at her. He felt a surge of lust so strong that it startled him. She was his, his wife. She belonged to him. And now she was obeying him. He stepped aside. “I shall be up shortly, Frances.”

“Very well, my ... Philip,” she said in that same shy little voice, darting him a quick embarrassed look.

“Frances,” he said, touching his fingers lightly on her shoulder. He felt her tense, hastened to reassure her. “It will be different this time, I promise you.”

She lowered her head and stood silently. He leaned down and lightly pressed his lips to hers.

He raised his head and studied her face. “You are very lovely,” he said almost absently. “I am pleased with you.”

She said nothing, and he allowed her to walk from the room.

“Soon, Frances,” he called softly after her.

He walked into the entrance hall and watched her progress up the stairway. He pictured those long legs of hers wrapped about his hips and swallowed. How could he have been so blind? He shook his head. He wondered if he would have approached her sexually in the same manner had he seen her the way she was now on their wedding night. He didn’t know. Ah, Amalie, he thought fondly, tonight I shall follow your instructions to the letter. He thought of Frances squirming with pleasure in his arms, perhaps crying out softly, and he shook again with lust.

He drank a brandy, then quickly made his way upstairs to his bedchamber. Grunyon was there, fussing about, with nothing in particular that Hawk could see. “You may seek your bed,” he said shortly.

Grunyon darted a quick glance toward the adjoining door, a glance filled with concern that was not lost on Hawk. Damnation, didn’t he have anyone’s loyalty? “Go to bed,” he repeated.

“Yes, my lord.” Grunyon walked as slowly as a snail across the expanse of the bedchamber. He turned, swallowed at his master’s cold, determined look, and left, shaking his head.

Hawk waited only until the door was firmly closed before he stripped, donned a dressing gown, and softly knocked on the adjoining door. His hand on the doorknob was shaking a bit. Randy fool, he said to himself.

He opened the door.

There was but one lone candle flickering on her dressing table. Good, he thought, he wanted to see her, really see her. “Frances?” He looked toward the bed, and smiled. She was burrowed under the covers, in all likelihood embarrassed and a bit frightened. He would soothe her, make her comfortable with him. He would forgive her her charade, perhaps.

“Frances,” he said softly again, and eased down beside her. His hand touched her shoulder and froze.

He roared with anger. He jerked back the covers and stared with fury at the same damned bolster.

“Frances!”

He bounded out of bed and strode across her room. He halted suddenly, frowned, and lowering himself, peered beneath the bed. Nothing. Not even dust balls.

He pulled himself together by a thread. He couldn’t go yelling through the house for her. It would awaken all the servants, and he could just imagine the ensuing fiasco.

“I’m going to murder you, Frances,” he said, his voice deep with building rage. Where could she be hiding? His mind was set. He would search every damned room! Oh yes, and when he found her ...

He grabbed the candle and left her bedchamber. His anger increased as he entered and left each empty room.

He approached a small room, crookedly set off the corridor, facing the main entrance to the Desborough Hall. He opened the door, raised the candle high, and peered about.

Then he saw her, huddled on a pile of different materials. There was a loom nearby, and tables. It was the damned sewing room! Had she hidden from him in here the last time?

The light of the candle fell on Frances’ face, and she stared at him.

17

I am at the end of my tether.

—ROYALL TYLER