Midsummer Magic (Magic Trilogy 1)

Frances said little at luncheon and ate less. She heard the men carrying on about breeding and racing and hunting. So amiable!

She stayed in the house the entire afternoon. She wouldn’t have ventured out even if the drawing room had caught on fire.

The Melchers arrived for dinner. Nathan, the vicar, was a serious, rather narrow-shouldered man whose wife, Rosalie, was blessed with a large bosom, a lively sense of humor, and six children. She pandered shamelessly to Lord Danvers.

Frances was aware of her husband’s gaze throughout the meal. There was no escape, not tonight, she knew, as she took a bit of cabinet pudding, one of Cook’s specialities. She imagined he couldn’t wait to taunt her with details of the horses’ coupling. Sneering wretch!

Frances liked Rosalie. She’d never before known a motherly flirt. When she rose from the dinner table, Rosalie smiled broadly at all the gentlemen, and followed her.

The gentlemen didn’t join them for a good hour. They were, in all likelihood, Frances thought, jesting about Gentleman Dan’s prowess. As Hawk strolled across the broad entrance hall toward the drawing room, Lord Danvers beside him, talking nonstop about all the damned chicanery and cheating in the racing world, he blinked, hearing the pianoforte. It was a Mozart sonata, played beautifully. He shook his head at himself. The vicar’s wife, of course, but Rosalie had such pudgy fingers. He wondered how they could race so gracefully over the keys.

But it wasn’t Rosalie, of course. Hawk stiffened as he entered the room, his eyes going to his wife, who was seated gracefully before the pianoforte. Her lovely chestnut hair glistened with red and blond highlights in the candlelight from the branch of candles beside the pianoforte. Her white neck was long and graceful. She wore no jewelry. He wanted to kiss the nape of her neck and strangle her at the same time.

Frances finished, not looking up for a moment, calming the excitement the rapid last movement always brought to her. When she heard the loud applause, she nearly snapped her neck in her haste. She met her husband’s eyes. She’d forgotten the prize performance she’d granted him at Kilbracken. Fool!

“How enjoyable, my dear Lady Frances,” Rosalie said. “Such talent and ability! I vow you must be very proud of her, my lord.”

“Oh, I am indeed,” Hawk said in his blandest voice. “When I first heard her play at her home in Scotland, I remember thinking: Now, here is a talent that makes an audience react with unbelievable fervor.”

“And such a lovely picture she is, sitting there” continued Rosalie, more motherly now than flirtatious.

“Indeed,” agreed Lord Danvers. “You are a fortunate man, my lord.” Hawk saw the older man’s eyes rest on Frances’ white shoulders and he was surprised at the sudden jolt of anger he felt.

“Incidentally,” Hawk said, his attention still on Rosalie Melcher, “has my wife sung for you yet? You will not believe that such a voice can possibly exist. Frances, my dear, please give our guests more pleasure.”

His look was a dare and a command, and Frances knew he was remembering quite clearly her singing of that night. She nearly shuddered every time she thought about it. Did he believe her voice would crack the crystal on the mantelpiece? Curse him.

“Very well, my lord,” she said, sending him a sweet, very false smile, “if our guests are certain they wish to take the chance—”

There was vociferous agreement.

Frances bowed her head a moment, looking at her fingers spread over the keys. I am Scottish, she whispered to herself. Her fingers lightly came down on a soft major chord. Her voice was a gentle contralto, well-controlled, well-trained. She sang:O, my luve is like a red, red rose,

That’s newly sprung in June.

O, my luve is like the melodie,

That’s sweetly played in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,

So deep in luve am I,

And I will luve thee still, my dear,

Till a‘ the seas gang dry.

Hawk silently watched her face, letting her gentle voice and the beautiful words flow through him. He was startled when he heard the applause from his guests. It was on the edge of his tongue to tell her how lovely her voice was, but memory asserted itself, and the memory brought anger, and that brought his sneer. “How well you adapt, my dear,” he said softly. “Like a chameleon you are, to be sure. Why is it I expect you next to become a snake and strike where I will least expect it?”

Only Frances heard his baiting words. The others were talking, encouraging her to play another song. Slowly she raised her hands from the keys and laid her hands in her lap. She looked up at her husband and said quietly, “I am not a snake. But if I were, I should wish to be a very poisonous one.”

His eyes glistened, and he smiled, offering her his hand. “Just where would you bite me, Frances?”

She said nothing, merely rose and took his hand. She knew Rosalie was probably regarding them with dewy, romantic eyes. All are blind, she thought, when it suits them to be, or when the proper picture is presented to them.

“Perhaps,” Hawk continued as he lightly stroked his fingers over her palm, “you would bite me in my most vulnerable male spot. Not that I shouldn’t mind your beautiful mouth there, but biting? I think not.”

She quickly turned her hand and pinched his thumb.