Midsummer Magic (Magic Trilogy 1)

“The vicar’s eldest daughter?” said the marquess. “Isn’t she the chit with the yellow hair and the dimples?”

“That’s her,” said Frances.

“So you couldn’t manage to keep him, Frances?” Hawk said.

Frances refused to be drawn. She gave a dramatic sigh and said very softly, “I am too old. Marcus told me so. He was ever so polite about it, of course, but—”

Hawk groaned. “I’m sorry I raised it. Forgive me, Father.” He glanced at Frances’ smug face and added, “After last night, I had hoped to find my wife gentled and weak with love for me.”

Frances gasped, and Hawk wondered if she would hurl something at him.

The marquess smiled into his wineglass. How nice, he thought. They were coming together quite nicely. So proud, the both of them, but it appeared that his son had at last truly made love to his wife.

“We are both hopeful that Frances will have good news very soon,” Hawk remarked.

Frances said, her voice cold as winter, “Yes, my lord. Then your son can return to London, where he doubtless belongs! I’ll be amazed if he remains at Desborough until the end of the week.”

“The end of the week is but two days away,” Hawk said. He lounged back in his chair. “You wound me, Frances, you truly do.”

“I should like to do more than that, my lord!”

“ ‘Hawk,’ ” he corrected mildly.

I am too old for this bickering, the marquess thought. “Ah, Otis, I believe I shall retire now. Do compliment Cook on the delicious dinner.” His chair was gently pulled back, and the marquess rose. “I bid you good night, children.”

Hawk rose politely and walked his father to the door.

“A game of piquet, Frances?” Hawk asked, coming back into the dining room to stand by his wife’s chair.

“I suppose so,” Frances said, craning her neck to look up at him.

“Or perhaps you would like to join me in bed?”

“I would not join you in heaven, my lord!”

“I wonder if I will have to resort to cream again,” he said in a thoughtful voice. She felt his warm hand lightly touch her bare shoulder, and tried to pull away. His fingers tightened.

“Hawk,” she said, her voice thin.

“Yes, my dear?” His fingertips drifted toward the inviting swell of her breasts.

To her utter consternation, Frances felt a deep spurt of something very warm and urgent between her thighs. She squirmed just a bit in her chair.

“Come along, Frances,” he said very gently.

She shook her head. “I haven’t tasted Cook’s ginger cream!”

“If you are still hungry, I shall endeavor to satisfy you.”

Frances’ agile tongue wouldn’t budge. “I don’t want to,” she said at last, digging in her heels.

“Actually, you have no choice in the matter,” he said, and pulled back her chair. “Do you prefer that I carry you upstairs over my shoulder? Surely the servants have enough to gossip about without adding such a spectacle.”

“I should like to play piquet.”

“We can play anything you wish in bed.”

“I want some brandy!”