Midsummer Magic (Magic Trilogy 1)

Frances smiled. “I am not a horse, sir.”

“No,” he agreed, returning her smile, “not even a filly.”

The marquess strolled to the fireplace and leaned his shoulder against the mantelpiece. “So, Frances, you believe yourself unintelligent?”

“You have an exceedingly tenacious mind, sir! You listen too carefully. You don’t forget a thing, you are just like your wretched son!”

“I understand that you enjoyed a mite too much to drink the other night, Frances.”

Her eyes flew to his face and her cheeks flushed with color.

“My son is always on to take advantage of such a delightful occurrence, I imagine. Did he engineer, it, I wonder?”

“He ... I hope he leaves soon, very soon!”

He was laughing at her, just like Hawk did, a knowing gleam in his green eyes.

“I am not used to spirits!”

“What troubles you this evening, my dear?” he asked, changing the topic so abruptly that Frances blinked at him.

She paused a moment, her fingers fretting with the fringe on her cashmere shawl. There was much on her mind but she wished to see Hawk first.

There were other things as well gnawing at her, and she carefully selected one of them. “I miss my family,” she said.

“Your father and his rages?”

“Yes. I dealt with him well, but not like Sophia. I yelled back at him. He was a marvelous father to me.”

“Ah, excellent training, it would appear.”

“Hardly,” Frances said in a very dry voice. Suddenly she grew very still at the sound of footsteps in the entrance hall. Hawk!

“Good evening, my boy,” the marquess said as his son entered the room. He was still in riding clothes and his Hessians were dusty. He looked weary.

“Sir,” Hawk said. He sent a flickering look toward Frances. “Forgive my dirt,” he continued.

“Should you care for something to eat?” F

rances asked him, her voice carefully neutral.

He shook his head. “I will bid you good night,” he said, nodded again toward Frances, and left the room.

Frances felt sparks of anger surge through her. The miserable wretch! Had he visited a woman in York? She rose jerkily to her feet, forced a smile to her lips, and said to her father-in-law, “I am tired also, my lord. Tomorrow I shall be more myself.”

The marquess watched her leave the room with her shoulders squared, her chin high. Things were progressing quite nicely, he decided, and rang for some brandy. He decided that he wouldn’t wish to be in his son’s boots at this moment.

Frances soaked in a long, steamy bath, and sat quietly while Agnes brushed her hair its requisite hundred strokes. Then she dismissed her maid and climbed into her bed. Surely he would come to her tonight. An hour passed. I should be pleased that he is leaving me alone. But what if something is wrong? What if something happened and he didn’t wish to speak in front of his father? And I have much to tell him.

She fretted, argued with herself, and finally, upon hearing the corridor clock chime midnight, eased out of bed, donned her dressing gown, and walked to the adjoining door. She raised her hand to knock, then lowered it. Perhaps he was asleep. Quietly she opened the door and slipped in. There was a sluggish fire in the fireplace and it provided the only light. Her eyes went to his bed, but he wasn’t there. She frowned a moment, and moved toward the fireplace and the tall-backed chair that stood in front of it.

Her breath caught in her throat when she saw him. He was seated in the chair, completely naked, his chin balanced on his hand, his gaze fastened on the spiraling flames. She saw him clearly as he emerged from Lock Lomond, as naked as he was now. But now there were the shadows playing over his magnificent body, bronzing his flesh, and she wanted to touch him. She wondered briefly if he had lost weight. He appeared more lean to her studious eyes. She heard him sigh deeply and stretch his long legs in front of him. Her eyes fell from his chest to his belly, and further, to the bush of black hair at his groin. His manhood lay flaccid, and she marveled that a man’s body could change with such rapidity.

Frances felt a spurt of desire. She knew it for what it was now, for he had taught her. She reached out her hand, not meaning to, and it was at that moment that Hawk became aware of her presence.

He didn’t move, merely said, “Hello, Frances.”

He wasn’t at all perturbed about his naked state. She swallowed a bit and replied, “Hello.”