Midsummer Magic (Magic Trilogy 1)

Hawk shot him a narrow-eyed look.

“My boy,” the marquess continued, his very gentle voice bringing his son to instant attention. “You will willingly provide funds for your wife’s sisters. You will also apologize to Frances for your execrable behavior toward her.”

Hawk very carefully laid the cue onto the billiard table. He said nothing.

“You know, dear boy, it seems to me that Frances, in all innocence, provided you with the perfect opportunity to dash her into the woodwork. I do wonder why you felt compelled to do it.”

“So she went running to you, did she?”

“Actually, no. Otis, my boy, Otis.”

Hawk muttered something about traitorous servants, and the marquess merely smiled.

“When I did track down your wife, she refused to allow me to assist her.”

“She would,” Hawk sighed.

“She is quite proud, you know.”

“She is an accursed female!”

“Why, my dear boy? Why did you hurt her so?”

Curse the old man for his perception, Hawk thought. He heard himself say in a calm-enough voice, “I am leaving Desborough Hall soon and I don’t want three females following me to London.”

“I suggest that you take care what you’re about, Hawk.”

“Oh hell,” Hawk said, smashing his fist onto a small tabletop that promptly collapsed. He stared blankly at the wreckage. “I will apologize to her. I will give her all the blunt she requires for her twit sisters, but I won’t escort them all about London! If she wishes, she can cart them about York and even Harrowgate. Plenty of assemblies and nonsense there.”

“May I suggest that you apologize to her quickly? She was muttering about blackmailing you.”

“Blackmailing me! Why, that is ridiculous!”

“Your mistress, Hawk.”

“She is a shrew.”

“Your mistress, dear boy?”

“No, Frances,” Hawk snapped.

“She is a handful, certainly, but a shrew, my boy? Surely you exaggerate, perhaps to protect yourself?”

Hawk cursed floridly and stomped out of the room.

The marquess slowly picked up the billiard cue and began a quite splendid, expert game.

Hawk forgot about returning to London, at least for the moment. That night Flying Davie became suddenly ill, and Frances, pale and drawn with worry, was in his stall until dawn. Hawk couldn’t ignore the situation; he wasn’t a complete bounder. He watched her care for the thoroughbred, saw that the horse trusted her, was quite calm when she touched him and ministered to him.

“The fellow will make it,” Belvis said to him, stretching his back. “Lady Frances has such a way with her. I never would have believed that a woman ... Well, that puts an end to my nonsensical notions. I wish I could understand why he got so ill. Lady Frances says it is something he ate, but his feeding is carefully supervised. Doesn’t make sense, no it doesn’t.” Belvis shook his weary head, and added with a faint smile, “You are most lucky, my lord.”

What to say to that? Hawk wondered, bone-weary himself.

Frances refused to leave Flying Davie until she was ready to fall asleep beside him in the stall.

“Come, Frances,” Hawk said, took her arm, and pulled her to her feet. “Flying Davie is now in better shape than you. It’s time you took yourself to bed.”

Frances felt light-headed with fatigue, but also proud of herself. “He will live,” she said with great satisfaction, and gave her husband a blinding smile.