Midsummer Magic (Magic Trilogy 1)

“Every single day,” he said fervently.

“Marriage,” Frances said thoughtfully, “makes one most aware of things one was never particularly aware of before.”

“By that do you mean that you are counting days also?”

“No,” she said honestly. “Indeed, I was beginning to believe that all we ... well, you know, the feelings ... were all in my head! That is all.”

“In your head? How very repulsive a conclusion. Shall I have to begin at the beginning again?”

She flushed slightly and shook her head against his shoulder.

“You know, Frances, my bed has been very empty without you.” He sighed deeply. “Shall we go downstairs?” He patted her cheek and stood away from her. “You look lovely.”

He looked very lovely himself, she thought as she walked downstairs beside him.

27

There is no pack of cards without a knave.

—SIXTEENTH-CENTYRY PROVERB

Amalie looked thoughtfully at the careful arrangement of playing cards spread before her on her bed. “Moi, je le savais” she said to her empty bedchamber. “I knew this would happen, yes, I certainly did.”

Amalie would be the first one to admit that philosophy and superstition weren’t the most compatible of bedfellows, but she’d had this feeling. And the cards had proved her right, indeed they most certainly had.

She slowly reshuffled the cards and set them on the table beside her bed. “Il faut penser, maintenant, ” she said quietly, and propped herself up on her bed pillows. Yes, I must think this through very carefully. After all, she really had no proof at all ...

She had received the Earl of Rothermere’s expected letter two weeks before. It appeared that he was now ready to be a faithful husband. He had sent her two hundred pounds and an assurance that the lease on her house would be extended to the end of the next quarter. Very generous was Hawk, and she missed him. Still, there was Robert, and she very nearly had enough for a substantial dowry. Never, she thought fiercely, and with French determination, would she go to her husband without a dot.

For that reason alone, she had let the very generous Lord Dempsey stroll into her life and into her bed. His name was Charles Lewiston and he was a very powerful man, particularly in the racing world. And he was a friend of Lord Chalmers, who was betrothed to Lady Beatrice, Hawk’s sister. And he’d spoken when he was in his cups. Spoken of things that bothered Amalie. Lord Dempsey hadn’t seemed to know that she had been under Rothermere’s protection and after his bout with the brandy bottle, she wasn’t about to tell him. “Indeed, soon we will have what we wish,” he’d said, his voice slurred, his body thankfully, from Amalie’s point of view, limp and sodden from the brandv. He was a rough lover and she had agreed to see him again only because of what he’d said.

“Ah, my lord, what is it you will soon have?” she’d inquired in a soft, rather awed voice.

“Desborough stock, all of it, and then it will be all over.”

What would be over? Amalie wondered. She saw that he was on the brink of a drunken sleep, and said, “You are so brave, my lord, and so magnificent. Much more so than the former Lord Rothermere, Nevil. You knew him, I suppose?”

“Demned bounder,” said Dempsey giving a satisfied snort, “selfish sod. We took care of him, oh yes, we did.”

He was snoring loudly the next moment, and Amalie was transfixed by his words. She’d prayed devoutly that he would not remember what he’d said when he awoke.

She rose now from her bed and walked to her dressing table. She straightened a sheet of pressed paper and dipped the quill into the ink pot.

Frances shouted until she was hoarse, and when Flying Davie flew across the finish line, she threw her arms about her husband’s neck.

“We did it! We did it!”

Hawk, grinning proudly, kissed her.

She’d seen the other jockeys trying to knock Timothy from Flying Davie’s back, seen the vicious swipes with riding crops. Thankfully, Flying Davie had managed to widen the lead and escape further harassment. Damned vicious brutes!

They’d won the meet at York, a grueling five-mile race that tested the mettle of all ten thoroughbreds entered.

“I’d say he’s ready for Newmarket,” said Belvis, rubbing his hands together. “As for Timothy, he needs a bit more instruction on how to keep his hide intact, but a fine job the boy did, yes, indeed, a fine job.”

Frances had won two hundred pounds, for Flying Davie, an unknown, was at seventy-to-one odds.

“Most impressive,” said Edmund, shaking Hawk’s hand. “Tamerlane will run tomorrow?”