Midsummer Magic (Magic Trilogy 1)

“Don’t worry, Frances,” the marquess said in her ear, “the old codger doesn’t bite—at least I don’t think he’s taken that up yet. When he was twenty years younger, though, I wouldn’t have put anything past him.”

Frances merely grinned, saw that Hawk was caught in close conversation with a good half-dozen gentlemen, and started toward the imperious old man.

“Oh dear,” said the marquess suddenly. “Beatrice!”

“And Edmund?” Frances asked in a low voice.

“I don’t see him. Oh dear, what the devil shall I do?”

“I think, sir, you should greet her naturally. I shall see what Lord Delacort wishes.”

“Who are you, girl?” Lord Delacort asked instantly the moment Frances curtsied before him.

“Why, I am Frances Hawksbury, Countess of Rothermere.”

“Ah, so you’re the chit responsible for those traveling horse stalls. Can’t imagine how ye’d do that. A chit and a woman, after all.”

“That is certainly true, my lord, and for the other, why, what does it matter?”

“Quite a quick tongue you’ve got, young lady,” Lord Delacort said, bushy brows raised at her.

Frances smiled back limpidly.

“Bring me a glass of port, Timmons,” he commanded in the next breath.

“But, my lord!”

“Shut your stupid trap, Timmons, that fool crack-bones hasn’t a brain in his rattling head!”

“I think I shall have some punch,” Frances said. “Would you care to join me?”

Lord Delacort glared up at her, the bushy gray brows now a straight line above his eyes. “Think to wrap me around your finger, do you, girl? Just like that husband of yours?”

Frances laughed at that. The thought of Hawk succumbing to any blandishments from her was vastly amusing. Well, perhaps not all that amusing, she added, smiling wistfully to herself.

“I have heard he is a good man,” Lord Delacort said, pointing a gnarled finger toward Hawk. “No one believed he would take to racing after he took his brother’s title and estates. Ah, Nevil. He was a one!”

One what? Frances wondered. She accepted a cup of punch from Mr. Timmons, thanked him, and offered it to Lord Delacort. He snorted, cursed poor Mr. Timmons with great fluency, and took the cup.

Frances thoughtfully drank a bit of the rack punch. It was very sweet and she didn’t particularly care for it. She said after a moment, her voice carefully neutral, “Did you know the former Earl of Rothermere, my lord? Nevil Hawksbury?”

“Certainly,” Lord Delacort said on another snort. “Shouldn’t speak ill of the dead and all that, but I didn’t like the fellow! Always prancing about, pretending he knew more about training and racing than the best men in England. Nonsense, of course.”

“Yes,” said Frances, somewhat disappointed. She didn’t care a bit about Nevil prancing. “You are racing tomorrow, my lord?”

Lord Delacort grunted. “Don’t think you’ll take the prize on the five-mile race, girl! My Persian is a stout fellow, strong as the devil. What’s your thoroughbred’s name?”

“Flying Davie, sir,” said Frances. “He’s but a four-year-old, but I fancy he will make an excellent showing. He is also quite strong and his will to win most remarkable. His first race was in York, and he won.”

“Stupid name,” said Lord Delacort, and drank the remainder of his punch. “Awful stuff, fit only for females.”

“I believe, my lord,” Frances said with grave honesty, “that it is even too awful for me.”

“Just what does your father-in-law have to say about you, Miss Impertinence?”

“He adores me,” said Frances blandly.

“Harrumph,” said Lord Delacort. Frances thought that escape was a possibility, for Lord Delacort appeared to be focused on something else. Before she could make her escape, however, his lordship said in a ruminative voice, “You know, girl, I lost a very valuable foal—and he’d be four years old now. His name was Starfire. My grandson named him that, cute lad.”