Midsummer Magic (Magic Trilogy 1)

Frances turned to face her sister. “Then allow me to explain it,” she said. “You, Viola, and you, Clare, are exactly what the precious earl likes in ladies. You are both very pretty, charming, gay. However, the earl doesn’t want a wife. A wife, in his mind, would change everything, and he doesn’t want anything to change. Now do you understand?”

“He is a bounder, a cad,” said Clare.

“At the very least,” agreed Frances.

“I still want him,” said Viola. “I could change him, make him happy, content—”

“Don’t be a fool, Viola,” Frances interrupted. “He would eat you for breakfast and spit you out. The man is selfish, ruthless, and unworthy. But of course,” she added, giving her father a furious look, “he will provide money. Rather, his father will.”

“Frances, you will not condemn a man simply because he is endeavoring to ...”

“To what, Papa?” Frances asked furiously when her father faltered. “I am the one to be sacrificed.”

“Sacrificed, ha!” Viola yelled. “You will be a countess—rich, all the clothes you want—what does it matter if your husband goes his own way? You know nothing about how ladies and gentlemen conduct their marriages. It is a marriage of convenience, as is proper. You, Frances, should be shot, hanged—”

“That is quite enough,” said Sophia briskly. “The die is cast, as it were. Now that all the drama is over and everyone has vented his spleen, you will come with me, Frances. We have but three days to do something about a trousseau. The earl returns early on the morning of your wedding. There is much to be done.”

“You are sacrificing Frances,” Clare said clearly.

“Sacrificing!” Sophia yelled. “You are a silly ninny! And you, Frances, you should be jumping for joy at your success.”

“Papa ...” Frances said very quietly.

“One day, you will thank me, my girl,” Ruthven said.

“Both of us will be long dead before that day comes, Papa.” Frances turned, defeated. She followed Sophia out of the gun room, promising to meet her in her bedchamber within the hour.

Frances then stalked to her own bedchamber. It smelled like him, she thought, and she viciously ripped the sheets off the bed. She was standing in the middle of the room, the sheets in a white pool at her feet, when Adelaide slipped through the open doorway.

“Goodness, my love,” Adelaide said, “what an uproar you have caused.”

“I know.”

“This is for the best, Frances.”

“Yes, I imagine that it is. At least I am saving Viola and Clare from unhappiness.” It is difficult to be noble, she thought, so very difficult.

“A husband is a husband, my dear, and to my mind, the earl shows more promise than most. He was placed in a most awkward position. If he selected you for all the wrong reasons, well, he will soon see the error of his ways.”

Frances looked much struck. “I hadn’t thought of that, Adelaide. What shall I do?”

Adelaide patted her arm. “You will gather up these sheets, love, then I imagine you will give quite a bit of thought to your alternatives.”

Frances did give furious, endless thought to her very limited number of options. She spent many hours imagining the look on the earl’s face were she to appear lovely, charming, and gay and demand that he take her to London. That made her smile, but she wondered if he would beat her for her earlier deception. Men were such unpredictable creatures—she’d observed enough of them to be certain of that.

She didn’t come to her decision until the evening before her wedding. She was standing in front of her bedchamber window, staring out into the inpenetrable darkness.

“Frances?”

“Yes? Sophia, do come in.”

Her stepmother was wearing a silk dressing gown and her lovely hair was long and loose down her back. She looked younger.

“Is there a problem?” Frances asked. “Has Doris broken out into spots? Has Reverend MacLeod had another argument with Papa?”

To her surprise, Sophia didn’t meet her gaze directly, nor did she respond to Frances’ attempt at humor.

“Papa!” Frances exclaimed. “He is all right, is he not?”