Midsummer Magic (Magic Trilogy 1)

Not a clue to his thoughts appeared on Lyonel’s face. “My pleasure, ma‘am,” he said smoothly, and raised Frances’ hand to his lips.

Lord, Frances thought, staring at the bent head, she had believed Hawk the most handsome man she’d ever seen, but this elegant male creature easily rivaled him. His hair was a rich, thick dark brown, nearly the color of Hawk’s mahogany desk in the estate room.

When he straightened and smiled down at her, she realized he was even of Hawk’s size. Warily she met his eyes, but saw no distaste in them; indeed, she saw only pleasure and intelligence. She ran her tongue over her suddenly dry mouth, terrified of his perception, and muttered, “Yes, indeed a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

She sent an agonized look toward her father-in-law, and obligingly, the marquess said in a very relieved, quite loud voice, “Let’s have that brandy now.”

“Excuse me,” Frances said, retreating, “I do not drink brandy, truly, I ...” She quitted the room before anyone could say a word.

Lyonel said thoughtfully when the marquess handed him the snifter, “Let us drink to your marriage, Hawk.”

They did.

It was close to thirty minutes later before the marquess left the two longtime friends alone.

Lyonel sat back in the comfortable leather chair and stretched his long legs before him. “This is all most interesting, Hawk.”

“Go to the devil,” Hawk said.

“Always brief and to the point. I am blessed in my friends.”

“How is your sainted Great-Aunt Lucia?”

“She bastes me with her ire as thoroughly as the cook bastes the Christmas ham. She is in rare good form, healthy as a stoat, her tongue whirling faster than your carriage wheels.”

“I had looked forward to seeing you in London.”

“Ah. Soon? You will introduce your bride to the ton?”

“No. Frances stays here, that is, she wishes to stay here, in the country—she is more comfortable here, you know.”

“I see,” said Lyonel. He waited, but there seemed to be nothing more forthcoming. “I suppose you will confide in me when it pleases you.”

“There is nothing to confide,” Hawk said.

“Probably nothing of interest,” Lyonel agreed, his deep voice sounding lazy and bored.

“How long do you intend to stay?”

“I have but just arrived, Hawk.”

Hawk gritted his teeth. “You know what I mean, Lyon!”

“Ah, now we’re back

to the animal world. My father never approved of that particular nickname, you know. Believed it undignified, not at all worthy of Viscount Beresford. You will recall, old fellow, that that was what I was called before my father’s unfortunate demise last—”

“It is not a love match, curse you!” Hawk said harshly, breaking into this fascinating blather on Lyon’s antecedents. “You aren’t blind. You met her. You looked at her.”

Lyonel shot him an odd look, then said mildly, “Then I would suppose that she is a great heiress.”

“Nary a bit.”

“Not twenty thousand pounds a year?”

“Not a bloody sou.”

“I brought a valise, Hawk. I had intended to spend the night, but if you wish, I shall take to my heels and endure Lucia’s insults. Poor woman, she thought she’d seen the last of me for a while.”