Midsummer Magic

by Catherine Coulter

  Frances felt frozen and tense, her hands fisting the sheet at her sides. She didn’t feel any sharp pain, just a tremendous fullness and stretching. But he’s inside your body. Then she felt a jolt of pain. He butted against her maidenhead.

  “Frances,” he said, wishing yet again he could see her to judge if he were hurting her. Hell, she couldn’t wear her spectacles to bed, could she?

  “Yes?”

  She sounded calm enough, resigned, in fact.

  “You’re going to feel a bit of ... discomfort. It’s your maidenhead and I’ve got to get through it. Just relax, all right?”

  “No,” she said very clearly. “No, please stop. Please, just go away.”

  “I can’t,” he said, and before she could catch her breath, he tore through the small barrier.

  She screamed at the sudden tearing pain, her body bucking wildly to be rid of him.

  He came down on top of her to hold her still with his weight. “Hush,” he said, his face pressed against hers. “The rest won’t be so bad, I promise.”

  She hurt, deep inside, raw hurt. And he was the cause of the hurt and he was inside her, so deep. She hadn’t known, hadn’t realized that her body could allow for such an invasion.

  She didn’t want to cry, but besides the pain, she felt defiled and used and angry. And helpless. She stuffed her fist into her mouth, but the sobs broke through. She couldn’t help it. She tried to shove him off, but her hands come in contact with his naked shoulders. She dropped her arms back to her sides and clutched at the rumpled sheet beneath her.

  She felt him rear above her, felt him moving inside her. Back and forth.

  It hurt, but not as much now.

  “That’s it, Frances,” Hawk said between gritted teeth. He felt himself ready to burst, and because there was no reason to draw out this damnable encounter, he thrust deep, letting himself go, spewing inside her.

  She felt him tense, heard a deep sort of growl come from his throat. Then she felt the wetness, and knew it was from him.

  She didn’t move.

  She hated him. This thing he’d done to her was vile, unforgivable.

  Hawk caught his breath, feeling her flesh convulse about him, and quickly withdrew from her. He felt her flinch, and was sorry for the pain he’d caused her, but dammit, he’d done it quickly, as efficiently as he could manage it.

  “Next time, it won’t hurt,” he said. Did a husband always have to use a cream when he took his wife? He supposed so. Since ladies and wives experienced no passion, a husband simply had to make things as easy as possible. He rolled off the bed and rose. His heart was still pounding from his releasé.

  “Are you all right, Frances?” he asked, suddenly concerned at her silence.

  “Yes,” she said, her voice dull and utterly lifeless.

  He frowned toward her, then sighed. Suddenly he wondered how little she knew. He cursed softly, then said, “When I came into you, I broke through your maidenhead. Please don’t be worried if tomorrow you see blood. It happens like that the first time. There won’t be any pain for you the next time, or blood.” At least he hoped not. He’d never taken a virgin before, and was uncertain.

  With those comforting words, he quickly dressed and strode toward the door.

  “I will see you in the morning, Frances,” he said. “Uh, sleep well.” And he left her.

  Now, Frances thought, now I shall jump through that window. But she didn’t move. She felt sore, her body ached. And there was wetness between her legs.

  Blood? His seed?

  She didn’t want to know.

  There won’t be any pain for you the next time. Next time! How long did it take to make a child?—for surely that was his only reason for doing this to her. How many times would she have to put up with being used like an animal? She wondered if he had really hurt her badly, and only pretended it was her maidenhead. She pictured herself as a castle being breached by a huge battering ram. She didn’t smile at the image.

  She was angry with herself when she tasted salty tears on her lips. “I hate you,” she whispered into the darkness.

  She wasn’t certain whether it was her husband she hated, or herself.

  She rose slowly and padded to the basin atop the commode. She didn’t want to see—anything—and quickly pressed the wet cloth against herself.

  Once in his own bed, Hawk stretched his arms over his head. All in all, he was pleased with himself. He’d treated his wife with all the respect she was due. He had hurt her, but it was to be expected that first time. She’d been very small. He frowned as his body reacted to the image of thrusting inside her, filling her. He’d leave her alone for a couple of nights. She would probably be very sore. After all, he was a man, and large, and she was unused to sex.

  But did she have to act as if he were killing her? Abusing her, for God’s sake?

  I can’t face him, Frances thought, her hand on the knob of her bedchamber door. I simply can’t.

  What are you going to do, then, ninny, stay like a coward in this ridiculous room?

  She drew a deep breath and opened the door. She cannoned into the corridor while she still felt courageous. She cannoned right into her husband.

  “Frances!” His hand clasped her upper arms. “Are you all right?”

  God no, I’m not! She said nothing. She wished he would suddenly, magically disappear—from the face of the earth. To her utter chagrin, when he released her, her eyes fell downward, to his belly and groin.

  He’d been so large the night before. Where was it? How ... Was he like a stallion? Did he increase in size only when ... ?

  Hawk chuckled, he couldn’t help himself. Her thoughts were so clear on her face.

  Her eyes flew upward. Belatedly, she squinted.

  But he was too amused to notice the small distorted eyes behind the thick lenses. He said, rumbling laughter still deep in his chest, “I thought you said you saw me naked in the loch.”

  “I did,” she said, choking with embarrassment.

  “I’m certain you realized that the water was damnably cold, frigid in fact.”

  What did that have to with anything? “Of course the water is cold this time of year,” she said, hoping her voice was as cold as that water. “I enjoyed watching you shiver.” Ah, that sounded nice and nasty.

  But still that wretched smile was on his face. “Then you must know that men aren’t always ready to, well, to, ah, indulge in—”

  “I didn’t look at that part of you! Oh, stop it!” She flung up her hands to ward off further drawing comments from him. She quickly turned on her heels and fled down the inn stairs. She heard his laughter behind her.

  “You miserable animal ... stallion,” she said under her breath. She met Grunyon at the foot of the stairs, and flushed to her puce cap.

  He smiled at her with grave understanding. “Good morning, my lady. Breakfast is served in the private parlor.”

  Hawk joined her some minutes later. He was no longer laughing—or smiling, for that matter. He was looking quite serious. “Frances,” he said gently, for he was now writhing in guilt for embarrassing her and baiting her, “are you all right? No ... aftereffects?”

  “No,” she said coldly, “I bathed. In the dark. After you took yourself off.”

  So much for my concern, he thought, and seated himself. He looked with satisfaction at the array of food on the table. Ah, thick sirloin. Rare, just as he liked it.

  As he chewed on the delicious beef, he remarked upon the disgusting cap that covered most of her head. He could just imagine the reaction of the staff at Desborough Hall, much less his father’s reaction. He cleared his throat, wondering how to tell her that she looked deplorable.

  He shook his head at himself. He couldn’t bring himself to criticize her, not just yet.

  “We will go immediately to Desborough Hall,” he said after a long, strained moment. “Soon, I will bring you back to York. It’s a lovely city and boasts many sites you would enjoy.”

  She s
aid nothing, merely spread her scrambled eggs about her plate.

  He forged ahead, taking her silence as a positive sign. “There are, uh, very nice shops here. You know what I mean. The modistes are excellent.”

  Frances silently vowed to wear this gown until it rotted off her body.

  “It’s also very probable that there are competent medical men here. Perhaps we could see to your getting some more ... well, new spectacles. Is your eyesight very bad?”

  She gave him a particularly vicious squint. “Yes,” she said, “terrible.”

  Hawk eyed her with growing impatience. Didn’t she realize how very kind he had been to her? He’d spared her all the embarrassment he could. Well, he amended to himself, he had been a bit rough with her this morning in the corridor, but damn her, why didn’t she say something, anything, to show that she was at least thinking?

  Couldn’t she at least be a bit civil?

  He downed some excellent English ale, then slammed down his mug. “Are you ready?” he asked, his voice curt.

  “Certainly,” Frances said. She wished she had something to bang on the table.

  Frances didn’t realize that ladies and gentlemen of the English ton viewed northern England, this county in particular, as the wilds of Yorkshire. It was beautiful, she thought. Rough and wild, with rolling hills. Untamed, like Scotland, like home. She felt tears sting the back of her eyes and quickly sniffed them back.

  They traveled due south, close to a winding river, the River Ouse, Grunyon told her when they stopped for a rest near Naburn Moor. The moor fascinated her. It was desolate, so unlike the neat farmlands that surrounded it.

  “Desborough Hall,” Hawk continued to her, “is near Stillingfleet. East, to be exact, quite close to the river. Our closest town is Acaster Selby.”

  They rode another thirty minutes through farming country and several small villages.

  Then Desborough Hall came into view.

  France’s jaw dropped as the carriage wended its way down the long tree-lined drive. It was a stud! She saw the huge stables, their red slate roofs gleaming in the late-morning sun.

  Not only a stud, she thought, but racing stables as well. There were huge paddocks, enclosed with white fences, for exercising and training. For the first time since she’d left home, Frances felt a spurt of excitement. She’d heard that northern England was renowned for its studs and racing stables, but hadn’t thought to ask if Desborough Hall was amongst them. Why the devil hadn’t her precious husband mentioned it to her? Well, she decided, craning her neck to see the Hall, if she had to be dumped somewhere, this was the place to be dumped.

  9

  There is a wicked inclination in most people to suppose an old man decayed in his intellects.

  —SAMUEL JOHNSON

  “Father! What are you doing here? You’re ill ... you’re supposed to be ...”

  Hawk broke off in speechless confusion.

  The marquess beamed down at his disconcerted, gape-mouthed son from the steps of the Hall.

  “Glad you’re home, my boy,” he said, and bounded down the deeply indented marble steps to the drive. He clapped Hawk on the shoulder.

  Hawk managed to grit out, “You’re the picture of health. You’re positively blooming.”

  “You sound disappointed, son.” A thick white eyebrow soared upward. “Did you expect me to have cocked up my toes? No, couldn’t do that. Too much to be done, you know.”

  “Of course I’m not disappointed! I’m happy, I’m ecstatic and astonished.”

  “That’s a relief, Hawk. Now, where’s your bride?”

  Grunyon was letting down the carriage steps. Frances emerged, to see an older version of her husband striding toward her. No, she quickly amended, not all that exact a copy—his nose was a veritable beak. He was the one who deserved the name Hawk. His hair was white and very thick, just as, she imagined, her husband’s would be in the years to come, and his very sharp, piercing eyes were just a shade or two darker than his son’s. He was built on more slender lines, not big-boned and massive like Hawk.

  “It’s Frances, isn’t it?” said the marquess, stepping forward to hug her close.

  “Yes, my lord, I am Frances Kilbracken.”

  “Nay, lass,” said the marquess, in a broad Scottish brogue, his eyes twinkling down at her, “you’re the Countess of Rothermere, Frances Hawksbury. I trust you left your father—that rascal!—quite up to snuff?”

  “Father is up to it, sir, as well as takes it,” Frances said. How did he know who she was? What the devil was going on here? Her husband had told her his father was gravely ill. Just an hour before, when they’d stopped for a few minutes, he’d informed her again, his voice low and worried, that they would leave at first light on the morrow to travel to Chandos Chase.

  “I don’t understand, sir,” she said.

  “I do,” said Hawk, his voice grim. “Oh, indeed I’m beginning to understand quite well.”

  Frances’ eyes swung to her husband. He sounded utterly furious. He sounded almost ... betrayed. If a man could be said to gnash his teeth, Hawk was doing it.

  The marquess ignored his son, and wrapped his arm about Frances’ shoulders, giving her another affectionate hug. “All the staff is waiting to meet you, my dear. Come along. You too, Hawk. I hope the staff hasn’t forgotten who you are! Here only three times in the past year, isn’t that all? Grunyon, don’t strain your back! Here is Ralph to assist you with the luggage!”

  Indeed, Frances saw with a sinking heart, there were at least twenty servants lined up in front of the great double doors of Desborough Hall, the women on one side, the men on the other. She saw vaguely the Hawksbury crest above the door and remembered the motto: With a strong hand. And her snide remark about a strong fist. Whose fist here was the strongest? she wondered, darting a glance from her husband to her father-in-law.

  How does he know which daughter I am? she wondered yet again, her feet dragging as the marquess walked beside her toward the array of well-dressed servants. English servants. They would hate her, despise her.

  She looked hideous, she well knew it. But the marquess didn’t seem to have noticed. If he had noticed, it hadn’t fazed him in the least. Her hand went up to pull off the spectacles.

  “My damned servants are garbed better than you,” she heard Hawk say in an angry undertone. “God, I don’t believe this!”

  She left her spectacles firmly balanced on her nose, and thrust her chin upward.

  What didn’t he believe? Why wasn’t he delighted that his father wasn’t dying? Why was he acting like such a boorish lout?

  The marquess said jovially, “This devout personage, my dear, is Otis, the butler of Desborough Hall. Otis, this is your new mistress, Lady Frances.”

  Not a muscle moved on that lined, austere face, but to Frances’ sensitive eye, there did seem to be a slight spasm of distaste about the man’s thin lips. An English butler, she thought, the most terrifying of God’s creatures.

  “Hello, Otis,” she said in a clear voice.

  “My lady,” Otis said, bowing from the waist. “Welcome to Desborough Hall.”

  “And this, Frances, is Mrs. Jerkins, a gem of a housekeeper. She and I are growing into dotage together.”

  Mrs. Jerkins, looking stolid and terribly efficient in an array of black bombazine, proffered Frances a curtsy. She looked to be a long way from the state of dotage, as did Frances’ exuberant father-in-law for that matter. “My lady,” she said in her low, somewhat hoarse voice.

  “A pleasure, Mrs. Jerkins.” Goodness, Frances thought, her courage dropping to her toes, the housekeeper should be on Wellington’s staff. She looked formidable, her will iron.

  “I will introduce you to the staff tomorrow, my lady,” said Mrs. Jerkins, and clapped her hands. Like magic, the long line of women faded away. Otis, taking his cue from the marquess’ nod, dismissed the men.

  “Don’t know why we use the ‘Mrs.,’ ” the marquess whispered in Frances’ ear. “Never been m
arried. I suppose she added it for dignity’s sake. Must have been decades ago.”

  Hawk suddenly cleared his throat. He was furious, so furious he wanted to spit. And here his damned father was introducing Frances to his servants, as if Desborough Hall belonged to him!

  “Otis,” he said in an overly loud voice, “have another footman assist Ralph with the luggage.”

  “Yes, my lord,” said Otis, and snapped his fingers.

  “He,” Frances said, looking briefly over at her husband, “did not tell me that Desborough Hall was a stud. It is also a racing stable, isn’t it, sir?”

  “Yes, indeed,” said the marquess. “At least it was until Nevil died. Hawk, more’s the pity, has no interest in it. It’s falling to bits now. Well, my dear, what do you think of your new home? The old Hall—called the Grange—was gutted back under Queen Anne. The present Hall dates from about 1715, not old at all, built by a fellow called Sir John Vanbrugh. All that classical nonsense, you’ll see. Palladian, I believe it’s called. Don’t have the foggiest idea what that means, though.”

  “Palladian,” said Hawk in a ferociously calm voice, “refers to the classical Rome style of Palladio.”

  The marquess shrugged good-naturedly. “Nonsense,” he said, winking at Frances.

  “Who was Palladio?” Frances asked.

  “An Italian architect,” said Hawk curtly.

  “Sixteenth-century,” Grunyon said as he trudged by them with a heavy valise.