Midsummer Magic

by Catherine Coulter

  “Speak to Belvis if you wish,” Hawk said, but not caring one way or another.

  “Very well, my lord,” Marcus said. He wasn’t up to telling the earl that Belvis, a crusty old man and an excellent trainer and manager, had left the estate some three months before, mumbling to Marcus that there was nothing for him here, not anymore.

  Hawk laughed suddenly, very harshly.

  “My lord?”

  “Nothing, Carruthers. If we wish to treat our stallions as trollops, and charge for their services, who am I to quibble? Any worthy lightskirt, or mare in this case, would do the same thing.”

  Marcus had nothing to say to that observation. Their meeting continued for another hour, and by the end of it, Marcus was ready to pound his lordship into a desk drawer. The man was infuriating, and utterly uninterested in the running of his own estate. No, Marcus amended to himself, it wasn’t lack of interest exactly, it was a barely suppressed abstraction. His lordship was miles away in the middle of more pressing problems.

  “It is teatime,” Hawk said finally, rising. “I will have the dubious honor of sharing this precious time with my ... family. I will see you sometime tomorrow, Carruthers.”

  Marcus shook his head as the earl strode from the estate room.

  Hawk found his father and Frances seated comfortably in a cozy room called the Double Cube. He’d never understood the genesis of that particular name, and although he was interested, he didn’t feel this was precisely the right time to seek enlightenment.

  Frances looked her usual self, perhaps even more so, for when she looked up at his entrance, she paled to the color of the white walls.

  “Good afternoon,” Hawk said, nodding to the two of them. He walked to the ornately carved fireplace and leaned his shoulder against the mantelpiece.

  “Tea, my lord?”

  “Philip,” he corrected loudly.

  “With or without milk?”

  “Hawk likes his tea strong and plain, Frances,” the marquess said. “Doubtless because there weren’t enough goats to milk in Portugal.”

  “Exactly, sir,” Hawk said, giving his father an ironic nod.

  “I was just speaking to Frances of bridal visits. Your neighbors will want to meet her, of course.”

  The horrified look on her husband’s face was enough to make Frances thrust up her chin and declare, “I should enjoy meeting everyone, my lord.”

  “Not,” Hawk said very slowly and very precisely, “until you do something with yourself, Frances.”

  Frances gave him a long, squinting look, rose, and walked out of the room, her back ramrod straight.

  “She’s still wearing that same ghastly rag,” Hawk said to no one in particular. “Twenty years out-of-date if it’s a day. And that cap—it should have been burned before it was sewn.”

  The marquess wanted to plant his beloved son a facer. Stupid half-wit! Stubborn idiot! He’d tried to speak with Frances before Hawk’s belated arrival, but hadn’t gained much ground. In fact, he hadn’t gained anything. He hadn’t known what to say to her.

  “What do you plan to do, Hawk?” he asked finally, waving a cup of tea toward his son.

  Hawk walked to his father, took the tea, and downed it in one gulp. “Do, Father? Why, I plan to get my wife pregnant as quickly as possible.”

  “And then?”

  “I will return to London, where I belong.”

  “That is what you said yesterday,” the marquess said, “more or less.”

  “Yes,” said Hawk, pouring himself another cup.

  “Belvis is gone, left some months ago.”

  Hawk blinked at his father. “Marcus didn’t tell me.”

  “You probably had the poor young man quaking in his shoes. I told you because nothing you do or say makes me quake.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “Belvis is not someone to lose lightly.”

  Hawk shrugged. “I told Marcus to do what he wished about the stud. If he wishes Belvis back, he can fetch him.”

  The marquess rose. He was a meddler; he freely admitted it to himself. He wondered if it wouldn’t be for the best if he left the two of them alone and returned to Chandos Chase.

  No, he couldn’t do it. He had to get the truth out of Frances first.

  Frances pulled her shawl more closely about her shoulders and escaped through the garden door off the immensely intimidating library. It would take three lifetimes to read all those vellum tomes. She breathed in the sweet, clean air. Spring was making itself felt. There were full buds on the trees and some flowers were coming back to life. It would be lovely here in the summer. She tried quite successfully for the next ten minutes to extol the virtues of the estate. After all, it was now her home. She felt a wave of homesickness and sank down under a very old, gnarled oak tree, leaning back against the rough bark. She closed her eyes and saw her husband, and heard his hateful words play over and over in her mind. Well, what he said is only the truth. You look ghastly. Do you expect that he’ll want to introduce you as his wife?

  She was on the point of pulling off her spectacles and taking the cap from her head when she saw Hawk striding toward the small ornamental lake. His head was lowered and he appeared lost in thought. His thick black hair glistened under the afternoon sun. She let her eyes rove down his body, looking at him with complete objectivity. He was a handsome man, a powerfully built man. There, she thought, she would allow him that. But nothing more.

  It was as if he sensed her presence, for in the next moment, he whipped about and stared at her.

  “Frances,” he said.

  “My lord,” she said.

  “Philip. ”

  “Yes. It is a lovely prospect, is it not? Do you know when the lake was built?”

  “In the early part of the last century. One of my late, unlamented ancestors with a head filled with foolishness.” He paused a moment, raking his fingers through his hair. “Look, Frances, I apologize for what I said to you. It wasn’t fair of me. After all, it’s not your fault that you ...”

  “Yes?” she pressed in a very sweet voice.

  “Well, quite a bit of it is your fault.”

  “I should say that it is all my fault. But it matters not, at least to me.”

  “I don’t understand,” Hawk said slowly.

  Frances shrugged, not looking up at him.

  “Look, Frances, I’m sorry about last night. I won’t do that again ...”

  She shot him a look of undiluted relief. “You won’t touch me again? You’re leaving Desborough Hall, then?”

  “Not just yet. What I meant to say was that I won’t ever approach you again without some cream. I did not mean to hurt you.”

  Cream, she thought dully. She found herself looking at his firm mouth for a moment. He had never kissed her.

  “Should you like to go riding with me tomorrow morning?”

  An olive branch. “Yes, I should like that, my lord.”

  “Philip.”

  “I don’t have a riding habit.”

  Hawk paused at that daunting bit of news. Then he said, “Tomorrow evening, Lord and Lady Bourchier are coming to dinner. As I recall, Alicia is about your size. Perhaps she would lend you a riding habit until you can have several made. We will just have to postpone your ride for a day or two. I will go see Alicia and John now and borrow one for you.”

  “There are guests coming tomorrow evening? To dinner?”

  Hawk frowned at the sound of her set voice. “Why not? They’ve been friends of mine since we were children. I suppose you should meet with Mrs. Jerkins and plan the menu.” He didn’t tell her that this damned dinner hadn’t been his idea. His father had taken the liberty of doing the inviting.

  “Yes,” Frances said, coming gracefully to her feet. “Yes, I suppose I should. Another wifely duty.”

  “You will come down to dinner this evening, will you not?”

  “I haven’t yet decided,” she said over her shoulder.

  Hawk watched her stride back towa
rd the house—like a damned man, he thought. Not a feminine bone in that body of hers. But her body was very soft, her skin smooth and sweet-smelling. He clearly remembered the feel of her thighs, their slenderness, their long, graceful shape, and the softness of her between her thighs. He found himself wondering about her breasts. Tonight, he thought, he would satisfy his curiosity on that score.

  Frances, knowing she had no choice, dutifully rang for Mrs. Jerkins when she returned to the house.

  “Yes, my lady?” came the formidable response.

  “Mrs. Jerkins, my husband informs me that we will have two guests for dinner tomorrow evening.”

  “Yes, my lady. His lordship—that is, the earl’s father—informed me of the invitation. I have the menu planned. Here it is.”

  So, she thought, the marquess had done it. She was surprised that her husband hadn’t pleaded a vile illness to keep his friends from coming. She lowered her eyes to the paper. It was the first time she’d tried to read with her spectacles on. The words blurred. She couldn’t make them out. She shot Mrs. Jerkins a look, but knew it would be odd in the extreme to that intimidating woman if she were to remove her spectacles in order to read. She sighed, forced her eyes over the blurred words, then said, “This is fine, Mrs. Jerkins. Thank you.”

  Mrs. Agatha Jerkins nodded, and took back the paper. She didn’t realize until she had left her new mistress that she hadn’t given her the menu. She’d given her a list of the linens that needed to be replaced.

  She told Otis, “ ‘Tis exceeding odd, James. Do you suppose that in Scotland they don’t teach people how to read?”

  “It is a brutish, uncivilized country,” said Otis.

  “Our poor master,” she said, shaking her gray head. “To be tied to such as her ...” Mrs. Jerkins broke off suddenly, quite aware that it was not at all acceptable to speak thus of her betters, particularly to Otis, the stiff-necked old goat.

  “I shall contrive,” she said, and hastened away.

  That evening at dinner, Frances said not a word. She listened to the marquess relating tales from bygone days, scandals of this lord or that lady, fortunes won or lost at the gaming tables.

  When she’d come into the drawing room, Hawk had taken one look at her and become as silent as she.

  The marquess carried on manfully. He wasn’t a military man like his son, but he knew well enough when the battle was well lost.

  Frances excused herself at the first moment possible and returned to her room. Agnes was seated next to the fireplace stitching one of Frances’ impossible gowns.

  “That won’t be necessary, Agnes. You may go now.”

  Agnes brightened. “You are expecting new gowns, my lady?”

  “No,” said Frances. “Please, Agnes, go to bed.”

  Frances was wide-awake when she heard the adjoining door open some two hours later.

  “Frances.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Just a moment, my lord, allow me to raise my nightgown for you. There.”

  Hawk felt a frisson at those empty, dull words. He plowed his fingers through his hair. “Frances, look, I—”

  “I quite understand, my lord. You wish me to conceive. I am ready. Please, just get it over with.”

  He did. He didn’t hurt her, for the cream eased his way. She didn’t move, nor did she say another word. He finished quickly, and retreated to his own rooms.

  He realized later as he lay in his own bed that he hadn’t touched her breasts.

  The small dinner party with Lord and Lady Bourchier from Sandbury Hall could have been worse, Hawk thought. Alicia, bless her sweet heart, had been most kind to Frances, once she’d gotten over her shock. As for John, he was a man who could charm termites out of walls, if he so chose. The marquess had been in fine form.

  Frances had been so quiet and reserved that she might as well have not been present. Hawk found himself wondering during the lengthy meal how Clare or Viola would have responded. They would have been charming, he thought, and well-gowned and lovely.

  But he’d married Frances. And she detested him. He shrugged as he mounted the stairs after bidding his father a good night, and set his jaw. Frances obviously wanted to see the back of him, and he resolved to give her her wish.

  Why couldn’t she try, just a bit. to make herself more presentable? He’d held his breath when all of them had adjourned to the drawing room after dinner and the marquess had begged Alicia to play for them. Hawk couldn’t bear the thought of Frances playing, particularly after Alicia, who was blessed with a soft clear voice and nimble fingers. He didn’t want her to embarrass herself. His father had asked her, and Hawk sent an agonized plea heavenward. It was heard; Frances refused, her voice emotionless.

  Had the woman no feeling at all? He knew she was shy and diffident, but he hadn’t quite realized to what extent it was true. She was shy almost to the point of rudeness.

  He signed, dismissed Grunyon, and stripped off his clothes. When he quietly opened the adjoining door, he heard Frances say in a weary, bored voice, “Again, my lord? Are you not too fatigued?”

  “Yes,” he said, “but it doesn’t matter.”

  “Very well,” she said.

  “You know, Frances,” he said as he drew closer to her bed, “you could have made a bit of a push to be more pleasant to my friends. Both John and Alicia are quite nice.”

  “I’m sure they are.”

  He heard her moving about in the bed, and could picture her pulling up her nightgown. This is not right, he thought, suddenly miserable. Life shouldn’t be like this. He sat down on the edge of the bed, his hands clasped between his knees. “I would that things were not so difficult between us, Frances.”

  “I would that there were no things at all,” Frances said. “Between us, that is.”

  “Are you homesick?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry, but ...”

  He heard her draw a deep breath. “Yes,” she said quietly, “there is always a ‘but,’ isn’t there? I am tired. Cannot you be done with it?”

  “Very well,” he said, his voice curt.

  It relieved him that he was able to enter her immediately. He had an awful fear of impotence with her. That would demolish him utterly. When he spewed his seed deep inside her, he heard a muffled sob, and froze. He closed his eyes, even though the room was in complete darkness. He hadn’t hurt her, had he? She was very small, and he had thrust deeply into her, repeatedly. He started to ask her if she were all right, but he couldn’t bring himself to. He could just hear her flat, emotionless voice telling him a lie.

  He pulled out of her quickly, feeling her flinch as he did so.

  Frances didn’t move. She heard him stride quickly from her room, heard him firmly close the adjoining door behind him.

  It isn’t so very bad, she thought, lying very still. It doesn’t hurt. But it was so empty, so cold and inhuman.

  She suddenly saw her life laid out before her. It was all loneliness and darkness. It was a man who was her husband who would visit her when he was forced to. She rolled over and buried her face into the soft pillow. She wanted desperately to go home. She wanted desperately to be free again, to be herself, to laugh and visit all the Kilbracken crofters, to swim in the loch, to sun herself in the midst of heather during the summer.

  Silly weak twit! Your whole charade was designed to have him leave. And it’s working, indeed it is. He can’t bear to look at you, much less be in your company.

  Soon she would be free again. Soon he would be gone. And then what will you do?

  She awoke the next morning with no answer to her question.

  She realized soon enough that she would not be riding. Her husband hadn’t inquired about a riding habit from Lady Bourchier.

  11

  Brevity is the soul of wit.

  —SHAKESPEARE

  “No,” Hawk said.

  “What, nothing else to say? You proffer this rackety reason, unbelievable, and you know it, and then say no?”

>   “Correct,” Hawk said.

  If a look of absolute ire could destroy, Hawk would have collapsed, slain at his father’s booted feet.

  “This is all nonsense, my boy,” the marquess said after a moment in which he’d failed to reduce his son to filial obedience. “See your man of business in London? Absurd! He had to beg you to pay him a call after you returned to England. I tell you, Hawk, I forbid you to leave now.”

  “Not now, at dawn,” Hawk said.

  “And just what does your wife think about this? Does she even know that you plan to leave her?”

  “No, not yet. I will speak to her when I find her, which is difficult, since she hides whenever I am in the vicinity.”

  “Except at night,” the marquess said with lowered brows.

  “That is right.”

  The marquess threw up his hands. “I’m going to breakfast now.”

  To Hawk’s surprise, Frances was seated at the breakfast table when he and his father entered the small breakfast room. She was wearing what he now recognized as the ugliest of her three gowns, a dull brown wool that could have had no style the day it was conceived. On her head sat a cap of bilious yellow.

  She looked up briefly, nodded, then lowered her head again to her plate of eggs.

  The marquess looked from one to the other, and announced, “I think I shall breakfast a bit later.” He left, a brief prayer on his lips that his son would bend one way and Frances would not run.

  She looked like a pinched, pale, very homely shadow, Hawk thought, except for those awful spectacles that brought everything into sharp focus. He suppressed the unacceptable feeling of guilt and set himself to his trencher.

  When Otis retreated from the room, taking the serving maid, Rosie, with him, Hawk sat back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest.

  “Good morning, Frances.”

  “Good morning, my ... Philip.”

  “I am pleased with your verbal progress.”

  “Thank you.”

  He wanted to shake her until her teeth rattled. Instead, he said, “Do you think you could be with child?”