Midsummer Magic

by Catherine Coulter

  “Sweetness,” mused Lyonel. “What an odd way of putting it. Do enjoy yourself, old fellow.”

  Hawk had every intention of enjoying himself immensely. When he arrived at Amalie’s very charming house on Curzon Street, a house he’d allowed her to select and furnish, at his expense, of course, he was greeted by her pert little French maid, Marie.“

  “Madame is expecting you, Monseigneur.”

  Hawk felt himself becoming aroused even as he strode up the stairs to her bedchamber.

  Amalie was lounging in the center of her pink frilled counterpane, her favorite book open on her lap. Ah, Diderot, she was thinking, a man of talent, a man of wit. She heard Hawk’s footsteps, and quickly stuffed Diderot’s thin volume under her pillow.

  She’d missed him, no question about that. She wondered if his father had died. Hawk had been distraught when he’d left London for his father’s estate. She should have read the Gazette, but she found it boring, much preferring her countrymen’s elegant writing.

  He appeared in the doorway, beautifully handsome, his large body filling her very feminine bedroom.

  “Mon faucon!” Amalie cried, and jumped off her bed. She was immediately enfolded in his strong arms, her face pressed against his shoulder.

  “I never get used to being a hawk in French, Amalie,” he said, his hands moving down her back to her hips. He breathed in the sweet scent of her—female and attar of roses. A heady combination. “I want you, now,” he said, his voice deepening.

  She moved against him and felt his hard manhood straining at his breeches. “You do indeed, mon amour,” she whispered, and stood on her tiptoes to kiss him.

  “And you, Amalie? Do you want me?”

  That made her cock her head to the side. “What a question ridicule!”

  She felt his hand slip inside her peignoir, his deft fingers stroking down her belly until he touched her intimately.

  “Ah, how nice,” Hawk said, feeling her warmth, her wetness.

  “What do you expect, mon faucon? Coldness?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, and lifted her easily into his arms. Frances would have been cold and dry and stiff.

  He was undressed so quickly that Amalie had little chance to admire his beautiful body. Then he was on the bed beside her, drawing off her pink silk peignoir.

  “God, I’ve missed you,” he said, burying his face in her breasts.

  “And I you,” she whispered, gently clasping him to her.

  “I fear I cannot wait, Amalie,” Hawk said, so tense that it was almost pain.

  “You can see to my pleasure later,” Amalie said, and shifted her body to receive him. She closed her eyes when he thrust deeply into her. “Ah, yes,” she said, arching her hips upward.

  Hawk felt her thighs close about his flanks, felt her hands grasp his buttocks, and he was gone in the next instant, his head thrown back, gasps of pleasure erupting from his throat.

  He fell against her, his head beside hers on the pillow.

  She smiled as she gently stroked his head. “I give you thirty minutes, my Hawk. Then you must become my lover again.”

  “And not your husband,” he muttered, aware of that damned niggling guilt.

  “I do not understand,” Amalie said.

  “Later,” Hawk said.

  “Your father?”

  “Healthy as you, my dear, more so in fact.”

  “Ah, good.”

  Hawk fell asleep sprawled atop his mistress’s body. Amalie stroked his back very lightly, her brow furrowed in thought. How to tell this beautiful man that she wished to return to Grenoble, that she had a marriage proposal from a man she’d known for years, now a prosperous farmer. She had sufficient funds to buy all the books she craved, and she wanted to settle down. She wanted Robert and she wanted children. Ah, but it was a difficult thing to decide.

  There would be no more luxury, not like this. Robert would make vigorous love to her, of that she was quite certain, but he wouldn’t be a lover, not like Hawk.

  But there would be respectability, and Amalie’s French soul wanted respectability more than anything. And Robert Gravinier need never know that she had been any man’s mistress.

  Hawk awoke with a start some two hours later. “Oh my God,” he said, realizing that he was crushing Amalie beneath him. “I’m sorry, you should have awakened me.”

  “Ah no,” Amalie said, kissing his chin, “I fell asleep also.” It wasn’t true, she’d finished readying the next chapter in Diderot’s Encyclopedie, and her body was quite numb.

  Hawk rolled off her and rose. She watched him stretch, and immediate yearnings for the respectable Robert faded. “You are magnificent,” she said. “It has been too long.”

  “Allow me to bathe myself, Amalie, then I will pleasure you until you scream.”

  “I should like that,” she said, her dark eyes twinkling at him in anticipation.

  Hawk loved a woman’s pleasure. It made him feel immense satisfaction when a woman made those breathy little cries and her body tensed and convulsed. A woman, not a wife, he thought to himself as he spread kisses down Amalie’s soft belly. When his mouth found her, she lurched up, reaching her pleasure very quickly.

  He raised his head and gave her a lazy smile. He slid into her warm body and felt her close tightly around him. He stretched over her, kissing her deeply, his tongue foraging in her mouth just as his manhood thrust deep in her belly.

  It was near to two o‘clock in the morning. They were eating sweet rolls and drinking tea, seated naked on Amalie’s bed.

  “I’m married,” Hawk said abruptly.

  Amalie’s sweet roll fell onto the bed between her crossed legs. She stared at him, certain she’d misunderstood. Her English was good, but ...

  “I’m married,” Hawk said again, and sighed deeply.

  “I do not understand,” said Amalie slowly, her dark eyes fastened intently on his face. “It is most curious ... yet so fascinating.”

  Because she was serious, and not a gossipmonger, because her voice was soft, her eyes wide with concern, he found himself pouring out everything that had occurred, from his race to his father to his race to Scotland. When he completed his recital, he felt drained and exhausted.

  “You have left your lady wife in Yorkshire?”

  He nodded.

  “She will fall in love with you, mon faucon. No woman could resist you for very long.”

  “Ha! She detests me, she spits on the ground I walk, she—”

  “Bosh. You bring her pleasure and she melts all over you, n‘est-ce pas? After all, you are an excellent lover, and not at all a bête.”

  Hawk realized it was most odd to be speaking of his wife to his mistress, but the floodgates had burst open. “Amalie, you must realize that a gentleman doesn’t treat his wife as he would his mistress.”

  “He doesn’t? How very curious.”

  “It isn’t curious at all. A wife is a lady and isn’t ... well, she doesn’t want to be bothered with sex. I have been most respectful of her feelings, I promise you.”

  Amalie could only stare at him. “You do not make her melt all over you, Hawk?”

  Hawk shuddered. “I’ve never even seen her,” he said. “I’ve never even touched her above the waist. As I said, Amalie, things are different between a gentleman and his wife.”

  Amalie was thoughtfully silent. She saw Hawk gazing intently at her breasts, and stretched lazily, seductively. She was a bit sore, but what matter? She quickly removed the remains of their tea and food. “Come,” she said softly.

  Hawk didn’t leave Curzon Street until gray streaks of dawn were lighting the London darkness.

  13

  She pays him in his omn coin.

  —JOHNATHAN SWIFT

  Marcus Carruthers stared at Frances, reminding her forcibly of Mrs. Jerkins’ initial reaction.

  “But, my lady, I ... well, I don’t think it would ... no, ‘tis quite impossible, his lordship, what will—”

  “I am fro
m Scotland, sir, and yet I am capable of stringing together a logical thought.” Her eyes twinkled at him, and her tone was teasing, robbing her words of any offense.

  Marcus Carruthers mopped his brow with his white handkerchief.

  “Now, listen, Marcus. You are new here. I am new here. I am telling you all about my outlay of money, not only for my own wardrobe, but also for household items, and you have no real choice but to agree. After all, my husband isn’t present, as I’m certain you notice, nor is he particularly interested in this estate of his.”

  “We spent a good deal of time together before he left,” Marcus said defensively, but he was thinking: His lordship gives not a damn about Desborough Hall. What am I to do?

  “I see, but now he is gone, Marcus. What instructions did he leave you?”

  “He, ah, well, he told me to continue.”

  “Continue what?”

  “Well, keeping things afloat, I suppose.”

  “That is not acceptable, Marcus.” Frances sat forward in her chair, clasping her hands in her lap. “I am taking over management of the Desborough stud and racing stables. I have spoken at length with my father-in-law. I have learned of the former grandeur of Desborough. Indeed, his lordship’s brother, Nevil, kept up the tradition until his death. Things are now in utter disarray. It is outrageous and I will not allow it to continue.”

  She drew to a temporary halt and stared at Marcus Carruthers.

  “But you are a lady,” he began.

  “Thank you for remarking on that, Marcus. Now, I have seen at least four three- and four-year-old colts, thoroughbreds, mind you, that are wandering about the paddocks, getting no training, eating their heads off, in short, costing us money, rather than winning us money. For heaven’s sake, the stableboys ride them for sport! Thoroughbreds! In addition, we have two magnificent Arabians and three Barbs, all with impeccable bloodlines, that could be earning us quite respectable sums in stud.”

  “I know,” said Marcus, warming a bit. “I told his lordship that.”

  “And he said?”

  “He ... well, he wasn’t much interested.”

  “No? Well, I am and you are. The first thing we must do is secure the return of Mr. Belvis. His experience, I understand from my father-in-law, is most impressive, and he knows the Desborough stock.”

  “That is true.” Marcus lowered his eyes a moment. “There is something I should tell you, Lady Frances. His lordship mentioned to me that he’d an offer for the entire Desborough stock—racing stock, stud stock, the Barbs and Arabs you mentioned—everything, all the prize mares as well. None of our mares have even been bred,” he added.

  Frances sucked in her breath. “What? He would consider destroying a tradition all because he doesn’t wish to be saddled with the responsibility? Oh, I could kill him!”

  “His lordship, ah, told me he was just thinking about it. He has not made a decision, my lady.”

  Frances bounded out of her chair and began pacing about the drawing room, her steps a stride, not ladylike and mincing. Marcus watched her perambulations with a good deal of wary interest.

  She paused, her hands fisted at her sides, her gray eyes dark with emotion. “I think it is time that I consulted my father-in-law about funds. It will cost a great deal of money to bring the stables back into shape. I do not think I can, myself, authorize such expenditures.”

  “No, I am sorry, but you cannot. His lordship said—”

  “Oh, bother his lordship!” Frances clasped the bellcord and gave it a vicious tug.

  Otis appeared as swiftly and silently as an omnipresent genie.

  “Is his lordship about, Otis?” Frances asked.

  “I shall endeavor to locate him, my lady.” Otis remarked her flushed face and wondered what she was up to now.

  The marquess, refreshed from his nap, strode some minutes later into the drawing room. “Well, my dear, what bee have you in your bonnet now?”

  “No bee, sir. Did you know that Hawk is considering selling all the Desborough stock?”

  “The devil you say!”

  “The devil’s identity is uncertain at this moment. However, I have a proposition for you, sir.”

  “I believe I’ll have a brandy first. Carruthers, will you join me?”

  “What about me?” Frances demanded. “I am more in need of the brandy than either of you. After all, it appears that I am now responsible for Desborough Hall!” The world is made up for the most part of fools and knaves.

  —GEORGE VILLIERS

  Edmund Lacy, Viscount Chalmers, calmly regarded his betrothed, Beatrice, Lady Dunsmore.

  “Not a single word to me about this!” Beatrice raged, her famed pale complexion now in high color. “It is my father’s doing, you may be certain of that, Edmund. Didn’t you say that my dear brother is here in London, quite alone?”

  “Yes, that is what I said,” replied Edmund, gently twirling his looking glass on its velvet ribbon. “He is enjoying himself most thoroughly, I should add.”

  “Back to his mistress?”

  “Indeed, it would seem so.”

  “He could have had the decency to call upon me.” Edmund shrugged, and she added, her eyes glittering, “I wonder what Constance has to say to all this nonsense?”

  “The lady is ... perturbed, I gather. I saw her but yesterday, out with her damned Pekingese and her cowering maid. She was most vocal in her dissatisfaction.”

  Beatrice didn’t really care a snap about Lady Constance, the eldest daughter of the Earl of Lumley. The girl was something of a bore, really, at least in the company of ladies. But for Hawk to get himself married, and to a stranger none of them knew anything about! And they were so close, so very close to gaining her heart’s desire. She wondered if the new bride had any power over her husband and if she did, what she thought about Desborough. Beatrice shook her head. No, indeed, if this ramshackle marriage had been her sire’s idea, then Hawk’s presence without his bride was explained: he couldn’t bear the sight of her.

  “Have you asked him again about Desborough stock, Edmund?”

  “One does not press like a tradesman, my dear,” Edmund said gently. He saw her flush and smiled. “Soon, Beatrice. Hawk can be stubborn. I will not push him unduly.”

  “Oh, if only I’d been born a male! ‘Tis not fair, Edmund! It would be mine now, all of it. And Hawk doesn’t care a penny for the stud or the racing stables!”

  “But then, my dear, we would not be betrothed—if you were a male, that is.”

  That brought Beatrice up short, but only for a moment. “Oh, that,” she said, waving a pale, elegant hand, oblivious of the fact that she’d insulted her future husband. “Well, I suppose if my dear brother agrees to the sale, I shall have it in any case.”

  “Yes, that is quite true.”

  “You know, all Hawk ever knew was the army, and now he’s like a bird let out of his structured cage. He told me once some months ago that he’d never wanted Nevil’s title and fortune. Is he gambling much, do you think?”

  “He is not a fool, Beatrice. Even if he were, he would have to lose vast sums at the table before he would have to consider selling the stock.”

  Beatrice grew silent and Edmund watched her, amusement deepening the rich amber color of his eyes. She was a witch, no doubt about that, but he would control her quite nicely once they were married. And she need never know that he needed her fortune to help pay for the stock, once Hawk agreed to sell. Ah well, they would both be getting what they wanted. Edmund didn’t love her, but he wanted to bed her, and planned to do just that very shortly. She was a widow, after all, and he reckoned that her ancient relic of a husband hadn’t given her much satisfaction, if any. She was also quite pretty, her features so like her brother’s, but feminine at the same time. Her hair was glossy black, her eyes a gleaming leaf green. She was tall, deep-bosomed, and if she was gaining flesh, she would retain her bodily charms for a number of years yet. It occurred to him that there wasn’t much love lost between brot
her and sister. He trusted that he hadn’t made a miscalculation. He had assumed that Beatrice would assist him in gaining Hawk’s agreement for the sale.

  “Why do you not invite your brother to dine, Beatrice? I would be there also, of course. It might prove an appropriate time to broach the subject again.”

  Her eyes flashed. “An excellent suggestion, Edmund. Would you like to search him out?”

  “I cannot pay a visit to his mistress,” Edmund said dryly.

  “He cannot be with her all the time!”

  Edmund merely smiled at her; then he caught her hand, drew it to his lips, and kissed her palm. “Ah,” he said with satisfaction, feeling the pulse quicken at her wrist. He looked directly into her eyes, and slowly stroked his hand over her breasts. He felt her nipples harden beneath the thin muslin. “Soon,” he said, turned, and left her without another word.

  He could hear her quickened breathing behind him. She was a witch, he thought again, but she would be such a passionate witch in bed.

  Edmund Lacy tracked his future brother-in-law down at White’s, not in the gaming room, but in the immense reading room, whose usual inhabitants were two generations removed from him.

  The silence was disconcerting. There was only an occasional rustling of paper, an occasional snore.

  “Hawk,” Edmund said quietly, lightly touching his shoulder.

  Hawk was reading the war news in the Gazette, his brow furrowed. “Not going well at all,” he muttered under his breath. “Oh, Edmund, how are you? How is Bea?”

  “She is well, as am I. In fact, I am here as her emissary. Would you care to dine with us this evening at Dunsmore House?”

  More damned impertinent questions about my marriage, Hawk thought, but his face remained impassive. He felt a stirring of guilt that he hadn’t yet seen his sister. She looked so much like him that he should have felt closer to her, but he didn’t, never had, in fact. Not that he’d ever seen her very much during their growing-up years at Desborough Hall. Then, when his grandfather had died and his father had moved his family to Chandos Chase, he saw even less of her, for he was off at Sandhurst. He realized suddenly that he hadn’t replied, and quickly said, “I should be delighted, Edmund.”