Midsummer Magic

by Catherine Coulter

“Stupid,” Amalie repeated firmly, warming to her subject. “You are not an ugly man. You have skill in giving a woman pleasure. And that should include a wife.”

  “She is ugly, however,” he said. “She—”

  “Is fat?”

  “No, quite slender as a matter of fact. But her spectacles, her hair, her clothing—”

  “So, mon cher, the fact is that you don’t wish to pleasure her as you do me? You are repelled by her, thus you hide behind this ridiculous notion that ladies are to be protected from gentlemen’s baser needs.”

  “A damned philosopher,” he growled at her. “I don’t need you to preach at me, Amalie.”

  “Spectacles can be removed,” she said gently, “and clothing can be removed as well.”

  “But her hair—she looks like a nun, with her ridiculous ugly caps—”

  “Stupid. Quite stupid, as I said. Caps, as well as everything else, can be removed.”

  Hawk heard himself saying, most inappropriately, “I have wondered about her breasts ... Oh God, look at what you’ve brought me to! Just shut up. I wish to tend this particular garden, if you don’t mind.” He cupped his palm over the curls between her white thighs.

  He brought both of them to pleasure again, but Amalie knew that he was abstracted.

  A mistress taking a husband to task. She wished she could laugh. It would feel so good. But of course it would enrage him. Men were such sensitive creatures. Still ...

  “Hawk,” she said softly, knowing he wasn’t yet asleep, “you shouldn’t treat her like this nun you speak about, you—”

  “Amalie,” he said, impatient now, “I don’t wish to talk of her. She dislikes me heartily. She wouldn’t want me to touch her, even if I could bring myself to.”

  “That sounds not right, mon cher. You can, when you wish, charm even that fat man, that Regent, n‘est-ce pas? And you have told me about that Brummell person and how you made him smile at one of your jests. You do not wish to spend your life with one who dislikes you. A wife—”

  “Enough!” he roared, rolling off her. “It is your duty, Amalie, to see to my pleasure, to make me happy, not carry on like some sort of fishwi ... mistress!” He rose, hands on his lean hips, and stared down at her. Suddenly his eyes narrowed thoughtfully on her face.

  “Why, Amalie?”

  Amalie eased herself up, pulling the light coverlet over her body. “It is not right,” she said finally, not meeting his eyes.

  He could only stare at her. “I think,” he said slowly, weariness overtaking him, “that I shall leave you now.”

  She watched him dress, watched the firelight cast intriguing shadows on his golden body, playing over his smooth man’s flesh, the planes and angles of chest and belly. She sighed softly to herself. He said nothing more until he was fully clothed. He walked to the bed, bent down and kissed her, then straightened.

  “Hawk,” she said very softly, “you are a good man.”

  “Thank you,” he said, his voice utterly emotionless. “I shall see you soon, Amalie. Good night.”

  She murmured good night after him. She heard his steps in the corridor, heard him take the stairs two at a time, heard the door close behind him. Life, she thought vaguely, feeling drowsiness tug at her, life was not simple.

  Hawk walked down St. James Street, nodding automatically to acquaintances, speaking only when it would be rude not to.

  He felt at odds with himself, a state he was neither accustomed to nor relished. When he saw Constance waving to him from her landau, he winced to himself. He now found her attractions dubious, and that surprised him. He’d known he would never marry her even if his father hadn’t made that ridiculous oath that had landed squarely on his shoulders, but still, he had enjoyed her. She was an accomplished flirt.

  “My lord,” she called to him, motioning to her coachman to halt beside him.

  “Good morning, Constance,” he said calmly, strolling to her carriage. “You are shopping?” He eyed the mound of packages strewn over her maid, and for a brief instant the maid looked at him. What he saw in that look made him wince again. It was ineffable weariness, a sort of dulled acceptance.

  He forced himself to smile up at Constance.

  “Yes, as you can see. Teresa, don’t let that package fall into the street, you stupid girl! Ah, Hawk, will you be at Lady Esterhazy’s ball this evening?”

  He didn’t want to go to another bloody ball.

  “I am not certain,” he hedged. “You are looking lovely as ever, Connie, but unfortunately I must forgo this pleasure. I have an appointment.” It was a lie, but he was desperate.

  He tipped his head, and felt Constance’s anger flow toward him.

  “I shall look forward to dancing with you,” she said, her voice shrill.

  He watched the landau pull away, his brow furrowed. Traffic was as thick as usual, and it took some time for the coachman to ease into the flow. All those moments, he was pinned under Constance’s fixed smile.

  Finally he was free and he continued his meanderings.

  “Well, old fellow, you look a thundercloud that doesn’t know whether to rain or hail.”

  “Saint Leven,” Hawk said, forcing a smile.

  “Yes, I believe so,” Lyonel said, cocking an eyebrow at his friend. “I am off to Jackson’s. Do you wish to come with me?”

  Hawk’s eyes glittered. Yes, he wanted violence, he wanted to pound someone or something. It would keep him from thinking.

  Hawk readily accepted a challenge from young Canterley, a loud-mouthed bully from Suffolk who spent most of his time at Jackson’s, taking all comers and killing them. Within minutes, he was stripped and in the ring. The sight of Canterley’s bulging muscles didn’t faze him. Hawk was strong, well-coordinated, and his undefined rage made him formidable. His powerful body was glistening with sweat within minutes. He was destroying young Canterley.

  “My lord, hold!”

  He pulled back, panting. Gentleman Jackson was regarding him with some surprise. He looked at Canterley and saw blood streaming from his nose.

  He shook his head.

  “I say, Hawk, well done,” shouted Sir Peter Graven. “I had five guineas on you!”

  “Come,” Saint Leven said, his voice very quiet and gentle.

  “I can safely say that you’ve nipped that odious bully in the bud,” Lyonel said after they’d bathed and dressed again. “Do you feel better?”

  Hawk rubbed an abstracted hand over his ribs. “He scored once, and it hurts.”

  “When are you leaving?” Lyonel asked abruptly.

  Hawk stared at him. “What the devil does that mean?”

  “I mean that you’ve been in London for nearly two months. When are you returning to Yorkshire?”

  “I have no intention of going back there.” But he did, he simply hadn’t realized it until Lyonel had pointed out the obvious. No, dammit! “There is no reason for me to, there is nothing there, I—”

  “You’re a miserably unhappy bastard,” Lyonel said, interrupting him smoothly.

  “I wasn’t until quite recently. I’ll thank you to keep your tongue in your mouth, Saint Leven!”

  “Friends should be good for something,” Lyonel said, brushing a fleck of nonexistent dirt from his elegant sleeve. “You do have a wife now, you know.”

  “Why the devil is everyone so concerned about Frances? You saw her, Lyon. Christ, would you return to that?”

  “Yes,” Lyonel said very quietly, “I saw her. Quite clearly, as a matter of fact.”

  “Just what does that cryptic bit of wit mean?”

  Lyonel shrugged. “Go home, Hawk, that’s all I meant.”

  He expected his friend to rage at him, perhaps plant his fist in his face, but Hawk did nothing. They strolled through Piccadilly in silence.

  “It is going to rain soon,” Lyonel remarked, glancing up at the darkening sky.

  Hawk grunted. He kicked a stone out of his path.

  “Have you heard anything from your father?”r />
  “Not a blessed word,” Hawk said, then frowned. That in itself was odd, most odd. His father should be urging him to return, piling recriminations on his head, but there had been no word from that wily old autocrat.

  The marquess was playing a deep game, Lyonel thought.

  “All right,” Hawk said finally, and there was a measure of relief in his voice.

  “All right what?” asked Lyonel.

  “I shall leave in the morning.” And I will court my damned ugly wife and take off her glasses and her ugly cap and her clothes. I’ll kiss her and see her breasts and ... He shook himself.

  “She doesn’t like me, you know,” he said more to himself than to Lyonel.

  “No, probably not,” Lyonel agreed. “But, my friend—”

  Hawk threw up his hands. “No, don’t say it. Amalie says I can charm even the fat person known as the Regent.”

  “All right, I won’t say another word,” Lyonel said agreeably. “However, this person is a trifle different from the Regent. I trust she is still at Desborough Hall.”

  “Where else would she be?”

  Lyonel shrugged. “Who knows? Back in Scotland?”

  “No, if she had shuttled the pike, my father would have sent me a message so quickly your head would twirl on your shoulders. I have much to do, Lyon, and it looks about ready to rain.”

  “Does it really?” Lyonel asked, seemingly startled by this bit of information. “Go easy, Hawk,” he added, shook his friend’s hand, and strolled off, a slight smile on his lips.

  Go easy, Hawk thought with some disgust. What did Lyonel expect him to do? Fling his wife onto the ground and ravish her?

  What an odd thought, he realized later as he absently watched Smallpiece pack his valises. Seducing one’s wife. Wooing a wife.

  15

  All hell broke loose.

  —MILTON

  “My lord! We weren’t expecting you! You have—”

  “Good day, Otis. Where is my wife?”

  Hawk was slapping his fine gray leather gloves against his left hand, waiting for a response. There wasn’t an immediate one and he looked intently at his butler’s unbelievably distraught face.

  “Well, my lord,” Otis began, wishing he could wipe the sudden perspiration from his brow.

  “Yes, Otis?” What was going on here? Otis sweating?

  Otis pulled himself together. “I believe, my lord, that Lady Frances is in the estate room. She—”

  “Estate room? How strange. Well, no matter. See to my things, will you, Otis?”

  What the devil was Frances doing in his estate room? Was she hiding from his staff? Had she taken over the small chamber as a refuge? Why was Otis acting so particularly? He strode across the vast entry hall toward the back of the house. He was vaguely aware that fresh flowers filled every vase on every surface. Their sweet scent permeated the air. It was spring, he thought, then dismissed it.

  The door to the estate room was closed. He frowned at it a moment. Little fool, was she so diffident, so timid that ... ? He caught the knob, half-expecting it to be locked. It opened smoothly, and Hawk stepped into the room, coming suddenly to a complete and utter halt.

  He stared, his mouth dropping open. There was a woman seated behind his desk, a beautiful woman, and Marcus Carruthers was standing beside her, speaking quietly, his finger pointing to a piece of paper on the desk in front of her. Hawk blinked, not understanding, completely at sea. The woman ... her hair was a rich, streaked chestnut, with delicate wisps trailing down her graceful neck. Her gown was exquisite, a pale lemon yellow, fitted perfectly to her lovely bosom ...

  “Oh my God!”

  Frances, intent on Marcus’ explanation, looked up to see her husband standing inside the door, a look of utter confusion and chagrined disbelief on his face.

  He had to come back sooner or later, she thought, drawing on a thin thread of poise. She had wished, devoutly prayed that he would give her warning, but then, Hawk never did the expected. Oh heavens!

  She said in a calm voice, “Good day, my lord. You have just arrived?”

  “Frances?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Hawk continued to stare at her, stunned. “Where are your spectacles?” he asked stupidly.

  She shrugged and gave him a small smile.

  At that moment Hawk became completely aware of Marcus Carruthers. He had managed to move a bit closer to Frances, as if protecting her. His look, his posture, looked intimate. Hawk felt rage rise in him.

  “What the devil is going on here?”

  Frances blinked at his outburst. A jealous husband’s outburst? It was all too absurd. Very slowly she rose. “Nothing at all untoward, I assure you, my lord. Marcus, thank you very much. We will make a decision on this matter a bit later.”

  Marcus Carruthers saw the incredulous expression on the earl’s face and for a moment he was very afraid of the man. But he was more concerned about Lady Frances. Did he dare leave her alone with him? Fool, he reminded himself, the earl was her husband.

  He cleared his throat. “Welcome home, my lord,” he managed on a croak. “I will see you later,” he added, but neither party knew exactly to whom this was addressed. He slipped out of the room, noting as he walked past the earl that his hands were fists at his sides. Reinforcements, he thought. He needed to bring reinforcements.

  “As I said, welcome home, my lord,” Frances repeated, her mind a whirling morass of stray thoughts. She didn’t move from her post behind the desk.

  “Where is my father?”

  “He left for Chandos Chase last week.” She added silently that he had waited until she was well in control of everything at Desborough Hall before taking his leave. She wished he were here now. Her errant husband was the only thing, the only creature, she couldn’t control.

  “I believe, Frances, that you owe me an explanation.” His voice was very soft, gentle almost, but Frances wasn’t fooled, not for a minute. He was furious, very probably wanted to strangle her, and was barely in control of his temper.

  “Someone must see to things here, my lord,” she said mildly. “You weren’t here. I was.”

  “Damn you, you know that isn’t what I mean!” He strode toward her, his eyes growing wider as he neared her. “What the hell happened to you?” He still couldn’t believe it. She was lovely enough to make a man ache just gazing at her. Her eyes were large and gray, fringed with thick, dark lashes, eyes grayer now, cold like the North Sea in winter. Her delicate chin rose, as if in challenge. No, he silently amended, not just delicate, stubborn as the devil. Who and what had he married?

  “I see that someone took you in hand,” he said, his voice a sneering drawl.

  “Yes,” she said calmly, willing herself not to react to his baiting. “I did, though it didn’t really require much of a hand-taking.”

  She smiled at him then, and he sucked in his breath. His eyes roved over her face, noting the high cheek-bones, the beautifully shaped brows, the high smooth forehead. How could he have thought her eyes looked like tiny mean raisins? How could he have believed her complexion sallow as a dead prune? His eyes fell to her breasts and he saw their fullness.

  “Why, damn you?”

  Frances cocked her head to one side as if in question, but she knew well enough exactly what he meant. She had known that when she saw him again he would ask, and her response was well-rehearsed. She realized now that she’d never intended to retreat into her dowdy shell again, even though she’d told herself she would. Oh no, she had lied to herself. She’d consigned the dowdy mouse to oblivion, once and for all.

  She said straightly, “I didn’t want to marry a Sassenach, that is why.”

  That drew him up and he stared at her in stunned silence. He couldn’t quite comprehend that. He spoke aloud his confusion. “But I am an English nobleman, I am not a pauper, I am neither old nor ugly, and I have all my teeth. There could be no woman who wouldn’t want my hand in marriage.”

  Frances laughed, she cou
ldn’t help herself. “You have an excellent opinion of yourself, my lord, not that I ever doubted it for a moment.”

  “Philip,” he said, his voice filling with rage.

  “Well, yes, as you wish,” she said. “You are correct. You have excellent teeth. Very white and straight.” She smiled, an ironic smile, showing him her own very white, straight teeth.

  “What was Carruthers doing hanging all over you? Is he your damned lover?”

  That was straight talking, but no more than wounded male vanity, of which he had more than his fair endowment. “No,” she said, the smile still fixed, her eyes now a lighter gray, mocking him.

  “You have made a fool of me, Frances!” There, he’d said it, said what he really thought He felt enraged, so angry that he wanted to spit nails.

  “It wasn’t difficult,” she said, enraging him all the more. He took a step toward her, and she took a quick step back.

  He saw the length of her now, and his face paled even more with anger. God, had he seen her in London as she was now, he would have been sniffing after her like a rutting stoat, along with all the other gentlemen of his acquaintance.

  “You didn’t want to see anything more than I presented,” she said quickly, alarmed by the steely narrowing of his eyes.

  Yes, I saw her. That was what Lyonel had said. “Damn you,” he said aloud. “No woman has played me false.”

  “I told you that Marcus Carruthers wasn’t my lover,” she said, a bit of a sneer in her voice.

  “And you’re no timid little mouse, are you? Not a diffident bone in that body. Did you build a bonfire, Frances? Did all your ugly gowns and caps go up in flames? Were you laughing at me as you did it?”

  “No, actually, I donated all those gowns to the rector. He was most grateful, I assure you.”

  “I am not a blind man,” he said, knowing that he had been, knowing that he’d not only been blind, he’d been an abject fool.

  “No, I am certain you are not, at least not in the normal course of events,” Frances said, willing to be a bit conciliating now. “Your being forced to come to Kilbracken wasn’t at all normal, however, but you see—” she continued, only to break off abruptly when Otis appeared in the doorway.