Midsummer Magic

by Catherine Coulter

  Frances was well-bred; good manners had been pounded into her by Adelaide since she was twelve years old. But this situation called for drastic action. She couldn’t allow Hawk to continue with his veiled innuendos. He was not being a gentleman. There was no reason for her to be a lady.

  “I have heard so much about the pleasures of London,” she said to the table at large. “I am most excited about visiting with you, my lord.”

  She saw him scowl and grinned at her buttered peas.

  “Just think of all the balls, the soirees, the routs—isn’t that what they are called, my lord?”

  “Yes,” Hawk said. Damned little minx! Trying to turn the tables on him, was she?

  “My father-in-law told me all about Hawksbury House. I am most anxious to refurbish the house and hire more servants, settle in for the remainder of the Season. And of course, my lord, I want to meet all your friends.”

  “Lyonel sends his regards,” Hawk said.

  “Such a charming gentleman,” Alicia said. “Frances told me he visited just before you left, Hawk.”

  “It appears,” Hawk said, “that Lyonel saw a good deal more than did I. He was most surprised by Frances and doubtless wondered about her ridiculous charade.”

  “As a gentleman I don’t suppose he would remark on it” said Frances.

  “No, he didn’t. About traveling to London, my dear Frances, perhaps your ... health won’t allow for it.”

  John looked up from his plate, clearly startled. “Why, Frances, I had no idea you weren’t feeling up to snuff!”

  “I am quite well, John.” But her eyes were wary on her husband’s face.

  Hawk said in a tender, most solicitous voice, “My dear, you are not overly ill yet in the mornings?”

  Alicia cried out in excitement. “Frances, you didn’t tell me! How every marvelous!”

  Frances gritted her teeth. “I am not with child, Alicia. My husband doubtless refers to the ... Scottish fever I occasionally suffer.”

  “Do I? Not with child, my dear? How depressing. As I said, a husband has so many duties and responsibilities.”

  John sent his wife an agonized glance. He was acutely uncomfortable. He wanted only to leave and let the two of them fight it out. Alicia had been gleeful about the evening. Even she looked doubtful now. John wondered briefly if Frances would leap out of her chair and plant her husband a facer.

  As for Frances, she had had quite enough. “Alicia, shall we retire now? The lemon pudding and the rhubarb tarts aren’t to your liking, I know. But they are his lordship’s favorites, as I’m certain he’ll tell you. Gentlemen, excuse us.”

  There was no footman and no Otis to pull out her chair. John quickly rose from his chair to assist his wife. Hawk merely stared at Frances down the length of the table. His look promised full retribution, but she tossed her head and marched in full-blown regal manner from the dining room.

  “My lady!” Otis stared at her, aghast.

  She forced a smile at her ally. “See to the gentlemen, please, Otis. Lady Alicia and I will be in the drawing room.”

  “My, my,” said Alicia. “Hawk is in a rare taking.”

  “He is an objectionable brute,” said Frances, so furious that she could barely gather her woefully scattered thoughts together.

  “You did deceive him, Frances,” said Alicia in a very tentative voice.

  Frances looked positively fierce. “I hope he chokes on the pudding!”

  “He looks so outrageously handsome in his evening togs, don’t you agree?”

  “Alicia,” Frances said in a warning voice, “you are giving me a headache.”

  Alicia tripped onward. “His hair is so thick and shiny, don’t you agree? And his beautiful green eyes.” She gave a delicious shudder, daring a sideways glance at Frances’ glacial face. “And he is so very ... virile and strong.”

  “I will strangle you, Alicia!”

  “He is your husband,” Alicia said reasonably. “I like rhubarb tarts,” she added.

  “Curse you, Alicia! Whose side are you on?”

  “I think I shall play some ballads. You listen, Frances, it will soothe your savage, er, feelings.”

  The gentlemen joined them all too soon. Hawk strolled to where Frances sat in splendid isolation and moved behind her chair. She felt his hand on her shoulder, and froze. She felt his fingers curl and uncurl in her hair.

  “Leave me alone,” she hissed between her teeth.

  “Oh no, my dear, I shan’t do that. Not until I wish to, at least.”

  John and Alicia escaped. That was the only word for it, Frances thought, as she and Hawk walked with them to the front doors. Alicia gave Frances a quick hug. Otis hovered, to Hawk’s displeasure. He took Frances’ hand and drew her back into the drawing room. He closed the door firmly and stood against it.

  “Now,” he said, grinning at her. “We are finally alone.”

  “So?”

  “You present a lovely picture. I am most anxious to see more of the picture, perhaps with less ... paint.”

  He spoke in a most normal tone, but it took Frances but a moment to glean his meaning. She stared at him, her eyes widening.

  “I dislike you intensely,” Frances said.

  He arched a black brow, but said nothing.

  “You are no gentleman!”

  “I also suspect that you, my dear, despite being the daughter of an earl, are no lady. A hoyden, perhaps.”

  “I am going to bed!” She squared her shoulders and walked resolutely toward him.

  “My idea exactly,” he said. “Come, my dear. I wish to begin my knowledge of the real Frances Hawksbury.”

  What to do? He was standing in front of the door, blocking her way. Pretend, she thought. Yes, pretend. She said in a very shy, frightened voice, “I ... well, all right, my lord.”

  “Philip,” he corrected, smiling down at her. He felt a surge of lust so strong that it startled him. She was his, his wife. She belonged to him. And now she was obeying him. He stepped aside. “I shall be up shortly, Frances.”

  “Very well, my ... Philip,” she said in that same shy little voice, darting him a quick embarrassed look.

  “Frances,” he said, touching his fingers lightly on her shoulder. He felt her tense, hastened to reassure her. “It will be different this time, I promise you.”

  She lowered her head and stood silently. He leaned down and lightly pressed his lips to hers.

  He raised his head and studied her face. “You are very lovely,” he said almost absently. “I am pleased with you.”

  She said nothing, and he allowed her to walk from the room.

  “Soon, Frances,” he called softly after her.

  He walked into the entrance hall and watched her progress up the stairway. He pictured those long legs of hers wrapped about his hips and swallowed. How could he have been so blind? He shook his head. He wondered if he would have approached her sexually in the same manner had he seen her the way she was now on their wedding night. He didn’t know. Ah, Amalie, he thought fondly, tonight I shall follow your instructions to the letter. He thought of Frances squirming with pleasure in his arms, perhaps crying out softly, and he shook again with lust.

  He drank a brandy, then quickly made his way upstairs to his bedchamber. Grunyon was there, fussing about, with nothing in particular that Hawk could see. “You may seek your bed,” he said shortly.

  Grunyon darted a quick glance toward the adjoining door, a glance filled with concern that was not lost on Hawk. Damnation, didn’t he have anyone’s loyalty? “Go to bed,” he repeated.

  “Yes, my lord.” Grunyon walked as slowly as a snail across the expanse of the bedchamber. He turned, swallowed at his master’s cold, determined look, and left, shaking his head.

  Hawk waited only until the door was firmly closed before he stripped, donned a dressing gown, and softly knocked on the adjoining door. His hand on the doorknob was shaking a bit. Randy fool, he said to himself.

  He opened the door.
There was but one lone candle flickering on her dressing table. Good, he thought, he wanted to see her, really see her. “Frances?” He looked toward the bed, and smiled. She was burrowed under the covers, in all likelihood embarrassed and a bit frightened. He would soothe her, make her comfortable with him. He would forgive her her charade, perhaps.

  “Frances,” he said softly again, and eased down beside her. His hand touched her shoulder and froze.

  He roared with anger. He jerked back the covers and stared with fury at the same damned bolster.

  “Frances!”

  He bounded out of bed and strode across her room. He halted suddenly, frowned, and lowering himself, peered beneath the bed. Nothing. Not even dust balls.

  He pulled himself together by a thread. He couldn’t go yelling through the house for her. It would awaken all the servants, and he could just imagine the ensuing fiasco.

  “I’m going to murder you, Frances,” he said, his voice deep with building rage. Where could she be hiding? His mind was set. He would search every damned room! Oh yes, and when he found her ...

  He grabbed the candle and left her bedchamber. His anger increased as he entered and left each empty room.

  He approached a small room, crookedly set off the corridor, facing the main entrance to the Desborough Hall. He opened the door, raised the candle high, and peered about.

  Then he saw her, huddled on a pile of different materials. There was a loom nearby, and tables. It was the damned sewing room! Had she hidden from him in here the last time?

  The light of the candle fell on Frances’ face, and she stared at him.

  17

  I am at the end of my tether.

  —ROYALL TYLER

  “You have pushed me too far this time, Frances. No more.”

  “I should have gone to the stables,” she said, and he drew up a bit, for she didn’t appear to be speaking to him in particular.“

  “Yes,” he said, “you probably should have.”

  “I am stupid.”

  He smiled at that observation and let his mind rest briefly, very briefly, on the notion that perhaps she had wanted him to find her. Then she said, “Go away, my lord!” in a strong, very certain voice, and his own stupid notion disappeared in a flash.

  “No.” He strode toward her and she jumped to her feet, scurrying behind the bolts of material until her back was pressed against the wall. Hawk stopped.

  “Come to bed, Frances. Now.”

  She shook her head, and her beautiful hair swirled about her pale face. “No,” she said, her voice a small whisper. “No,” she repeated, her voice stronger, more assured.

  “You really have pushed me too far this time. Now you will willfully disobey me?”

  “I have never pushed you, far or otherwise,” she said. Striving for calm, striving for some way to ... to what? She looked at the scissors on one of the tables, and smiled pitifully. She met his eyes in the wavering candlelight and moistened her lips.

  “You hid here before, didn’t you? You do not count that act as willful, or pushing me?”

  “I am not willful.”

  “So you give me unwillful disobedience?”

  She drew herself up. He was toying with her, baiting her. “I do not want to give you anything. I want you to leave me alone. I want you to leave Desborough Hall tomorrow and return to London, to your mistress.”

  “But you are not yet with child, wife,” he said very softly.

  “Not for want of your trying!” Her voice neared a shout, and Hawk quickly turned and closed the door.

  “If you do not lower your voice, I will gag you. I will have no talk amongst the servants, do you understand me?”

  “Go away!”

  She saw him look thoughtfully at some strips of cloth on one of the tables, and she lowered her voice, repeating, “Please, just go away.”

  “Ah,” he said, “there is some obedience in you. Come.” He held out his hand toward her.

  She didn’t move a muscle. Her eyes were wide and frightened. That bothered him, but not that much. He felt his sense of ill-use surge to the fore, and said coldly, “Now, Frances, I will not tell you again.”

  “You are an animal!”

  “So you have the grave misfortune of allying yourself with an animal. It is done.”

  Still she didn’t move. Hawk laid the candle on a table and walked slowly toward her. She tried to duck past him, but he was prepared this time, and jerked her against him. He felt her fists pounding against his chest, and he shook her until her head snapped back on her neck. “Stop it!” He tried to calm his anger at her, but it was difficult. “Do you want me to gag you?”

  She shook her head against his shoulder.

  In one quick motion Hawk blew out the candle, hoisted Frances over his shoulder, and left the sewing room. He took her to his bedchamber.

  She was shaking. With fear or fury? he wondered.

  He said nothing more, merely kicked his bedchamber door shut behind him and carried her to his bed. He dropped her onto her back. She was still dressed in her beautiful blue gown.

  “Take off your clothes,” he said, staring down at her. “Now.”

  She hesitated, and he added coldly, “I shall rip them off you if you do not obey me.”

  But she couldn’t manage the long row of buttons. He pulled her to her feet, turned her about, and she felt his deft fingers quickly releasing her from the gown. She felt him pull the gown over her breasts.

  “Please,” she said, “can you ... would you please douse the candles?”

  “I want to see you,” he said shortly. “You may finish,” he said, and backed away from her.

  It was too much. Her low-cut lace chemise barely covered her breasts. It was very nearly transparent and she saw his eyes roving over her. She grabbed her gown over her, quickly doused the candle, throwing the room into darkness, and made a dash toward the adjoining door.

  He caught her in three strides. “All right,” he said, his anger overcoming all other emotions, “it will be as you demand.”

  Hawk pulled her back to the bed, held her with one arm, and quickly stripped off her clothing. When she was naked, he picked her up and tossed her on the bed.

  He had set himself a problem, he realized, his breathing coming quickly now. If he tried to light the candles, she would probably try to escape him again. He shrugged. He pulled off his dressing gown, and came down over her.

  Her smooth, very soft body beneath him made his mind go blank with desire. Her breasts were heaving, full and soft against his chest.

  There was no hope for it, Frances realized. She had been a fool. Such a fool. Had she really expected him to shrug and forget about her? An idiot, that’s what she was. She said, “I shall lie still. Do as you please. Just be done with it.”

  She matched words to action.

  Hawk was thoroughly enraged. She was limp beneath him, even had managed to slow her frantic breathing. “Very well, wife,” he said, and jerked her legs apart.

  He realized quickly enough that he couldn’t enter her without hurting her. She deserved it, damn her! But he couldn’t. He frowned in the darkness, trying to remember what he’d done with the wretched jar of cream.

  He rose and said very softly, “Do not move.”

  She didn’t. When she felt his weight come onto the bed, she forced herself to lie very quietly.

  “Inside you this time, Frances,” he said, and she felt him part her legs again. She lurched upward at the feel of his finger, slick with cream, entering her. She heard him suck in his breath.

  He slid his finger slowly, gently, in and out.

  He heard her catch her breath in sharp gasps, felt her quiver, but not with desire.

  He cursed, reared over her, and drove into her.

  Frances felt him deep within her. It didn’t hurt. It felt very tight, and she could feel her body stretching to accommodate him, but there was no pain. She lay perfectly still. He would finish with her soon. The few times he’d done
this to her, he had finished with her in minutes.

  She heard his harsh breathing, felt him plunging deep, pulling away, then plunging again. Then he moaned, deep in his throat, and froze over her. Suddenly he began driving furiously in her. She felt the wetness of his seed bursting deep inside her.

  Hawk rolled off her immediately and onto his back. His lust was gone, as was his rage. He felt nothing.

  “Go to your room, Frances,” he said, his voice sounding dulled and weary.

  She nearly leapt from the bed, and he heard her quick footsteps as she raced toward the adjoining door. She didn’t slam the door behind her, but closed it very softly.

  “Damn,” he said aloud to the dark room. Ah, Amalie, I was a rutting bastard.

  He felt guilt. He didn’t like it, and it made him feel very uncomfortable, it made him question himself and his actions. He raged silently. It was her fault too. She’d lied to him, pretended, played him for a fool. She did deserve whatever he meted out to her. Still ... He felt himself plunging into her small body, felt his mind turn into liquid mush, felt his lust and his anger driving him over the edge.

  Frances scrubbed herself until she felt raw. She pulled a nightgown over her head and crept into her bed. I should have kept wearing my spectacles, my ugly caps, my shapeless gowns. Then, at least, he would have felt honor-bound to continue his kindness to me. Kindness of a strange sort, she amended silently to herself. Kindness tempered with condescension, distaste, and boredom.

  She drew her knees up to her chest and buried her face into her soft pillow. He hadn’t touched her, not her. She was safe from him. If he wished to plant his seed in her there was nothing she could do about it. She’d been a fool to try to escape him. She should have accepted him as she’d done the other few times. She realized well enough that her behavior had infuriated him, and she supposed, logically, that what he had done was but to be expected. He hadn’t hurt her, after all. He’d gotten the cream. She shuddered at that, drawing her legs even closer to her chest. He’d put his finger inside her. Why had he done that? To humiliate her for having tried to escape him?