Midsummer Magic

by Catherine Coulter

  “Yes,” she said, “I remember.”

  “Now, give me your hand.” She didn’t move, merely stared at him with a befuddled expression. He took her hand and brought it down and laid it beneath his, lightly pressing her fingers against herself. “Do you feel how moist you are? How hot and swelled your woman’s flesh is?”

  She nodded, very seriously.

  “Have you ever felt anything like this before?”

  She shook her head, her expression unchanged.

  “How could I have?” she said reasonably. “You’ve never done that before.”

  “Very true,” he agreed, smiling just a bit. God, he hurt. He suddenly remembered a saying that one of the dons at Eton adored repeating: Great men move slowly. Had the fellow meant in bed? He eased her hand away and began to caress her with his fingers. Then he paused a moment, to judge the effects of his labors.

  “Hawk,” Frances said, her hips rising off the bed, “I want you to keep doing what you’re doing, please.”

  “You may be certain that I shall,” he said with heartfelt sincerity. Amalie, he said to himself, I am finally doing things right.

  He deepened the pressure of his fingers, and she cried out. “I ... I can’t seem to think properly!”

  “Don’t think at all, just feel. Feel, Frances. What do you feel now?”

  “I am going to ... explode,” she whispered, arching her head back.

  As am I, he thought, his body so frantic with need that he bit his lower lip. There was so much of her to enjoy, so much expanse of beautiful white skin. He quickly moved between her legs, widened them more, and put his mouth to her belly.

  Frances didn’t think anything was funny now. She wanted to yell, she wanted ... She didn’t know what she wanted. Her fingers went to his hair and she tugged.

  When his warm mouth closed over her, she nearly leapt off the bed. “Hawk!”

  “Shut up, Frances,” he said, his warm breath cascading over her, making her wild.

  God, he thought as he tasted her, scraped her soft swelled flesh with his tongue, she was perfect, utterly perfect. When he felt her legs stiffening, he knew that he wanted to see her face in her climax. Gently he eased his fingers into her and raised his head.

  She stared at him, at sea. Her voice exploded from her throat. “Hawk?”

  “Yes, Frances.”

  She yelled, her body stiffening, her eyes looking vague, then bewildered, then blind. It was the most perfect sight he’d ever seen in his life. He watched her teeth grip her lower lip. He watched her back arch up, watched her hands fall helplessly.

  He felt the tremors hold her in thrall. He was breathing hard now, his body pounding. He moved up over her, and with one forceful thrust seated himself to his hilt within her.

  He felt her convulsive aftershocks of pleasure, the small quivering shudders, felt her arms crushing him to her, and found her lips. He took her shuddering little cries into his mouth, and let his tongue dart into her. He was filled with intense warmth, almost as if, he thought crazily, she was wrapped about him, and inside him. “My God,” he said aloud, his body shuddering, and then he was lost in the most intense pleasure he’d ever experienced in his life.

  Frances locked her arms about his back, felt his deep moans penetrate deep into her being just as his manhood was throbbing frantically inside her. Then she felt his final shudder, felt him flood her, so very deep, with his seed.

  His body was bathed in perspiration, he felt as though his pounding heart would leap out of his body. “Frances, my God,” he said in a jerky sigh, and fell atop her, his head beside hers on the pillow.

  “You were right,” Frances said. “You didn’t need any cream.” She closed her eyes, and was asleep in the next instant.

  Hawk knew the exact moment she was gone from him. Slowly he raised his sweating body off hers and onto his side. “Oh, Frances,” he said softly as he gently shoved her damp hair from her forehead. “I think I shall feed you brandy for dinner every night.”

  Ah, Amalie, he thought, grinning like a fool, you were so right. But of course, he continued in his mind, she was drunk. And drink stripped away inhibitions, he knew. He quickly rose, doused the candles, looked at his sprawled naked wife, and with a grin, climbed back into bed beside her. He drew the covers over them and eased her against him.

  His last thought before he fell into a deep sleep was whether or not he should have her watch Gentleman Dan in action again tomorrow.

  Agnes said not a word. She’d known well enough that she shouldn’t enter her mistress’s room, but she was frankly nosy. She smiled, gazing but briefly upon the man and woman in the bed, their bodies twined together, Lady Frances’ head snuggled into the hollow of her husband’s shoulder. She left, and her smiling, smug expression gave truth to all the belowstairs gossip.

  “Oh dear,” Frances said, coming abruptly awake and sitting up. “Oh dear,” she said again, gazing down at her still-sleeping husband. His cheeks were dark with morning whiskers, his black hair tousled, and he looked utterly marvelous. She reached out her hand to touch his face, then moaned softly. She became aware that her head was pounding horribly, and she felt as if she had drowned a vat of wine. Brandy, you twit, she corrected herself. She felt stickiness between her thighs, and blushed.

  “Oh dear,” she said once again, this time so quietly that he couldn’t possibly hear her.

  But he did, of course.

  “Good morning, wife,” Hawk said, and grinned at her chagrined face. “How do you feel?”

  “My head aches abominably.”

  “It should. I’ll have Grunyon make you up one of his special potions. They are most efficacious, you know. Your breasts are exquisite.”

  Frances jerked the cover over her breasts, and the abrupt movement made her head spin.

  “Unfortunately,” Hawk continued blandly, “I didn’t have time last night to give them their proper due. You rushed me most thoroughly, my dear. I wonder,” he added thoughtfully, “if your breasts are as sensitive as the rest of you.”

  “Shut up,” said Frances, not at all tipsy this bright, brittle morning.

  Her husband gave her an inexcusably pleased grin.

  “Had you believed me as ugly as you used to, you wouldn’t have wanted to even bother!”

  “My, my,” he said, his voice softly mocking, for he knew well the pain of a head the morning after a night of brandy, “it doesn’t say much for my intellect that I actually understand what you mean.”

  “You are a man and—”

  “I am a man, to be sure, and last night you never minded that in the least bit.”

  “No,” she said, frowning toward the far wall, “I didn’t mind. I wasn’t myself.”

  “Ah, then I must continue the winning combination, eh? Horses mating and brandy. I will never lose to you at piquet, at any rate. I should probably tally up the score from last night.”

  “I want you to leave now,” she said.

  “Why? I thought we were having a splendid morning chat.”

  “My head is going to burst.”

  “Then I shall win any argument if you are so silly as to begin one.”

  Frances clutched the cover against her breasts. She wanted to howl, to punch his smug face, but she said only, “I don’t want you to do that again.”

  “Why?” he asked with great interest, staring at her beautiful white back. Her hair was in tangled disarray nearly to her waist. He reached up a hand to smooth her hair, and she froze.

  “It isn’t what I am used to,” she said.

  “No, I don’t suppose that it is. But you will become quite used to it, I promise you.”

  He stretched on his back, pillowing his head on his arm. He realized well enough that she would like to leave him, but was too embarrassed to parade about him in her exquisite natural state.

  She remained stubbornly silent, and Hawk continued lazily after a moment, “Would you like another lesson, Frances? Men enjoy morning lovemaking, you know.”


  That fond suggestion made her slither off the bed with a good deal of haste, dragging the covers with her. When she turned, it was to see her husband, naked, his legs slightly parted, lying on his back, grinning at her.

  She stared at him, and she knew that he knew she was staring at him. “Oh,” she said stupidly, wrapped herself like a mummy in the covers, and dashed behind her dressing screen.

  “Would you like some help, Frances?” he called, balancing himself on his elbows.

  “What I would like you to do is have Grunyon prepare that damned potion!”

  He sighed deeply. “All right,” he said, and rose. “I did promise, didn’t I?”

  He gazed hopefully toward the screen, sighed again, and took himself to his own bedchamber.

  It was only another ten minutes before Agnes entered, bearing the potion. “Mr. Grunyon said you would like to have this, my lady,” she said.

  Frances downed the entire glass without pause. “That was awful,” she said. She sat back in her chair, leaned her head back, and closed her eyes.

  It was nearly an hour later before hunger drove Frances downstairs to the breakfast room. To her chagrin, Hawk sat at the table, his plate in front of him, the Gazette in his hands. Why couldn’t he have been long gone by now? It wasn’t fair.

  He smiled at her, seeing her hesitate, and slowly folded the paper. “Do you feel better?”

  “Yes,” she said, succumbing to a fickle fate and seating herself, “it was truly dreadful, but I feel somewhat back to myself again.”

  He took a bit of toast piled with raspberry jam. He met her eyes, licked the jam from the corner of his mouth, and said, “I wonder if your breasts taste as good as the rest of you.”

  She felt her eyes begin to cross.

  “Don’t worry, my dear, only you and I are here,” he said in a soothing voice. “Would you like me to serve you? You doubtless have a ravishing hunger.”

  She said nothing to that drawing comment, served herself, her movements sluggish. He waited until she had a mouth of scrambled eggs, and said, “Your scent is most delightfully, uniquely you. And I do believe that your taste is more invigorating than Cook’s jam here. In any case, it drove me wild.”

  “Shut up,” said Frances, her mouth still full of egg.

  “Pardon me, my dear? Did you say something?”

  Frances finished chewing her eggs, swallowed, and said in a very clear, carrying voice, “I said shut up.”

  “Ah. How very disheartening. A great lover expects to hear cooing, delighted little sighs the morning after.”

  She shot him a scowl replete with silent recriminations and focused all her attention on her bacon.

  He watched her attack her food with a vengeance. He wondered with a silent laugh if she pictured him as the bacon as she poked and prodded it with her knife.

  “I shall meet with Marcus now, I believe,” he said, rising. “I imagine that it will take me a while to wrest the reins of management from your white hands.”

  To his surprise, his jest was met with a distressed look. He said, his eyes narrowing a bit, “Surely, Frances, you don’t expect me to be a lapdog of no account?”

  She swallowed, seeing everything taken from her, seeing herself alone and of no worth at all.

  “It is my estate, you know.”

  “Why don’t you return to London,” she said evenly. “Surely I must be pregnant after last night.”

  “If howling pleasure on a woman’s part was a sign of conception, I just might in all good faith assume that you would give birth to twins at the very least.”

  Her fork clattered to her plate. She rose from her chair and faced him, her hands on her hips. Hawk eyed her heaving breasts with a good deal of interest.

  “I really can’t wait, my dear, to caress your breasts. They look utterly inviting this very minute. Is that what you wish, with that pose of yours?”

  Frances hurled her empty teacup at him. He ducked it, laughed, and gave her a leering, knowing look. She picked up her plate, only to quietly set it down again upon the entrance of Otis.

  Hawk said to his butler, his voice showing his high good humor, “Well, man, what is it? Her ladyship and I were enjoying a most invigorating morning conversation.”

  “A letter, my lord,” Otis said. “It followed you from London. It is from your father, my lord.”

  “Excuse me,” Frances said, and left the room without another word.

  Hawk thought: I will give you until tonight to come to grips with yourself.

  “Well, Frances, what are you up to?”

  Frances looked up to see her husband leaning over the stall door. She gently finished tying up the bandage on the bay stallion’s fetlock, and slowly rose. “As you see, I am attending to Clancy. He’s got a speedy-cut, which, of course, shouldn’t have happened. It is the result of him striking one leg with the opposite foot. He probably did it galloping, since he has a tendency to turn out his toes. I’ll have to to speak to Belvis about this.” She saw that her husband was watching her patiently, and raised an eyebrow. “What is it you want, my lord?”

  Hawk let that formality pass. Indeed, he was perturbed. He held up the envelope. “The letter from my father—”

  “He is all right, is he not?” she asked quickly.

  “My sire will live to see us all underground,” Hawk said, his voice acid. “Actually, he had expected this letter to find me in London. Its contents are most interesting. He informs me that I should consider bringing myself home quickly, as there is talk about my wife and my steward becoming closer than is proper.”

  “What? He said what?”

  Hawk watched the shocked expression deepen the color of her eyes. He had realized quickly enough that it was but another ploy on his father’s part to get him back to Desborough Hall. He supposed he was wicked enough to draw her on, just a bit.

  “Well, what do you have to say about that, madam? Remember, I saw Marcus leaning all over you on the day of my arrival.”

  Frances wished she had her breakfast plate. She would surely hurl it at his head. How could he believe such a thing! Then she saw the gleam of mocking amusement in his eyes, and she realized her father-in-law’s purpose. Hawk didn’t believe it, not a word, but he was enjoying himself at her expense. She lowered her head and began to twist her hands in front of her.

  “Frances?”

  She lowered her head even more. She heard the tentative uncertainty in his voice and was hard-pressed not to smile. Wretched, mocking man! She said in a halting, very guilty voice, “Oh, dear, how could he! I didn’t really mean to ... well, you know that Marcus is so very nice and handsome and—”

  Clancy’s Pride snorted and Frances quickly let herself out of his stall.

  “What did you say?”

  She heard the beginnings of outrage in his voice, and allowed her chin to tremble. Her voice was liquid with guilt and shame. “I didn’t mean for it to happen, truly I didn’t, it is just that I was so lonely and—”

  Hawk grabbed her shoulders and shook her. “What the devil are you talking about?”

  “Why, I’m talking about my illicit behavior with your steward, my lord.”

  His eyes glittered and he realized that she’d turned the tables on him.

  Frances fluttered her lashes and said in a sweetly reminiscing voice, “Ah, such a pity, but—”

  “I am going to beat you,” he said, shaking her again.

  Frances couldn’t help herself. She started laughing, marvelously mocking laughter that made Hawk see red.

  “Frances,” he growled, deep in his throat. “Stop it, damn you, or I’ll throttle you!”

  She did, very quickly, and in the next moment had pulled free of his hands and raced toward the doorway. She looked back to see him standing beside Clancy’s stall, his face a thundercloud, his hands fisted at his sides.

  “Ah, yes, Marcus is such a grand lover ... so considerate—”

  Hawk took a step toward her, and she fled, her laughter float
ing back to him.

  When the marquess arrived early that afternoon, he was met by a tearful Frances, who flung herself in his arms and whimpered in an agonized voice, “Oh, my lord, why did you have to tell him? Hawk, I mean. Marcus and I felt so very safe, until that letter—”

  Hawk arrived on the front steps in time to witness his wife’s sterling performance. He watched the dazed confusion on his father’s face become guilt, then awareness of what was being done unto him.

  Hawk applauded. “Bravo!” he shouted. He clapped louder.

  The marquess pried himself loose of Frances’ clinging arms. “Enough, my girl!” he roared.

  He watched Frances fall into a fit of giggles, then turned to meet his son’s eyes. Hawk’s expression was filled with murderous irony.

  The marquess frowned at himself. He was bloody tired, having traveled at top speed from Chandos Chase upon word that Hawk wasn’t in London, and that his letter had followed his son northward. “I think,” he said slowly, “that I have made a miscalculation.”

  “You, sir,” said Frances, “are an unprincipled old fraud! Now, come along, you must be weary. Your room is ready for you.”

  “You expected me, hmmm?”

  “Of course,” Frances said, placing her hand on his arm. She whispered in a wicked voice, “Marcus can’t wait to see you, my lord.”

  “Frances!”

  How very odd, she thought. The marquess’s voice sounded exactly like his son’s.

  22

  A woman’s strength is in her tongue.

  —SEVENTEENTH-CENTURY PROVERB

  Frances sat back in her chair and regarded the two silent gentlemen. “I suppose,” she said quite happily, “that the two of you have realized your foolishness.”

  “Frances,” Hawk said, sounding close to the end of his tether, “why don’t you rest your mouth for a bit?”

  She blinked at him in guileless surprise, “But, my lord, ‘twas you who came galloping into the stables ready to slay me with your false ire.” She chuckled. “The cuckolded husband, a marvelous performance, my lord!”