Midsummer Magic

by Catherine Coulter

  “Frances, be quiet,” the marquess said.

  “Cook prepared your favorite dishes, my lord,” she continued blandly to her father-in-law. “Don’t you care for the mutton cutlets? Ah, and the soubise sauce ... so very tasty, don’t you agree? And the mashed potatoes are so very fluffy, the secret is very fresh cream, you know—”

  “Frances,” Hawk said “if you do not cease shooting your barbs into my father’s hide, I will haul you upstairs and bind and gag you.”

  The two gentlemen, father and son, were standing together, Frances thought, perhaps for the first time in a good many months. She grinned at them and chewed on a bite of mutton.

  “Belvis said that Lord Danvers’ prize mare is here,” the marquess said to his son after a few moments of peaceful silence. “Lady Margaret, a Barb?”

  “Yes, indeed,” said Hawk. “Gentleman Dan doubtless believes he’s expired and gone to stallion heaven. Of course, one imagines that mare is in the same exhalted state,” he added, sending Frances a leering look.

  The marquess continued after digesting this ironic observation, “Frances wrote to me that Belvis has great hopes for Flying Davie in particular. Says he can take all comers at Newmarket, despite the fact he’s only a four-year-old.”

  “Did she now?”

  Retrench just a bit, the marquess decided. He helped himself to some dumplings.

  “Belvis is letting me assist in Flying Davie’s training,” Frances said.

  “I’ve never even seen you ride,” Hawk said.

  “I ride astride usually,” Frances said, her chin going up. “It is much safer, as you well know.”

  “Yes, I believe I told you that.”

  Hawk pictured his wife in her trousers and felt his groin tighten. How, he wondered, would he seduce her this evening? Her passion of the night before did seem to have softened her toward him. It was perplexing. In his experience, when he gave a woman pleasure, she was his. He thought of her astride him and felt a dull flush mount his cheeks. He thought of covering her as a stallion would a mare, and his flush deepened.

  “Where is your dear Marcus this evening, my dear?” Hawk asked.

  Frances grinned. “I believe he is a bit taken with Cloris Melcher.”

  “The vicar’s eldest daughter?” said the marquess. “Isn’t she the chit with the yellow hair and the dimples?”

  “That’s her,” said Frances.

  “So you couldn’t manage to keep him, Frances?” Hawk said.

  Frances refused to be drawn. She gave a dramatic sigh and said very softly, “I am too old. Marcus told me so. He was ever so polite about it, of course, but—”

  Hawk groaned. “I’m sorry I raised it. Forgive me, Father.” He glanced at Frances’ smug face and added, “After last night, I had hoped to find my wife gentled and weak with love for me.”

  Frances gasped, and Hawk wondered if she would hurl something at him.

  The marquess smiled into his wineglass. How nice, he thought. They were coming together quite nicely. So proud, the both of them, but it appeared that his son had at last truly made love to his wife.

  “We are both hopeful that Frances will have good news very soon,” Hawk remarked.

  Frances said, her voice cold as winter, “Yes, my lord. Then your son can return to London, where he doubtless belongs! I’ll be amazed if he remains at Desborough until the end of the week.”

  “The end of the week is but two days away,” Hawk said. He lounged back in his chair. “You wound me, Frances, you truly do.”

  “I should like to do more than that, my lord!”

  “ ‘Hawk,’ ” he corrected mildly.

  I am too old for this bickering, the marquess thought. “Ah, Otis, I believe I shall retire now. Do compliment Cook on the delicious dinner.” His chair was gently pulled back, and the marquess rose. “I bid you good night, children.”

  Hawk rose politely and walked his father to the door.

  “A game of piquet, Frances?” Hawk asked, coming back into the dining room to stand by his wife’s chair.

  “I suppose so,” Frances said, craning her neck to look up at him.

  “Or perhaps you would like to join me in bed?”

  “I would not join you in heaven, my lord!”

  “I wonder if I will have to resort to cream again,” he said in a thoughtful voice. She felt his warm hand lightly touch her bare shoulder, and tried to pull away. His fingers tightened.

  “Hawk,” she said, her voice thin.

  “Yes, my dear?” His fingertips drifted toward the inviting swell of her breasts.

  To her utter consternation, Frances felt a deep spurt of something very warm and urgent between her thighs. She squirmed just a bit in her chair.

  “Come along, Frances,” he said very gently.

  She shook her head. “I haven’t tasted Cook’s ginger cream!”

  “If you are still hungry, I shall endeavor to satisfy you.”

  Frances’ agile tongue wouldn’t budge. “I don’t want to,” she said at last, digging in her heels.

  “Actually, you have no choice in the matter,” he said, and pulled back her chair. “Do you prefer that I carry you upstairs over my shoulder? Surely the servants have enough to gossip about without adding such a spectacle.”

  “I should like to play piquet.”

  “We can play anything you wish in bed.”

  “I want some brandy!”

  “You can attack my body and tickle me without brandy. There are other benefits as well to having a sober wife. Tomorrow morning I can frolic with you without worrying about your aching head.”

  Frances drew a deep breath. She rose with all the dignity she could muster, turned, and faced her husband. “I will come with you,” she said. “But it will change nothing, my lord, nothing! I mean it!”

  He smiled at her, a devilish, quite confident smile. “You won’t be weak with love for me tomorrow?”

  “I shall be strong with natural dislike for you!”

  She sailed out of the dining room. He called softly after her, “I shall be right along, my dear. I have no desire to search out another hiding place in this house. Please contrive to remember that.”

  Frances was pacing her bedchamber, having dismissed an oddly smiling Agnes some minutes before. Her eyes kept to the adjoining door. He is a fiend, she said to herself. She was nearly incoherent with anxiety when the door finally opened and her husband strode confidently into her room.

  “How lovely you are,” he said, pausing to look her over.

  Despite herself, Frances thought he looked extremely lovely himself. His dressing gown was a deep blue, and she knew he was quite naked beneath it. She managed to quell her unacceptable delight, shot him a deadly look, and said coldly, “I trust you didn’t forget your cream?”

  “So little faith you appear to have in me, Frances.”

  Hawk realized that despite her show of bravado, she was anxious and likely somewhat afraid, both of him and of herself and her response to him. He moved to the large wing chair and sat down. He gave her a long look and said, “Come here, Frances. Let’s ... talk.”

  He patted his thighs.

  Frances took a step toward him. seemed to catch herself, and retreated two steps.

  He patted his thighs again, his eyes never leaving her face.

  “Oh, very well!”

  She sat on his thighs, holding herself rigid as a board.

  “My father is most fond of you,” he said.

  “I am most fond of your father, the wicked old man. To think that he would write you such a letter!”

  Hawk clasped his arms about her waist and drew her back against his chest. Slowly she eased and began to relax.

  “Hawk?”

  “Yes, my dear?”

  “Does a man wish to do this every night?”

  “At the very least. Actually, you are so delicious I believe I could easily be induced to love you repeatedly until I collapsed into an exhausted heap.”

  “O
h.”

  “All I require is a modicum of encouragement, Frances.”

  “Before, you didn’t require anything at all.”

  “True, and it was a duty, not a pleasure.”

  His voice was smooth as Flying Davie’s silken neck. She felt him lifting her hair, felt his fingers lightly stroking the nape of her neck. He continued very quietly after a moment, “I am truly sorry for our first night together, and the other nights as well.”

  “You mean,” she said, not wanting to give an inch, “that you got little pleasure when I was not ... responding to you.”

  His hand raised from her waist and gently closed over her left breast. Frances gasped, and tried to pull away. “No, don’t, Frances. Lay your head against my shoulder. That’s right. Now, strive to have a bit of faith in your husband.”

  Hawk was relieved that she couldn’t see his face. It was flushed with his nearly painful need. “You feel so exquisite,” he whispered against her forehead. He opened the ribbons of her dressing gown and parted the material. When his hand closed over her bare flesh, both of them jumped.

  “I don’t like this,” Frances whispered, more to herself than to him.

  “Be patient,” Hawk said. He eased her out of the dressing gown and her nightgown, baring her to the waist. He eased her back into the crook of his arm and simply gazed at her. “Just feel, Frances,” he said. He cupped her breast, lifting it, then began lightly to stroke her.

  Frances felt as though lightning was striking her. Shafts of intense feeling darted from her breasts to low in her belly. She remembered well enough the wild sensations of the previous night, and realized that she wanted to feel them again. She wanted to kiss him again, she wanted to touch him, she wanted to feel his mouth caressing her ...

  She arched against his arm, and Hawk thought he would expire with the pleasure of it.

  He eased her further down, lowered his head, and kissed her breast. He felt her trembling, felt her breast heaving with her quickened breathing. He rested his cheek a moment between her breasts. He smiled a bit painfully when he felt her trying to move against him.

  “Come,” he said, his voice sounding raw to his own ears. He lifted her up from his lap and walked beside her to the bed.

  “Frances,” he said, gently drawing her to a halt in front of him. He slowly pulled off her nightclothes, then stepped back to look at her. Her thick hair was flowing down her white back. His eyes followed the lines of her, her narrow waist, her full hips. He swallowed. He reached out his hands and grasped her hips, pulling her back against him. “Frances,” he said again, his warm breath against her ear.

  His arms came around her body and he began to knead her belly. Frances saw herself as she had been the day of the mating, her back against him, his fingers low and caressing, her incredible need swamping her, driving her ... She felt his lips lightly kissing and nipping her throat, her shoulder. It was like the stallion, she thought. When his fingers roved downward, finding her, she couldn’t help herself, she cried out.

  Hawk knew well enough what he was doing, imagined quite accurately the erotic image in her mind. He closed his eyes, reveling in her warm, moist woman’s flesh, felt her swelling against his fingers. He brought his other hand up and began to caress her breasts. He felt the instant she was spiraling toward her climax. He held her firmly, knowing she wouldn’t be able to support herself. He felt her head pressing back against his shoulder, felt her beautiful legs stiffen, felt her buttocks pressing against him.

  He quickly turned her, not ceasing the play of his fingers, and kissed her deeply, taking her cries into his mouth. He felt himself fill, expand with something hitherto unknown to him. He wanted to consume her in that moment, fill himself with her, yet knew that his manhood would do the filling.

  He kissed her lips, her nose, her eyes, calming her, stroked his hands up and down her back, and cupped her buttocks, lifting her.

  Frances looked up at him. Her eyes were dazed, her lips slightly parted. She whispered his name, and in the next moment he eased her onto her back, spread and lifted her white legs, and came into her.

  “Wrap your legs around me, Frances.” She did, and he sucked in his breath as her thighs tightened about his flanks.

  He stared down at her, saw her whisper his name yet again, felt her hands stroking over his buttocks, and was lost. He plunged deep, and moaned. He felt her legs rubbing against his hips. It kept going on, this intense pleasure, this deep need that threatened to engulf him. He closed his eyes, feeling himself exploding, shattering, and he didn’t want it to stop.

  “Frances,” he said softly, and collapsed against her, his manhood still deep within her.

  Frances accepted his weight. She was stunned. She felt his heart pounding against hers, felt his ragged breath against her cheek. She felt weak, and strangely sated, and doubted she could move even if the bed caught fire.

  This lovemaking was odd, she thought vaguely. It trapped one. It trapped two into one, she added silently. She wondered, her hands gently rubbing his strong back, calming him, if he had been right, if now she would be gentled, would be weak with love for him—which had been his purpose all along.

  He had seduced her most thoroughly. He had awakened feelings she’d scarcely ever thought about. Suddenly she grinned, laughing silently to herself. How long did it take a woman to become with child if this happened very night? Not long at all, she imagined. She sighed, hugged him tightly, and fell asleep.

  Hawk returned to the world, blinking at his absolute loss of control, and more disconcerting, his loss of self. Frances slept and he knew he was too heavy for her. To his chagrin, when he shifted his weight, he felt himself grow hard inside her once more. This will never do, he told himself. She was his wife, that was all. Her purpose was to bear his children. A husband didn’t rut his wife repeatedly as he did his mistress. But, he thought ruefully, he had changed all that himself. He had brought her passion, and her passion had changed him. He didn’t like it. It was not what he was used to. She had a sharp tongue, and managing ways. She could easily enrage him, she mocked him without mercy, giving as good as she got ... God, she was so lovely and so responsive.

  He wanted her again, desperately. Furious with himself, he eased away from her, and rose. He stared down at her for a long moment, knowing if he stayed he would love her again. He forced himself to cover her, then quickly doused the candles and left.

  His bed felt cold and empty and that made him wince. It never had before. Before he’d reveled in all the space, knowing deep down that he was free.

  Frances awoke, aware of the bright sunlight flooding the room. There was a small smile on her lips, and she reached for Hawk. Her hand met nothing but pillow. She sat up quickly, her eyes searching her bedchamber. He was gone.

  The bed was mussed, but not from the two of them sleeping together. He had left her after she’d fallen asleep. Why? She felt unaccountably disappointed, even hurt.

  She remembered her thoughts in the aftermath of her pleasure, remembered thinking that this would perhaps gentle her, make her weak with love for him, wondering if he had been right about that.

  “Damn you,” she hissed toward the adjoining door. She ordered Agnes to fetch her a hot bath. She scrubbed herself furiously, only rising when the water was uncomfortably cold.

  It was while Agnes was fastening the long row of buttons up the back of her blue silk morning gown that she realized what she wanted to do.

  There was a wide smile on her lips when she entered the breakfast room. To her chagrin, only the marquess was present.

  “Good morning, my dear,” her father-in-law said, studying her face.

  She nodded, and asked without preamble, “Where is Hawk?”

  “Up at dawn, so Grunyon told me, all togged out for riding.”

  Frances nodded toward Rosie and seated herself. Damn him, she thought, picking up her knife. Oh, he’ll not escape me. Let him ride until doomsday, he’ll not escape me.

  “Has Hawk come a
round yet, Frances?” the marquess asked.

  She cast him a startled glance, then understood his inquiry. “I don’t know,” she said. “He was most upset about the five thousand pounds. However, he has allowed the use of Gentleman Dan, and has said nothing about Flying Davie’s training.”

  “You are a strong woman, Frances,” the marquess remarked after a thoughtful moment. “I was gratified to hear that Hawk had come home. To tell the truth, I hesitated about that particular approach. Poor Marcus! I trust the young man knows nothing of his near-death at the hands of my son?”

  “No, Marcus is quite innocently going about his affairs.”

  “I wonder why Hawk did return,” the marquess continued. “I have given it much thought, Frances, and really don’t understand his reasoning.”

  “Guilt,” said Frances succinctly.

  “I imagine that his guilt turned to something quite different when he saw you as you really are.”

  “Indeed,” she said shortly. “He wanted to strangle me, when he’d stopped his yelling.”

  “Excellent. I knew my lad would come about.”

  This was said with such fond certainty that Frances dropped her fork and stared at her father-in-law. “‘Lad? Goodness, he is anything but a little lad,” she said. “He is the most stubborn, conceited, arrogant—”

  “Ah,” the marquess said, interrupting her effusions. “I am glad to see that the lassie is coming about also.”

  “You, sir,” Frances said between gritted teeth, “are the most abominable, ruthless, cunning—”

  “It is so remarkably pleasant to be loved,” said the marquess. He rose from his chair, walked to Frances, lightly kissed her cheek, and left the breakfast room.

  “I am surely in Bedlam,” Frances remarked to the silent room.

  23

  Every man to his trade.

  —GREEK PROVERB

  All I know how to do, Hawk told himself yet again as he took Ebony over a fence, is wage war, love women, and win at gambling. The stallion landed gracefully on the other side and Hawk drew him up for a moment. This was one of his favorite places—an oak-shaded area by the River Ouse. He remembered it as a boy, climbing out on a now-dead limb to dangle, then drop into the water. Beatrice had been right behind him in those days—shrieking as she jumped from the branch, nearly drowning him when she landed. Where had Nevil been? Odd, he couldn’t clearly remember his brother now. He sighed. That was because Nevil was horse-mad and had spent all his time in the stables, learning to train, learning to judge horseflesh, memorizing all the famous racers, their antecedents, their times and distances. As was proper, he added to himself. He leaned down, selected a pebble, and skipped it over the calm water.