Midsummer Magic

by Catherine Coulter

  A younger son is army-bound and he had gone and had proved quite proficient at his metier. But he had loved the horses, the smell of the stables, the excitement of watching a long-legged thoroughbred go through his paces. But he had cut all that off, consciously withdrawn, when he’d realized that Desborough wouldn’t be his, that he couldn’t involve himself. It was Nevil’s birthright, Nevil’s trade.

  I could learn, he told himself. As Frances was now learning.

  Frances—what was he going to do about her?

  Lord, what a fool he’d been, not seeing Frances, not realizing that a dowdy little mouse was a most unlikely product of Alexander Kilbracken. And she’s a delight in bed. He felt himself harden, just at the thought of her, and grunted at himself in disgust. He clenched his hands when his senses reminded him of her softness, the budding of her passion beneath his fingers.

  “She is driving me mad,” he said aloud to his horse. “I shall return to London. Very soon. Let my father amuse her. Let him deal with her sharp tongue and her managing ways.”

  And Desborough ... what will you do about Desborough?

  He dusted his hands on his pants, closed her and Desborough resolutely from his mind, and remounted Ebony.

  “Where is his lordship, Belvis?” Frances asked, coming into the head trainer’s office. She loved this small room with its smell of linseed and aged leather.

  “I believe, Lady Frances, that he mentioned going to York on some matter,” said Belvis. She said nothing more and Belvis added after a moment, “We have two more mares arriving this afternoon. Lord Burghley has requested Ebony to sire, and as his lordship is aware of this, I assume he won’t be gone long.”

  Frances forced a bright smile to her lips and said, “I suppose that I have a good deal of work to do. Since we will be traveling to Newmarket in August, I must find the papers on Flying Davie and Clancy’s Pride.”

  “Tamerlane will probably also be an excellent contender,” Belvis said. “I believe his former lordship kept such things in the estate room. Mr. Carruthers should know.”

  Frances stopped at the eastern paddock and watched Tully take Flying Davie through his paces. The thoroughberd had beautiful strong shoulders, long legs, a deep, powerful chest. And he had the will to win. He was sleek now, even in a canter, his desire to break free apparent in the tossing of his head, his impatient snorts. She loved to stroke the vivid white star in the center of his forehead. His coloring was unique and she imagined that Davie knew it. He was a winner, and magnificent, and he was ready for the racing world to admire him. “You will get your chance,” she said softly toward him.

  Tully looked up and waved at her. She raised her hand, then turned and walked back to the house.

  She spent the afternoon searching through boxed papers for the racers’ pedigrees. She was dusty and tired by the time she had found them. Hawk hadn’t yet returned and it was near to dinnertime, but she returned to the stables to show Belvis what she had found.

  “You are reverted to your mouse facade, my dear Frances?” the marquess asked, observing his daughter-in-law’s quiet, thoughtful face. He rather missed the feroucious badinage between his son and her. Marcus, as was his current wont, was dining again with the Melchers at the vicarage.

  She smiled at that, and shook her head. “No, ‘tis just that I have much on my mind. Would you care for some more braised ham, my lord?”

  “No, I’ve quite stuffed myself on the calf’s liver,” said the marquess. “I wonder what the devil Hawk is doing in York. Gambling away his fortune, do you think?”

  “Don’t be silly,” said Frances sharply, then flushed at her rudeness. “I apologize, sir. But you know as well as I that Hawk would never be so foolish. He ... ”

  “He what, my dear?”

  “He is a lot of things, but he isn’t a wastrel.”

  “You know my son so well, Frances?”

  She stared a moment at her brussels sprouts. Nasty things, she thought vaguely, resolving to speak to Cook. “No, sir,” she said, “I don’t know him well at all. I fancy that he will leave soon now, back to London I suspect.”

  “And the stud and racing stables?”

  “I don’t know. He doesn’t confide in me.”

  “I know, he merely yells at you, and baits you until you want to pound his head.”

  She smiled but her face felt stiff. Oh yes, that is true enough, my girl, but he also makes you wild, makes you forget yourself, makes you want to consume him.

  “Why do you believe he will leave soon, Frances?”

  “He ... he doesn’t like me.”

  “I should say rather that he escaped today because he doesn’t know his own mind. Men are rather easily confused creatures, Frances.”

  “Did you yell at your wife, my lord?”

  “Rarely. She was much too restrained to do anything that might appear ill-bred. She was a duke’s daughter, you know, and very aware of her own worth.”

  “I never wanted to marry,” Frances said. “My experience with men was primarily with my father. I love him dearly, do not mistake me, ‘tis just that he and he alone rules Kilbracken, and poor Sophia is forced to the most subtle underhanded measures to gain her way.”

  “I imagine that many women are in that position.”

  “Life is very short, sir, for such silly subterfuge.”

  “Is your stepmother unhappy, my dear?”

  “No, certainly not. She and my father deal well together, actually. Indeed, I believe his rages are a source of pride to her, in an odd sort of way.” She grinned at him suddenly. “Actually, Sophia is most successful in managing my father. He blusters and rants and carries on, and she just says, ‘yes, dear, of course, dear,’ ‘it shall be just as you wish,’ and does as she pleases.”

  “She sounds an intelligent woman.”

  “Yes, she is, unlike me.”

  “Ah,” said the marquess. He saw Otis glide into the dining room, and said quickly, “Shall we adjourn to the drawing room, my dear? You seem quite off your feed this evening.”

  Frances smiled. “I am not a horse, sir.”

  “No,” he agreed, returning her smile, “not even a filly.”

  The marquess strolled to the fireplace and leaned his shoulder against the mantelpiece. “So, Frances, you believe yourself unintelligent?”

  “You have an exceedingly tenacious mind, sir! You listen too carefully. You don’t forget a thing, you are just like your wretched son!”

  “I understand that you enjoyed a mite too much to drink the other night, Frances.”

  Her eyes flew to his face and her cheeks flushed with color.

  “My son is always on to take advantage of such a delightful occurrence, I imagine. Did he engineer, it, I wonder?”

  “He ... I hope he leaves soon, very soon!”

  He was laughing at her, just like Hawk did, a knowing gleam in his green eyes.

  “I am not used to spirits!”

  “What troubles you this evening, my dear?” he asked, changing the topic so abruptly that Frances blinked at him.

  She paused a moment, her fingers fretting with the fringe on her cashmere shawl. There was much on her mind but she wished to see Hawk first.

  There were other things as well gnawing at her, and she carefully selected one of them. “I miss my family,” she said.

  “Your father and his rages?”

  “Yes. I dealt with him well, but not like Sophia. I yelled back at him. He was a marvelous father to me.”

  “Ah, excellent training, it would appear.”

  “Hardly,” Frances said in a very dry voice. Suddenly she grew very still at the sound of footsteps in the entrance hall. Hawk!

  “Good evening, my boy,” the marquess said as his son entered the room. He was still in riding clothes and his Hessians were dusty. He looked weary.

  “Sir,” Hawk said. He sent a flickering look toward Frances. “Forgive my dirt,” he continued.

  “Should you care for something to eat?” F
rances asked him, her voice carefully neutral.

  He shook his head. “I will bid you good night,” he said, nodded again toward Frances, and left the room.

  Frances felt sparks of anger surge through her. The miserable wretch! Had he visited a woman in York? She rose jerkily to her feet, forced a smile to her lips, and said to her father-in-law, “I am tired also, my lord. Tomorrow I shall be more myself.”

  The marquess watched her leave the room with her shoulders squared, her chin high. Things were progressing quite nicely, he decided, and rang for some brandy. He decided that he wouldn’t wish to be in his son’s boots at this moment.

  Frances soaked in a long, steamy bath, and sat quietly while Agnes brushed her hair its requisite hundred strokes. Then she dismissed her maid and climbed into her bed. Surely he would come to her tonight. An hour passed. I should be pleased that he is leaving me alone. But what if something is wrong? What if something happened and he didn’t wish to speak in front of his father? And I have much to tell him.

  She fretted, argued with herself, and finally, upon hearing the corridor clock chime midnight, eased out of bed, donned her dressing gown, and walked to the adjoining door. She raised her hand to knock, then lowered it. Perhaps he was asleep. Quietly she opened the door and slipped in. There was a sluggish fire in the fireplace and it provided the only light. Her eyes went to his bed, but he wasn’t there. She frowned a moment, and moved toward the fireplace and the tall-backed chair that stood in front of it.

  Her breath caught in her throat when she saw him. He was seated in the chair, completely naked, his chin balanced on his hand, his gaze fastened on the spiraling flames. She saw him clearly as he emerged from Lock Lomond, as naked as he was now. But now there were the shadows playing over his magnificent body, bronzing his flesh, and she wanted to touch him. She wondered briefly if he had lost weight. He appeared more lean to her studious eyes. She heard him sigh deeply and stretch his long legs in front of him. Her eyes fell from his chest to his belly, and further, to the bush of black hair at his groin. His manhood lay flaccid, and she marveled that a man’s body could change with such rapidity.

  Frances felt a spurt of desire. She knew it for what it was now, for he had taught her. She reached out her hand, not meaning to, and it was at that moment that Hawk became aware of her presence.

  He didn’t move, merely said, “Hello, Frances.”

  He wasn’t at all perturbed about his naked state. She swallowed a bit and replied, “Hello.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I wanted to speak to you. I expected you to visit me, but you didn’t.”

  “No,” he said, sounding faintly abstracted, “no, I didn’t.”

  He wouldn’t look at her, dammit! Why the devil had she come in here? Why couldn’t she leave well enough alone?

  “What did you wish to speak to me about?” he asked maintaining his calm facade.

  Frances moved toward the fireplace and gracefully sank down to her knees, her dressing gown flaring about her. His fingers itched to touch her, to caress her ... damn, he wanted to taste her ...

  “Yes?” he said, and she heard the strange abstraction in his deep voice.

  She drew a deep breath, but didn’t look at him. “I found the horses’ papers today. Belvis had told me we would need them for the racing at Newmarket.”

  “So,” he said, sarcastic now, “you have decided that we will race now. You forget yourself, wife. I have not yet decided whether or not I will sell everything off.”

  “Please,” she said, holding a tight rein on her temper, “please just listen for a moment. There is something most peculiar.”

  She had his attention now, and she met his gaze. “I took the papers to Belvis. He looked at them, then told me that there was a mistake. He read aloud the sire and dam for Flying Davie, and rubbed his jaw in that way of his. You remember of course that Belvis knows every racer from nearly the beginning of time.”

  “The point, Frances?”

  “Flying Davie’s dam is listed on his paper as being Pandora from the Belson stable. Belvis said that Pandora had had to be put down over a year before she was supposed to have foaled Flying Davie.”

  That got his attention. “What?”

  “I said that Flying Davie’s dam—”

  He waved her to silence. “ ‘Tis naught but a simple entry mistake, that’s all.”

  “Belvis also told me that when Flying Davie was delivered to Desborough Hall, he fully expected to see his papers so he could evaluate his sire and dam, for bloodline strengths and weaknesses. Nevil never showed him the papers, indeed, never showed him papers on several other foals as well.”

  “Odd,” said Hawk, “most odd. Is it so important, I wonder.”

  “Belvis is quite perturbed about it.” Frances suddenly realized that here they were speaking quite seriously, but her husband was naked. Most odd indeed, she thought, and turned to look at the orange embers.

  “I shall discuss the matter with Belvis,” Hawk said finally. He rose and stretched, and despite her best intentions, her eyes were on his body, following his every movement. “I am going to bed now,” he said. His eyes suddenly rested upon her moist lips. “Would you like to join me, Frances?”

  She froze at his drawling, quite confident tone. “Surely you are too tired, my lord!”

  “Hardly,” he said. “Even if I were, of course, I wish to breed an heir on you, and I must do my duty.”

  She felt a shaft of hurt so strong that she couldn’t speak for a moment. “And once your duty is done, you will leave again?”

  He arched a brow at her. “I wasn’t aware that you particularly desired my presence here.” Even as he uttered his bored, baiting words, he felt himself harden, and since he was naked, there was no way he could hide his interest from her. Damn her, why did she have to look so beautiful and alluring? “Didn’t you come in here to seduce me, Frances?”

  Frances lurched to her feet. “No! I ... well, I wanted to talk to you, and now that I have, I will—”

  “Too late, my dear,” he said, and pulled her against him. “The little bird should have flown while she had the chance. Much too late now.”

  He began kissing her, holding her face between his palms. “For a time, at least,” he said between kisses, “I shall not be burdened with your shrew’s managing tongue.”

  “I am not a—”

  His tongue glided gently into her mouth. She tasted him, and thought dizzily that he was more delicious than Cook’s famous rolled jam pudding. She didn’t realize until it was far too late that her arms were clutching about his back, that she had risen on her tiptoes to better fit herself against him. She felt his hands on her shoulders, loosening her dressing gown. When it fell, a pool of velvet at her feet, she didn’t protest. His fingers slipped beneath the narrow straps of her nightgown, and the soft silk slithered down her body, joining the dressing gown. She felt him hard and urgent against her belly.

  “Yes,” she said, her words hoarse and deep in her throat, “I came in here to seduce you. You left me last night.”

  His hands cupped her buttocks and lifted her.

  “Yes,” he said, “yes, I did leave you. But I won’t tonight, Frances.” She thought she heard him curse softly, but the words blurred in her mind.

  He lifted her completely off the floor. “Bring your legs around my waist. That’s it. Now, relax, and let me ...” He broke off, for he realized that his voice was trembling with need for her.

  She obeyed him, not understanding—but only for a moment. She felt his fingers searching, probing, and in the next moment he was sliding slowly into her. She gasped, arching against his arms.

  He grinned at her stunned expression and brought her hard down on him. Her eyes widened and glazed.

  “Hawk,” she whispered helplessly, her fingers gripping his shoulders.

  “Yes, my dear? Do you like this?” His hands were caressing her buttocks, molding her tightly against him.

  “I ...
don’t ... know.”

  “You will, but I must ...” Suddenly his voice caught in his throat and he felt a roaring in his head, a tremendous tightening in his loins. He cursed viciously, then moaned, “Frances, don’t move!”

  She held herself against him, burying her face against his shoulder.

  “I can’t give you pleasure like this.” He was panting, his heart pounding, as if he’d run from York back to Desborough Hall.

  “Don’t move!”

  He walked quickly to the bed, saying tersely, “Hold on to me.”

  She wrapped her arms about his neck as he pulled back the counterpane and the blankets.

  “Now,” he said, expelling a deep breath. “Now.”

  He eased her down upon her back, at the edge of the bed, never parting from her. “You wanted to be seduced, Frances, and now you will get your wish.”

  There was something wrong with all this, Frances thought vaguely. He sounded almost angry with her, almost ... She gasped when he suddenly pulled out of her and buried his head against her belly.

  “Hawk!”

  “Shut up,” he said, and found her. “You wanted this, wife, and I shan’t disappoint you.”

  But her small cries, her shuddering, drove him mad. And when she wove her fingers in his hair, and her body arched upward, he thought he would die with the pleasure of it. She moaned loudly, and that pleased him immensely. He felt her climax, reveled in it, but didn’t come into her just yet. No, he thought, he wanted her to give herself and him more pleasure.

  Frances felt dazed, felt limp as a dusting cloth. Then she felt the beginnings of that same frenzy and gasped, astonished at her response.