Midsummer Magic Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  EPILOGUE

  PRAISE FOR NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR CATHERINE COULTER

  “Her plots are like rich desserts—sinfully delicious and hard to pass up.

  —Atlanta Constitution

  “Catherine Coulter romances readers.”

  —Colorado Springs Gazette Telegraph

  “Coulter is excellent at portraying the romantic tension between her heroes and heroines, and she manages to write explicitly but beautifully about sex as well as love.”

  —Milwaukee Journal

  “Delightful ... witty ... engaging.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Coulter’s characters quickly come alive and draw the reader into the story ... you can hardly wait to get back and see what’s going on.”

  —The Sunday Oklahoman

  “Charm, wit and intrigue ... sure to keep readers turning the pages.”

  —Naples Daily News

  “Tantalizing.”

  —The Knoxville Sentinel News

  Titles by Catherine Coulter

  The Bride Series

  THE SHERBROOKE BRIDE

  THE HELLION BRIDE

  THE HEIRESS BRIDE

  THE SCOTTISH BRIDE

  PENDRAGON

  MAD JACK

  THE COURTSHIP

  The Legacy Trilogy

  THE WYNDHAM LEGACY

  THE NIGHTINGALE LEGACY

  THE VALENTINE LEGACY

  The Baron Novels

  THE WILD BARON

  THE OFFER

  THE DECEPTION

  The Viking Novels

  LORD OF HAWKFELL ISLAND

  LORD OF RAVEN’S PEAK

  LORD OF FALCON RIDGE

  SEASON OF THE SUN

  The Song Novels

  WARRIOR’S SONG

  FIRE SONG

  EARTH SONG

  SECRET SONG

  ROSEHAVEN

  THE PENWYTH CURSE

  The Magic Trilogy

  MIDSUMMER MAGIC

  CALYPSO MAGIC

  MOONSPUN MAGIC

  The Star Series

  EVENING STAR

  MIDNIGHT STAR

  WILD STAR

  JADE STAR

  Other Regency Historical Romances

  THE COUNTESS

  THE REBEL BRIDE

  THE HEIR

  THE DUKE

  LORD HARRY

  Devil’s Duology

  DEVIL’S EMBRACE

  DEVIL’S DAUGHTER

  Contemporary Romantic Thrillers

  FALSE PRETENSES

  IMPLUSE

  BEYOND EDEN

  FBI Suspense Thrillers

  THE COVE

  THE MAZE

  THE TARGET

  THE EDGE

  RIPTIDE

  HEMLOCK BAY

  ELEVENTH HOUR

  SIGNET

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.. 375 Hudson Street,

  New York. New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto,

  Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

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  Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:

  80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. Previously published in Onyx and Topaz editions.

  First Signet Printing, April

  Copyright © Catherine Coulter, 1987

  All rights reserved

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-49761-6

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  To Sarah Butler Wean,

  If only you and Gordon would move to California.

  Think of all the tacos we could chow down.

  —CC

  Dear Reader:

  Midsummer Magic, the first novel in the Magic Trilogy, was published at the end of 1987. Now, eleven years later, we’re reissuing the trilogy with brand-new clothes. I haven’t done any rewriting, as this novel is just dandy the way it is.

  Philip Hawksbury, the Earl of Rothermere, obeying hid father’s dying wish, hies himself to Scotland to offer for one of the daughters of Alexander Kilbracken, the Earl of Ruthven.

  Frances Kilbracken, informed of the earl’s arrival and his mission, disguises herself as a bespectacled dowd so she won’t be the one selected by the young earl. But choose her he does, and for all the wrong reasons.

  The newly married couple return to England, together but not at all happy. Philip dumps Frances at Desborough Hall, his ancestral estate, and heads back to his old life in London. Ah, but Desborough has a stud farm and racing stable, and Frances is magic with horses.

  When the earl returns to his home, driven by guilt he discovers the woman he married has grossly deceived him. What follows is a battle of the sexes that will have you chuckling, maybe even howling with laughter.

  Let me kno
w what you think of this first of the Magic novels—it’s one of my own favorites.

  This story shall the good man teach his son.

  —SHAKESPEARE

  1

  Wedding is destiny, and hanging likewise.

  —JOHN HEYWOOD

  England 1810

  Philip Evelyn Desborough Hawksbury, Earl of Rothermere, handed his gloves and riding cloak to the marquess’s butler, Shippe, glanced briefly toward the array of footmen who hovered nearby in the great entryway of Chandos Chase, and said quietly, “How does my father?”

  Shippe, as tall as the young master, and blessed with a greater sense of his own worth, unbent slightly at the concern he saw in the earl’s eyes and said, “His lordship is resting, my lord. I know that he wishes to see you the moment you arrive.”

  Hawk nodded, looking about him a moment at the vast house that was at the present moment quiet as a tomb. Even the liveried footmen looked like statues. It was as if there had already been a death. He resolutely dismissed that morbid thought and added over his shoulder to Shippe, “I’ve left my valises in the curricle.”

  “I shall see to it immediately, my lord.”

  “Please see that my valet, Grunyon, is fed, Shippe.” A small smile flickered in his eyes. “He’s testy after such an invigorating journey.”

  “Certainly, my lord.”

  Hawk turned and strode across the endless entryway, the heels of his Hessians clicking loudly on the black Italian marble squares. He took the wide oak staircase two steps at a time, remembering briefly how as a young boy he’d dashed up and down these stairs, falling once and breaking his right arm. His older brother, Nevil, who’d been chasing him, had stood at the top and laughed. Hawk shook his head at the memory. There was no more Nevil to laugh or do anything else. Nevil was dead. It is so quiet, he thought again, his eyes going briefly toward the dozen or so huge portraits of past Hawksburys that climbed the wall beside the staircase, all of them inhabitants of Chandos Chase, the seat of the Marquess of Chandos for more than three hundred years. This was his first visit in more than four months. And his father was ill, possibly dying. He felt his heart rate quicken with fear.

  He turned at the top of the landing toward the east wing and quickly made his way down the immense carpeted corridor to the large double doors that opened onto his father’s bedchamber. He raised a gloved hand to knock, shook his head at himself, and quietly let himself in. His father’s bedchamber was vast, very warm, and in the early evening, it was filled with long, dismal shadows.

  Gold brocade curtains were drawn over the windows, and for a moment Hawk felt his breathing quicken at the feeling of being closed in. His eyes went to the grandly ornate bed on its three-foot dais. He could make out his father’s form, but the dim candlelight shadowed his face.

  “My lord, you are here,” said Trevor Conyon in a subdued voice, coming forward. Conyon was his father’s longtime secretary, a man as rotound as his father was lean, a man blessed with a kind heart and an equally sharp mind. His bald head glittered like a beacon, shiny with sweat. Hawk had long before recognized Conyon’s ceaseless loyalty to his father, had sensed his dislike of Nevil, and wondered what the man thought of him. He was, he thought briefly, still a dark horse of sorts, despite the fact that Nevil had been dead nearly fifteen months now and he, Hawk, was his father’s heir.

  “Yes,” Hawk said. “My father?”

  “Holding his own, my lord.”

  Hawk raised a black brow and Conyon merely nodded toward the bed, saying nothing more.

  “Father,” Hawk said, stepping onto the dais and leaning down to the quiet figure. “I’m here.”

  Charles Linley Beresford Hawksbury, the Marquess of Chandos, slipped a bony hand from beneath the brocade coverlet to clasp his son’s strong fingers. “It’s about time, boy,” he said.

  His father should have been called Hawk, the earl thought, staring down at his father’s pale face, with that jutting nose of his. He met his father’s intense hooded green eyes, eyes a shade darker than his own, and lightly touched his fingertips to the thick silver hair, smoothing it back from his broad forehead.

  “Yes,” he said, “I came as quickly as I could. I received Conyon’s message last night. How are you feeling, Father?”

  “Could be my last prayers,” the marquess said, his voice sounding more frail than before, weaker. “Well, it doesn’t matter, I’ve had a full life and a son to be proud of to carry on my line.”

  Hawk winced a bit at that, feeling guilt flood him. Some son—carrying on in London as if gaiety were to be outlawed soon and he had to have his fair share before it happened. “You’re not going to die, Father. Where is your doctor?”

  “In the kitchen, doubtless stuffing his mouth with Albert’s ham.” The marquess turned his head on the pillow and coughed.

  The cough was dry and harsh. Hawk felt himself grow cold with fear, felt his throat choke with tears, and he clutched his father’s hand tightly, wishing that he could give him strength. “What does Trengagel say?”

  The marquess slowly eased his head back on the pillow, his eyes closing a moment. When he opened them on his son’s face, Hawk felt seared by their intensity. “He gives me perhaps two or three more weeks. It’s this congestion in my lungs. The fool wants to bleed my life away but I won’t let him.”

  “No, Father, you are right. I saw men fade into death when the damned leeches bled them after battle.”

  The marquess heard the deep pain in his son’s voice, and said softly, “You saw too much, my boy. But you’re strong, you survived. The horror of it will grow less, you will see. Now, I must speak to you, Hawk.”

  “You’re tired, Father,” Hawk began.

  “No,” the marquess said firmly. “Listen to me. I will live to see your wife, see that you take that wife, as you promised to do.”

  Hawk felt himself stiffen at those words. That damnable oath! He’d forgotten; perhaps he’d wanted to forget about it.

  Hawk slowly seated himself on the edge of his father’s bed. The time had come and there was no way out of it, he knew. For nearly a year now he’d managed to escape the inevitable, throwing himself into the wildness and ceaseless gaiety of London—gambling, drinking, fighting. Not whoring. He didn’t do that for the simple reason that he didn’t want the French pox. He’s seen too many soldiers rot with that. He thought of Amalie, his fun-loving and passionate mistress, and closed his eyes a moment. A wife. He didn’t want a damned wife, not now. But there was no hope for it.

  “Go to Scotland, son, and chose your wife, then bring her to me.”

  I don’t want to marry some little savage from Scotland, tie myself to a female I’ve never even seen, all because of your damned honor, your ridiculous oath made when I was nine years old! Instead, he said, “Yes, Father, I will leave soon. I suppose it would be only fair to send a servant to the Earl of Ruthven and inform him of my coming.”

  “Conyon has already seen to it. He dispatched a servant two days ago. You may leave in the morning.”

  “I am well caught,” Hawk said, more to himself than to his father. Honor, he thought, was sometimes a damnable thing. He’d said something of the sort a year before when his father had told him of the oath, told him it was his responsibility to make good on that oath. Indeed, he remembered yelling at his father that he should marry one of the girls himself. “ ‘Tis you who owe the Earl of Ruthven your life, not me. Why don’t you elevate one of his sniveling daughters in the world? Make her your wife? Why leg-shackle me to some unknown girl? I did nothing, save be your damned son! Why didn’t you force Nevil to do the dirty work for you?” And his father had said, very quietly, “I wouldn’t have forced Nevil on a Soho trollop.”

  “It’s not as if you’re taking a pig in a poke, Hawk,” the marquess said, eyeing the myriad expressions on his son’s face from beneath his heavily lidded eyes. “You’ve the choice of three young ladies. One of them is certain to please you. Alexander Kilbracken is a fine-looking man. He w
ouldn’t birth any trolls. You are fortunate that none of the daughters has yet married.”

  “So you’ve said, many times,” Hawk said, and sighed deeply.

  “You’re nearly twenty-seven, son. Time to set up your nursery and ensure the succession.” The old marquess allowed himself to cough again, his frail shoulders shaking.

  “Yes, I promise, Father,” Hawk said quickly, pain at his father’s distress subduing his resentment. He thought of Lady Constance, daughter of the Earl of Lumley, well-dowered and beautiful, still hopeful of a proposal from him that would never come, that could have never come in any case. Damned honor, he thought again. He couldn’t believe that he would marry a nobody with no property, no wealth, no connections, all because Alexander Kilbracken, Earl of Ruthven, impoverished laird, had saved his father’s life in Scotland seventeen years before.

  And I am the prize, he thought. For what that’s worth to anyone. Damn Nevil for dying! If only he had married one of the Kilbracken daughters before he’d drowned. Hawk shook his head at the less-than-charitable thoughts. He knew that his father had chosen him to carry through on his vow, and not because he was the second son. What had Nevil done to earn their father’s dislike? Hawk didn’t know, not really. He hadn’t seen Nevil for three years before his death. “Life is very unexpected,” he said aloud.

  “Indeed,” said the marquess, his voice rumbling and deep. “You are tired, my boy, and you must rest before your journey. You will bid your farewells to me in the morning.”

  “Father,” Hawk said, and the marquess knew his favored son was frightened that his father would be dead by morning.