That willful chin lifted again. “Because I will pay you.”
“Not enough, not for what you ask.” She had no idea what she was asking, what being near her the next few weeks might cost him. Or her.
She proceeded to name an amount that sent his head spinning.
Good God. He’d just been propositioned by a bloody heiress.
To fight the deceptive allure she represented—because it wasn’t called a leg shackle for nothing—he shifted his weight, tightened the muscles in his legs. “You are a piece of intriguing baggage, I’ll grant you that. Why approach me and not some other titled gent in need of the ready and likely to agree?”
“Your standing as one of the most sought-after libertines in the ton,” she stated baldly, her face flushing even more. “It suits my purposes quite well. And your title, for another reason. Not every marquis has a character such as yours.”
“I do not know whether to be insulted or flattered.” The inexplicable urge to touch her cheek stormed through him. Since when did he care about cheeks? He fisted his hands and anchored them firmly at his sides.
“I mean no offense, I assure you, but it is not in me to cavil at the truth. You and I both know that you have no intention of marrying this year, and I need someone of your…ilk to best ensure the successful outcome of my plan.”
He made a noise in his throat, one that could indicate he was considering her asinine idea, which was absurd—because he wasn’t. Neither was he convinced he wanted his ilk—well-suited to her asinine plan or not—to be what he was known for. Sought after for.
“I only ask that you show me the same courtesy and give me your honest reply posthaste.” Again, she looked over her shoulder, as if expecting a dragon to swoop in and steal her away.
Come to think on it, he was surprised they had been left alone this long. “And what is your next course of action, should I turn down your oh-so-tempting offer?”
“Sarcasm does not become you, Lord Blakely,” she admonished him.
“Do not talk down to me,” he told her, instantly irritated with himself. With her. Why was he still wasting his breath conversing? Why not simply tell her nay and be done with it? Why did he long to touch so much more than her cheek? To see her hair down, her dress gone and her legs wrapped around his waist?
Damn it, where was his control? It seemed to have abandoned him the very moment she abandoned her good sense and approached him.
“Forgive me,” she said contritely. “The stress of awaiting your reply has put me quite on edge.”
“Which is understandable. Considering you have propositioned a man who has not the faintest clue who you are.”
“Lady Francine Montfort, my lord.” She sketched the briefest curtsy on record.
“Please continue, Lady Francine Montfort.” He committed her name to memory; her scent he’d never forget—even if he tried. “When I refuse to be a part of your outlandish scheme, what will you do?”
“When you refuse?” She arched a single, chastising eyebrow.
How the hell an eyebrow lift could make him feel small only strengthened his resolve. Say nay and be gone!
“If you persist in claiming you have already decided”—she gave a prim little huff—“then there remains no further need to waste your time. Or mine. Good night.”
This time it was his hand that halted her retreat.
She spun silently on slippered feet back to him. “Yes, my lord?” Her tone had turned icy.
Blakely released her at once, the tingles attacking his palm something of a surprise. “Humor me, then. If. If I decline. What is your plan?”
“Why, I will speak with the next person on my list. Perhaps he will be more agreeable.”
Unaccountably, disappointment stirred in his chest. “Oh? So this is not an exclusive offer you make to me alone? I am only one in a long line?” And no doubt farther down the list than your pride deems acceptable. “Lady Francine Montfort,” he continued, and it was an effort to maintain his droll façade, “I must confess I am crushed by the knowledge. Quite.”
She looked over her shoulder again, distracted by whatever it was she sought. “If you must know…” Her gaze swung back to his. “You are my preferred choice and the first man I approached, but as you are determined to thwart my sincere overtures, I must move on. I beg of you, please do not speak of this to anyone. It—”
“I would not dream of it.”
“Are you positive I cannot persuade you to at least consider my proposition? You have yet to hear my terms in their entirety and yet you are refusing me outright.”
“There is more?” The entreaty in her sky-blue eyes was almost enough to convince him to reconsider. But then he saw past the appeal, to the innocence.
Pity. He didn’t deal with innocents. Ever. Only those women already hardened by life’s experiences, women who liked having their precious egos petted as much as they liked having their slits stroked. Women whose purses he was not averse to lining and who were willing to overlook his behavior, if, in the midst of things, he got a little rough. Certainly, his carnal appetites were too wild for the virtuous dainty before him.
Somewhat regretfully, he opened his mouth to decline.
“Frannnny!”
The screech interrupted him.
“How dare you!” An older woman charged at them from the side, brandishing her fan like a bayonet and casting him a glare as if he were Lucifer come to life. Which perhaps he was—for even considering corrupting her charge.
“Franny! You evil child!” Sky-high plum-colored feathers stuck out of a forest-green turban, agitating the air above her mottled face. Ire definitely did not sit pretty on this particular matron. “What are you doing, talking to him?” the woman hissed. Her voice carried like that of a general commanding his troops. More than one curious head turned toward their secluded corner. “Come away this instant!”
“But, Aunt,” Lady Francine protested, casting him a commiserating glance. “Lord Blakely and I are only conver—”
“The Lord Blakelys of this world are most certainly not for the likes of you, gel. Now come along.” A full head shorter and three times as wide as her niece, the harridan grasped Lady Francine’s slim arm and tugged.
Pale-blue eyes gazed at him as she silently succumbed to the forced retreat. Just before she disappeared from view, her mouth formed the words, The garden?
And he, purveyor of pleasure and avoider of innocents, found himself nodding in assent.
Damn his hide.
2
Considerable Consideration
To my Cherished Sons ~
My dearest Erasmus, my darling Nash,
Your father intended to give all contained herein to you both, while he was alive, to allow you time to read and absorb, to laugh and deny, to answer any and all questions you might have (and he expected the number would be monstrous).
More than anything, he expected to be here to help you through the terrible ordeal he’s convinced looms on the horizon for each of you.
Alas, Fate has intervened, separated him from me, from you both, so many times when he could have remained at home, instead of either off traveling, seeking a solution to what he always termed The Blighted Curse or locked away in hell. One of his own making, did he but know it.
When I think of all the time lost because—
Nay.
No more of that now. In the last weeks since he’s been missing, I have cried too often and too much. I must be strong now. Strong for all of us. For the sake of my darling boys and just as much for myself.
For, if what your father feared most has come to pass, the difficulties plaguing our family may only now be beginning. My only solace is that he took some time off to be with friends, to relax and bond again, before—
Nay. I shall not anticipate wretched news. Not when I have hired someone to look into his last known whereabouts. Keeping the truth of things from you both, while I remain strong, waiting for answers, is taking a toll.
When do I share everything? I know not.
Only be assured, when I do finally reveal the accompanying pages, that the information within is no jest nor joke. ’Tis the heartfelt admissions and ponderings of a man walking an invisible line, a path he had no inkling how to traverse. A man navigating that impossible line, praying he would not fall to his death—nor cause that of any others.
A man trying to care for his family the only way he could.
I pray you will forgive him, and me, for keeping this from you. Had either of us any notion he would not be here for you now, the information contained in his letters and in his father’s journal would have been shared so very long ago.
With equal parts love, for the men you are growing into, and anguish—for the trials I suspect await you…
Your loving Mother (Who also hopes you will now understand why I banished that wretched gold kitten to the stables. The one you brought me last Easter. So soon after your father’s disappearance, I could not abide that vile creature under my roof.)
“How dare you speak alone with a man when I have not given you leave? How could you cause me such humiliation?”
Lady Francine Montfort suffered through the scolding from her aunt. Over the years, Francine had perfected the art of appearing to listen while her mind raced over a hundred different topics. All of which were far, far away from her aunt’s latest ramblings and—at this moment—centered instead directly upon Lord Blakely.
Oh, she’d known who he was even without a proper introduction. His rumored exploits were practically the stuff of legends, definitely tittered about—if not by first-year debutantes, then by their chaperones.
Lord Blakely had secrets. Ones that drew her as nothing else.
After all, did she not have her own secrets? One in particular she kept from the world.
Beyond that, Back when her parents were still alive and she their devoted only child, living life with no thought nor care beyond that of having fun and ensuring those around her did the same… Back when she and her childhood friend Katherina dreamt of naught else but finding beaus to kiss and dance with, once they made their come-outs…
Back then, before tragedy had affected them both, how was she to have ever suspected the men of her acquaintance--discounting the one she’d just approached--would leave her lukewarm at best, cold at worst?
Not a single one of her suitors over the past handful of years had incited the urge to kiss them or touch them, the impulse to press her body against theirs. Not once, not even on the rare occasions she’d danced a waltz with a gentleman of the ton.
Yet tonight, as she’d stood close to Lord Blakely?
Oh my fearsome frowns and deeply rasped growls! Just being so very near him made her insides spark as never before. Made her long to grasp the muscular arms beneath the expensively tailored tailcoat, to touch the seductive angle of his side whiskers, ease the strain furrowing his brow.
Silently, she laughed at herself, realizing how easily she could count another two hundred ways she wanted to touch him without taxing her brain in the least; the same most certainly could not be said for how taxing it was, enduring yet another of her aunt’s lectures.
And that knowledge, regardless of whether he met her in the garden later or not, could set her mind at ease on one point: She did know how it felt to want a man. To crave his touch down to the depths of her soul.
“Why, to approach such a disgraceful rake! A libertine of the first order! Franny, I am nonplussed at your selfish lack of care…”
Her breath eased out on a peaceful sigh…
In public, he conducted himself with complete refinement—outwardly, at least. Inwardly? Why, the few times she’d been fortunate enough to glimpse a moment of weakness in his carefully cultivated, haughty exterior, she’d seen a peer carrying the weight of the world on his broad shoulders. One who drew her mightily.
A few nights ago when she’d first concocted her Plan of Genius—or so she hoped and prayed, as the alternative was Dire indeed—she could fathom approaching no other man to pose as her betrothed, no matter that she’d spun taradiddle about having an entire list of potential paramours.
Pretend engagement or not, one’s betrothed was expected to take certain liberties, and after her single wretched experience, compounded by evading the revolting clutches of her latest suitor—a creeper if there ever was one—Francine knew full well she’d only put herself within touching distance of Lord Blakely, not some other unknown scapegrace. Only the man she dreamt about.
“What about your cousins? Did you even think to give their reputations a thought? Any consideration at all? And after I welcomed you into my home and raised you as one of my own…”
Francine nodded and attempted to assume a suitable expression of guilt—and after the barrage went on longer than usual, an appropriate amount of contriteness. While, in actuality, she was calculating the mathematical probability that the touch from any other man in the ton would have affected her in quite the same way as Lord Blakely’s.
When she’d devised her plan and let her mind flit over possible candidates, his name had gravitated to the top. To maintain her freedom and safeguard her future, she needed the protection an alliance with him, or someone like him, would provide. And she needed it immediately.
In a number of weeks, she would have successfully avoided the marriage trap her aunt appeared intent on netting her into. At the moment, a false betrothal would shield her from Aunt Prudence’s seemingly desperate efforts to secure her a husband and instead leave Francine in the position to concentrate on what she did want. Which certainly wasn’t a husband—and all the control they wielded.
Not if her “condition” was turning out as her mother’s had, which Francine suspected was the case. Though successfully concealed so far, she absolutely had to secure her inheritance to guarantee her future happiness and what she did want: The ability to maintain her independence. To live life on her own terms, to make her own choices, not be locked away. Hidden, neglected, or forgotten if some unknown, tight-fisted or heavy-handed husband had his way.
After all, not many women were as fortunate in their choice of spouse as her dear mama. Look at Aunt Prudence. Her first husband had been such a grumbler, he’d squeezed any semblance of friendliness and caring right out of her by the time he died.
Uncle Rowden, her second husband and Francine’s uncle by marriage, was often away from home (not that Francine blamed him). He left the running of everything including his London household and the rearing of her children—and by extension her niece—to his critical crank of a wife.
But Lord Blakely, now? Why, if one needed a pretend paramour for a short duration only, she could think of no one better.
He’d already rescued her once, if he but knew it. And rescue, drat it, was what she needed again.
No matter that she’d thought she could retain her single state easily enough until her majority, Aunt Prudence’s resolve to see Francine wed and out of the house knew no bounds of late. Only days ago, she’d inadvertently left Francine alone with the most recent unsavory suitor—and directly in harm’s way.
Aye, time for assistance.
Assistance from the man who’d fascinated her from the beginning. The moment that led to her developing a tendre for the often austere lord she’d studied from afar. The man with the commanding, captivating air that made everything in his vicinity burn brighter.
Late-summer, it’d been, after their first full Season (hers and Patience’s, Temperance not yet out). A neighbor of Uncle Rowden’s country estate held a ball, commemorating the end of a house party and invited everyone in the vicinity, giving Temperance a chance to attend her first grown-up event.
Returning from the ladies’ retiring room, after helping Patience repair a ripped hem (albeit, with crooked stitches, but strong ones that kept her dress from tripping her further), her cousin had skipped ahead, not wanting to miss a second of dancing if she could help it. Leaving Francine and her more sedate pace
alone in the long hallway.
But only for a few seconds, given the trio of boisterous bucks who burst from behind a closed door, crowding into the narrow hall right in front of her. Behind them, the room they’d left, dark with shadows, teeming with energy, voices. Giggles. A squeal or two. A couple of grunts.
Francine knew now what could go on behind closed doors, even at a respectable setting—hadn’t she been caught behind one herself recently?
But that night, things were different. Confronted with three hulking male bodies, pressing in without permission, awareness sharpened her senses. Sexual awareness. But not the good sort she’d felt near Lord Blakely earlier; nay, this had been an edgy, intimidating sort, the kind smart girls and intelligent women ran from.
Only it was most difficult to run when strange men gripped your upper arm, loomed close behind you. In front of you. Gave your heart and stomach a dark thrill you didn’t quite want but couldn’t ignore either.
“Hansen! Get back in here.” The order was barked from within the gloomy interior. “Crandall! By the devil, where did they get off to?”
Accompanied by shuffling noises, a whined, feminine “Do not leave me, Blake, we’re not finished yet” coming from within, the stranger’s voice she’d not heard before touched her every bit as fiercely as the fingernails that scraped up the side of her neck.
“Stop that,” Francine told the man at her side, the one who hovered closer as if to inspect the scratches he’d left. “Let me go!” She jerked her shoulder free of the other’s hold, but bumped into a solid wall behind her when she tried to skirt around the trio. A solid wall of the third man, who leaned forward, breathed hotly over her nape, and grunted of all things.
“Tyndale!” The intriguing voice again, this time closer and followed by a storm of fire and heat—and then blessed rescue.
Rescue when the tallest man of them all, the owner of The Voice, stormed into the hallway, firing off orders in a language she didn’t recognize. As though realizing it, he quickly repeated himself in English, cursing the roysters who’d invaded her person and violated her space back from whence they came, evicting the three with authority and leaving the hallway bereft save for the two of them.
Ensnared by Innocence: Steamy Regency Shapeshifter Page 2
