by Shana Galen
“Call me Ethan.”
She blinked, then snorted. “I hardly think such familiarity appropriate.” She squared her shoulders. “In fact, we shouldn’t even be alone together.”
“Why not? It’s accepted practice for people in our situation. Chocolate tart, Francesca?” He held out the arm he’d been hiding behind his back.
The plate he held was laden with warm, freshly baked chocolate tarts, and the smell of sweet, rich chocolate wafted over her. He handed her a small china plate from the tea service beside the couch. “Take one.”
“I—” she began, eyes feasting on the temptation. Distracted, she tried to remember what he’d said a moment before. She glanced away from the tart for an instant. “What do you mean, people in our situation?”
He grinned, held the plate out again. Her stomach rumbled, and her gaze slashed back to the plate. She almost reached for a tart. “I shouldn’t.” Her attention shifted to the door. “My mother—I’m not hungry.” She sat back in the chair and tried to mean it.
He picked up a tart and set it on the small plate he held before her. “I checked with the staff. You haven’t eaten since yesterday.”
“That’s not true,” she protested. “My maid brought me a tray of tea and toast this morning.” She didn’t add, After you left.
“Which you didn’t touch.” He moved the plate closer. “I know these are your favorites. Take one.”
She pursed her lips, shaking her head.
“Fine.” He sat back and withdrew the plate. “I’ll send them back.”
“Wait,” she squeaked when he reached for the bell to summon the footman. Her stomach rumbled again.
His hand paused above the bell, and he gave her a sidelong glance.
“Maybe just one.” Oh, she was so very bad. But chocolate tarts. How could she refuse?
To his credit, Winterbourne didn’t gloat. He put another warm, fragrant tart on the small plate and handed it to her. She began to protest, but he cut her off, lifting a teacup and adding a splash of milk. “Two lumps of sugar?” he asked, pouring the steaming brew into the dainty china cup.
Her grip on the plate with the tarts faltered, and she almost dropped it. “You’re serving me tea?”
He didn’t answer, adding a lump of sugar. “I think three?” He arched a brow.
“Two,” she said quickly. Three—her mother would murder her. She gave the door another furtive glance and took a quick bite of the tart. When she looked back, he handed her the teacup and saucer.
“Thank you.” She took a small sip, savoring the sweetness. Then frowned at him. He’d definitely added more than two lumps of sugar.
She took another bite of the tart and closed her eyes in a blissful surrender to chocolate decadence. “These are so good,” she said around a mouthful of chocolate and moist cake. “How did you get them? Cook doesn’t bake them every day.”
“I spoke to your cook this morning. I knew you’d be hungry when you were up and about.” His voice sounded hoarse, and she opened her eyes to catch a glimpse of him. His gaze was heated amber, warming her as it flowed over her. He was staring at her mouth, and she lowered the tart, licking her lip.
She thought she heard him make a small sound. Her heart pounded in her ears, and a trickle of sweat traced a path between her breasts. He was doing it again—seducing her with only a look. And she was a willing participant, all the more eager because he was being so kind this morning—pouring her tea, feeding her chocolate delicacies.
Oh, how she wished he would leave. She, who had so little experience with men and games of love, was becoming thoroughly enamored of him—amplifying each word, each look into something meaningful, giving his every action a significance he’d never intended. He was playing a game and she was playing for real—she didn’t know any other way to play.
But surely he would be gone by dinner. She frowned. “You asked Cook about the tarts this morning?”
“Hmm,” he replied, eyes tracing the contours of her mouth so she again felt compelled to touch her tongue to her lips. He inhaled sharply, but this time his behavior didn’t distract her.
“You assumed you would be here long enough to bring them to me? That my father wouldn’t have you thrown out before dinner?”
His gaze flicked to her eyes and he gave her a roguish smile. “I told you I’m staying, Francesca.”
She pursed her lips. “Lord Winterbourne, I really cannot allow this familiarity.”
He leaned forward, and she could feel the heat from his body. She tried to scoot back again, but she was already wedged into the couch’s corner. “I must insist that you refer to me as Miss Dashing.” She was proud that, despite his closeness, her voice sounded steady.
“Even if we’re betrothed?”
“Betrothed?” The plate slipped from her hand and clattered on the floor. She groped for it but missed when she saw his grin.
“I knew those tarts would only distract you for a moment.”
“Distract me?” She leapt out of her chair, took three steps, and rounded on him. “What do you mean betrothed? We’re not betrothed!” She rubbed the back of her head where the newly formed knot pulsed painfully from her sudden activity. “Are we?”
“No.” He shook his head, and she sank into a gold chintz chair with relief. She reached for a second chocolate tart. After that scare, she needed it. “But we will tell everyone we are.”
Her hand froze above the china plate. “We’ll tell—what?”
“It’s the only way, Francesca. An engagement gives me a suitable excuse for residing at Tanglewilde in the eyes of the ton.”
“But you don’t need to reside here.” She sat forward. He couldn’t reside here. Give it two days and she’d be making a fool of herself, falling all over him, cow-eyed with infatuation.
He scowled. “I told you last night, I’m not leaving until I find the man who attacked you.”
“Why? The magistrate—”
He stood and waved a hand, cutting her off. “Damn that idiot of a magistrate.”
She tried another tactic. “But surely you’d feel more comfortable at Grayson Park, and it’s only a short ride.”
“I can’t protect you at Grayson Park.”
“I don’t need your protection,” she argued, though it certainly warmed her that he wanted to provide it. Confused her as well. “Why are you taking such an interest in me?” She gave him a pointed look. “What is your real objective?”
He smiled, crossed to her chair, and leaned down. Placing one hand on either side of her, he murmured, “There’s no point in arguing, Francesca.” His face loomed inches from hers, and his nearness made it hard for her to concentrate.
Something about the way he looked at her unnerved her. His eyes had changed. There was more than harmless flirtation in them now.
She tried in vain to scoot away. “But, really, there’s no need...” Her voice trailed off as he put a finger to her lips.
“There’s every need,” he murmured.
She caught her breath as his fingers traced her top lip lightly. Tingles skittered through her body, all the way to her toes. He was close enough to kiss her. And—her heart sped up—he looked as though he wanted to kiss her.
“I’ll be so close to you,” he whispered, “that the only time you’ll escape me is when you sleep.”
His finger rested on the center of her bottom lip. He swiped it gently across her skin, and as he pulled away, she saw a smudge of chocolate on his skin. She watched, trembling, as he put the finger in his mouth and slowly licked it clean.
“And Francesca?”
“Yes.” At least that was the word she’d meant to form. She dragged her eyes back to his, breath coming fast.
“I might even find a way into your dreams.”
It took a moment after he leaned away, returning to the couch with a smug look, for the haze surrounding her to fade and conscious thought to return. Her lips tingled where his finger had skated across them. Her whole body vibra
ted. Aching for...something.
Lord, the way he’d licked the chocolate off his finger—his tongue swirling around the pad of his fingertip then moving slowly upward over the tip. She hadn’t been able to move, much less breathe.
She still couldn’t breathe. She had to get away.
“I-I think I’ll take the fresh air,” she said when she trusted her voice again. She stood, and he was beside her.
“Where are we going?”
“We?” She turned to him and took an immediate step back. His mere presence overwhelmed her. Left her lightheaded. She had to get away from him, gather her thoughts, her defenses.
“I would go to the stable to see Thunder and then to check on my hospital. Alone, if you don’t mind.”
Not waiting for his argument, she whirled and started for the door. His hand, light but firm, on her elbow stopped her. Her pulse pattered in response. How she wished he would stop touching her!
“I thought I made myself clear a moment ago.” His voice was hard, and she glanced over her shoulder to see him glowering at her. For some reason, his fierce expression didn’t disconcert her as it usually did. She shook him off.
“You made yourself perfectly clear, Lord Winterbourne, but I prefer to be alone right now.”
“Then go to your room.” He took a step toward her. “Lie down. Read a book. Do needlepoint.” With each suggestion he leaned closer until she felt the heat of his chest pressing against her torso. She blushed but refused to step back.
“But if you mean to leave the house,” he continued, glaring down at her, “I would go with you.”
“Oh, this is too much!” She rose on her tiptoes and met him eye to eye. “I already have one puppy nipping at my heels. I don’t need another.”
“Puppy?” His eyes narrowed dangerously.
She gestured to the windows of the breakfast room and their view of the bright sunny park and rolling hillsides. “No one would attack me in the middle of the day, Lord Winterbourne.” But even as she said it, she felt a shudder of fear ripple through her. “And I’ll pass half a dozen people on my way to the stables,” she said, uncertain whether the words were intended to convince him or her.
“And it only takes one to grab you when no one else is looking and finish what he began last night.”
His words slammed into her. They were as hard as the look in his eyes. Once again, she felt a flash of fear, caught the flicker of an image—a man in black above her, his hands under her skirts—before she could suppress it.
She stiffened, pulled inward. She hated this. Hated the fear. Hated that she needed Winterbourne’s protection, that deep down she wanted it. She’d never wanted to need or want a man again. But right now she could barely contain her own apprehensions, much less counter Winterbourne’s, and more than anything she needed to feel the healing sun on her face and the rejuvenating nip of the wind on her cheeks.
She stepped away from him then, backing down and feeling defeated. “Very well. Come if you like.”
With a breeziness she didn’t feel, she turned for the door. Her hand was reaching for the handle when the door flew open and Lady Brigham leapt inside.
Her mother’s head whipped around frantically, her blue skirts billowing and her golden curls bouncing. When she spotted Francesca, she squealed and dove. Before Francesca could dart out of the way, her mother grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. Francesca’s head felt as though a board slammed into it.
“Mia figlia, preziosa! Is it true? Tell me it’s true, dolce!”
“Tell you what’s true, Mamma?” Her voice rattled between her mother’s shakes. “What are you talking about?”
“Your betrothal, naturalmente! Do not tease me, mia cuore.” Her mother thrust her away with a wounded expression.
“My betrothal? Of course, it’s n—”
She felt warmth encircle her waist and a firm squeeze. Winterbourne stood beside her, his arm encircling her. “It’s true, my lady,” he interrupted. “I see your husband wasted no time in telling you. I only asked his permission an hour ago.”
Francesca stared at Winterbourne, dumbfounded. She had not agreed to this ridiculous mock engagement, and she had certainly never agreed to lie about it to her mother.
Angry, she looked back at her mother, ready to reveal the truth and end the farce once and for all.
The words died on her lips.
Tears filled her mother’s eyes. With her hands on her tremulous lips, her face was such a beacon of happiness that for a moment Francesca wished with all her heart that the betrothal was real. She glanced back at Winterbourne, now fastened firmly to her waist, and saw that his mouth had quirked into a half smile in response to her mother’s obvious elation.
“B-but—how?” her mother sputtered. “When?”
Winterbourne looked down at Francesca, a tender expression on his face. “I fell in love with your daughter the first time I saw her.”
Francesca stared into his eyes, the honey-gold flecks trapping her in the amber surrounding them. It’s not true. It’s not true, she repeated to herself.
As if he could read her thoughts, Winterbourne gave her mother a sheepish look and said with a chuckle, “Well, the second time I saw her. I barely remember the first.”
Francesca swallowed hard. She wanted to say something, to deny all of his lies, but the muscles in her throat were paralyzed. Not true. Not true, she silently chanted instead, trying to at least convince herself.
“Oh, how romantic!” Her mother clasped her hands together over her heart. “And when did you ask mia figlia, mia figlia dolce, to marry you?”
He looked down at Francesca again and squeezed her side. Her skin came alive under his hand, warmth radiating into her body from every inch making contact with him. Then he took her hand, brought it to his lips, and kissed her knuckles.
Gaze still locked on her face, he said, “I asked her last night, and she agreed.” He glanced back at her mother with that charming, roguish smile of his. “Not without a few stipulations, of course.” He raised one mischievous eyebrow, and her mother tittered with laughter.
“Naturalmente!”
He was still staring at her and holding her hand lightly between his fingertips when Francesca finally pried her gaze away from his to glance at her mother. The poor woman was euphoric, not to mention completely convinced.
And Francesca realized that she wanted to be convinced as well. More than anything, she wanted to believe that this betrothal was real. That—just for one day—the Marquess of Winterbourne wanted her, loved her.
A tiny but insidious thought crept into her mind. Perhaps if she played along, perhaps if they pretended to be betrothed, it might somehow become reality.
No.
Francesca squeezed her eyes shut and pushed the idea away.
No. This was wrong.
She couldn’t fathom what her father might have been thinking, but perhaps somehow Winterbourne had convinced him that tricking her mother into believing this betrothal was real was the best course of action. For her own part, she couldn’t bear to lie. Couldn’t bear to watch her mother so happy, when Francesca knew that in a few days, when the truth came out, she would be equally unhappy, if not more so.
She took a deep breath, “Mamma,” she began, her tone full of regret.
Winterbourne must have realized her intent because he squished her hand. She darted a glance at him. A warning flickered in his eyes. The gold flecks had changed from languorous molten honey to gold sparks of fire. She narrowed her eyes in challenge. How dare he try to intimidate her? This was her mother, not his, and he couldn’t bully her into lying to her own mother. She shot him a defiant look and turned back to her mother. Lady Brigham was watching her expectantly, her face bright in anticipation of another surprise.
Francesca sighed, her shoulders sagging. Lord help her, she couldn’t do it. With all that had happened in the past day, she couldn’t dishearten her mother any further. Tomorrow would be soon enough to break the p
oor woman’s heart.
“Nothing, Mamma.” Francesca pulled out of Winterbourne’s arms. “I just wanted to tell you that I love you.”
Her mother enfolded her in a warm hug, and Francesca closed her eyes and returned the embrace, just as she had when she’d been a little girl. Her mother’s hugs had never failed to make all right with the world then, so perhaps if she hugged her hard enough, and wished long enough, her mother’s embrace would do the same today.
Fourteen
It was obvious Francesca loved her home, Ethan thought as she led him along the path to the stable. He nodded, only half-listening, as she proudly pointed out Tanglewilde’s various buildings, stopping to greet each servant. It would have made an ideal opportunity to learn the names of the staff and the layout of the estate’s grounds, if only he’d been listening.
Seeing Francesca embrace her mother so warmly, and Lady Brigham’s joyful return of affection, caused him a twinge of guilt. More than a twinge, actually. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so guilty. Could count on one hand the number of times he’d ever felt guilty.
He paused as Francesca was waylaid once again, this time by one of the dairymaids, and tried to determine where he’d gone wrong. He’d paced his chamber last night and thought he’d crafted the perfect plan. A betrothal. He’d written to Alex, given him the pertinent information, and asked his brother to work even harder at finding the leader of the smugglers.
Everything had come together as he’d anticipated, and he should be feeling a sense of satisfaction right now. Clearly, he hadn’t considered all the angles. He’d forgotten the female factor.
He swore under his breath. How could he have foreseen that Francesca would give him a look of such longing that he nearly bent down on one knee right there to propose in earnest? The proposal would have been ruined when he’d choked on the words. He would have to marry one day, his title demanded it, but that day was a long, long time away.
Francesca finished her conversation with the dairymaid and motioned him to follow her. At the rate they were moving, he estimated they’d arrive at the stables by next Thursday. But their slow progress didn’t seem to bother her. In fact, the fresh air revived her. The pale strained expression from the night before was gone, and she looked happy, cheeks rosy and eyes shining. For a moment, he forgot to breathe.
