by Shana Galen
Once again the image of the crumbling Roman wall flashed through her mind. She saw the outline of her attacker. Everything was black and hazy, too dark to see anything.
“You’re not safe until your attacker has been caught,” Winterbourne said.
She jerked her chin from his fingers. He was scaring her, making her remember the terror. “Lord Winterbourne—”
“Damn it! Call me Ethan or no one will believe this betrothal.”
“Good!” She put her hands on her hips. “I don’t want them to believe it.” And at that moment she meant it. She wanted to return to her normal life. A life without the Marquess of Winterbourne.
“And I don’t want to be told what to do like I’m twelve again instead of one and twenty,” she went on. “And I don’t want you here investigating everyone and scaring people and—and confusing me.”
He caught the tail of her hair in one hand, and his fingers grazed her neck. “Confusing you?”
His touch had a paralyzing effect. All thoughts of escaping him vanished. She couldn’t seem to remember why she’d wanted to get away from him in the first place, what she’d been so frightened of. Her gaze traced a slow path from his cravat to the strong angles of his jaw, over his sculpted bronze cheekbones, to the slow liquid snare of his amber eyes.
His gaze met hers, the gold flecks in his eyes pulling her in like sticky honey. Warm honey. Hot even. No one had ever stared at her like that, with a look she could only describe as unadulterated desire.
No one. Not even Roxbury.
Her heart pounded so hard it hurt, her body trembling when his fingers caressed her cheek. “Yes,” she breathed, finally answering his question. “You’re confusing me.”
He closed the distance between them, his hand sliding like silk to the back of her neck. His fingers cupped her head and tilted her face to his. “Then let me make everything perfectly clear.”
He bent down, firm, sensual lips inches from hers. “You are my responsibility while I’m here.” His voice was low and husky. “Mine. And until I leave, you’ll do as I say.”
“No, I won’t,” she murmured, lips whispering against his as she spoke. “I’ll—”
His lips skimmed against hers, stilling her protests. Pulsing heat seared through her body. She forgot what she’d been about to say and gave herself up to the sensation of his mouth on hers. At first there was just the gentle press of skin on skin, no movement. Then, with maddening slowness, his lips skated across hers, tracing the contours of her mouth, pressing firmly, then light as a summer breeze against her.
She was being drugged. As soon as she accustomed herself to one sensation, he changed tactics, introduced a new experience. He was teasing her, giving her just a taste of what a real kiss from him would be like.
Suddenly, the anticipation was too much. She wanted the full experience. Her hands came up and she fisted them in his hair, pulling his mouth to hers. He groaned, and his arm circled her waist, dragging her against him. He was all muscles and hardness, his body taut with leashed power.
His mouth opened, and with a subtle pressure he parted her lips as well. His tongue swept inside, claiming her, his arm tightening around her at the same time. Francesca kissed him back, knowing it must be a dream, knowing that Ethan Caxton would never, in real life, be kissing her. But it felt so real, and it had been such a long time since she’d been kissed or held or—
Her whole body went rigid. An old image of Roxbury flickered through her mind. Her head was shoved against a rough iron gate while Roxbury’s mouth savaged hers. She could still taste the bitter blood on her lips as they began to bleed from the sharpness of his teeth.
She heaved the picture away with all her strength. “No!” she screamed. “Stop!”
Seventeen
“Stop!” Francesca screamed again. The panic threatened to drown her. She couldn’t breathe. Needing air, she snatched oxygen in large gulps. He released her instantly, stepping away. His expression was a mix of concern and...lust?
“No.” She took a step back then another. “Don’t touch me.”
“I won’t.” He held up his hands, palms out, the gesture one of harmless surrender. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
Time and place tangled in her mind, but one thought remained constant. Please don’t let him hit me. Please don’t let him strike.
Watching him warily, she retreated another step and stumbled into the table behind her. He reached for her, and she screamed, “Don’t touch me!”
He drew back.
Teetering, she regained her balance then shrank further away from him. Tears welled in her eyes and spilled uncontrolled down her cheeks. The details of his face blurred, but she didn’t miss the look of shock in his eyes.
Amber eyes, not ice blue. Roxbury’s eyes had been blue.
Oh, God.
Her trembling hands flew to her mouth. She felt them shaking against her lips as she traced the skin where only a moment before Ethan’s mouth had been on hers. What was she doing?
Her hands formed a steeple over her nose and mouth, and she squeezed her eyes shut. She wished she could disappear before she died of humiliation. What had she done? How could she have mistaken him for Roxbury?
“Please leave.” Her voice was muffled behind her hands. She was mad—suffering from hysteria. She’d thought it all behind her.
She’d been wrong.
“Please leave,” she said again. Her voice was almost a moan.
“Very well.” His tone was cautious. “Let’s go inside.”
She opened her eyes. He was standing in front of the fireplace where they’d sat on a blanket and shared a meal only minutes before. For the moment, he allowed her space, but she could see the way his fingers flexed, as though he fought the urge to bridge the widening gap between them and take her in his arms. Oh, how she wanted him to hold her again. Kiss her again. Make everything better. It hadn’t been a dream. He’d really been kissing her. And she’d ruined everything.
She felt the sharp sting of fresh tears and bit the inside of her cheek to stave them off. Her body shook from fright and shame, and still her lips felt warm from the touch of his mouth.
She watched him step forward and then hesitate, battling to keep his distance, but she knew it wasn’t because he had the desire to enfold her in his arms. He acted on instinct, the instinct one human being had to comfort another. He didn’t want her. How could he, after the way she’d just behaved?
“Francesca, come inside.”
“Please just leave me alone.”
“No.” He took step toward her, and she had to fight the instinctive urge to shy away. “I’ll leave you alone when you’re safe. Inside.”
She put her fingers to her aching temples and began to massage. A moment later, she heard him pull the lone chair from beside the fire to the table. “Sit down.”
“Why?” She looked up, suspicious.
His mouth turned down in a frown, but she watched as he bit back the words he’d been about to say. Clearly he was not used to having his directives questioned. “Because we need to talk.”
“Please go.” She felt the drain of the past few hours and was afraid if he didn’t go soon she’d humiliate herself again, dissolving into yet another flood of tears. Her voice dropped. “I’m mortified enough as it is.”
“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. You’ve had a perfectly normal reaction.”
She blinked. “I have?”
“Yes.” He put his hands on the back of the chair. “It’s completely understandable.”
“It is?”
How could he understand it? She barely understood, and Winterbourne didn’t even know about Roxbury. No one knew the real reason she’d broken off her engagement to the earl, though she had the feeling her father suspected.
“It’s my fault.”
Francesca gaped.
“After the attack last night—” His gaze darted to her face. “I wasn’t thinking.”
Understanding, quic
k as an afternoon summer shower, washed over her. “No,” she began. “It’s not—”
She stopped herself just in time. What had she been thinking? To correct his misassumption would mean revealing how pitiful and stupid she’d been in allowing Roxbury to treat her as he had. Winterbourne would lose what little respect he had for her. He would scorn her, and though he might never say it aloud, she would see the derision in his eyes. And suddenly it seemed she could bear anyone’s contempt but his.
“I’m fine,” she repeated. She didn’t like leaving him feeling to blame, but she couldn’t see any other way. “Please go.”
She saw his jaw tense, and he snatched the chair from under the table. “Sit down,” he growled.
She pressed her nails into her palm to keep from balking, reminding herself he wasn’t Roxbury. In all the time she had known Roxbury, she had never seen him accept blame or responsibility for anything. But here stood Winterbourne, blaming himself for her outburst. It was almost endearing.
He put his hand on the back of the chair. “Sit down. Please,” he added.
Her eyes widened. Please? He was asking her? She imagined please was not a word the Marquess of Winterbourne had used very often in his lifetime. Well, if he wanted her to sit that badly, she supposed it was the least she could do.
She sat, and he looked relieved. But she had no intention of giving into him. She waited, but he didn’t speak. And when she raised her eyebrows expectantly he clenched his jaw.
“Just—” He turned away from her. “Just give me a moment.”
Her chair faced away from the fire, and he went to the hearth behind her. She heard him rummaging around and craned her neck around the chair back to see him opening the wicker basket.
Why did he insist on staying? Peter could see her back.
Roxbury’s familiar refrain floated through her mind. Not very quick-witted, are you? he’d taunt. Sad, pathetic excuse for a woman. She recoiled at the memory of what usually came next and fresh humiliation coursed through her. How could she have allowed Roxbury to humiliate her so?
Thank God no one knew how Roxbury had treated her. Even her father, who’d defended her break with Roxbury when her mother had begged, scolded, and cajoled her wayward daughter to change her mind, didn’t know.
Lord Brigham might have sensed that something wasn’t right between the couple, but there was virtually no possibility he could know the truth. Roxbury was too careful, both in his timing and his well-placed aim. Her father had had no concrete reason to support her decision to end the betrothal, and every reason not to, but he’d backed her anyway, and for that support she would be eternally grateful.
Winterbourne was still rummaging behind her, and the silence made her uncomfortable. “I’m sorry I behaved as I did earlier,” she said, feeling some explanation was called for. “I don’t know what came over me.”
“Hmm.”
He shifted something, and she peered back at him again.
“You were betrothed to Roxbury for some time before you broke it off?” he said.
Her heart stopped and then skipped ahead. “Why do you ask?”
“Just curious.” He didn’t look at her, so she couldn’t see the expression on his face. Knowing he could be relentless in his questioning, she was wary of the inquiry.
“Yes. We were betrothed for several months.”
“And you broke it off?” He continued to fumble in the basket, his face hidden from her. “How did your parents take it? Roxbury is an earl—a respected member of the House of Lords. He’s the type of man your father would need in order to further his own career in politics.”
Francesca wasn’t surprised at how quickly Winterbourne had grasped the situation. After all, he knew Society as well as she.
“Yes,” she answered. “Daddy was disappointed but accepted it. Roxbury isn’t wealthy. His estate is heavily mortgaged, and he’s made several bad investments.”
Financial affairs were no secret in the ton, and Francesca knew Winterbourne would fill in the rest. Roxbury needed the money his marriage to her would have provided. Not that she was an heiress. Her family wasn’t fabulously wealthy—certainly nowhere near as affluent as Winterbourne was reputed to be—but the Dashings had land and not all of her father’s blunt was tied to the estate. Her father’s careful management of Tanglewilde and his business acumen had increased the family fortunes.
“You ended the affair quietly.” His voice was soft, a caress behind her.
“We hadn’t yet announced it in The Times, so discretion was not an issue.”
“You mentioned your parents took the break well, but what about Roxbury?”
She snorted. “Roxbury was more put out by the loss of my dowry than by the loss of my affections.”
“I see.” His voice sounded tight. He stood, and to her surprise, he placed a cup of warm tea in her hands. Without a word, he dropped three lumps of sugar into it and handed her a spoon.
“What is this?” She sniffed the sweet, comforting aroma.
“Tea.” She heard him mutter. “Can’t find any milk in here, so you’ll have to make do without.”
“Don’t trouble yourself,” she answered out of habit. “I don’t take milk in my tea.”
“Right.”
She heard the amusement in his voice and peeked around the chair to watch him again. He squatted in front of the basket, shuffling through it and apparently looking for something. Why was he acting so strangely? Three minutes ago she’d been hysterical—crying and screaming at him to go. And now he served her tea? Didn’t he think her mad?
“Here it is,” he said. He placed another linen-wrapped item from the basket on the table in front of her. No trace of censure or disgust in his features, he took a step back and raised a smug eyebrow.
“There. If my sources are correct, that ought to make you feel better.”
“Sources? What sources?” Her gaze flicked from the linen to his face.
“I can’t answer that. It will ruin the surprise.” He gave every appearance of being extremely pleased with himself.
“Open it.”
With a confused smile, she put a tentative hand on the napkin and felt the warm, solid form beneath it. Feeling like a child at Christmas, she held her breath and unwrapped the package, slowly revealing the surprise underneath.
Gingerbread. Warm, fragrant gingerbread with just a sprinkle of cinnamon on top.
She stared at it, uncomprehending.
“I heard it was your favorite.”
She looked from the gingerbread to him. He still had the self-assured look. She tried to speak, to say something—ask him why or thank him. Something. Instead, she burst into tears.
“What the—” He knelt beside her instantly. “Very well. Forget the gingerbread.” Panic rose in his voice. “It was a mistake. No gingerbread.”
He reached out to slide the linen away from her, but she grasped his wrist. “No. I want the gingerbread,” she wailed, sounding exactly as she had when she’d been five and her mother had taken sweets away from her.
“The gingerbread stays then,” Ethan said quickly and cupped her hand in both of his. “You can have as much as you want. Chocolate tarts too. Just stop crying.”
She snuffled and laughed a little. As if she could control any of the emotions rushing through her right now. Through salty tears, she saw his eyes imploring her.
“Please,” he said. His plea, so out of character, set her off again. Lord, how could she have ever mistaken him for Roxbury?
He rose and paced the room, crossing it with three long strides then back again. He muttered to himself, something about doing everything wrong.
“No, you’re not,” she finally managed to squeeze out between sobs. “You’re doing everything right, and I just don’t understand why you’re being so nice to me!”
He stopped in mid-stride and stared at her. “Why I’m being so nice to you?” He frowned, took another step or two, obviously trying to make sense of her comment
. “Well, I suppose I don’t have a reputation for being nice.”
“No, you don’t.” She sniffled.
“You didn’t have to agree with that.” His tone was dark, suitably offended.
She started laughing, and her chuckles mixed with the lingering sobs. “Sorry.”
He gave her a look of chagrin and came to stand by the table again, just across from her. “At least you’re laughing and not crying. If insulting me is all it takes, do so as much as you like.”
“Oh, no! I didn’t mean to insult you.”
“No, I’m sure you only meant to insult yourself.” He gave her a penetrating look that made her uneasy.
“I don’t understand.”
He leaned a hip on the table beside her and crossed his arms. “You implied that you didn’t expect to be treated well.” His gaze seemed to bore into her.
“No, I didn’t. I said I don’t understand why you are being so nice to me.”
He raised an eyebrow, and she shrank back in her chair, wishing she could escape his gaze. The fire in the hearth seemed as though it was blazing, and the room felt much too warm.
“Oh,” she said. Her voice sounded small and fragile.
He nodded at her gingerbread and tea. “Eat it. You’ll feel better.”
She could hardly resist, especially since she was still hungry, and it didn’t appear he was planning on leaving anytime soon.
She took a sip of her tea, savoring its fragrance and sweetness. She’d often thought there was almost nothing a cup of tea couldn’t make right in the world. Winterbourne nodded at the gingerbread, his eyes never leaving her face. She lifted the warm gingerbread and took a bite, licking the sweet, sticky cinnamon from her fingertips as she did so. At that moment the gingerbread was the most delicious thing she’d ever tasted. She took another bite and another. The cake was so moist it almost dissolved in her mouth. She savored the combination of tangy and sweet then, leaning back to sip her tea, looked up at Winterbourne.
“Would you like some?” She indicated the half-loaf of bread left.
“No. You’re enjoying it too much. Besides, you need to eat something.”
