by Shana Galen
“Your name on the guest list must have escaped our notice.” Smoothly, Ethan took Francesca’s hands in one of his before Roxbury could grasp her with his leather-clad fingers.
Roxbury’s glacial stare locked with his. “Lord Winterbourne.”
“Lord Roxbury.” Ethan inclined his head.
At the rise in tension, Francesca recovered. “I didn’t expect to see you here, Lord Roxbury.”
“Really?” Roxbury said with raised eyebrows. “Quick-witted as you are—”
Francesca’s limp hand fisted closed in his, and Ethan felt her jerk.
The earl’s mouth twisted as he took in the action as well. “I would have thought you invited me intentionally.”
Francesca blinked in confusion. “Why would I do that?” Her hand gripped Ethan’s like a vise.
Roxbury reached for one of the chocolate tarts on the plate Ethan still held in his free hand. “Why, to gloat over your catch, of course.” He nodded to Ethan, laughed, but there was no amusement in the sound. He held up the tart. “You don’t mind, do you, Cesca?”
Ethan prickled at hearing the man address Francesca by a nickname. No other gesture belied their former intimacy as clearly.
Roxbury bit into the tart and said, “It’s not as if I’m depriving you.” His derisive gaze swept over her, and Ethan had to make a monumental effort not to slam his fist into those gleaming white teeth.
Ethan settled for placing the plate on the table and pulling Francesca closer. He understood exactly what had happened now. The idea of inviting her former intended would never have occurred to Francesca. It was not in her to lord her successes over others, and Roxbury knew that as well as Ethan.
But Lady Brigham, poor misguided woman that she was, had no such qualms. Still, the question remained: If Roxbury perceived the reason behind his invitation, why had he come? Curiosity? Or perhaps—Ethan scowled—perhaps the earl anticipated that his presence would upset Francesca.
The silence between them lengthened.
“Have you been in Hampshire long?” Francesca’s stab at conversation was almost as contrived as Roxbury’s smile.
“No.” Roxbury again bit delicately into the tart, careful not to allow any crumbs to fall on his clothing. “I came in this morning from Fountainview.”
“Oh!” She blinked. “Oh! But that’s wonderful. I had heard that you had lost the estate, that the mortgage—”
“Fountainview is doing well,” Roxbury interrupted. For the first time Ethan saw the man’s composure falter. His pale eyes went icy.
“Oh. Of course.” Francesca stumbled over the words, her face flushing with embarrassment. Ethan felt her hands tremble before she regained control of them. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
Roxbury made a cutting gesture. “Think nothing of it.” He shook his head at her, appearing disgusted. “You’ve always been one to—” With a grunt and a glance at Ethan, he shut his mouth, apparently thinking better of the criticism on his tongue.
Ethan wished the man had said it. He needed only half a reason to blacken both of those pale, water-colored eyes.
“My personal affairs are secure,” Roxbury said with a quick glance at Ethan. “Thank you for inquiring.”
There was another awkward silence, which neither Ethan nor Roxbury attempted to alleviate. Ethan stood stonily, Francesca’s hands in his, watching the earl transfer the half-eaten tart from one gloved hand to the other.
“And, forgive me for not knowing”—once again, Francesca broke the taut silence—“everything has been such a whirlwind of activity. Are you staying at Tanglewilde tonight?”
Ethan tensed, not having considered the possibility. Tanglewilde was not a large estate, but many of the guests had been given rooms for the evening. There was no way in Hell he’d allow Roxbury to sleep under the same roof as Francesca, this night or any.
Roxbury gave her a small, condescending smile. “No. I’m staying at the inn in that—er—rustic little village nearby.”
Ethan felt some of the tightness in Francesca’s hands ease. “And will you be in Hampshire long, or do you return to Surrey tomorrow?”
Roxbury set the chocolate tart down, rubbing his black-gloved fingers together to dislodge the nonexistent crumbs. He’d taken no more than two small bites, obviously not fond of the dessert. “I start for London in the morning. I have business in Town.”
“Then we won’t be seeing you again after tonight.” Ethan made no attempt to disguise the warning in his tone. He wanted Roxbury in no doubt that further contact with Francesca would not be allowed.
Francesca squeezed Ethan’s hand, silently urging him to be cordial.
“What Lord Winterbourne means to say is we wish you a safe journey,” Francesca said.
Roxbury looked amused. “I’m sure.” Roxbury’s perceptive gaze met Ethan’s. Ethan stared right back. “Once again, my congratulations.” Roxbury bowed and strolled out of the room.
“Actually”—Ethan lifted his champagne glass from the table and turned his gaze on Francesca—“that wasn’t what I meant.”
Francesca scowled at him. “You have to at least try to be civil.”
“Civil?” He offered her the plate again, and she took a sugarplum from it. “The devil take civility. That was civil.”
She shook her head and popped the sugarplum into her mouth. “Perhaps for you it was.”
He watched her, wondering what she had seen in Roxbury. Now that Ethan had seen them together, he was certain he’d been right in assuming there was more to their relationship than she would admit. But now was not the time to quiz her about the more personal aspects.
That didn’t mean he couldn’t inquire about more general matters. “What was that about Roxbury’s estate being mortgaged? You’ve mentioned it before.” He offered her the plate again.
Francesca nodded, swallowing her sugarplum. “Fountainview, Roxbury’s estate in Surrey, is heavily mortgaged. It’s been poorly managed for two or three generations.” She reached for a square of cake.
The history was beginning to sound familiar. Roxbury’s father and grandfather had both been profligate gamblers and had wasted the family fortune, leaving the current earl with almost nothing. Unless Roxbury married well or was heir to some vast fortune no one was aware of, the earl would lose the estate. Or perhaps he already had.
“You heard that he lost the estate?” Ethan asked.
She shook her head, licking a crumb of the cake from her lower lip. “No. I suppose I just assumed.” She darted a glance at Ethan. “I know I shouldn’t do that, but bad habits are hard to break.”
“Damn it, Francesca.” Ethan wanted to shake her. Maybe if he rattled her brain enough, she would realize how exceptional she was, wouldn’t allow a man like Roxbury to cut her down.
Her eyes had widened at his words, and she was staring at him. He reached out and rubbed the bare skin of her arm where her gloves ended.
“You don’t have any bad habits,” he said, lowering his voice. He grinned, trying to lighten her mood again. “Not compared to me, that is.”
She gave him a weak smile.
“You’re an intelligent woman,” he went on. “Why did you assume Roxbury lost Fountainview?”
She looked down, dug her slippered toe into the plush rug.
“I supposed I didn’t see how Roxbury could amass the funds to pay the mortgage. His financial ventures were never very successful. I remember he had business in France on occasion, and with the situation deteriorating so quickly he must have lost money.” She glanced up at him, then back at the rich gold carpet. “And then after I—I mean, we—”
Ethan raised an eyebrow at her slip, but she didn’t see.
“After we called of the betrothal, he was left with no means to pay his debts on Fountainview.”
“He needed the money from the marriage that badly?” Ethan stated baldly.
She shot him a glance. “He never said so.”
“Then he was not the one who c
alled off the betrothal. You did.”
She set the remaining bite of cake back on the plate and shook her head. “It was a mutual decision.”
Ethan snorted to himself. He did not believe for a moment that Roxbury wanted to end the betrothal with a woman whose father’s fortune, while not vast, was comfortable enough to assure Roxbury of saving his estate in Surrey.
“So, the question is, how has Roxbury managed to keep Fountainview?” He said it more to himself than Francesca, but she answered.
“I supposed he must have found other funds.” Francesca picked up the last bite of cake and nibbled it. “He is a resourceful man.”
Ethan didn’t doubt it, but he was curious that she had thought to say so. She reached for a strawberry from the plate next, and he stared as her lips closed around the plump red fruit. And quite suddenly, Ethan no longer wanted to discuss her former betrothed.
“You said something earlier about civility?” he whispered, setting the plate down. “If you want to see civil”—he reached out to wipe a trickle of pink strawberry juice from the corner of her lips—“come outside with me. I’ll show you civil.” He licked the strawberry juice from his finger.
She froze, the large fruit still wedged between her lips. Just looking at her aroused him. What he wouldn’t give to have her alone for ten minutes.
She lowered the strawberry and glanced about the room at the other guests, most of whom, though they were doing their best to appear indifferent, were observing the interplay intently.
“You are very bad,” she said quietly, her expression adorably serious. “Everyone is watching us, and most of them can probably hear us as well.”
He winked. “I love it when you call me bad.”
She sighed, apparently giving up her efforts at reform. “I don’t know why. It’s not a compliment.”
He raised an eyebrow. “We’ll see.”
“Miss Dashing! There you are!”
Francesca turned reluctantly away from him as Peter, red hair flaming under the bright chandeliers, rushed into the room.
“What is it, Peter? Is something wrong?”
“No, miss, but your mother needs to see you right away. Right away!” he stressed, eyes bulging. “Mr. Pitt has arrived, and you must be introduced at once. She said at once, miss.” He nodded vigorously for emphasis.
Ethan sighed. Back to work. Francesca gave him a sympathetic glance, and he motioned for her to follow Peter. On their way through the door, Ethan spotted Alex. His brother leaned against a wall, a lady on either side of him. But though he appeared to be amusing the women, Alex’s attention was elsewhere. His brother’s eyes scanned the room, no doubt searching for anything or anyone unusual—something Ethan realized he should have been doing himself. Alex was turning out to have a talent for spying. Maybe it was time to cut the apron strings and allow him to go to France on his own.
Francesca and Peter turned toward the library and Ethan turned as well. As soon as the meeting with Pitt was over, he intended to follow his brother’s example. He’d already started a mental inventory of the attendees. He gave Alex a last glance, considering when he’d have a moment to speak with his brother, and saw Alex stiffen.
Ethan’s eyes followed Alex’s to rest on Roxbury. Roxbury was smiling and bowing to a petite, dark-haired woman Ethan didn’t know.
Keep watching him, Alex, Ethan thought. His brother could definitely spot the refuse.
Twenty-five
Ethan spun her around, and Francesca laughed—a genuine sound of pleasure and the first time she’d felt any in hours. He was an excellent dancer, a skill, which despite the efforts of some of London’s best caper merchants, she had never quite mastered. But then when she was with Ethan, she forgot all her inadequacies. He, unlike Roxbury, never seemed to notice them. Each time she looked into Ethan’s eyes, she was greeted with the warm amber glow of approval.
He was giving her one of those warm looks at that very moment. Smiling at her, he seemed to enjoy seeing her laugh. She laughed again, a real laugh, not the tinny, false laughs she’d forced all night. His eyes darkened, searing her, and Francesca’s breath caught.
It had been this way all evening. They’d exchange a look, her cheeks would heat, her pulse jump, and the next thing she knew, she’d lost the thread of conversation and had to ask her guest to repeat his or her last statement.
If Ethan’s outward behavior was any indication, no one would question whether Lord Winterbourne was pleased with his choice of brides. Even Francesca found herself forgetting at moments that the engagement wasn’t real, that Ethan didn’t really love her.
Moments like right now. She tried not to think about how much she loved him as he swept her into his arms again in the next figure of the dance. She glanced into his face to see if he was enjoying himself as much as she and caught him staring across the room. She followed his gaze, stiffening as she saw Roxbury standing near the replica of the Sistine Chapel. Roxbury watched them, his face a cold mask. She shivered, thankful for Ethan’s presence beside her. Ethan must have felt her shudder; he turned his attention back to her and gave her a reassuring smile.
Her uneasiness evaporated, but she still felt Roxbury’s hateful gaze on her. She was the center of attention for two men, a rare occurrence, and she couldn’t help but compare them—Roxbury with his cold beauty, icy stare, and cool disdain of all he saw seemed nothing to Ethan’s inviting attractiveness, admiring glances, and natural superiority. Ethan had been right when he’d told her some men hurt others because it made them feel more powerful. Roxbury had belittled her to build his own self-esteem. Ethan needed no such crutch. His innate supremacy was acknowledged by all.
Ethan looked away from her again, and she saw Selbourne had come into the ballroom and was lounging near the Leaning Tower of Pisa. She sensed something pass between the brothers, some silent communication, but when she looked back at Ethan his amber eyes were absorbed with her again. She smiled, but there was no joy in it now.
She was forgetting this ball was only a charade, a game they were all playing to lure her attacker into the open. She wondered if Selbourne had caught the man and if that was the message his look conveyed to Ethan. She trembled when she considered the possibility that the man who had tried to rape her might be in the same room with them this very moment. Then Ethan took her hand in his, warm and strong over hers, and she put her fears aside.
All except one, a niggling fear, eating away at her heart: Ethan would soon be gone.
After the dance, Ethan escorted her to her mother, who immediately tangled her daughter in the web of her latest introductions. Francesca heard him make some excuse about fetching her lemonade, and he was gone.
She watched him cross the room, nodding to several ladies and stopping to chat with various gentlemen as he did so, but he didn’t stop long, and a moment later he exited the ballroom with Selbourne in tow.
“My dear.” The Duchess of Devonshire put her hand on Francesca’s arm. “I do not deny he is handsome, but I am not so ugly as to warrant being completely ignored.”
“Oh!” Francesca was jolted back to her illustrious guests. No doubt the beautiful duchess was not accustomed to being ignored. “I’m terribly sorry, Duchess. What were you saying?”
“Nothing of any consequence, to be sure,” she said, her familiar lisp evident.
Francesca nodded as the duchess went on and tried to appear attentive, but her thoughts were on Ethan and his brother. Had they caught her attacker, or were they meeting to discuss spy secrets? Ethan’s affairs with the Foreign Office were none of her business, but she was intrigued by his espionage work. She wished she knew more about him, wished she could see him in action, see that part of him no one else had. It would be something only she and a handful of others knew, something she could keep and hold close to her heart when he was gone.
“I am pleased to see you have such real affection for your betrothed,” the duchess was saying, and Francesca snapped her eyes back to the distingui
shed woman. As the duchess spoke, she led Francesca away from her mother and the crowd of matrons. Francesca couldn’t have been more thankful. “There are far too many who marry for money or title rather than love.”
Francesca looked quickly into the duchess’s face. Her Grace’s unique living arrangement was common knowledge. For some time Lady Elizabeth Foster, the mistress of the fifth duke of Devonshire, had resided in the Devonshire household. From all appearances, the duchess accepted, even welcomed, her husband’s mistress. Of course, the notorious Duchess of Devonshire was not one to pass judgment. Her own extramarital dalliances were numerous and well-known.
“Do you mind stepping out with me for a bit of fresh air?”
“No, Duchess,” Francesca answered by rote. One did not deny a duchess.
The duchess turned Francesca toward the French doors of the ballroom, now cracked open to alleviate some of the stifling heat from the crowds. “It is lovely to see a couple so obviously enamored of one another. I have watched young Winterbourne for a long time.” They stepped onto the lighted terrace, and the duchess linked her arm with Francesca’s. “And I did not think he would ever fall in love. But it is as plain as the nose on my face that he loves you.” The duchess eyed her shrewdly.
Francesca began to shake her head, to deny it, then remembered that the duchess was saying exactly what they’d wanted everyone to believe. The duchess gave her a knowing smile. “Now, if I do not miss my guess, you came this way to sneak away for a secret rendezvous.” She scooted Francesca toward the pale white steps leading from the terrace to the south lawns.
“Rendezvous, Duchess?”
