by Shana Galen
She looked at Ethan’s steward. He was a good man and was undoubtedly giving her good advice, but she simply didn’t want to wait. Sometimes the benefits outweighed the risks.
She thought of Ethan.
And sometimes they didn’t.
“So, you’ll start tomorrow?” she asked.
“Yes, my lady. First thing—”
A loud yipping interrupted them as Lino, followed by a huffing Pocket, scampered up the path. She bent, scooping her little bundle of energy into her arms.
Lino wriggled happily, stretching his skinny neck to lick her face. Francesca laughed and smiled at Pocket who had finally reached them. “It looks like he eluded you again, Pocket.”
Pocket panted and attempted to catch his breath. “He seems to have an aptitude for escape, my lady,” he wheezed. The valet frowned with obvious disapproval at the dog in her arms.
“And what is he trying to escape this morning?” She scratched Lino’s ear, and the puppy snuggled against her.
“I believe the dog heard one of the footmen mention a”—Pocket glanced at Lino and lowered his voice—“a B-A-T-H, madam.”
“I see.” Francesca nodded soberly. “That would do it. Lino hates ba—water.”
“Yes.” Pocket eyed the dog again. The valet’s puckered lips reflected his opinion of anyone—animal or human—who did not appreciate the merits of a good scrubbing. Then Pocket turned his critical eye on her. “Oh, dear.”
Francesca followed his glance down her mantle and saw the streaks of dirt Lino’s paws had left. She brushed at them futilely while Pocket reached inside his tailcoat.
“Allow me, your ladyship. You will only rub in the dirt.” The valet opened his coat and withdrew two hard brushes from his waistcoat.
“My lady, if there’s nothing else, I believe I will ride over to the Ingletons’ farm,” Brown said.
“Of course, Mr. Brown. Did Mrs. Ingleton have her baby yet?”
The steward shook his head. “No, your ladyship. Mr. Ingleton is quite beside himself with worry.”
“Oh, dear,” Pocket murmured, holding Francesca’s mantle between two fingers. Francesca wasn’t certain if Pocket was lamenting the state of her cloak or Mrs. Ingleton’s difficult pregnancy.
“I’ll call on her myself this afternoon, Mr. Brown.”
“I’m certain the Ingletons would appreciate that, my lady.”
Francesca smiled, but didn’t feel any sense of pleasure. Though she cared about each of Ethan’s tenants, her visits were not from a sense of obligation or duty. She made the rounds of the cottages and small farms daily because the task distracted her from the ever-present thoughts of her absent husband.
Pocket gave her mantle a last sweep with his hard-bristled brush and dropped the garment, tucking his precious instrument back in his waistcoat. Francesca pressed her lips together and swallowed. From the corner of her eye, she saw Pocket’s mouth curve in sympathy.
She didn’t want sympathy, and so she focused on the house in the distance—Ethan’s house—and tried not to contemplate spending years here without him. She’d give him until Christmas, she decided, and if she’d had no word from him by then, she’d begin to make other plans.
Perhaps she’d take a trip to London while her hospital was being built, attend medical seminars and learn new practices to apply in her hospital.
One thing was certain. Though Ethan might have abandoned their new life and his home, she would not do the same. She might be tempted to retreat to Tanglewilde and the comfort of her family, but she knew that would be a mistake. She had to be strong, to make a life for herself—with or without Ethan.
“I can’t thank you enough for coming to visit Mrs. Ingleton and me, my lady.” In the yard outside his small home, Mr. Ingleton helped Francesca mount Thunder. “It means so much to her to have a visitor—and such a distinguished visitor at that.”
Francesca blushed. “Well, perhaps next time, there will be one more Ingleton for me to visit.”
“I sincerely hope so, my lady.” Ingleton threw a worried look at his cottage. “I sincerely hope so.”
Francesca leaned down and patted his shoulder. “Everything will be fine. Look, here comes Mrs. Pateley right now. I’m certain she’ll tell you the same.”
Ingleton turned to watch the midwife’s gig approaching. She waved, and Ingleton and Francesca returned the greeting. “Well, I’ll be off now.” Francesca knew that she’d never make it home if she waited and properly greeted the midwife.
Mrs. Pateley loved to talk. And talk. Her ability to prattle on rivaled on that of her mother, and as she’d had a letter only yesterday from her mother threatening a visit, Francesca was already scheming how to keep the two from meeting.
“But I promised to escort you to the Hall, my lady,” Mr. Ingleton said. He sounded a little hesitant now that he’d seen the midwife.
“Oh, that’s not necessary.” Francesca relieved him easily of the burden. “Thunder will have me back in no time.”
“But his lordship—” Ingleton began.
“Besides, I know you’ll want to hear what Mrs. Pateley has to say. Undoubtedly, Daniel is on his way here right now, and I’ll meet up with him on the road.”
A look of relief flashed across Ingleton’s features, and Francesca felt a pang of longing. His concern for his wife touched her. Anyone could see how much he adored Mrs. Ingleton.
Francesca urged Thunder forward. “Good day, Mr. Ingleton.” She nodded at the midwife as she passed her. In fact, she wasn’t even out of sight of the Ingletons’ cottage before she allowed Thunder his head. The wind slapping against her face freed and invigorated her.
Thunder had flourished here in Yorkshire. When she looked at him now, she could hardly believe he was the same horse from Skerrit’s barn. That skinny, neglected animal had cowered, fearful of the slightest noise or movement. This animal stood straight, ran fast, his chestnut coat gleaming with health.
She laughed, feeling some of her unease leech away. Ethan had forbidden her to leave the grounds of Winterbourne Hall alone, but she had done so today. Daniel, her usual companion on her daily rides or visits, had a habit of being late and she had not felt like waiting. His tardiness wasn’t the footman’s fault. There was so much to be done at the house that really it was ridiculous to take him away from his duties in order to escort her to visit a harmless pregnant woman.
Though she looked for Daniel, she didn’t pass him on the way back to Winterbourne Hall. Francesca told herself it was because she didn’t return by the most direct path. Instead she guided Thunder around the edge of the property until she saw the old Norman castle looming in front of her.
Slowing Thunder, Francesca circled the ruins, trying to imagine how it must have looked when it was first built and what the lives of its inhabitants were like.
She was imagining a fair-haired Saxon maiden peering from one of the towers, searching the moors for her Norman warrior when a shiver of unease crept down her back. Someone was watching her.
She twisted in her saddle, studying the countryside around her but she saw nothing and no one.
She took a deep breath to steady herself. She had no reason to feel anxious.
She heard hoof beats and spotted Daniel. Shaking off her unease, she spurred Thunder forward to meet him.
“I’m so sorry I was late, my lady. The magistrate—”
Panic wrapped tight fingers around her heart and she leaned forward in the saddle. “What’s wrong?”
“Mr. Fletcher and Mr. Gore had it out again. Fletcher is accusing Gore of shooting him in the leg and Gore is claiming self-defense.”
“Oh good Lord.” Francesca shook her head. With Ethan away, her duties at Winterbourne Hall had doubled. At Tanglewilde she knew the tenants, knew everyone’s history and grudges. But everything here was new to her, and she was constantly wondering how best to sort out the chronic problems that arose. For a fleeting instant, she wished Ethan was there to help her.
But he w
asn’t, she told herself firmly, and it was up to her to keep this estate running. After all, Winterbourne Hall was her home now.
She turned Thunder toward home and, with Daniel following, urged the horse forward. She only looked over her shoulder once, suppressing a shiver at the apprehension that wouldn’t quite go away.
Thirty-three
Ethan threaded his hands through her long, thick hair, bent his mouth to hers, and plunged into her sweet, inviting depths. She overwhelmed his senses, and when her body clenched, hot and wet, around him, he lost all coherent thought. In the swirl of sensuality surrounding him, restraint vanished. His willpower had never been any match for the charms of this enchantress.
He gazed down into her face. Though they were cloudy with passion, her dark, misty eyes locked on him. He drove into her again, and her mouth parted, lips forming an O as her body arched to meet his. With a final cry, Ethan took hold of her hips and surged into her, lost in her sleek body, lost in the staggering experience of making love to her.
“Ethan?”
The voice came from far away. He tried to ignore it.
“Ethan.” It was more insistent now.
Ethan gritted his teeth and tried to focus on the memory. The silky skin at the curve of Francesca’s thigh had felt so real this time. Even better, he was certain he’d recalled the exact shade of her cocoa eyes.
“Ethan!” There was the sound of a fist making contact with a table and Ethan opened his eyes. Alex’s steely gray gaze, not Francesca’s warm brown one, was fixed on him.
“What?” Ethan sat back in his chair, crossed his arms, and scowled at his brother.
“Are you even listening? I’m trying to fill you in on my meeting with Camille Villiers.”
Alex spoke in French, and for a moment Ethan felt a vague sense of disorientation. Then it all came back in a rush, and he reached instinctively for his drink. He put the glass to his mouth, an action that had become all too familiar of late, and was surprised when no more than a trickle of brandy teased his tongue.
Swearing under his breath, he motioned to the tavern owner to bring him another. Alex’s lips twisted in disapproval, and Ethan looked away, his eyes scanning the smoky room filled with thieves, whores, and cutthroats. It could have been a replica of a dozen or so taverns in Paris, where it seemed he’d spent the better part of half his life, searching for answers and finding none.
The tavern owner refilled the glass and when he turned to go Ethan put a hand on the beefy man’s arm. “Leave it.” Ethan nodded at the bottle.
When he’d slaked his thirst, or rather renewed the feeling of numbness he now maintained at all costs, he eyed his brother through slitted lids.
“He’s not coming,” he told Alex in French.
“Yes, he is.”
“Well, I’ve had enough.” It was late, and Ethan was tired, impatient, and ready to go. He had a quarter-bottle of brandy left and the means to buy more. That was all he wanted tonight. Anything to wipe away the last vestiges of Francesca from his memory.
It wasn’t working. Paris. Immersing himself in his work. He hadn’t forgotten her as he’d intended. What was worse, she was beginning to affect his performance. Once a man of infinite persistence and determination, Ethan now couldn’t bear to be still. Watching and waiting gave him too much time to think. And his thoughts these days and nights inevitably turned to Francesca.
“Relax. You look anxious,” Alex said in a low voice. He arched his eyebrows at Ethan’s fingers, which were tapping an allegro rhythm on the table.
“I am anxious.” But Ethan ceased the rhythmic drumming. “I don’t trust this Citizen Gagnon.”
“Camille Villiers trusts him. You’ve never doubted her before.”
Alex was right—an annoying habit his brother had picked up of late. Ethan made no response; instead, he surveyed the murky tavern in the heart of France’s Montmartre district for what he guessed was the tenth time. He’d been in France almost three weeks and the man he and Alex were meeting tonight was their best hope for finding the identity of the smuggler’s leader. According to Camille Villiers, a trusted French contact and longtime friend, Gagnon had been part of the smuggling operation. But, for whatever reason, the man had decided the work was too dangerous and bowed out.
Ethan and Alex hoped a few drinks and a little gold would loosen Gagnon’s tongue enough to persuade the man to reveal his former employer’s identity. But they’d waited for at least an hour, and Gagnon had yet to make an appearance.
Ethan frowned at his glass. It was almost empty again. He fumbled for the bottle of brandy and poured, misjudging the distance so that a good quantity of the alcohol sloshed over the side.
Alex slanted him a dark look. “How many is that tonight?”
Ethan bent to slurp the brandy so it wouldn’t spill when he lifted the glass. If only Pocket could see him now, he thought bitterly. His cravat dangled in the brandy pooling on the table, and he knew he looked drunk and disheveled. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d bathed or had a decent meal.
And he didn’t care. He wanted numbness. “It’s none of your concern, Alex.”
“Will it be my concern if you fall over on the Boulevard de Rochechouart and I have to carry you back to the hotel?”
Ethan glared at him. “I’m fine.”
Alex shrugged his shoulders and mumbled something that sounded like, “If you say so.”
But he wasn’t fine. He hadn’t been fine since the night of the Nitterlings’ ball, and Ethan didn’t think he’d ever be fine again. He took another sip. This was why he hadn’t wanted to get involved with Francesca. From the start, he knew she’d bring him nothing but grief.
The devil take him, he was even lying to himself now. He lifted the glass to his mouth again and then, without drinking, abruptly set it down. The brandy made it easy to lie. To tell himself Francesca had been at fault, that she was responsible for the pain he felt now. But he knew it was a lie. If he was honest with himself, a rare occurrence these past few weeks, he could admit that he had not really tried to avoid involvement with Francesca. In fact, from the moment he’d seen her outside Skerrit’s barn, he’d looked for an opportunity to be with her again. He’d seduced her. He’d insisted on marriage. She’d never pressed him, never pushed him—except to confide in her, to trust her.
And he hadn’t been able to do it.
She wasn’t Victoria. When he opened the door at Bellerive and saw her and Nitterling’s son together, he’d seen Victoria, not Francesca.
It was impossible that Francesca would betray him. She’d loved him even when he hadn’t known she existed—even after he’d humiliated her in front of the ton by abandoning her publicly in Lord Harcourt’s ballroom. And she’d always believed in him, defended him when she had every reason not to. She’d seen the evidence of his so-called revenge on George Leigh for herself, but she’d never doubted there was more to the story, and accepted his explanation unconditionally.
No, it was his own fears, his own unwillingness to expose himself to vulnerability that caused him pain and drove him to escape their growing intimacy.
But it was too late for escape. He’d fallen in love with her, and it scared the hell out of him. He’d loved once before and had been hurt, and he loved Francesca more deeply, more completely, than he’d ever loved Victoria. How much more deeply and completely could Francesca hurt him then?
He shook his head, pushing the glass out of reach. It was no use. He loved her. He loved her whether he was drunk or sober, in England or France, no matter if she was wrapped in his arms or glaring at him, hands fisted on her hips. And he wanted to tell her, wanted to start over, make everything right between them, learn to trust her, even as he taught her to trust him.
And he wanted to start now. He wanted to be with her this very moment. It was almost Christmas—if he left tonight, he could be at Winterbourne Hall for Christmas Eve.
A woman’s shriek and a man’s lewd bellow caught Ethan’s attention,
and he glanced around the grimy tavern again. Suddenly France, once his escape, had become his prison.
“I think you should leave France,” Alex said
Ethan’s head snapped up. “What?”
Alex nodded, raking his gaze over his brother, reminding Ethan of his unkempt appearance. “You need to go home. To Winterbourne Hall.”
“I know—” Ethan began.
Alex held up a hand to ward off Ethan’s expected protests. “You’re becoming a liability, Ethan. It’s only a matter of time until you make a mistake that could bring us all down.”
Ethan opened his mouth to agree, but Alex went on, “Don’t argue with me, Ethan. There’s something between you and Francesca.” Alex’s tone was a mixture of incredulity and pity.
Ethan smiled. Alex had never been in love, thought it was for fools.
“I love her,” Ethan said, surprised at how easily the words passed from his lips now.
“And if I have to write to Grenville and have him order you—” Alex’s eyebrows shot together and he narrowed his eyes at Ethan. “What did you just say?”
“I said, I love her.”
“You do? I mean, good. Right.”
“I need to be with her.” Ethan reached into his waistcoat for money and stood.
“You’re leaving now?” Alex sounded incredulous.
“Why not?”
“Leaving so soon?” A large man with snow dusting the threadbare coat slung over his arm stood behind Alex. “I was told you wanted to talk.”
Gagnon. One glance at the man and Ethan knew he was the smuggler Camille had told them about. He was burly and rough—the kind of man who would take orders, do his job, and not ask questions. Gagnon looked from Ethan to Alex and back again.
Ethan was suddenly as sober as if he’d been hit by a blast from the storm outside. This was the chance he’d been waiting for. He could finish this mission once and for all and make his way home to Francesca. Standing before him was a man who knew the identity of the leader of one of the most successful arms smuggling operations to France—a man purported to be a British citizen and an aristocrat with ties to Parliament, a traitor Ethan would give his right arm to see drawn and quartered as traitors deserved. In a matter of moments, he could know the traitor’s identity—if he played his cards right.
