by Jade Lee
She was the first to recover, her eyes jumping to another couple strolling in the evening air. It was at that moment he realized they'd been standing stock-still in the middle of the walk, and he quickly guided her back into a leisurely pace away from the other people. He had no wish to share her.
"What do you like to read?" she asked.
They continued to talk, the conversation wandering everywhere with ease. All the while, their steps meandered further away from the party. He kept them to the nicer neighborhoods. He had no intention of falling victim to a footpad. But he was not averse to wandering into the shadows with her either.
"Like you, I have never traveled much outside of London," he commented. "And never to Lincolnshire."
"I should like to see more of the world, but everything I enjoy is in London. Here, there is a lending library, plays and the like to see, and—"
"And you can cook to your heart's content?"
She giggled. "Never that. If I did that, I would never leave the house!"
"Never?" he asked.
"Never."
He nodded, an idea forming in his mind. It was a curse of his, these ideas. Business ideas, investment possibilities, moneymaking schemes. He rarely had the time and never had the resources to put them into effect, but the ideas floated through his head nonetheless. And once there, he couldn't resist pursuing this idea just a little. "I have heard quite a bit about your baking, you know. Even my very prosaic father has mentioned it once or twice."
"Truly?" Her steps stopped, and she turned to face him. The moonlight touched her skin so that she appeared to glow. Alabaster skin, bright mahogany eyes touched with gold, and lips that were flushed a moist red that took a man's mind straight to where it ought not go.
"Truly," he answered, though the word came slowly as he struggled to focus. "According to my father, everyone praises your baking. They say getting your tarts is worth a week's pay."
She giggled, and his groin tightened painfully. "You lie!"
"I do not!" He couldn't stop himself. He had to touch her skin. He had to feel if the flesh was moonlight cool or heated with her blush.
It was warm and alive, and when his thumb brushed across her cheek she gasped. Her eyes went wide, and her lips parted. Her face was tilted up toward him, subconsciously offering him things she ought not.
He swallowed, knowing he was a cad. He knew, too, they had walked far enough that there were no prying eyes to see what he did. And another step would take them into the deep shadows.
He should step away, and yet his thumb would not stop caressing her cheek. And his other hand had slipped around her waist. He had not yet pulled her tight to his body as he was burning to do. But that was mere moments away if he did not stop himself.
"Anthony?" she whispered.
He didn't answer, the roar in his blood too loud for him to think. He loved the sound of his name on her lips. He loved the husky timbre to her voice and the way she was swaying slightly toward him.
He struggled for some semblance of reason. "Your father employs my father," he rasped, speaking to himself more than her.
"They are not here."
No, they certainly weren't. But she was, and with a gentle step, he eased them back into the full shadows.
"We are playing with fire," he murmured, trying to think of all the reasons why this was a very bad idea.
"I don't care."
Neither, apparently, did he, because his mouth descended to hers. He kissed her. He didn't just caress her on the lips, but he teased her mouth open, he thrust his tongue inside her. And when she did not object, he took her deeper into the shadows and began to seduce her in earnest.
Chapter 4
So this is why people kissed. It was wonderful!
Francine had so many thoughts, so many sensations that she couldn't keep track of them all. His lips on hers were only a small part of it. She felt his hand so large and so warm at her waist. His fingers tightened, pulling her closer, and she went willingly.
The hand he had at her cheek had widened until he was cupping her face, his long fingers slipping back into her hair. She winced as he tugged at the pins, drawing back instinctively from his mouth. She regretted that, but then she felt her hair start to tumble down. He was pulling out the pins. Bit by bit, her tight chignon was released, and as each lock dropped free, her soul felt like it was escaping too. Her headache eased as it always did when her hair was released. She exhaled a sigh of relief and then, thank goodness, his lips returned to hers.
She'd always wondered what a man's lips would feel like. Thick? Rough? Until now, she hadn't known. His felt—well, it wasn't really a feel, and that surprised her. It was his taste that was delightful. A little tart, probably from the lemonade they had drunk, and a lot spicy. An altogether different kind of taste, and she stretched for him to explore further. She even dared to push her tongue into his mouth, needing to taste him more.
She heard him groan and felt him drag her harder against him. She knew the scent of his cologne and the hard press of his body below. And she felt that organ of his that she wasn't supposed to know about, but did. It was there too—hard and hot—and she marveled at the feel of it even through the separation of their clothing.
She stretched up, but couldn't go any farther, so she wrapped her arms around his neck and tugged. She felt the stiff resistance of his starched shirt, which made the softness of his hair all the more delightful. And she felt the heat of his mouth on hers, the pounding thrust of his tongue into her, and... and... oh!
His hand had left her hair to trail down her shoulder to her bodice. He was touching her breast, lifting it and squeezing it. No one had ever done such a thing to her before. She hadn't even conceived of it until she felt it. She gasped and drew back, but she was pressed against a wall, and she could not move further away.
And now she didn't want to. Not with the way his thumb rolled over her nipple, sending embers of fire through her body. He had lifted his head, but the moon was behind him. She saw his features as shadows, his eyes as dark wells. She might have been frightened if he hadn't started speaking. That his words were directed at himself more than her didn't bother her. In truth, she felt grateful to hear his inner thoughts.
"I cannot stop. Sweet heaven, you are perfect. So womanly."
Both his hands were on her breasts, her nipples pinched between his thumbs and forefingers. Her head dropped back against the wall, and her legs grew weak. If he hadn't braced her lower body, she would have fallen to the ground.
He leaned forward, and she thought he would kiss her again. But his mouth found her cheek, her jaw, her neck. She felt his tongue swirl over her skin, then the scrape of his teeth as he bit lightly.
She had the irrational thought that he was nibbling on her the same way some people ate tarts. A taste here, a lick there. Never a gobble. At most, a small bite. And each moment relished as if it were the whole pie.
And still his hands were on her breasts, doing such things to them that she grew hot. She wanted to strip off all her clothes, because her blood was on fire. She wanted something more too. She wanted him between her legs as she had heard. She wanted to know what her friends had experienced in their marriage bed. She wanted it as she had never wanted anything before in her life.
It was such a shock, this wanting. This hot, heart-pounding desire. She had never desired anything this sharply before. Quiet longing, silent tears, a whispered wish—certainly. But this was sharp and strong, and it made her heart race.
That terrified her. Not how wonderful it felt, but how strongly she felt it. So she shoved him away. She pushed him with all her strength, and it was enough to rock him back on his heels. It was enough to make him stumble slightly, his hands separating from her body.
She cried out then, alarmed by what she had done. She wanted him back. She wanted him to return again to what he'd been doing, even though she was the one who'd stopped it.
He recovered his balance quickly, but the moment was
broken. His face had turned slightly so she could see the way his eyes widened in horror. She knew he was breathing hard, because she could hear the rasp even over the pounding of her heart. She pressed a hand to her own mouth, feeling that her lips were wet and swollen. A moment later, his gaze went to her hair, and she reached up to touch it.
Sweet heaven, it was tumbling about her shoulders in disarray. Everyone would know what she'd been doing. Then one look at his twisted collar and flushed face, and they would know who she'd been doing it with.
She saw the realization hit him at the same moment. His father worked for her father. Even if they had met at the same party, it didn't matter. She did not socialize with employees or their sons. She certainly didn't do this with them, no matter how wonderful it felt.
"I'm supposed to marry an aristocrat," she blurted. "My father said so when I was six. He has said so nearly every day since."
She watched him swallow and nod, absorbing the information with little more than a flinch.
What had she been thinking, except that she was so lonely and he was so handsome? They had walked together, and their conversation had been so easy. And yes, she had hoped that he would kiss her. What girl didn't want to be kissed by a handsome man in the moonlight? And she had never been kissed before, so she had wanted it with an extra measure of desire.
"You are promised to someone?" he asked, his voice rough.
She shrugged and looked away. She didn't want to think about that. In truth, she had started baking yesterday just to avoid thinking about that. But he touched her chin, drawing her face gently back to him. His expression was serious, and there was no compromise in his gaze.
"Are you promised to someone?" he repeated.
"Papa began negotiations today. I have never met the man. I only know his name."
She felt his hand tremble on her chin, but that was his only reaction. He stood there as if waiting for something. And then suddenly, his hand dropped away.
"Who is he, Francine?"
"Lord Hetherset's son. His first name is Christian."
She saw his gaze drop as he no doubt searched his memory. A moment later, he shook his head. "I don't know anything about him."
"No one knows anything about him. The whole family lives in the country and never comes to town. It's because they are desperately poor. Papa said that was the point. They want Papa's money, and he wants their title. Even better, they never developed the habit of gambling—because they never had the money—and also that Christian likes sweets, so he should be happy to have me as a wife." Her gaze dropped to the ground. "At least that's what Papa says," she mumbled.
"And we all listen to what your papa says," he responded, his voice nearly too quiet to hear.
She waited a long moment, trying to sort through the disarray of her thoughts. But the only thing she could make sense of was the way she was feeling right then. She felt the hard brick at her back and the way the air felt close here without a breeze. She felt her heart slow to a heavy thud even as her blood still seemed to simmer with excitement. And she felt her lips dry and her hair slip forward to cover her face.
"I ought to pin my hair back up," she said. It was easy. All she had to do was scrape it back from her face as hard as she could, then knot it firmly. She did it every morning, and she hated it because it hurt and gave her a headache.
"Yes, you probably should," he said, though she heard a note of regret in his voice. And then he reached out and touched a lock, rubbing it back and forth between his fingers.
He looked like he wanted to say something, but he didn't. In the end, his hand dropped back, and so she went about her task with a sigh. She ran her fingers through her hair to smooth it, then grabbed as much as she could and pulled it backwards as hard as possible. Mama believed that having her hair so tight made her appear less fat. And while she yanked on her hair, he knelt down to find the pins that had dropped to the ground.
All too soon, her hair was back in place, and he was brushing off the dirt from her gown. His movements were rough and efficient as if he had done this before with other girls, and Francine had to fight a surge of alarm. Just how many other girls had he seduced against a wall?
"Don't worry," he said softly. "If need be, we can say that you fell."
She nodded, knowing her friends would more likely believe that she'd fallen than that she'd been indelicate with a gentleman. A moment later he pronounced her appearance acceptable and extended his arm. They started strolling back as if nothing untoward had happened. At least, that's what she hoped they looked like. In truth, her mind was spinning with all her thoughts, which led her to ask him a question when they were still a block away from the party.
"Anthony?" She grimaced and quickly corrected herself. "I mean, Mr. Pierce?"
"I like Anthony," he said. "At least when we are alone."
She did too, and so she smiled and tried again. "Very well, Anthony, will we... I mean, will I see you again?"
He didn't answer for a long moment, and then he sighed. "I am to begin working alongside my father learning what he does. It's valuable experience—and good pay—even if I don't continue on to replace him some day."
She understood what that meant. After all, it was the way of things in business. A son shadowed his father, learning the business from the earliest age. And one day the father retired, and the son stepped in. A seamless transition from generation to generation. She gripped his arm a little tighter as they crossed the street. "So that means I will see you at the house once a week when your father comes to report to mine."
"But it will be hard to speak with one another," he said. "Even harder to..." His voice trailed away but she knew what he was thinking. It would difficult enough just managing a word or two on those Friday afternoons. It would be impossible to speak as girl and her suitor. Her father wouldn't allow any commoner to address her. The fact that Anthony was an employee made the situation infinitely worse.
"But what if you didn't take the job? What if you didn't work for my father?" It was a vain hope. Her father still wouldn't accept him, but she couldn't stop herself from wishing.
"I need the money," he said, his expression like granite. Not a hair out of place. And then suddenly, he broke. His stride hitched and he came to an ungainly stop as he turned to look at her. "All my plans are dependent upon the money. That is the way things work in business," he said, a little too harshly.
"I know," she snapped back. "I learned it at the same time I learned my sums."
He grimaced. "You cannot know what it is like. You are a privileged daughter. You never had to fight for your food or worry over your future."
Her eyebrows shot to the sky. "You think not? You think I don't remember the early years without food on the table? Or perhaps you don't understand what it is like to be sold for a title, wed to a man whose best accomplishment is that he likes sweets!"
"We should not have danced!" he ground out.
"We should not have walked!"
And there, vibrating silently in the air between them was the real thing that they should not have done: they should not have felt for one another. And when they had, they certainly should not have acted upon it.
Francine looked away, feeling sick to her stomach. With a lurch, she realized they were close enough to the party to be overheard by the gentlemen taking a smoke. She had to end this wretched situation now.
Taking a step backwards, she spoke in her most clipped tones. "I am not feeling well. I believe my choice to attend was very ill-advised."
She saw him flinch, then straighten to his full height. His eyebrow lifted, and he executed the barest sketch of a bow. "Good night, Miss Richards. And felicitations on your engagement. I'm sure it will be very... sweet."
* * *
It took about two breaths for Anthony to realize he was an ass. As he watched Francine stalk away, he raked himself over the coals for what he'd said to her.
The minute he'd found out her true identity, he'd known she wasn'
t for him. Employees didn't marry the owner's daughter. Sons of employees didn't dare speak to the daughter. But what had he done? He'd pursued her. He'd taken her outside and tried to seduce her. When she most appropriately stopped him, he acted like a churlish boy with his favorite toy taken away.
Except she wasn't a toy, she was a woman, and she deserved better than him. Some day very soon, she was going to be Lady Hetherset, and he would merely be the man who made sure her father wasn't robbed by his clerks.
He rubbed his hand over his face and tried not to groan. Then he dropped his hand and watched as she made her way indoors. They'd spent only a couple of hours together, but already he could see the tight cast to her shoulders and her slowed, heavy step.
She was hurting. He had hurt her, and he damned himself anew. But what could he do to fix things? Their situation wasn't going to change. She would marry her sweet aristocrat, and he would go back to work. That's what he always did when he was depressed or angry. Whenever he felt useless, he went to work.
He had learned how to keep accounting books from his father. He tried to start work as an adolescent, but Mr. Richards was not a trusting man and he had no interest in hiring a boy to look after sensitive financial information. So Anthony had found other ways to be useful. By the time he turned twenty, he had found half a dozen small businesses that needed help keeping their accounts. They couldn't afford a full time clerk, but they needed someone to keep track of their money in an organized fashion. Someone to show them where they spent too much or too little. Someone who understood numbers. Someone like him.
It took him years to establish himself. As a rule, people had to be convinced they needed help. But in time, it had worked. He had worked. A lot.
Perhaps the independence had gone to his head. Perhaps he had started getting ideas above his station. That's what his father would say, so Anthony resolved not to say anything at all to his father. And truthfully, what was there to say? He'd spent an evening at a party with Miss Richards.
Tomorrow, he would go to work in the usual fashion, apprenticing beneath his father at Mr. Richards's store though he was six and twenty. He would continue to handle his other clients on his off-hours or when he could squeeze in the time. And he would think no more about Miss Francine Richards of the beautiful voice and the alabaster skin.
