by Jade Lee
Chapter 5
Anthony couldn't stay away. It took him four days to create an excuse to go to the house to see her. Four days spent reliving every second they were together. Four nights aching with a hunger for her that would not leave him. Four eternities of useless longing, when he was not a man who longed for anything. He planned, he plotted, and he worked, but he did not long.
And finally, today, he could see the woman for whom he pined.
His steps were embarrassingly quick as he rushed to the kitchen. He had timed it for the exact same hour of the day that he had seen her before. Except—to his horror—she was not there. Instead, he found a ruddy-faced man with a huge mustache and absolutely no patience for him. Anthony hadn't even crossed the threshold into the kitchen before the man started bellowing at him.
"Who are you? You don't belong here! Get out! Get out!"
He had no choice but to back out of the room, all his questions unanswered. Where was Francine? She couldn't possibly have been married already, could she? Surely she wouldn't have left for Lincolnshire.
Anthony grimaced as he looked about the hallway. He would be spotted in a moment. In a house like this, there were always servants running around. He couldn't very well ask anyone where Francine was—that would betray his interest to everyone in the household, Mr. Richards most especially. Nor could he wander about the house looking for her. What—
He heard it. It wasn't her laugh, but he recognized her voice. Low and sweet, a murmur that tasted like chocolate, though he had no idea how that was possible. He followed it like a man mesmerized.
She was sitting in a back salon. She wore another one of her shapeless gowns, this one with big bows along the bodice and skirt. And she was laughing as the ginger kitten chased a tiny wad of paper across the floor, batting it around with his paws.
She looked sad, he thought. Though she smiled at the kitten's antics, her shoulders were stooped, her body lay slack on the couch, and there was an empty plate beside her. A crumb of something had fallen onto her bodice, and he had the strongest urge to lick it up. Then to lick her up and down.
He was still wrestling with his thoughts when she noticed him. He watched in dismay as her mouth dropped open in shock. Her eyes widened, and her skin flushed pink. He hoped to see joy on her face, and he did—or he thought he did—but a moment later, her eyes shuttered. Her gaze dropped down to her empty plate. And she bit her lip.
"Good afternoon, Miss Richards."
"Good afternoon, Mr. Pierce. Have you come to see my father? He's in his office. That's at the front of the house."
He nodded stupidly, because indeed he was there to see her father. That was the excuse, at least. But instead of leaving, he stepped further into her salon. It took him two tries before he could speak clearly.
"I—I wish to apologize," he said. "The way I behaved—"
She held up her hand, her eyes closing as if she couldn't bear to even look at him. "I have no idea what you are talking about. We have never met before, beyond a simple conversation about my ruined tarts. Why would you need to apologize about that?"
He swallowed, the message clear. She wanted to act as if the events at the party had never happened. As if they had never discussed books or danced or kissed. And the pain of that thought startled him.
Still, she had the right of it. It was best if that whole evening was forgotten. So he forced himself to give her a stiff bow before turning away. But he couldn't manage to leave. Not yet.
"Why does my father hate you so?" he blurted.
Her head lifted and her eyebrows shot into her tightly pulled hair. "What?"
He swallowed and forced himself to continue. After all, he had begun the conversation. He could hardly turn away from it now. "I, um, I asked him about you. He is a blunt man, as you may know. His words regarding you were—"
"I can well imagine what they were," she said, her eyes filling with tears.
Anthony wanted to reach for her, but he held back, unsure what to do. His father had been quite vocal about his opinion. He'd called Francine a spoiled shrew, a termagant who consumes as much as a whale and looks no better. And then he'd added a whole host of other bitter, angry names that were so uncharacteristic that Anthony was taken aback.
Meanwhile, Francine looked down at the floor and surreptitiously wiped away her tears. The kitten had conquered her piece of paper and was now resting in the corner with her "kill," so even that tiny creature provided no distraction.
Anthony stepped forward. "Francine," he said, loving the sound of her name. "What happened? What did he do to you?"
"Do?" Francine cried. "He was nice to me!" She released a short bark of a laugh that was filled with self-condemnation.
Anthony lowered himself to the edge of the settee. She was curled into the side corner of the furniture, her feet tucked in beneath her skirt. That meant he could sit there—close to her knees—and still not touch her. He could be respectful of her status and his lowly position, while still sharing the same space with her. They breathed the same air, he felt the heat of her body close by, and he smelled the sweet lemon and apple scent that seemed to cling to her skin.
He didn't ask for an explanation. First and foremost, it wasn't his right. But second, he had learned that people who needed to speak would eventually answer his questions. He only needed to bide his time and wait. Eventually it worked. She breathed out a sigh that made him ache for the pain in it.
"Have you ever done cruel things and not even known why? When I was a child, I tormented your father. I stole his papers, dented his hat. I even cut up his scarf one winter day when it was especially cold. I wanted to see his nose turn red and run."
Anthony smiled, though he knew he shouldn't. "My father does have a rather large nose."
She glanced up sharply, probably to see if he was making fun of her. He wasn't. And he hoped that she could see the steadiness of his gaze.
"I was cruel to him."
"Why?"
"Because I couldn't be cruel to my own father." She huffed out a breath and her fingers twisted into the fabric of her dress. "It's hard to explain. When I was little, Papa and I used to go everywhere together. He would take me to the millinery. I would play in the ribbons, and I would often eat meals sitting on his lap. But then the business became successful, he got busier, and all of a sudden, I never saw him. Even when he was home, he was closeted in his office. I used to sit in the hallway and wait for hours for him to come out."
"You must have been very lonely."
She was looking at him, but he had the impression that her thoughts were very far away. "Then your father started coming to the house. We would wait in the hallway together. I showed him my drawings. He tweaked my nose and said I was sweet. He even helped me with my sums."
"He does like to teach numbers."
She nodded. "Until the day he stopped."
Anthony frowned. "He stopped?"
She shrugged. "I suppose I was too much work for him. I bothered him too much. I..." She sighed. "He stopped helping me. Papa was making him work harder and harder. Your father didn't have time to talk to me in the hallway. He would sit and sort through papers rather than help me with arithmetic. One day I gave him a picture I'd drawn, and he said it was quite lovely. But then he forgot it. He left it behind on the floor when he went into my father's study." She picked up her plate and used a finger to pick up a crumb and lick it off her finger. He watched, his mind entranced by the sight.
"So he abandoned you. Just like your father, he played with you, then one day just stopped."
She nodded. "I cried for days. I didn't understand why he didn't have time for me."
"So you got angry. That's very understandable. You couldn't act out against your father, but you could strike back at mine."
She grimaced. "I tormented him. Whenever he came to the house, I was ready with a dozen or more evil things to do to him. It's been years since I did anything awful to him, but it doesn't matter. He despises me."<
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Anthony silently cursed his father, damning the man for not understanding a little girl's pain. Instead of trying to be a friend to a lonely child, his father had become yet one more person to toss Francine aside. It broke his heart.
"Do you know my father's greatest failing?"
She didn't answer, her eyes steady on the empty plate. So he leaned forward and gently lifted the thing away. He didn't dare touch her. He didn't have the right. But he could take away the empty plate just as a servant might.
"My father is a simple man," he said. "Direct, honest, and brilliant with accounts. But his personality is somewhat coarse."
She grimaced. "I tortured him. My father's most trusted secretary, and I—"
"He is brilliant, but terrible with people. He has no understanding of why people act as they do."
She frowned, lifting her gaze to his. Finally he could see the dark amber of her eyes. "But you understand?"
"Some, I think. Thanks to my mother. She has taught me a great deal." He wanted so desperately to kiss her. To show her that she was lovable on every level. But that would be going much too far. So instead he spoke, trying to make his words express everything he felt. "None of this was your fault, Francine. You were a child in pain."
"I cut up his scarf, Anthony. Into very little pieces."
He smiled. "Shall I tell you a great secret? He hated that scarf."
"No!" she gasped, her hand pressed to her mouth to cover her giggles.
"Despised it. I'm sure he was grateful that you destroyed it for him."
She shook her head, her expression falling. "He was very angry with me."
"And I believe I am very angry with him for how he treated you." He sighed, then he looked around the room, seeing the lavishness of her life. He looked at the things that surrounded her but could never touch her the way a parent touched a child. How horrible her childhood had been. Certainly she had a wealthy home, but in terms of love, her life had been sadly impoverished. "Who are your friends, Francine? Whenever I see you, you are alone save for that kitten. Even at the party, you sat alone."
She shrugged. "Who would sit with me? Servants shouldn't sit with the mistress. Papa is in his office, and Mama is out calling on her friends."
"She doesn't take you with her?"
Francine shook her head. "She takes me when there is a chance of an eligible gentleman, but mostly she visits her friends and leaves me here."
"And what of your friends? Mrs. Wensley, who hosted the party? School friends?"
"Papa said they were not helping find me an acceptable husband. That if I spent my time with them, I would marry a man like they did."
"Someone not an aristocrat."
She nodded.
Anthony understood. Or at least he guessed. After all, Mr. Richards's tirades were legendary among his employees. The man was anxious to the point of paranoia, undeterred by logic or reason when it came to whatever goal he set. According to Anthony's father, Mr. Richards had started with nothing, but thanks to his shrewd eye and his dogged attention to every detail, his business had grown to be the largest, most successful millinery in London. Everyone bought hats from him. And baubles. And trim. Everyone in London.
What would it be like to be that man's only daughter? After all, the only way Mr. Richards would find a place among the aristocracy would be if she married up. And clearly, that was his plan for her. No doubt, Mr. Richards had been obsessive about every aspect of her life. She was obviously another asset to him, as precious as the famous artisan hatmakers he employed, except he couldn't fire her if she didn't measure up. He would simply become more restrictive, more obsessive about every moment of her day.
"When did he declare that you would marry into the peerage?" What had she said at the party? From the time she was six? "Has he been directing your friends and your life to that one goal for the last twenty years?"
She nodded, and he could tell she understood the direction of his thoughts. "A girl should be a benefit to her parents and her husband," she said, much as a child would recite multiplication tables.
"And has he told you that you are? Does he understand that he has set you an impossible task?"
"It's not impossible!" she said, though the moment the words left her, she appeared to deflate. "At least it wouldn't be impossible if I were prettier. Pretty girls marry up all the time."
"But you are pretty. You are beautiful! The fault is not in you, but in all the rest."
She looked up, her eyes narrowed with suspicion. But he saw hope there, too. Hope that he had an answer for her. Hope that she was not as lost as she seemed to think.
"Why would you tell me this?" she asked, and he heard an echo of her father's suspicion.
He bit his lip. He didn't have an answer for her. In truth, he'd been asking himself the same question, though in a different form. Why could he not leave her alone? Why did he insist on torturing himself when she could never be his?
"Because it is the truth," he finally said. "Because my father probably tortured you as well."
She looked away. "He just reported my actions to my father."
"And then you were punished, weren't you?"
"I deserved it."
"You deserved someone better than my father to teach you sums. You deserved a real father. That's why you tortured my father, isn't it? Because your father spent more time with him than he did with you."
She frowned, obviously thinking back, reviewing in her mind her thoughts and actions. "I..." She bit her lip. "They would work together for hours and hours. I could hear them laughing sometimes. And then when it was done, when Papa came out from his study, he would..."
Anthony felt his gut tighten at the stricken look on her face. How could a father be so cruel? "What, Francine?" He reached out and touched the backs of her hands. They were clenched so tight, he had to try and soothe them somehow.
"Nothing," she whispered. "He would do nothing. He walked on by as if I didn't exist. Day after day after month after year. Even when I tried to speak to him, to show him, to do anything, he just walked by me—unless he remembered something, and then he would speak to your father."
Anthony sighed. It made perfect sense to him. He had no idea whether or not Mr. Richards loved his daughter. He did not know the man well enough. But he did know that the man was not one for tender emotions. And he certainly would not have had time for a little girl with no value to him except in her ability to marry up years later.
He was still thinking about this, desperately trying to find something to say when she shifted her hands. Instead of gripping her own fingers, she touched his, entwining their fingers together. And the heat of their connection nearly made him dizzy.
"What did you mean, it's not my fault?" she asked. "What... why is it an impossible task?"
He didn't speak at first, but the answers rolled by in his mind. It was an impossible task because everyone knew she was a cit trying to marry up. Because she had not the training that aristocratic girls did. And because her clothing was awful, making her appear shabby at best. But rather than address the first two, he took the coward's way out and focused on the easiest to change. "Who has the dressing of you?"
She blinked, startled. "My mother. She has always picked my clothing. She says I have terrible taste."
Anthony grimaced. How could normally intelligent people be so very blind? "I do the books for a shop. It's a small dressmaker's shop, but they are very, very good. The designer's name is Mrs. Mortimer. The shop is A Lady's Favor dress shop."
"Mama says—"
"Listen to me. Your current dresser is more interested in the money your mother spends. When was the last time she contradicted anything your mother suggested?"
"Never. They are always of one mind."
"Mrs. Mortimer will dress you as you should be dressed. Clothed to show your beauty, not hide it."
"But Mama says this is the only way to—"
He shook his head. "Francine, you must stop listening to w
hat your parents say."
She frowned at that. "I'm not sure—"
"I am," he interrupted. "Buy a single dress from Mrs. Mortimer. Maybe two. See if you don't find a difference. Promise me."
"Of course, but—"
Whatever objection she had was drowned out by the sound of the mantel clock striking three. He looked up and cursed, then flushed. He should not have said that word in front of her. "I have to meet with your father. I am already late and—"
"And he hates tardiness," she finished for him. Then she cursed with the exact same word he'd used. He gasped, then was oddly pleased. It took her a moment longer to understand his reaction, to realize what she had said.
"Oh!" she gasped. "I beg—"
"You cannot apologize now! Not after I said the exact same thing and didn't—"
"And you didn't apologize!" she said, finishing his sentence. Then she giggled. It was a sweet chime of sound and he loved it. But then he saw the clock again and had to push to his feet.
"I must go," he said.
"I'll visit Mrs. Mortimer."
"Good—"
"And will I see you there?"
He froze, thinking hard, wondering if he could arrange it. "I spend my days at your father's shop. I only work at A Lady's Favor after hours."
"Oh. But you will be back on Friday, won't you? Back here?"
He nodded." But with my father. And he is very strict."
She nodded. "It doesn't matter. You'll find a way. And... and I shall have apple tarts for you!"
He grinned. "Make plenty for my father. He can't resist your tarts."
She nodded. And then she glanced at the clock. "Go! Go! You cannot afford to anger Papa."
No, he really couldn't. But for a moment longer with her, he would risk it. He glanced behind him. The hallway was clear. If he was going to do it, it needed to be done now.
