by Jade Lee
He rushed forward, framed her face in his hands, and he kissed her. Swift. Deep. And not nearly long enough. Then he forced himself to pull back, inordinately pleased that her face was flushed and her eyes dazed.
"Don't forget the tarts," he whispered.
"I won't."
"Apple tarts are my father's favorite," he said. "But I like cherries."
"Cherry tarts," she said. "I'll remember."
"Remember Mrs. Mortimer—"
"A Lady's Favor. I know. Now go!"
With a last final look, he left.
Chapter 6
"Papa? I brought you some biscuits. They're lemon. Your favorite, right?"
Francine's father looked up and groaned in appreciation. He picked up the treat and bit into it, his eyes dropping to half-mast as he chewed. He was already reaching for his second, when he looked at her.
"Keep this up, and I'll be bigger than you!" he said with hearty good cheer.
She winced, reminded again that she was fat and ugly. But she wasn't going to think about that right now. She had a reason for coming here, and so she set down the plate of sweet biscuits and faced her father squarely. He liked it when she looked him in the eye without flinching.
"Papa," she began, "about Lord Hetherset's son..."
Her father leaned back in his desk chair, his mouth flattening into a grimace of distaste. But he didn't say anything. He preferred to wait for people to finish their thoughts before he told them how much of an idiot they were.
"I don't want to marry someone I've never met. I don't want you to promise me to someone I might not even like."
He nodded, but it was a false agreement. She could see it in his flat mouth and the sad way he looked at her. Then he leaned forward, bracing his forearms on the desk as he looked at her.
"I'm not an artist," he said. "I don't like women's fripperies, and I know nothing about hats."
She nodded, knowing better than to interrupt him now. This was one of his favorite topics: how he became the wealthy man he is today. She had heard it a thousand times before, and now it would be a thousand and one.
"So do you know how I got to be the biggest and wealthiest milliner in London?"
"Yes, Papa," she said, wishing she could stop the rest of the story.
"By knowing what people like. What people buy. And by seeing the truth, even though it's painful."
"Yes, Papa."
"I heard about Gary from my mother. He was living in a back alley, for God's sake. But all the whores went to him for cheap clothes. He had a genius, said my mother, for taking the simplest things and making them beautiful. I sought him out the next day and offered him a job, even though I had nothing after The Bastard cleaned us out."
Papa never referred to his first business partner as anything but The Bastard. Her father, by all accounts, had been quite a talented toymaker. Together, they'd opened a shop, and her father had sunk every penny he had into making and selling toys. Except when the sales didn't come, his partner took all the money in the till and disappeared, leaving Papa behind with a storefront, dwindling merchandise, and no way to pay the bills.
"I knew then," continued her father, "that Gary was the answer to my prayers. And do you know how I knew?"
"Yes, Papa."
"I knew because I see things clearly, my girl. I saw that Gary had a gift even though he was squatting in a back alley and smelled like a dead dog. And I saw that we were in a bad way after The Bastard cheated us. I could have buried my head in the sand. Lots of men would, you know. I could have pretended The Bastard would come back, and we would recover. But I saw the truth, my girl. I saw that my partner had stolen everything, so I started over. I burned all those stupid toys and set up the store to sell hats. Gary's hats. And now here we are today. I am the richest, best milliner in London. In all of England!"
"Because you saw the truth clearly, Papa. You are very smart that way."
He nodded, his chin bobbing up and down, but his eyes were very steady on her. Francine took a breath, bracing herself internally. Now was the point of his story. Now was the part she wasn't going to like.
"I've got a clear head, my girl, free of sentiment. And the sad truth, Francine, is that you're not pretty enough to get married in the usual way. Your mother has dressed you as best she can. She tries to hide your weight, show off your pretty skin, but you'd have to be a beauty to catch an aristocrat, and you just ain't a beauty."
Francine looked at the floor. Her father hated tears, so she blinked them back. He was speaking kindly, his voice gentle, but she knew he was right. She was fat and ugly, and her big dowry couldn't make up for that.
"I gave you a good chance. You're my daughter, and I wanted you to have a chance at snagging a lord on your own. But you're six and twenty now. You're on the shelf, Francine, and you're out of time. That's not a pretty thing to say to a woman, but it's the truth and you know it."
She couldn't respond. He was right. All of her friends from school were married and had children. And even their younger sisters and brothers were at least engaged. Everyone had moved on except her. Because she couldn't find a husband.
"So looking at the truth, we know that you have to get a husband in a different way. I've thought about this long and hard, and I've looked into Hetherset's son. I won't lie to you girl. He's a bit of a lackwit, but he's amiable enough, won't give you any trouble, and best of all, he's Hetherset's heir. He'll be a lord someday and eventually, so will his son. My grandson."
She heard him move from around his desk. She could see his heavy boots stepping across the carpet until he stopped right in front of her. Then she felt his finger on her chin, firmly lifting her face up to his.
"You want a husband, don't you? You want to be a lady, and you want your son to be a lord some day too." He stated it as if it was a foregone conclusion, but for the first time in her life she dared to question him. She lifted her chin off his finger and met his gaze directly.
"What if I don't want to be a lady, Papa? What if I want to marry a regular mister?"
He exhaled on a huff of disgust as he dropped backwards to sit on the edge of his desk. "A regular mister? What a failure that would be! With my money, you should be able to marry up. My grandson will be a lord! No, no, my girl, a regular mister isn't good enough."
He stood up and moved back around his desk. In his mind, the conversation was already over.
"Now go on," he said as he reached for another biscuit. "Stop eating all these wonderful treats you make. Your mother tells me you've got some bee in your bonnet about a new dressmaker."
Francine nodded, preparing to fight her father about her choice. She'd had to go to war with her mother for an entire day before Mama had grudgingly agreed to let her try A Lady's Favor. But then her father surprised her by flashing a vague smile.
"That'll be nice, right? But even if it isn't, don't you worry. I've got everything settled right and tight. You'll be married and a proper lady as soon as the mail delivers the papers."
Normally she would have walked out right then. She'd obviously been dismissed, and she knew from experience that her father had already made up his mind. But then she thought about Anthony. She thought about his kisses and the way he smiled at her—as if she was the most beautiful woman in the world when she knew she wasn't. If her father went through with his plan, she'd never see Anthony again. Never feel his arms wrap around her as if she were the most important person in the world.
The feelings started to well up in her. An ache right beneath her stomach that grew until she felt choked by it. Her eyes burned and her toes even cramped from where she was digging into the floorboards through her slippers. She couldn't let him do this to her. Once Papa's word was given, he never went back on it. But the idea that she'd never see Anthony again had her slamming her fists on his desk, one word exploding out of her.
"No!"
Her father reared back in shock. "What did you say?"
"I said I don't want to marry Lord Het
herset's son. Don't do it, Papa. I won't marry him."
Far from the tirade she was braced for, her father actually smiled. It was a cold smile, one she'd rarely seen before. And it chilled her to the bone for its total lack of feeling. "It's already done, Francine. The papers have already been sent."
"No!"
"Yes. Now go. If you're frightened of marriage, then go talk to your mother. She can ease your fears."
"But I don't want Lord Hetherset's son!"
"And I didn't want to make hats either. But look where we are now."
"But—"
"Out, Francine. I have already spent too much time on your future. We're expanding, you know. Buying up that shoe store next door."
"Papa!"
"Go now!"
And that was it. His face was flushed, his eyes narrowed, and his hands had clenched into fists. If she persisted, he was fully capable of picking her up and throwing her into her bedroom. That's what he'd done when she was younger. And if not that, then he had the key to her bedroom. He would lock her in on bread and water. The last time he'd done it, she'd sat in there for two weeks.
She couldn't risk that. Not if she wanted to see Anthony. Not if she wanted to bake him cherry tarts and try out his new dressmaker. Not if she wanted any of the things that were important to her.
So she left. She knew when it was best to retreat to find a new strategy. She didn't know what she'd do, but by God, she would not marry some lackwit aristocrat just for a title. In fact, she would damn well never marry someone she didn't choose! And as she sat in her bedroom with Ginger, her little kitten, curled up in her lap, the spark of stubbornness inside her grew to a brilliant fire. She thought of Anthony, she thought of everything she'd once wanted for herself. And she thought about something very odd: the day her father had hired Gary, the brilliant hatmaker.
No one in the house spoke of it. She was so young, they probably thought she didn't remember it, but she did. She remembered that her father had burned all the toys he'd been making. That the fire had burned so hot she had to hide behind a doorway because of the heat. And she remembered how her father had cried. He'd collapsed onto the floor and sobbed like a child.
The heartbreak in every wrenching sob caught her even now, choking off her breath with the pain of it all. That could be her too, she knew, on the day she married Christian, the lackwit, impoverished, future Lord Hetherset. But that would never happen. Because no matter what she had to do, she would never sit in front of a fire while the future she wanted burned to ashes.
Chapter 7
Anthony could not sit still. Over the last three weeks, he'd managed to sneak time to see Francine about a dozen times. He'd been persistent, as had she. But the amount of effort it took to create moments together—away from both their parents—was exhausting. He at least had some freedom, though less and less now that he was apprenticing with his father. But she had to feign illnesses from parties and slip out early. She had bribed her maid to help her sneak out of the house before the sun, just so they could whisper together at the park.
It was maddening, and he was rapidly losing his mind. Or perhaps it wasn't the secrecy that was making him twitchy. Perhaps it was the fact that she was the most amazing woman. Once she was away from everyone else, she laughed with a carefree abandon that was noticeably absent at her home.
They talked about everyone and everything. They whispered confidences to each other and shared dreams. Well, his dreams. She was completely silent on her own, except for the desire to have children one day. And to bake more. She liked to bake and, in fact, had brought him a different sweet every time they met. The depth of her ability with food was astounding.
So astounding that he did something behind her back. Something that she might or might not appreciate.
He'd meant to tell her his plans last night. He'd crept around to her house well after midnight. They had a signal. She kept her window open, and he tossed a pebble inside. She was downstairs in a flash, meeting him in the dark alley behind her house.
He would have told her then what he'd done. He meant to confess all his plans and his hopes to her. But she had come to him all flushed with happiness. Her eyes had danced, and she'd laughed her throaty laugh. He'd kissed her then, and the next hour was lost.
What they had done was inappropriate, to say the least. But her mouth was on his, and she loved it when he caressed her breasts. The full mounds had delighted him too, and he had pressed her against the wall and ground himself against her while their mouths fused. Just thinking about it made him harder than a rock, his entire body aching with hunger.
She had wanted to do more. He had wanted it with a desperation that nearly drove him insane. But he couldn't do it. He couldn't lift her skirts in the alley as if she were a common tart. He couldn't shame her that way. So he'd backed away. He'd forced himself to send her back to her bedroom, though every cell in his body strained for her.
He forced her to go, and now he was actually twitching with the hunger to see her again. She had her final fitting at A Lady's Favor dress shop today. The timing was awkward, but she had especially arranged it for an afternoon when her mother couldn't attend. He told her he might be able to escape on the pretext of running an errand and taking lunch. He might, if only he got—
"Good God, you're like a nervous cat. What is wrong with you today?" his father cried.
Anthony looked down at the receipts in his lap. Apprentices didn't get the luxury of a desk. He sighed. "I am very behind on my work for the dress shop," he lied. "And Mr. Petham's butchery as well. I need to visit them, and if I wait until night—"
"You will have to choose, Anthony. The pennies you receive from those places are nothing compared to what you can get from Mr. Richards."
Anthony shook his head. "Not now, I can't. Now I am paid an apprentice's wage. I need the extra income from the other shops."
His father snorted. "Why? What need have you of that? You live with me and your mother. I pay for your food—"
"I am a man, father. I cannot forever live at your expense. What if I want to marry? Will my wife move in with you as well?"
His father's eyes narrowed, and his expression turned canny. "You have met her."
Alarm shot through Anthony's spine. His father couldn't possible know. Not about Francine. He would be beside himself with fury. So he pasted on as neutral an expression as he could and looked blandly at his father. "Her whom?"
His father released a sharp bark of laughter. "Don't try to fool me, my boy. You have found her. The woman you intend to marry. I knew it within an hour of first laying eyes on your mother. She was the girl for me. And now you have met the one for you." He leaned forward, his expression eager. "What is her name? Tell me about her! Is she of a good family?"
Anthony swallowed, wondering how he would negotiate this disaster. In the end, he shook his head. "I cannot tell you the details, Father. I... it's too uncertain." That at least was true. "She is of an excellent family, but I'm not sure you will like her."
His father stiffened. "I course I will like the woman you love! You have excellent judgment. Why? Is there something wrong with her?"
Anthony shook his head. "She has an, um, abrasive way about her. But it is only because she has been hurt before. Papa, could you truly trust my judgment and give her a chance?"
His father's expression softened and he pursed his lips. "For you, my boy, I would give a gorgon a chance." He narrowed his eyes. "She is not a thief or any such thing?"
"Definitely not! She just has been unkind at times, and she regrets it terribly now."
"Well, as to that, I've been known to be too gruff as well!" Then he chuckled. "Anthony, I trust you. You've grown into a fine man, and I am sure I will love the woman you choose."
Anthony released a tight breath. One problem solved. Sadly he still had a greater difficulty. "What if her father does not approve of me?"
"Not approve! But you are a catch, my boy! You have excellent prospects, are handsom
e, have no vices, and will come to her with a full salary from Mr. Richards's Millinery."
"Not yet, I won't," he said. "I'm an apprentice."
"You'll get a full salary soon. I swear it. I'll talk to Mr. Richards immediately. Tell him you are thinking of marrying—"
"No!" Anthony cried. Then he took a deep breath at his father's surprised expression. "I want no special favors from Mr. Richards." Well, none except for his daughter's hand in marriage. "I will get my promotion or not as custom dictates."
His father pursed his lips, but in the end he nodded. "Quite honorable of you. Excellent perspective." Then he punctuated the thought by lifting his quill and pointing it directly at his son. "I'm proud of you," he said. Then he returned to work, inscribing something in the endless columns of numbers that were their livelihood.
End of discussion, thought Anthony with a sigh. Then he tried to focus on his work, but it was hard. He was dead tired from too many nights and a few very early mornings. It was hard enough working for Mr. Richards, not to mention doing his own after-hours work. Plus, working without a desk made his shoulders hunch and his back hurt.
And when would he be able to see Francine again? How—
"Oh, bloody hell," his father said with a most unusual curse. "Go. You are getting nothing done here today. Take care of the dress shop and the butchery. And the girl, because I know that is the real reason you cannot focus today."
"Father—"
"But mark my words. You will come back here tomorrow and work doubly hard. Do you understand?"
Anthony nodded, unable to believe his luck. Was his father truly releasing him before midday? "Are you sure, Father?"
"Hush! Go! And I shall tell your mother to start thinking about a wedding."
"No, Father, you can't!"
His father lifted his hands, palms outward. "All right. All right. I won't say a word. Provided you work—"
"Triply hard tomorrow. I swear!" Then while his father was still chuckling, Anthony grabbed his hat and satchel, running out the door without even bothering to don his coat.
