by Jade Lee
"Yes," he murmured as he pulled out, drawing her moisture up between her thighs to that excruciatingly sensitive place. She looked in the mirror and saw herself, a dusky red with a sheen of moisture. And all the while he kept murmuring into her ear. "Who am I, Francine? Who is your first?"
"Anthony," she moaned, and he swirled his finger around the nub at the top. "Anthony," she moaned again as he pushed his finger back inside her.
His finger was thick, but the slide was so easy.
"Oh," she cried, as he repeated his stroke. Then he pushed two fingers inside.
The blood was roaring in her ears, her heart was pounding, and she could not catch her breath. What was he doing to her? It didn't matter. She wanted it. She wanted him.
Again the stroke, this time the pressure harder. The swirl faster. She was pushing against his hand, and she was clutching the hard muscles of his thighs.
He was the only one supporting her, the only anchor she had in the maelstrom he created inside her.
Something was building, something terrible and wonderful and...
"Francine," he moaned against her. "Give over to me."
She forced her eyes open. She caught his gaze in the mirror. She hadn't the breath to say his name, but she thought it. Over and over, she thought Anthony. Anthony.
His strokes continued. The thrust. The swirl. Higher, tighter. Harder.
Anthony!
Pleasure exploded through her body, a flash fire of power and ecstasy. It flooded every part of her. She burst! She soared! And then, eventually, she floated.
He held her safe the whole time. He supported her, he cradled her, and he even slipped her dress down to cover her knees so that they appeared like two lovers reclining together. Not speaking. Not doing anything scandalous. Just holding one another.
It was the most beautiful sight she had ever seen. And more than that, it was a vision of what she wanted. The two of them, together like this. He was smiling, his expression tender. Her skin was flushed, and she knew she was dazed. But she couldn't look away. Not from the vision in the mirror before them.
She wanted that picture with a fierceness that was so far beyond anything she'd ever desired in her life. It was everything to her. And it burned itself into her memory.
They would be wed. She would find a way. Because suddenly, amazingly, she was a new Francine. Beautiful, confident, and very, very determined.
It was some time later when she could find the breath to speak. And even then, it took her two tries before she could manage the words clearly enough for him to hear.
"Anthony?"
"Hmm?"
"On Thursday I am going to Lady Illston's ball."
His expression shuttered. His eyes seemed to dim, and his mouth flattened. She hated to see it, and so she rushed to say the rest. She told him the location and the time. And then she shifted enough so that she was looking him in the eye—not in the mirror, but face to face.
"I want you to escort me there. I want you there when I wear a new dress. Do you have something you can wear?"
He frowned. "To Lady Illston's ball? I..." He sighed. "I don't know."
"Can you get something in time?"
"They will never let me in."
"Yes, they will," she said firmly. "You are my escort."
He frowned, and she knew he was struggling with the very idea. "How did you get the invitation?"
"She cannot pay her millinery bill this quarter. Papa traded the debt for an invitation."
He grimaced. "He should not do that. It only makes it worse once you are there. Everyone knows how you got the invitation. That must feel awful."
She smiled, her heart melting at his words. He understood. She didn't even have to explain, and he knew what it was like. Her father had refused to believe that she hated it when he bartered for her invitations, but Anthony understood.
"I want you to come as my escort," she said firmly. "I want you to be there when..." She smoothed a hand down her slightly rumpled skirt. "When I feel beautiful."
"But you are beautiful." He flashed her a grin. "I've never seen you look more beautiful than you did a moment ago."
She felt her face heat, and her words slipped out on a sigh. "It is you, Anthony. You bring it out in me."
He touched her cheek, pulling her face to his for a tender kiss. And when he was done, he looked her in the eyes. "It is you," he whispered.
"Escort me on Thursday. Please."
He gave her a rueful smile. "I can't deny you anything."
"You will do it?"
"I'll find a way."
"Thank you."
He didn't answer with words, but she felt his kiss down to her toes. And then, when he pulled back, she smiled. And she started to plan.
Chapter 10
This was a bad idea. Anthony fidgeted with his best cravat, knowing even his best was far below what anyone else at the ball would be wearing. But he had promised, so here he was, standing outside Lord and Lady Illston's home trying to appear completely casual as he waited for Francine's coach to appear. It was a lie. He was far from casual. The knot in his stomach and his cold, clammy hands told him as much.
What had he been thinking to agree to this? No servant worth his salt would allow Anthony to enter. But then, Anthony hadn't been thinking at the time, had he? He'd been too busy seducing Francine. His hands had smelled of her sweetness, his body had been throbbing with hunger, and in such a state, there had been no room for logical thought.
Bloody hell.
He was half a breath away from leaving when he saw her carriage. Though it had no crest, it was nevertheless distinctive by its shiny perfection and the excess of footmen. He knew from his talks with Francine that she hated the ostentatious display, but her father insisted. Thought it would increase her chances on the marriage mart. And in truth, it probably did. It proclaimed to everyone that Francine was a wealthy girl. Too bad Anthony was not a man who could marry a wealthy girl.
It took a terribly long time for the carriage to wend its way along the street to the place where she could get out. Half the ton was here tonight, and the streets were clogged with all manner of equipage. And all the while, he kept thinking that this was a very bad idea. He ought to leave immediately. But he couldn't abandon her here, so he waited and tried to calm his racing heart.
Finally the moment arrived. Feeling a sudden inspired rush of gallantry, he dashed forward, circumvented a footman, and opened the carriage door for her. Her mother stepped out first, her narrow face looking surprisingly pretty. All in all, the woman was rather severe, with dark hair pulled back into a bun and an equally restrictive dress, though at least the fabric was of a light color. She wore a soft pink that looked very strange on an older woman. She stepped out, not even noticing he was there and not the footman.
Next came Francine. Her gown was a rich velvet that showed off her curves to perfection. The gown was a dark russet, a shade or so darker than her hair. That meant that when the moonlight touched her tumble of curls, she shone like a bright copper penny. And when she straightened out of the carriage, her skin glowed. She was so beautiful, his breath stopped in his throat. But that was the only part of him that was frozen. Lower down, he swelled to painful size. It would have happened from just the sight of her luscious curves, but add in the memory of what they had done not two days before? He could barely stand for the hunger.
She turned and saw him, her mouth opening in a gasp of surprise. He stepped closer, needing to draw her into his arms. He saw an answering welcome in her eyes, but that was the moment her mother finally noticed him.
"Who are you, young man? What are you doing here?"
Both of them startled, and Anthony was stupid enough to jump slightly backwards. If that wasn't an admission of guilt, he didn't know what else would be. And sure enough, Francine's mother proved she was no fool. Her eyes narrowed and she drew herself up tall, then spoke in freezing accents.
"You do not belong here."
True
r words were never spoken, but Francine stepped forward.
"I asked him here, Mama. To serve as my escort."
"What?"
"It's all very proper. Many ladies are escorted by gentlemen. And you are here—"
"It's nothing of the sort," her mother hissed as she stepped right up to her daughter. "I do not know this man."
Francine didn't even blink. "Then let me introduce you, Mama. This is Mr. Anthony Pierce. Mr. Pierce, this is my mother, Mrs. Richards."
Anthony gave her a deep, respectful bow that did nothing to ease the frown on the woman's face.
"Pierce. How do I know that name?"
No use hiding the truth. He straightened and spoke as if he were a duke, letting her know that he wasn't ashamed of his heritage. "My father is Mr. Elliot Pierce. He is your husband's—"
"That clerk!"
Anthony felt his skin flush. To call his father a clerk was like calling the Prince Regent that fat gentleman who sits in a big chair. "He functions as chief accountant for your husband and principal secretary," he said stiffly. "He is responsible for all your husband's accounts in—"
"Mama! You know very well who Mr. Pierce is. And who Anthony is." Francine stepped forward, crowding her mother. "I have asked him to be our escort. I want him here."
Her mother's face flashed panic for a moment as she looked around. "Keep your voice down."
Anthony looked around too. They were drawing attention, but he didn't think it was because of their conversation which had been fairly quiet. The looks centered on Francine who shone in the moonlight like the beauty she was. If people were used to seeing her in her sack-like monstrosities, this Francine would be quite a shock.
Meanwhile, Francine smiled with a fierce intensity that made her seem like a warrior in a beautiful gown. "I want him here tonight," she stated with clipped accents.
"Francine—" her mother began, but it was Anthony who touched her arm.
"Why?"
She blinked, but didn't answer, so he repeated it more forcefully.
"Why do you need me here, Francine? You will do better to catch a husband without an escort. I can only reflect poorly on you. Parentage means everything to these people. They will know that I am not worthy of you."
"Don't say that!" she cried loud enough to draw attention. Fortunately, she knew it and quickly modulated her tone. "You are worthy of me! And as for attracting a husband, my father has already selected that lackwit up north, so it hardly matters."
"But—"
"I want you here for me, Anthony. Just once I want to attend a ball and feel beautiful. In my new clothes with you by my side, it will be as a ball ought to be! It will be... fun." The last word was spoken on a depressed sigh.
And in that one word, he saw what she hadn't said. He knew that her dances up to this point had been torture. She had looked and felt ugly. She'd been invited only because her father had forced the invitation, and everyone knew it. She was likely laughed at and ignored at every turn.
"But you are beautiful," he said. "Even without the dress."
Her mother flashed him a dark look, and too late he realized how intimate his words were. In fact, his words might have suggested he'd seen her naked. But before he could correct himself, Francine took his arm in a firm grip.
"I am beautiful, because I have a handsome man on my arm. I have a loving parent watching over everything so it is all proper. And I am going to dance and enjoy this evening before everything changes."
As she spoke, she stepped them forward into line. Anthony followed because he would never abandon her to face the peerage alone. Not when she expressly wanted him there. And her mother followed behind, as a good chaperone did. But she had an odd expression on her face—part shock, part pride.
"You have never spoken that way to your mother before, have you?" Anthony asked in an undertone.
Looking down, he could see Francine bite her lower lip. "I... I have lately decided that I should take more control over my life. You should have seen Mama's face when I put on this dress. Even she couldn't deny that I was right to insist on the new dressmaker. Or rather, you were right."
"I'm pleased that Mrs. Mortimer has done such a good job," he said softly. "But your mother cares deeply for you. You shouldn't—"
Francine twisted to look at her mother. "Mama, you understand, don't you? I want this one night. Just one night."
Her mother's face softened. She reached forward to touch her daughter's arm. "I understand," she said. "Now, head high. We're nearing the front."
"Yes, Mama."
Then as a unit, they entered the lion's den.
* * *
Usually Francine hated balls. She always sat in the corner feeling miserable. Someone always said something cutting. And no one ever asked her to dance. Usually. But tonight, she had a lot of desperate hopes. Was her new clothing enough to make a difference? Would she finally be asked to dance? What would happen? She clutched Anthony's arm and tried to contain the bouncing, churning, tormenting excitement within her.
Then it began. It turned out everything was different. Everything.
People noticed the change in her clothing immediately. Everywhere she looked, it felt like someone was pointing to her, and lots of someones were whispering about it. She tried to imagine that they were saying nice things. "Oh my, how lovely she looks. What a difference!" She tried to imagine it, but it didn't fit with how they looked at her.
The women sneered, and not just a curl-of-the-lip sneer. They practically choked on their disgust of her. Before, they'd mostly just ignored her. She'd been no more relevant than a potted plant. It turned out that being noticed and sneered at was much worse than being ignored. But that wasn't the most horrible thing.
What really made her panic was the way the men looked at her. It started out with quizzing glasses lifted not toward her face but toward her bodice. Then came the sardonic curl of their lips accompanied by a lascivious wink. For the first time ever, there were gentlemen who strolled over to her and asked for a dance. But even she, a hanger-on at the edge of society, knew what kind of men these were. They were not looking for a wife. They wanted a mistress. Or worse, a quick tumble in the garden.
"Do not go anywhere private with these men," Anthony said in an undertone.
Francine nodded. "I know," she whispered back.
To the side, her mother was clearly torn. On the one hand, she was clearly bursting with joy at how popular Francine suddenly was. And when she overheard a snippy comment from one of the ladies, she squeezed her daughter's arms and whispered, "They're just jealous."
They were more than jealous, Francine thought. They were threatened by the sudden stir she was making. It didn't matter that the stir came from all the wrong sort of gentlemen. She was getting attention, and the women were angry about it. But then she'd already learned that the women of the ton would never be her friends.
She never would have managed if it weren't for Anthony. He was there beside her, shooting her a smile when she most needed it or stepping in to defend her when some gentlemen began to leer at little too obviously. He did not push himself forward, which both surprised and frustrated her. She wanted to him ask her to dance, but he remained stubbornly in the background, keeping a careful eye on every man and woman nearby. Then she chanced to catch his expression. Not the one he directed at her, but outward at the glittering ton.
He was furious. When he looked at her, he maintained a slightly awkward urbanity. Just a pleasant gentleman who whispered that she was beautiful every time he had the opportunity. But then he would look out at the crowd, and his smile would falter. Before long, he would be glaring at the girl who said "tart" a little too loudly. The tipsy gentlemen got glares. The lecherous ones found a firm wall of Anthony standing right before them, which was funny because he wasn't a large man. Tall, yes, but not so broad, and certainly not excessively muscular.
But that was because she was used to seeing him among laborers and footmen who lifted and carri
ed for their living. Here among the lazy ton, Anthony was a bulwark of muscle. In fact, he'd never looked more handsome to her than when he grabbed one very drunk man by the wrist, bent it at a dangerous angle, and walked him right out onto the terrace. Francine had no idea what words were exchanged then, but she never saw the man again.
And all that happened before the dancing even began. Once the music started, things got even more complicated. For the first time ever, her dance card was mostly full. "But not quite full," she commented loudly so that Anthony could hear. She was hoping he would ask for a dance, but he remained obstinately in the background. And then the first man came to claim her for the set.
So she joined the set, put her dancing instruction to the test as she'd never managed before, and she didn't even worry about the sweat. She'd confessed her problem to Mrs. Mortimer, and now she had extra padding in certain key places of her dress to absorb the moisture. She even had spare pads in her reticule for later in the evening if needed. She could switch them out in the retiring room.
In truth, the dancing was nice. Even if the women still stared at her coldly, the men were looking at her. She was participating in the evening, whereas before she would have been sitting and staring. But as much fun as dancing was, her partners were highly disappointing. They didn't speak to her unless it was to say something insultingly salacious. Before her time with Anthony, she wouldn't even have understood half of what they said. As it was now, they only gave her ideas of what she wanted to do... with Anthony.
She tried to steer the conversation in other directions. Her mother had drilled her for years on what to say to gentlemen. First she started out with a lie: Oh, you look so handsome in that coat. Then she moved to a question about their interests: Please tell me what you do to keep such a muscular aspect. By the time the first set was done, she'd pulled up every silly question and flattering remark she'd ever thought of. And she'd never hated it more.
She'd never realized before how very stupid all that polite chatter was. She couldn't help comparing it to her conversations with Anthony. The two of them laughed about all manner of things. They'd spoken of their secrets and their hopes. They'd talked seriously about the things in their lives. And they'd talked about nothing at all, and it had all been wonderful. By comparison, these gentlemen were nothing but boors.
