by Sara Bennett
Francesca hurried down the stairs. No doubt everyone else was already gathered in the drawing room, awaiting the call to dinner. She knew she was late, but the unflattering green woolen dress had taken some time to get just right—the enormous charging-boar brooch pinned to her breast was a masterstroke—and then there was her hair, pulled back so tightly into a roll at the back that it looked like a cap. She touched her hand to the austere style, pleased with the result. If Mr. Thorne had ever really desired her, he would be cured now.
With a little smile of triumph, and some anticipation, she made her way toward the drawing room door.
“Miss Greentree?”
Startled, Francesca stopped and turned. Sebastian Thorne was standing there, staring at her as if he wasn’t at all certain who she was.
“Hell and damnation! It is you…” A frown drew down his heavy brows as he strode toward her, and then around her, circling her with all the caution of a gunner facing an unexploded cannonball.
Calmly Francesca stood with her hands folded at her waist. “Mr. Thorne.”
He was still pale, with a dark bruise to add to the scratch on his jaw, but otherwise he was smoothly shaven, and his hair was combed back from his brow and clubbed at his nape. They’d found him some borrowed clothes, and by their old-fashioned cut and style, Francesca suspected that they must once have belonged to Sir Henry Greentree. But they fit him, more or less, even if they gave him a slightly disreputable air.
“What in God’s name are you wearing?” he said, still clearly in shock. “Did you pay a visit to the church jumble sale? Or was it the ragbag?”
Francesca achieved an outraged expression. “I beg your pardon?”
“What is this?” He brushed her sleeve with his fingers. “And this?” He pointed at her hair. “You’ve turned yourself into someone else.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said primly. “This is my usual mode of dress.”
He put his hands on his hips and glared at her. “You’re a beautiful woman, Miss Greentree, but you’ve managed to make yourself almost ugly.” He began to prowl around her. “This must have taken quite a bit of achieving. Congratulations!” He moved closer, and she felt his warm breath on her cheek. “But if it was done for my benefit, then you needn’t have bothered.”
“Your benefit?” she retorted, arching her brows.
He was going to tell her he didn’t want her. Perhaps all this hard work had been for nothing? What a relief! Then why did she feel so unaccountably depressed at the prospect of not having to fight him off after all?
“I.” He reached out, and digging his fingers into the thick roll of hair at her nape, he dismantled it. “Know.” Her thick, curling tresses sprang free and tumbled down, like a dark cloud, about her face. “The truth.” He smiled at the effect he had created. “You want me as much as I want you. But you’re afraid to admit it. You’re afraid to be yourself!”
“You are deluded,” she gasped, reaching up with both hands to gather up her curls again. “What would you have me be?”
“The woman I saw on the moors.”
She wouldn’t look directly at him; she couldn’t. With shaking fingers, she refastened her hair, but it wasn’t the same. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes glittered, but she couldn’t help that, even though he was smiling at her with his villain’s smile, as if he was more than pleased with what he’d done.
“I’d remove that ugly dress, too, if this spot wasn’t so public,” he murmured.
Startled, she met his eyes. “You would not dare!” she hissed, but even as the words left her lips, she knew they didn’t sound like a reprimand. They sounded like a challenge.
One long finger stroked her cheek. “I would dare anything, Francesca. When you come to know me better, you’ll realize that.”
“I don’t know what you thought you saw on the moors, but you were mistaken.”
That long finger pressed firmly against her lips. “Keep your voice down, my sweet liar. Do you want the entire household to hear? I know what I saw.”
It was a measure of her compliance in his game that she obeyed without giving it a thought. “What did you see?”
“A passionate woman. I want to set her free.”
Francesca stared at him, her heart pounding, wondering wildly how she could escape his pursuit. Casting around, she said the first thing that came into her head. “Well, you can’t. I—I am engaged.”
He went still, eyes searching hers. “You have a fiancé?”
“Yes.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s away.”
Sebastian smiled. “Away where?”
He’d believed her at first but now he was doubting her. She had to convince him. “He’s been asked to help out. A—a tiger has escaped from a traveling circus, and they need someone to shoot it. He’s an excellent shot.”
“I see…”
“My fiancé will shoot you if you don’t stop this…this nonsense. After he’s finished dealing with the lion.”
“I thought it was a tiger.”
“It—it is both. A freak of nature. That’s what makes it so dangerous.”
He allowed his skeptical gaze to run all the way down to her hem and back up again. “Is this how you dress for him? Keeps him at arm’s length, does it? Pretty Polly could teach you a thing or two.”
“Pretty Polly?” she repeated indignantly. “Who is she? Your amour? I gather that she works at the cheaper end of the market.”
He laughed. “You’ve a tongue like a dagger, Francesca, sharp and quick. But I don’t believe you.”
“That Pretty Polly…?”
“Not Polly, damn it! I don’t believe you have a fiancé. You’re like a flower, just waiting for spring to unfurl you.”
“Oh please,” she groaned. “Our groom could write better poetry! My fiancé certainly could. He writes and—and sings, and paints, too.”
He smiled, that seductive villain’s smile that promised her everything that she wanted, and was most afraid of.
At that moment the drawing room door opened and Mr. Jardine stood there, his instinctive smile wavering. “Francesca?”
It occurred to Francesca that all she had to do was tell Mr. Jardine that Mr. Thorne’s behavior was inappropriate and he would be gone within the hour. All her troubles would be over. But the words stuck in her throat. It was because she didn’t want to explain herself to others, she told herself. She wanted to handle this herself, in her own way.
But somehow her inner protestations didn’t quite ring true.
Admit it, you’re enjoying yourself! It’s like a game, and although it frightens you, you don’t want it to stop. Secretly you might even want him to win…
“I’m sorry I’m late,” she spoke brightly.
Mr. Jardine said, “Come in and join us. A drink, Mr. Thorne?”
Francesca led the way. Inside the drawing room, Amy Jardine, elegant in lavender silk, was seated on the sofa. Her pale eyes grew round when she saw what her daughter was wearing. “Good gracious, my dear!” she blurted out, and then bit her lip as Francesca’s own gaze narrowed warningly. She rushed on. “You’re wearing that brooch you found in York. So…so…” She fumbled for the right word to describe the hideous thing.
Mr. Jardine was pouring brandy into two glasses, but came swiftly to his wife’s aid. “I think Francesca would look beautiful in whatever she chose to wear. And perhaps this style is all the fashion in London?”
Oh dear, Francesca thought. “I don’t know what is fashionable in London and what isn’t,” she said loudly. “I am far too countrified for London.”
Was Mr. Thorne smiling? There was something about his mouth…curse him! Didn’t he care if she was gauche and unattractive? He was from London; surely he preferred the sort of women who knew their way about? Like Pretty Polly.
“To my mind country girls are always so refreshing,” Mr. Jardine went on gamely.
“I’m hardly a girl,” Francesca retorted. “I
am five and twenty. How old are you, Mr. Thorne?”
Mr. Thorne made a sound that could have been a cough or a laugh. “I am nearly thirty, Miss Greentree.”
“Londoners are so pale and wan, and the children so dreadfully skinny.” Amy was trying to wrench the conversation out of the hands of her headstrong daughter. “Country folk are so much more…”
“Strapping?” Sebastian said. “Buxom?”
Buxom! How dare he? Did he really think her buxom?
“Rosy-cheeked and strong of limb,” Amy finished reprovingly.
Mr. Thorne took the drink his host was offering him. “In my experience,” he began, and Francesca knew by the glint in his black eyes that he was going to say something rude and impertinent, “a man wants a woman he can hold without fearing she will break.”
“You mean a Toby jug as opposed to a Dresden shepherdess?” Francesca asked sweetly.
“I was thinking more of a Valkyrie. A Boadicea in her chariot.”
“They are very warlike examples of our sex, Mr. Thorne,” Amy said doubtfully. “Don’t you think it would be more appropriate for a female to pour your tea and listen to your troubles than throw thunder and lightning bolts?”
“Perhaps Mr. Thorne prefers thunder and lightning bolts,” Francesca said slyly. “Did you enjoy the storm on the moors that much, Mr. Thorne? Should I have left you in the mire?”
“Francesca,” Amy reproved her. “I’m afraid Mr. Thorne won’t understand your teasing.”
He smiled at Amy, a truly attractive smile, and it was only when he turned it on Francesca that it lost its innocence. “I don’t mind,” he said. “Tease away, Miss Greentree.”
It was the smile that did it. There was something very intimate in it, something wicked and wanton. Something that spoke of heat and…and naked flesh. What was happening to her? Francesca’s blood seemed to be pounding through her body like a runaway coach, turning her hot and a little sick. Sebastian was doing this to her. She must not allow him to see her weakness. He already knew far too much about her, and she knew he would use that knowledge against her, to take what he wanted.
Self-restraint. Self-control. The room was spinning…
She felt his hand, clasped about her elbow with a ironlike grip, and realized he was holding her upright. Her knees seemed to be buckling.
“Don’t swoon on me, my Valkyrie,” his deep voice said in her ear.
Fainting was for debutantes and expectant mothers. Francesca was not the sort of woman to faint. She straightened up, clenching her teeth until her jaw ached. “I…it is very warm in here,” she said in a small, husky voice.
Amy was on her feet. “Francesca? Are you well? You are not yourself, are you? I knew it the moment I saw you in that…that dress. Oh, I do wish you would not prowl the moors! I’m sorry, Mr. Thorne, I am grateful my daughter found you, but she will make herself ill one day, if she hasn’t already…”
“I am perfectly well, Mama,” Francesca said. “The room is overheated, that is all.”
“You must go straight to bed,” Amy insisted.
Bed. I do want to go to bed. I want to go to bed with Sebastian Thorne and make love to him all night, and when the dawn comes, I want to awake in his arms and make love again.
Oh dear God! Her thoughts shocked her witless. What was happening to her? She was truly losing her mind, and it was all his fault. Francesca looked up, full of fear and guilt, and found herself staring directly into his black eyes. His own widened, and something sparked deep within them—an acknowledgment of what she was feeling? The same thought? Whatever it was, Francesca knew she had just succeeded in making things worse.
“Nonsense,” Mr. Jardine was arguing gently with his wife, “the girl needs a sip of brandy, that’s all. Here you are, Francesca. Drink up.”
The cool glass was pressed into her hand and she lifted it to her lips, doing as she was told because she wasn’t capable of doing anything else. Her mind was numb, suspended. She choked as the alcohol burned her throat, the room blurred. And then Sebastian was leaning toward her solicitously, and everything came into her sharp focus. She was aware of his clean, masculine scent.
What was happening to her? She knew he was dangerous; she knew she must stay away from him. Why was she being drawn into his orbit like a moth to a flame? And like a singed moth, she felt raw, her emotions stripped bare so that she was finding it difficult to breathe.
“I’m perfectly all right,” she insisted, edging away. “I have been out on the moors in far worse weather, as you well know, Mama. Besides, if I am ill then I won’t be able to go to London with you, now will I?”
Amy’s brow wrinkled. “Perhaps you should stay here.”
She looked so worried that Francesca was swamped with guilt. She was being selfish. “Mama,” she said gently, moving to take Amy’s hand, “I couldn’t possibly allow you to go on your own. I won’t. To face Uncle William without me? Certainly not!”
Amy Greentree smiled. “I admit it is a somewhat daunting prospect.”
“Then you must let me come, too,” Mr. Jardine insisted.
“No. You know that would make it worse.”
Sebastian was absorbing their conversation with interest, and realizing it, Amy was apologetic. “Family difficulties, I’m afraid, Mr. Thorne. No matter how much we might love our relatives, they can still give us heartache.”
“I wouldn’t know.” His smile turned chilly, and the black eyes that had been so alive turned blank. It was as if he had shut himself away, or closed them out. Whichever it was, it was very effective, and an awkward silence fell.
Thankfully, just then the bell rang for dinner.
Sebastian was remembering now why he preferred to spend his time with thieves and murderers. Mr. and Mrs. Jardine reminded him painfully of his own past, and he did not want to revisit it. He wished now he’d made his excuses, but then he wouldn’t have been able to sit across the table from Francesca, would he?
The golden candlelight softened the somber effect she’d created with the hideous dress. He’d been right. Instead of putting him off the scent, as she’d obviously intended, she’d revealed the truth to him. She was afraid of him, of herself…He watched her hand tremble as she lifted her wineglass to her lips. She looked flushed and feverish and utterly captivating.
Mr. Jardine asked him a polite question, and he answered, but he didn’t take his eyes off her for too long. He couldn’t. He was drawn to her like a thief to gold. She hadn’t looked at him once since they sat down, studying her plate with an unnatural fixedness, but he knew she felt the same.
Should he leave her alone? Forget whatever obsession had taken hold of him? Walk away? But then he reminded himself that the Jardines were saving her for some respectable worthy, so that she could be petted and pampered by a gentleman who saw her as a necessary possession, like his fine house in Belgravia and his matching grays. Was that really what she wanted? Sebastian couldn’t see the woman he’d met in the storm enjoying such a tame and tedious situation. She was a thunderbolt kind of girl. If she was to have a tedious future, then let her have at least one exciting memory. One passionate encounter with a man like…
Well, like him.
The meal limped along. Sebastian answered their questions politely but briefly. Yes, he was from London, yes, he was here in Yorkshire on business, private business.
“Do you know the Braidwoods?” Amy Jardine was trying to draw him out. “They have ties to one of the mills in Manchester.”
“I do not know the Braidwoods.”
“Sir James Friswell lives beyond the village. Do you know of him?”
“No, Mrs. Jardine, I don’t know Sir James Friswell. Oh, but wait a moment…”
His pause fixed their attention to him. Slowly, suspiciously, Francesca’s eyes lifted to his. “Is he the gentleman who shoots?” he asked silkily.
Scarlet flooded into her cheeks. She dropped her knife with a clatter.
“There is a great deal of shooting on t
he bigger estates,” Mr. Jardine began.
“Oh? I had heard…” Sebastian went on, drawing it out. He could see Francesca fumbling with her napkin, a frown between her brows. “I had heard that there was a tiger escaped from a circus.”
Amy gave a gasp. “A tiger? Is this true?”
Mr. Jardine shook his head. “Not to my knowledge. I think someone has been having a game with you, Mr. Thorne. Some of the locals think it sport to make fun of strangers. There are no tigers in Yorkshire.”
“How disappointing,” he said.
Francesca lifted her chin. Their eyes held, clashed, and then she rose to her feet. “I am weary, Mama,” she said. “I think I will retire. Good night, Mr. Thorne, and…good-bye.”
Mr. Thorne bowed his head, but his smile remained.
She might believe that.
But he knew otherwise.
Chapter 6
Somewhere in Greentree Manor a clock was chiming midnight. Sebastian sat up and rubbed his eyes, forcing himself awake. There was work to be done. He needed to pay a visit to Hal. He needed to see the expression on Hal’s face when he realized Sebastian hadn’t perished in the mire after all, but had returned to take his vengeance.
The cold water in the basin helped, and he splashed it over his head, then proceeded to dry himself vigorously with the towel. Of course he was tired, he was still recovering from the mire, but he couldn’t afford to stop now that he was well and truly on the trail of his prey.
Sebastian’s own clothing had been placed at his bedside, cleaned and pressed by meticulous servants. He dressed and slipped through the door, onto the narrow landing, aware of the stillness around him. The Jardines had put him at the farthest end of the house, far away from the family, and that amused him. Mr. Thorne was not respectable. Did they fear he would creep into Francesca’s bedchamber in the night and ravish her?
For a moment he was overwhelmed by the images he’d conjured. Francesca, all warm and rumpled with sleep, turning over and smiling at him with her deliciously sensual mouth. He’d take down the bedclothes, so that she’d be lying there…Would she be naked? Reluctantly he abandoned that idea. She’d be in her nightdress, and he’d undo the tiny buttons one by one, opening it over her breasts and belly and thighs, and bending his head to kiss every inch of her.
