A Lady to Desire

by Bethany M. Sefchick

  With a sigh, Charlotte went to follow Cilla, but Francis’ hand on her arm held her back. She paused. She could do nothing else just then.

  “Whatever the outcome of this meeting, we shall weather this storm. Together. I love you, Charlotte. I want you as my wife. I always will.” She could see both the fear and desire warring within his eyes and she wanted desperately to believe him – and she did. Mostly, at any rate.

  “What is it you always tell me?” Charlotte did her best to smile in spite of her fears. “All will be well, Francis. All will be well. Simply have faith.”

  Then she allowed Cilla, who was fretting even more nervously now, to drag her up the back stairs toward her guest chambers, Francis following mutely behind. Charlotte could only hope that the future that seemed so promising the night before was not about to be yanked away from her before it could even begin.

  A little less than an hour later, Francis once more stood outside the doors to Phin’s study. Once more, he had a gut full of trepidation. However this time, he knew that going in, he also had an ally on the other side of these imposing doors.

  Thankfully, the ball had gone quite late last night and there was no one about to see him fidgeting with his cuffs or leaning heavily on his cane. He had hoped that his leg would be recovered enough today to leave the blasted thing in his chambers, but he hadn’t been that lucky.

  Then again, Francis reasoned, it was very possible that Lady Violet – whoever she was – expected to see him leaning on the cane. He’d had it when he came to London and it was evident by its well-worn handle that he’d had it for some time. It hadn’t been until he began working with Dr. Hastings that his leg had improved to the point where he had been able to go without the cane for long periods of time. Unless, of course, he did something foolish to re-injure the damaged limb, just as he had the other day.

  Francis was procrastinating. He knew that. Thinking of the lack of guests already awake and his cane and his arrival in London were merely ways to delay facing what awaited him on the other side of that door. Was he ready to face his past? He doubted it very much, but then he likely never would be ready. How could he be?

  Had the choice been up to him, Francis would have never revisited his past at all. Ever.

  He had no memory of this woman who waited for him in Phin’s library or of Cross Hill or Cornwall or the people who had been his parents. Except that the Crown had decided that, given the unusual circumstances, in this case, Francis would continue to hold the title of Viscount Denton until a proper successor could be located – assuming one ever could. After all, there was still an estate to be run, one which, given its low productivity, Prinny had no interest in taking back for the Crown.

  Now, Francis had no choice but to return to a place and time he could not remember and wasn’t certain he even wished to, for a living, breathing part of his past waited on the other side of this door.

  He had to face his past. There was no other choice.

  Drawing in a deep breath and swallowing hard, Francis pushed open the door and stepped inside, his muscles clenched tight in anticipation. For a brief and horrible moment, he envisioned an unknown woman flinging herself into his arms and proclaiming herself to be his wife.

  That didn’t happen.

  Instead, what he found on the other side of Phin’s study doors was a rather neat and tidy scene. Almost too neat and tidy.

  Phin sat behind his desk, leaning back in his chair and sipping Scotch again. He appeared more relaxed than he had earlier, though Francis had to wonder if that was because he was not currently pressuring himself to find a new bride. Lord Buxton – impeccably turned out as always – slouched against the bookshelves, looking like his usual indolent self. An older gentleman who appeared to be of Spanish descent, with silvering black hair and gleaming silver eyes stood beside Buxton, his bearing far more regal than the notorious marquess’. That man, Francis decided, had to be Count Marino, the man Charlotte had often referred to as Uncle Cris.

  And sitting in the very chair Francis himself had occupied the day before was an uncommonly pretty woman with champagne blonde hair, bright hazel eyes and wearing a yellow and white striped day dress, looking for all of the world as if she had just stepped out of a delightful country gathering.

  It was clear with one glance that the woman lacked the sophisticated polish of London, but she was not uneducated and had obviously enjoyed some level of finishing school. She sat straight, her hands folded primly in her lap as she waited – for him most likely. However, there was no calculating gleam in her eyes, no seductive tilt of her head. She was, Francis decided, exactly what she appeared to be – a gently bred young lady who had grown up in the country and had never experienced a London Season.

  She was also a good deal younger than him and Francis relaxed a bit. If this woman were, in fact, his wife, they would have had to have wed when she was little more than a child. Somehow he doubted that would have been permitted, not even in Cornwall. And especially not for a lord.

  “Lord Underhill. Come in.” Phin waved him inside almost cheerfully. “I believe you know Lord Buxton.”

  “I do.” Francis inclined his head. “Alexander. It is good to see you again.”

  “And you as well, Francis.” The marquess nodded in return, though his expression was guarded, almost wary. Francis had no idea why. Buxton had been tasked with locating Lady Violet. He had done so. What else needed to be said on the matter? It wasn’t as if he had found her and then abandoned her at some coaching inn, after all.

  Phin rose then and came around his desk to make the rest of the introductions. “May I also introduce Count Cristobal Marino, a cousin of the Spanish royal family and a close friend of Lady Charlotte’s family.”

  “Only her mother’s side,” the count replied as he stepped forward to greet Francis. “Her father does not care for me, I am afraid, but I care very much for Lady Charlotte. And her mother. ”

  Suddenly, something in Francis’ memory clicked, an off-handed comment Charlotte had once made about her mother falling in love with a man she could not have when she was younger, well before she had wed. That was why he was here. This man viewed himself as her father in many respects and would protect her as if she was his flesh and blood daughter. “You are the man Lady Charlotte refers to as Uncle Cris, I believe.”

  “Si,” the older man replied with a look Francis could not interpret. “And Charlotte? She is Mi querido. Like family. I am here to make sure she is…well.” He glanced back at Buxton. “Our paths crossing was, I think, fate. Do you not agree, my lord?”

  Buxton’s eyes were hooded and he appeared to be brooding. “I do.”

  Francis had no idea what those two words truly meant but it was clear that Marino and Buxton had some sort of history, likely involving the woman who sat quietly before him.

  Violet. Violet Denton. In truth, Francis had wondered if she even existed at all or if she was a figment of his imagination. Now she was here, sitting before him, and everyone was talking around her as if she wasn’t there. The gentleman in him took over and Francis took another step forward.

  “And you must be Lady Violet Denton.” Phin had sent a servant to Francis’ room earlier to remind the viscount to refer to the woman as a lady. That was something that seemed important to both Marino and Buxton. Francis would never have done otherwise, nor was he in a position to question.

  The woman rose gracefully, though it was obvious to him that she was nervous. Extremely nervous given the way her hands were shaking. “I am. And you clearly do not remember me.”

  Francis swallowed hard for he had a feeling the moment of truth was at hand. “No, my lady. I am sorry. I don’t.” He wished he did, but other than a tingling in his gut that he had once known this woman and also likely cared for her – possibly deeply – he could not give her either a name or a place in his past. That part of his life was still a blank slate in his mind.

  “That is all right.” She turned and smiled at Buxton, and
Francis saw her relax just a fraction when she looked at the sulky marquess. Buxton, in turn, seemed to smile back at her – just a little. “Alex, er, I mean Lord Buxton has explained your recent history to me.” She paused and bit her lip. “He has also informed me that you are now Lord Francis Augustus Deaver, Viscount Underhill and the future Marquess of Framingham.”

  “I am.” Francis was doing his best not to cast up his accounts. Perhaps it would have been easier somehow if this woman would have simply rushed at him and flung her arms around his neck. That would have been preferable to this slow and painful introduction process. “And you are? Besides your name, I mean. You would not be here if you were not connected to the time I spent as Lord William Denton.”

  Violet smiled then and touched her lips as if revisiting a cherished memory. “William Denton. That is a name I have cursed mightily over the last two years.” Gads, this did not seem to be going well. “Though now that I know the truth, I can forgive my brother – or rather the man I thought was my brother – for abandoning me in a finishing school.”

  “Brother?” Francis chocked out that singular word. “Did you say brother?”

  “She did.” From behind her, Phin smirked with what might have been delight. He could have also sworn he heard Buxton give some sort of snort.

  In front of him, Violet only smiled. “Even in my earliest of memories, you were always my adoring big brother. Always there to protect me from any number of scrapes and falls I found myself in. You were my hero.”

  “And no one suspected that I was not the late Lord and Lady Denton’s natural child?” Francis found that incredible for other than similar hair color, the physical resemblance between them was sorely lacking.

  Violet twisted her reticule now, her first true sign of distress since they had begun speaking. Beside him, Francis heard Buxton growl. Or was it more of a snarl? Oh, who could bloody well tell?

  “I think some people guessed. There were always rumors going about that Mama had lost her child during the birth, but then when you appeared in Mama’s arms, it was put down to just a bit of nasty gossip. Or so I am told by many, as I was not actually there at the time.” Violet paused for a long moment. “There was an older man in the village who said that your eyes belonged to another family. That no Denton could have eyes that shade for they were unique to someone else.” She looked up at him with her own hazel gaze.

  “He must have known the Deaver family, then.” Unconsciously, Francis touched the corner of his own right eye. “This color is, as the man said, all but unique to them.”

  “That man died when I was a babe and after that, few spoke of the rumors any longer. Mama and Papa were beloved in the village and no one wished to think ill of them in any fashion. So if people knew – or even guessed the truth – they ignored it. You were beloved as well, and I think they were afraid that if you weren’t truly a Denton, then you would be forced to give up the viscountcy. You were regarded as a good man, as well as a fair, honest, and moral man. No one wished to see you forced to leave and my cousin, Moses, be handed the title.”

  “You make me sound as if I was a saint.” Francis had a difficult time believing he had been that perfect. No man was, especially as a young boy.

  “To me, you were. As I said, I was your baby sister and it was always just the two of us. You protected me when I needed it most, just as you did for everyone.” She gestured to his bad leg. “Protecting me was how you sustained that injury, you know. You stepped in front of an arrow that a neighbor boy shot in my direction while aiming at a fox.”

  “I didn’t know.” Francis shook his head, his mind absorbing information so fast that it almost hurt. “I don’t remember anything that happened before I awoke in a convalescent home a little over a year ago and someone informed me that I was Lord Stephen Deaver.” He shrugged helplessly. “Which turned out not to be the truth either.”

  Violet glanced back at the marquess. “So Lord Buxton has informed me.” She bit her lip again. “But to me, you were always William. My brother. The man who protected me, who made sure I was safe and well educated even after Mama and Papa died.” She laughed a bit then. “You were also eventually the scoundrel brother who abandoned me in a finishing school. I was furious with you for that, you know, but that is a story for another time.”

  “I’m sorry.” Surprising himself, Francis reached out to touch Violet’s hand, surprised when something that felt a bit like recognition made him jump.

  “Do you remember anything?” she asked, seeing his reaction.

  Francis shook his head. “I’m afraid not. I’m sorry. The physicians are not certain I ever will remember, at this point. I wish I could tell you otherwise. It is more of a feeling than anything, and a vague one at that.”

  Violet considered that for a moment. “I understand.” Then she glanced at Buxton once more and Francis wondered what was between the two of them. “Well, I didn’t at first, but I do now. Once I learned the entire story, of course. Including that you aren’t really my brother.”

  She looked sad as she added that last part and Francis squeezed her hand, surprising himself again. “You may still consider me your brother if you like. I find that I am dreadfully short on family.” He smiled, hoping to put her at ease once more, partly because he wished to and partly because he wasn’t certain that Buxton would not attack him if he upset her. “I think you might like my other sister, Eliza. Lady Candlewood as she is called now. Then again, she is easy to like and likes most everyone in return. She liked me from the first, even when I had no idea who I truly was. That is, I think, saying something.”

  “I should love to meet her.” Violet squeezed his hand back, more confident now. “I should love to meet anyone you wish me to meet, for I’ve no other family save for you. And Cousin Moses, but we won’t discuss him just yet.” Once more she bit her lip, uncertain. It seemed she was just as nervous about this meeting as he was. “But only if you are completely certain for you are not even truly my family.

  “But you are my sister, at least in the ways that count,” Francis replied, eager to put her fears to rest, at least a little. “Violet, I cannot promise what the future might bring. I cannot promise that I will ever remember my past or your part in it. What I can promise you, however, is the same thing that Eliza promised me after the truth of my birth was revealed. She promised that come what may, we would begin making new memories – together – and that she would be beside me every step of the way. So now, I make that same promise to you. It might not be easy, but we will forge a new path together, if you’d like.”

  “Oh, I should adore that!” Violet was beaming now and once more, a hint of recognition ticked at the back of his brain. Francis’ inclination was to attempt to force the memory to return, but he knew from experience it would do no good. Nothing would make his mind remember if it didn’t wish to do so. “Thank you.”

  Count Marino cleared his throat. Francis had almost forgotten the old Spaniard was there. “So I am taking this to mean that you still intend to wed Lady Charlotte?” He glared at Francis as he spoke.

  “I am. I will never change my mind about marrying her.” Francis met the count’s eyes before his gaze strayed to Buxton again. “Even though I have a feeling there is a great deal still to be discussed.”

  “There is.” That came from Buxton. “But it can wait. For a bit, anyway.” Then his gaze softened as he looked at Violet and Francis was all but certain the notorious womanizer was utterly and completely smitten.

  “Gentlemen. My lady. Shall we toast then?” While no one was paying him any mind, Phin had been busy pouring drinks and now hoisted a silver tray laden with more glasses of scotch.

  “To what?” Buxton was obviously still suspicious.

  Phin simply smiled knowingly, as if he was in on everyone’s secrets, including the marquess’. “Why to the future, of course! Now that the past is settled, what else could there be to discuss?

  What indeed, Francis thought as he picked up one of th
e cut glass tumblers, his heart feeling lighter than it had in months. What indeed?

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Her ear pressed tightly to the door of Phin’s study, Charlotte desperately hoped that no one passed by and saw her loitering about like a common gossip waiting for a tidbit of news. Which was precisely what she was doing just then. It was simply that she was desperate to know what was being discussed behind those doors, for whatever was being said affected her future. She should have been in there fighting for the man she loved, but she wasn’t, much to her chagrin.

  Charlotte had, of course, demanded to be included in the meeting, but Uncle Cris had refused, saying that this matter needed to be sorted out between Francis and Lady Violet first. He had also told her not to worry, that all would be well, which only made Charlotte worry more, for Uncle Cris clearly already knew who Violet was. He simply wasn’t revealing what he knew. He had, of course, promised to represent Charlotte’s interests in the meeting and she knew he would keep his word on that count. However there were certain things, such as marriage vows between Francis and Violet that not even an influential Spanish count could undo.

  This morning, Charlotte would have sworn she had this particular fear conquered. It seemed, however, that she did not. If anything, the presence of Violet at the house party only made Charlotte’s fears worse, and for one absurd moment, she considered simply packing her bags and fleeing. Except the only place she could run to for safety just then was Uncle Cris’ home and he was here at Havenhurst. She wasn’t about to return to London and her father’s townhome.

  “Considering picking the lock, my dear Charlotte? How very common of you.”

  She knew that voice. In fact, she knew it very well.

  Straightening, she turned and faced its owner – her father. “I was unaware that you were attending this party, Father. In fact, I believe I was specifically instructed to venture here on my own and work my wiles on Lord Snowly.” She was aware that her words were clipped and angry. “To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?”