by Cecilia Gray
“Escape,” she said.
The atmosphere in the room grew heavy and his blue eyes turned stormy and hooded. “Has he—?”
“No,” she said quickly. “There has not been any true need for escape. Since Mother died we’ve hardly had reason to interact until this announcement. I just…I must…You know how I must.”
“I do know. Better than anyone. So why not escape with me?”
Was that a plea in his voice, which had just hitched up a notch? Phillip couldn’t really want to marry her, could he?
“Because.” Francesca pulled at her bottom lip thoughtfully. She had never fully given voice to this innermost desire before. “I want a Season.” I want the opportunity denied my mother—the opportunity to fall in love. “I want the beautiful gowns. I want to dance all night at glamorous balls. I want to flirt with devastatingly handsome men.”
“You’re engaging in that very activity right now, my dear.”
She threw a cushion at his head, which he easily ducked. “It’s not the same. I just don’t see you in that way.” She gave a helpless shrug. “I’m sorry.”
“In what way? As a husband?”
Francesca nodded. “You’re just…you’re Phillip. I can’t imagine swooning when you walk through a door.”
“I assure you,” Phillip said with a wounded look, “that many a woman has swooned when I deign to grace a doorway.”
“I’m sure you don’t need me to salvage your pride. But I’ve just…I’ve always wanted to swoon.” She winced at the longing in her tone. “At least once.”
With a sigh, Phillip stood, prowled around the desk, and firmly pulled her from the chaise to stand before him. There was something so deliberate and determined in his actions that she felt wary, as though she were the prey to his predator, frozen in his sights.
“All right, my Franny. I’ll make a bargain with you. If it’s swooning you want, then swooning you shall get.” He took her small hands in his firm grip and brought them to his lips. His breath fanned over her skin like a warm, soft breeze, a caress from sun and summer air that made her languid.
Something must have been wrong with the room, because they had stood in this intimate position a hundred times before without her feeling so warm…so like her heart was slowing in her chest.
He bent his head, capturing her gaze easily. “This is an arrangement between the two of us. There is no need to involve either of our parents.”
She had never truly noticed before how large Phillip was. How her head barely came to the center of his chest and how easy it would be for him to engulf her in his arms. He’d grown in the past three years, hadn’t he? “How so?” she prodded breathlessly.
“Our wedding ceremony will be at the end of the Season. I will delay the announcement as long as I can so you have time to attend a few balls. Flirt with a few men. Enjoy your friends. And,” he added with a wink, “swoon. But damn the announcement, Franny. If I haven’t made you swoon by the end of the Season, if some other man manages to make you swoon before I do, then I’ll cry off.”
Francesca blinked, then laughed. “You’ll cry off? A man? Cry off at his wedding? I’d be ruined.”
“Well, you may cry off, then,” Phillip said defensively.
“My father would—”
He tipped her chin up with his finger so the tip of his nose brushed against hers. “Never mind him. I will always take care of you, Franny. You know that, don’t you?”
“Of course,” she said, forcing a playful tone. She was out of depth with this serious Phillip, with this talk of marriage and seasons and swooning.
His face softened, and she realized how clenched his jaw had been. “So, we have an arrangement. You may have your Season. Your balls, your flirting…and I promise that I shall make you swoon.”
“As simple as that?”
“Apparently making you swoon is no simple task.”
“Will you shake on it?” Francesca asked, unearthing a phrase that went back to their childhood. Whenever one of them had done something their parents would disapprove of, they would swear the other to secrecy and shake on it.
“I’ve a better idea,” Phillip said mischievously. His blue eyes twinkled as he leaned close and pressed his lips to hers.
They were surprisingly soft and shockingly warm. The shivers were back, drizzling down her spine. He drew her lower lip into his mouth. A jolt of warmth shot straight to her toes but then, oh then his tongue feathered against her lips and she felt as though her whole body radiated pleasure.
He pulled away and took two steps back. His eyes widened. He blinked. Then he muttered, “That’s the way to seal an agreement,” before stalking out of the study and leaving her speechless and breathless all at once.
It took her several moments to recover. But recover she did.
That arrogant rake! He probably rained kisses over half the women in London who were silly enough to swoon over his dramatic doorway entrances. She had no intention of letting him have the upper hand.
Phillip excelled at making her feel safe, true. But he didn’t make her feel loved. Phillip was all duty and honor and she would not marry for duty and honor like her mother had.
Through this farce of an agreement, she would have a wonderful time in London. So wonderful that she would find a man she loved who would love her in return. Who didn’t just want to marry her for duty and honor and all that other male nonsense.
She could cry off and marry this man she loved, whoever he might be, and be free of her father—and most especially, free of any odd feelings that Phillip might arouse.
The oaf.
* * *
Phillip strode through the halls of the duke’s home—it would never be Francesca’s home, no, they would create that together—but she was nowhere to be found. She’d made herself very hard to find this entire week.
He’d been stricken by a strange need since he had kissed her—a need to make sure he wasn’t completely insane in obsessing over that one, simple kiss. He couldn’t stop thinking about her.
For certain, he was always thinking about Francesca one way or another. How she was managing. Whether she was unbearably sad over her mother’s passing. Whether she was safe. What color she would want to paint their new home. Whether his staff would find favor with her or she’d want to select her own.
But he had never before found himself obsessing over her lips. Her clear, green eyes, where she found it impossible to hide her feelings. Her perfect porcelain skin with its spray of freckles.
He’d called on her during several occasions in the past seven days, but she was always “busy” or “preparing a packing list” or “actually packing,” which he was certain was all code for “avoiding Phillip.”
He was becoming incredibly concerned that, as shaken as he had been by that kiss, Francesca had not been affected at all.
He swept past the travel crates and the staff who were hard at work preparing the house for closure by draping white sheeting over the statues and furniture. She wasn’t in the library, in the salon, in the sitting room. These rooms that made up a household that wasn’t hers. He couldn’t wait to give her a household of her own, where she’d be accepted, where she’d be family. Where there would be no doubt as to her place. Finally he’d be able to give that to her.
After he dealt with this pesky swooning issue.
Francesca might not see him as husband material now, but that was because he’d been forced by decorum to keep a respectful distance. While he had no intention of dishonoring her, their engagement allowed him a latitude in their interactions he’d never felt comfortable taking before.
He strode through the kitchen and stopped short in front of a small door to a broom closet. He laid a hand on the knob.
She wouldn’t be in there, would she? Of course not—it had been years since they huddled together in this very closet. Years since he held her close - as close as he’d ever been to a female at that point in his life. It was been an unbearable mixture o
f fear, excitement, and awareness that he’d had to push away, far far away, because his feelings hadn’t mattered in that moment. Hers had.
Dread made him yank the door open.
It was blessedly empty—even of cleaning materials, which were all in use. He slammed it shut, cursing himself. Of course Francesca was not in the house. He should have known where she’d be, this last hour before she departed for London.
He didn’t bother circling to the front of the house to get to the property’s back garden. He walked past the miffed Cook, through her back door, past the kitchen garden, and up and over the strawberry hill that Francesca’s mother had planted decades before. Francesca always smelled like strawberries, no matter what she did, and he was convinced it was because she’d spent so much time picking strawberries to bring to her mother’s sick bed that the perfume had made itself part of her hair and skin.
Finally he saw the curve of Francesca’s back as she knelt before the small gravestone in the family plot. Phillip had been shocked that the duke had actually allowed his wife to be buried on his lands, but he supposed propriety counted for something.
He walked until he was beside her and sat in the cool, soft grass. She gave him a sad smile and wiped a solitary tear that had run down her cheek. He took her hand.
He knew better than to say a word. With Franny, he didn’t need words.
He’d waited three long years for her mourning period to end so they could finally be married and honor the arrangement between their families. He wished they’d have come of age sooner, before her mother died, so she could have been at the wedding. Francesca deserved to have family at her wedding.
“I think she would have wanted it to be you,” Francesca said finally. “She’d have wanted me to marry you. She liked you.”
He squeezed her hand affectionately. Looking now at her, like this, he felt on solid ground. He was left with that simple, steadfast feeling about her—not the harried emotions that had prickled him the past week since he’d kissed her—but then he looked at her lips and it was there again, that hackle-raising awareness.
And then he saw her draw her spine straight. “But she still would have told me not to settle into marriage.”
There she went again—talking nonsense. “It’s not settling, Franny.”
“Isn’t it? My parents’ marriage was arranged.”
“Don’t compare me—”
“I wasn’t.”
But he was already gripped by a dark, foul mood that she could even breathe the notion that he and the duke were alike in any way. “I made you a fair deal.”
“Yes, you’re always fair,” she said, rising to her feet. “You’ll make me swoon, and I’ll marry you. But I want you to know I’m going to be fair as well. Fair to every other man in London. Fair to myself and my chance to find my true love.” She took a step, but then stopped. Her eyes fixed to the ground, and added, “You can shake on that, too, Phillip.”
As he watched her stalk away and felt that black mood spread through him like tar, he decided fairness was overrated.
Chapter Two
“Francesca Warrington, how you managed to pull off such a feat as this leaves me in awe.” Chastity Drummond curtsied, mockery in every line.
Francesca rolled her eyes. She had barely been settled in London an hour, barely been able to take in the tall buildings pointing to the sky with smokestacks churning out black clouds, before her dearest friend and her matron aunt had called on her, absolutely atwitter with the news of Francesca’s engagement.
She had had to hush Chastity and her aunt, reminding them that there had been no official announcement. That it was a secret engagement. She’d cited the reason she and Phillip had sold to their families - that the mourning period had barely ended. That Francesca needed time to acclimate to London and wouldn’t want its residents uttering congratulations in one breathe while providing condolences in the next.
But Chastity was not to be deterred. Silent engagement, her foot, she’d said. She hurried Francesca off to the dressmaker’s to choose fabric for her wedding gown.
Chastity was a blonde angel in appearance, but behind those placid blue eyes lurked a devilish mind.
“It’s quite a coup,” Chastity continued, waving off one bolt of white lace after another—thank goodness for Chastity’s fashion sense. The bolts all looked the same to Francesca. Even Chastity’s aunt had left them to their devices while she tried on hats from the displays at the front of the store.
“It’s hardly a coup to marry the boy you practically live with rather than to find one for yourself,” Francesca said as she waited on the pedestal with a modiste fluttering around her taking measurements.
“But you’re marrying a man, not a boy,” Chastity said, finally finding satisfaction with something satin. “A fine distinction.”
“I still only know one man.”
“All you need is one,” Chastity said with a knowing smile that made Francesca ache with jealousy of her friend’s London experiences. “Now tell me the details of the engagement.”
“There’s nothing to tell! One day I was free as a bird. The next, I was betrothed to Phillip. Apparently there has been an understanding between our families for years.”
“You were never told?”
“Well, the duke wouldn’t. And you know my mother. So often she was under the laudanum.”
“But for Phillip not to tell you?”
“He thought I knew.”
“I heard Father say he is notorious,” Chastity whispered.
Jealousy stabbed Francesca once again. Chastity’s father might be a shipping magnate and shunned by the upper echelons, Francesca’s father included, but he was one of the nicest men Francesca knew and treated his daughters like such equals you’d think Chastity and her sister Cassandra been born male. Francesca could hardly conceive of her father treating her as if she existed, much less like she was important. “I can’t imagine your father gossiping.”
“I imagine my father does everything,” Chastity said. “Not unlike Phillip. Last Season, who was seen on his arm but the infamous demimondaine, Madame Riley! Although I’m sure that is all in his past. Don’t even think he’s capable of it now, Francesca, I see your expression.”
Francesca’s cheeks flushed. She knew Phillip’s behavior was rakish, but she hadn’t expected it to bother her. It shouldn’t matter, since she was going to fall in love with someone else—someone who would make her swoon—but she couldn’t help but feel pinched about the image of Phillip with the next thing to a courtesan. But Chastity was right. She couldn’t imagine Phillip continuing his past affairs while they were married. He was too…dutiful to do that. Therein lay the problem. She was another in a long string of duties he saw for himself.
“Is he wealthy?” Chastity asked, an unsurprising question given she often gave thought to monetary matters. “Don’t members of the demimonde require gifts and residences?”
Chastity’s contemplation was interrupted by the arrival of the tea service and Chastity set to eating cake while Francesca was stuck up on the dratted pedestal.
“Pay attention, Francesca, we’re discussing a topic of utmost importance—Phillip’s money.”
“I do believe the earl allows him a generous allowance,” Francesca said. “But he has his own endeavors.”
“Never say he’s in trade!” Chastity smiled with an amused glint to her blue eyes.
“Not precisely. However, his financial acumen is well known. Why, just last year his railway speculations…”
Chastity’s eyes glazed over with boredom as Francesca shared the details she had found fascinating when imparted by Phillip. Not that Chastity wasn’t interested in trade, but she was a woman of the sea, not land.
“Anyway, yes, he is quite wealthy,” she summarized quickly when she realized she’d lost Chastity’s interest.
“You will have to commission jewels,” Chastity pronounced with a wave of her hand. “The Marches do not have family jewels an
d they are a must! Emeralds would be beautiful with your complexion and they’ll match your eyes. And drive the duke mad.”
Francesca fought to keep her attention on the merits of emeralds over rubies, when really, her mind was on Phillip. They’d interacted very little since that kiss, aside from her declaration near the strawberry field. Part of her needed to make sure those damnable shivers he gave her were the result of cold country air and not Phillip himself.
“I hardly need him to commission jewels since I don’t know that I’ll marry him.”
Chastity dropped her cake with a splat. As the shopgirls fluttered around to clean up the crumbs, Francesca braced herself. Chastity shot up from her chair, marched over to her, and laid one pointed finger against Francesca’s sternum.
“Francesca Warrington. Have. You. Gone. Mad?”
“Not at all.” She knocked Chastity’s finger away.
“What possible reason could you have not to marry Phillip? Don’t you want to leave that dreadful house?”
“Of course I do,” Francesca said. “But I could easily leave that house on the arm of another man.”
“Oh for the love of—”
“Phillip and I agreed that if I fall in love with someone else, if someone else makes me swoon, then I can cry off.”
Chastity squinted shrewdly. “Phillip made you that bargain, did he?”
“With his own lips.” There she went, thinking about his lips again.
“And that’s the reason for this ridiculous secret, silent engagement? Because you think you’ll find a better bargain? Do you think tall, attractive men with brains and fortune are casting themselves from roofs in London, just waiting to be caught?”
“I hardly think those qualities matter—”
“They matter, my dear.” Chastity made her way back to her seat and delicately picked up another tea cake. “They matter a great deal.”
Was she really so shallow as to fall for height and good hair and sparkling eyes and a decent fortune? After all, those were the qualities that had attracted her mother to the duke. Wouldn’t she be content to swoon over someone who might not be so tall or so good-looking or so perfect but was just perfect for her?
