He swallowed. She held his gaze, knowing silent warmth was the best way to calm him. Lawrence had always been alive with energy.
His features smoothed. He nodded. Reluctantly, she dropped her hand.
“Lord Erwin is in love with his mistress,” he said.
Francine raised her brows.
“I’m sorry, Francine. I didn’t want to be the one to tell you. I don’t want you to think I’m trying to split you up. That I want—” He shook his head. “That is, I want you to be happy. That’s all.”
“Don’t many men enjoy their mistresses?” She tried to say it lightly, but knew she failed. She wondered if Lawrence’s words would have caused her to decline Lord Erwin, if her evening had started differently. She was a grown woman, and practical. Still, in her heart, she longed for love, dreamed of a man who cherished her, and had no room left in his life for another woman.
“Some do, but he is well and truly in love with his, or else I wouldn’t have spoken,” Lawrence said. “He goes on about her ad nauseum and, how, once he’s married, he plans to ship his wife off to the country. He says all he needs or wants from a bride is an heir, and he can get that through, ah, conjugal visits twice a year. He doesn’t want her in London, interfering with his life and his true love.” Lawrence’s eyes were intent on hers. “You deserve better than that, Francine.”
Nervous laughter bubbled up in her. She dashed at the tears forming in her eyes, then gave in and plopped back down on the couch. Could her evening grow any more confusing?
Lawrence sat down beside her, face worried. “Are you well? Should I not have told you?”
“Yes, you should have,” she managed, stifling her slightly hysterical mirth. “Thank you. I am well, and that was very kind of you, it truly was. You should know, though, that I was running from the ballroom because Lord Erwin broke it off with me.”
“He did?”
“Yes.” Her laughter died on a sigh. “Just before you came.”
Lawrence appeared flatteringly baffled. “Why?”
She winced at the thought of telling him, but Lawrence would hear the rumor whether from her lips or another’s. At least if she told him, she could refute it. “Prudence, that is, Miss Philmont, started a rumor that I kissed a duke last season. The baron threw me over. He said he wouldn’t take what another man sampled and found lacking.” Bitterness edged her voice by the end of her explanation.
Lawrence sat beside her for a time, silent and still. He angled himself to face her, resting an arm along the back of the sofa, behind her. Knowing his arm was there, a mere inch from encircling her, made her giddy. His fingers brushed her shoulder, but he didn’t appear to notice, so indifferent he was to her.
“Did you kiss a duke?” he asked tentatively.
“Lawrence,” she snapped, outraged.
“Why would she say you did?”
“She’s a mean, spiteful creature who wants the baron for herself.” That evoked a bitter parody of amusement. “Now, I hope she gets him.”
Lawrence nodded. Francine could feel his eyes on her. It was an odd sensation. It made her more aware than ever of how near he sat, how his knee, bent and resting on the seat, touched her thigh through her gown. She wondered if she should shift away before he noticed. The contact would likely embarrass him.
“Why did you stop coming out to the garden?” he asked, his tone wistful. “You were supposed to bring your sketchbook. You said you’d done a new set, drawn another new world, with great winged beasts flying through the air, and a castle where roses climbed every wall.”
“You remember that?” Seven years, and he remembered her thirteen-year-old babbling about her drawings.
“I remember everything about those nights in the garden.”
She risked a glance. His eyes were slightly unfocused as he looked through time. Dark hair lay across his forehead again. She resisted the impulse to push it back into place.
“You taught me to dance in that garden,” he said. “My instructor was terrible, but it didn’t matter because I had you.”
“Is that why you always dance with me?” She was surprised at the breathless, quiet sound of her voice. “To thank me for hours of patience?”
“You were patient and commanding.” He grinned. “You would march me through the steps, counting, while I hummed the music. You know, it was rather difficult to hum and dance at the same time.”
“Yet, it must have worked. You’re a wonderful dancer now.”
“Thank you, but you didn’t answer my question.” He studied her face. “It was just before my fourteenth birthday, just after your thirteenth. You said you would meet me under the apple tree like usual, and you never came. Not that night, not the next, nor the following.”
Something in the way he said it implied there had been many nights spent waiting. Francine was horrified by the hurt lurking in his tone. Lawrence was the dearest friend she’d ever known. The idea she’d made him suffer was unbearable. Yet, with their homes beside one another, it seemed impossible he didn’t know what happened. Could he truly not?
Chapter Three
“No one told you?” Francine finally asked, then winced at the incredulous note in her voice.
“No one knew we’d been meeting every night for years.” He smiled, looking more like the boy he’d been. “Can you imagine if they had? We would have been pressed into the youngest union in London, or beaten so soundly we wouldn’t have sat for a month.”
“You don’t beat girls,” she said. “You chaperone them.”
“What happened?” he pressed. “I thought you didn’t want to see me anymore, but now, at parties, you always appear happy to dance with me. Though you’re so polished these days, I confess to not knowing if your warmth is politeness or real.”
He’d modulated his tone to sound casual, but she could read the hurt in his eyes. It woke a deep pain to learn he’d thought, for years, that she didn’t want to see him. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t think… I assumed you would know I’d been banned from the garden. Of course, I wanted to see you.” She twisted to face him squarely. “It never occurred to me you would imagine I didn’t. I thought about you every day.”
He shrugged and looked away. “Why were you banned? If anyone found out about us, I would know. Beating aside, my father would have sent me off to live with some horrible relation.”
“I know. The heir of a marquess is too valuable to end up with some untitled miss from a family with interests in trade.” No bitterness tinged her words. It was a simple truth of their world. “I was coming to see you that night, but I didn’t have my sketches.”
She grimaced, using the expression to hide a deeper pain. She’d never told anyone about that evening. No one would understand the depth of the wound. No one but Lawrence, and they hadn’t been alone since; had only their brief, public meetings.
Francine drew in a deep breath, hoping her voice would emerge even, though inside she shook with recalled grief. “My governess found them. She went into a fit. She thought the winged creatures were angels or devils. She never made it clear which, but she was sure they were blasphemy. She said young women needed their heads on right, not in the clouds. She burned the sketchbook. The whole of it. All of my drawings.”
“She did what?” He looked nearly as shocked as Francine had felt. He, of all people, knew how much her drawings once meant to her. “Did your mother know?”
“Not when it happened. My governess confronted me with the sketchbook when I went up to my room. It was later, when I was on my way to the garden, that my mother found out.” Francine could still picture the moonlit hall. She hadn’t tiptoed, hadn’t used the back staircase. “I was so upset, I was crying. I wanted only to get to the garden and tell you what happened. I wasn’t careful, and there must be something about being a mother, that you can hear a crying child sneaking through the halls.”
“You were caught on your way out?” he demanded.
She nodded. “I told my mother why I was up
set, and that I wanted to get outside, away from my burned drawings.” Which was the truth, but not all of it. “She knew I was hiding something. She asked me if I meant to be in the garden alone. I lied at first, but she could tell. Eventually, I admitted to meeting a friend, but I never told them who. She said if I didn’t tell, they’d never permit me to be unchaperoned again, and she meant it. They had me watched constantly, until they could send me to school. When I came home to visit, or in the summer, they watched all the more.” She looked at him. “Somehow, I thought you would have heard.”
He shook his head. “How would I? I’m sure your parents didn’t want anyone to know.”
He was right, of course. It would have caused a scandal, but the entire staff knew, and staff gossiped, though not with the sons of lords.
“It felt like everyone who looked at me knew.”
“You should have told them it was me,” he said.
“Your father beat you when we broke that window. He beat you when we used one of the footstools as our sailing ship through the mud. He beat you if you cried when he beat you.” Lawrence was mad to suggest she tell. “I knew if I gave even a hint of who I was meeting, you would be caught. If I thought you would lie, I might have given your name and permitted our parents to disagree over which of us was telling the truth, but you never lie.”
“So, you lied for me.”
Her sorrow diminished, eased by his concerned tone. He was so serious. “I didn’t. I simply wouldn’t name anyone.”
Behind him, the mantel clock chimed. Francine started. It was so easy, talking with Lawrence, even if they spoke of unhappy things. It was as if years had not passed. She’d lost track of time. Her mother would miss her. Others might even begin to wonder at her absence, since she hadn’t left the ballroom with any secrecy.
“Did you continue to draw?” he asked.
She looked back to him, surprised. “No. What would be the point?”
“But you loved to draw. When you brought your drawings to the garden, even by moonlight, they were amazing, as were the stories you told about the worlds you drew.”
Francine unfolded her legs and stood. She smoothed her dress, hoping the back wasn’t too wrinkled. “Drawing fanciful, imaginary places and making up stories is for children. I’m sure I could have continued for a few more years, but then what? I was destined to grow up and marry. No man wants a wife with her mind full of daydreams.”
He stood, his tall frame thrumming with an almost frantic energy. “That’s not true. Some men wouldn’t mind. Some might even love that about you.”
“Love that about me?” she whispered, stunned by his words.
She’d grown a bit since her thirteenth year, but whenever Lawrence stood close to her, she was struck by how tall he was. When they used to dance together in the garden, she was the taller of the two, though not by much. Now, he looked down at her.
“You changed your hair,” he said in a low voice. He ran his fingers along a coppery curl, and brought it to his lips before letting it slide free.
Francine had never realized one could envy one’s own hair. She stared up at him. Strong hands caught hers. Her breath took on an odd fluttering quality. He leaned closer. A happy dizziness enveloped her and she tilted her head back. He lowered his lips to meet hers. Her eyes drifted closed as her whole body yearned toward his kiss.
“Fanny?” a voice called in the hall. “Fanny?” it came again, closer.
Francine’s eyes flew wide. Mother.
Lawrence didn’t move, didn’t pull away. His gaze searched her face.
“Fanny, Prudence saw you come this way,” her mother called. “Don’t make me open every door. It’s terribly rude.”
She gave Lawrence a frantic look. If they were caught alone, he would be forced to marry her. She wouldn’t treat any man that way, let alone her oldest friend.
“Get behind the couch,” she hissed.
“That’s not a very good hiding spot,” he said. He straightened, but his hands still held hers. He seemed singularly unconcerned he might be found with her. “How about the curtains?”
“Fanny?” Her mother’s voice was just outside.
Francine pulled her hands free of his and gave him a shove toward the back of the room. “Yes, the curtains,” she whispered.
With a maddening lack of urgency, he circled the sofa. When he reached the window, he ducked behind one of the floor length curtains. A knock sounded at the parlor door.
“I’m sorry if anyone is in there,” her mother’s voice said. “I’m going to pop my head in and check for my daughter. I’ll count to three first.”
“Would it be so terrible if she saw me?” Lawrence asked, sticking his head out.
Francine stared at him, shocked. Was he asking what she thought he was asking? Him, the boy she used to dance with in the garden at night, but who’d handled their acquaintance with such care ever since? Her heart beat so hard, it felt lodged in her throat. She couldn’t force any words around it.
The door behind her opened. He disappeared behind the curtain.
“Fanny, there you are,” her mother said.
Francine turned. She swallowed down the lump in her throat.
“Why didn’t you answer me? I could see light under the door. I was worried I might interrupt some strangers’ tryst.”
“I wanted to be alone.” Her voice came out nearly normal.
Her mother’s eyes narrowed. “You aren’t here to meet someone, are you?”
Francine felt another slightly hysterical laugh bubble up. “Why? Will you hire more servants to watch me? Send me away to another school?”
“That’s not fair.” Her mother entered and closed the door. “We could tell by how you hid the person you were meeting that it was someone we must greatly disapprove of. Your father didn’t sully the family name in trade to better our circumstance so his daughter could run off with a stable boy.”
“You’ve never had any faith in me,” Francine bit out.
“You’re a daydreamer, Fanny,” her mother said. “You don’t see the world through clear eyes. We were protecting you from yourself. You’re too full of romance and dreams.”
Francine shook her head. Her mother was wrong. “Maybe once, but I’ve learned to live in this world, with you. I was perfectly willing to marry Lord Erwin, although I didn’t like the man, so that you could have the titled daughter you’ve always longed for.”
The lines around the edges of her mother’s eyes had deepened in the last years. Francine knew she made those lines deeper, but what could she do? She’d behaved perfectly, and still would not be wed as her family wished.
“Did you kiss a duke, Fanny?”
She met her mother’s gaze squarely, unsure if the truth would be believed. “I did not.”
Somewhat to her surprise, her mother nodded, looking relieved. “I didn’t really think you would. Ever since the stable boy in the garden incident, you’ve been a well-behaved daughter. Why does everyone say you kissed a duke?”
“Prudence started the rumor, so she can attempt to marry Lord Erwin.”
Her mother gasped. Her face paled, then went red. “Why, that little wretch. If I were a man, I would duel her.”
Francine couldn’t help but smile “She would need to be a man as well, Mother, and then she wouldn’t want to marry the baron.”
“Well, yes, I suppose so.” Her mother pursed her lips. “What rumor shall we start about her?”
Francine hadn’t considered that. “None.”
“But she’s ruined your chances,” her mother cried. “You were almost wed. Nearly a lady.”
“All she did was stop me from making a mistake, even if she doesn’t know it.”
“I thought you said you’ve grown up.”
“I have, but I don’t even like him.” Francine crossed to her mother. “Is it so very important I be a lady?”
Her mother’s expression softened. “No, I suppose not. Only that you marry well.” A severe look c
louded her momentary ease. “That means a gentleman, at least, and money.”
“I’ll do my best to make you happy, Mama,” she said. Her mind went to the man hiding behind the curtain. Had he really implied what she thought, that he wouldn’t mind being forced to marry her? Was that what he wanted, or what he would permit to happen? He was the one man she’d ever considered a friend, ever loved. Marrying Lawrence was the stuff of daydreams.
“What would make me happy is if you would go back out, ignore what people are whispering, and dance with some nice gentleman,” her mother said.
Francine winced. In Lawrence’s soothing company, she’d all but forgotten about the titters and crude male whispering. She squared her shoulders. “Yes, Mama.”
“Thank you,” her mother said. She opened the door and ushered Francine out.
Chapter Four
As Francine left the room, she thought she saw something flitter away around the corner ahead, but when they reached the spot, no one was in sight. She shrugged and glanced back. There was no sign of Lawrence. Feeling oddly bereft, though she knew he must wait for a time before following, she walked alongside her mother to the ballroom.
When they reached the crowded room, her mother stopped inside the doorway, not accompanying Francine into the fray. The giggles and sideways looks were worse than before. Trying not to meet anyone’s gaze, she brushed through the crowd, headed for the punch table. As feared, no one spoke with her, and not a single gentleman asked her to dance.
In an even crueler twist of fate, she spotted Prudence beside the punch bowl, watching her. Francine forced her feet to keep moving. What else could she do, turn and run? Instead, when she reached the other end of the long table, she waited for one of the servers to offer a cup of punch.
Cream ruffles appeared at the edge of her vision. “I danced with Lord Erwin while you were off crying. Twice.”
Francine faced Prudence, taking in her smug smile. It induced visions of clawing the look right off her face. Still, they’d been friends for years. Or, at least, Francine had felt friendship toward Prudence. That must count for something.
To Know a Lord's Kiss Page 2
