Miss Francie's Folly

by Fran Baker

  “That is altogether different.”

  “I’m afraid I disagree, sir. I find it is quite similar.”

  Before he could respond, Francie stepped rapidly after the receding form of her sister, her head held high and her heart beating uncommonly fast. He had claimed to be her friend, yet he chose to upbraid her constantly on matters that were not the least bit his concern. It was as if he meant to torment her for having had the extreme lack of sense to have once imagined herself in love with him.

  He walked beside her now, his long strides easily matching her pace, but Francie refused to notice him, refused to acknowledge the sensations flooding her. Instead she channeled all her energy into feeding the fires of her anger. At least her temper could be relied on to resist Sir Thomas Spencer’s devilish charm.

  Chapter 8

  Preparing to attend the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane, Francie donned her cream India muslin with the copper threading and vowed not to recollect the last evening on which she had worn the gown.

  But when she gazed into her reflection, she did not see a slender, fashionably attired woman. She saw once again a dark head bent over the hem of her skirt, she felt the fingers caressing the white silk of her stocking, and she knew again the wave of longing that had crested through her. With a furious shake of her head that tossed the ivory feathers in her hair, Francie turned away from the cheval mirror and swept up her shawl and fan.

  She would not allow herself to think of him! During the last week her appetite had faded and she had slept only fitfully. When not haunted by incessant visions of Sir Thomas, she had been hounded by the implacable specter of twenty thousand pounds. Unable to rid herself of these images, she had become more uneasy with each passing day.

  She and Sir Thomas had been unable to meet even briefly without exchanging barbed comments. All attempts by Francie to avoid contact with him had been thwarted by her Mama, who insisted the baronet be consulted on each of the preparations for the upcoming ball and wedding to follow. Each meeting served to sharpen the pointed insults that passed between them, while increasing Francie’s vulnerability to Sir Thomas’s most cutting quips. But not for the world would she let anyone discover how deeply his barbs had pierced her. She covered her inner pain with the gayest, most abandoned pursuit of pleasure in which she had ever indulged.

  She had gone driving with Lord Coombs no less than four afternoons out of five and stood up with him for three dances, including a waltz, just last evening at Sally Jersey’s. Her attempts to secure Mr. Harvey’s attendance upon her, and therefore upon Mary, had been less successful. He had held steadfastly that he could not neglect his post as Lord Rockhill’s secretary, and she had had to content herself with his promise to accompany them to the theater tonight.

  True to his word, Mr. Harvey awaited them in the Hamptons’ small, shabbily formal sitting room. As always, it struck Francie upon seeing him that she would not have recognized him in a crowd. And because the thought smote her conscience, she greeted him more effusively than she might otherwise have done.

  “Dear Mr. Harvey! How good it is to see you at last! You must not remain such a stranger to us, you know, for I vow you are sorely missed.”

  He took the hand she held out to him and mumbled an awkward greeting as he bent over it. Staring into the cropped brown hair, an unwanted comparison arose in her mind’s eye of carelessly brushed ebony waves, and, with a fixed, bright smile, Francie bade him warmly to be seated. In the meantime, Mary had seated herself stiffly on the edge of an uncomfortable lyre-back chair, carefully spreading out the skirt of her white gauze gown so as not to crush the ornately puckered hem. Francie had chosen the frock for her because its blue stripes precisely matched the color of Mary’s eyes when she was at her most animated, which unfortunately she was not at present. She said nothing, merely nodded a civil greeting to Mr. Harvey, who returned the gesture with an aloof air. After this inauspicious beginning to the evening, a sense of gloom pervaded the trio.

  Gloom rapidly gave way to doom with the appearance of James to announce Sir Thomas Spencer. No sooner had the baronet crossed the threshold than Francie remarked to the room in general what a pity it was that the evening’s company could not have been more select.

  “I quite agree, Miss Hampton,” Sir Thomas said in an affable voice belied by the taut bow he presented her. “But as Lord Coombs expressly wished for you to come, we could do little but acquiesce after all.”

  The pleasantly delivered shot went directly to its mark. Francie quivered with resentment and only barely found voice with which to respond. “It is said, sir, that a true gentleman knows his own worth. What a pity you are so unaware of yours.”

  “Ah, but there, ma’am, you misjudge me,” he returned. “I know to a groat what I am worth, and it is considerably more than twenty thousand pounds.”

  The sudden pallor of Francie’s skin was exceeded only by Mary’s. The younger woman had gone white with the first insult slung and now gripped the thin arms of her chair in an effort to cease her trembling.

  Deep concern shadowing his hazel eyes, Mr. Harvey intervened. “Did you not say, Miss Hampton, that your mother was to make a member of this evening’s party?”

  For an instant, Francie did not answer him, for she sat as if she had not heard him, her hands curled tightly around her closed fan, and her eyes fastened on the toe of her satin slipper. At last she raised her head to gaze dully at him.

  “Yes,” she said on a carefully controlled note. “But as Mama has never had the least notion of time, I doubt we shall see anything of her for quite some while yet.”

  Her gaze shifted unwillingly to where the baronet stood before the firegrate, then immediately darted away from the blinding intensity of his eyes. It was the same hard, penetrating look he had focused on her upon her first arrival in London, and the ferocity of it robbed her of breath. She fiddled with the ends of her silk ribbons, telling herself it did not matter how handsomely his deep blue coat displayed his fine figure, nor to what advantage his legs showed in the tight black pantaloons. And if his snowy white cambric shirt deepened the tan on that handsome face, it was a matter of the veriest indifference to her.

  Such miserable musings were thankfully interrupted by her mother’s dramatic entrance. Beatrice Hampton had bedecked herself in the finest green satin, which shimmered like dewy grass as she floated into the room. Her Austrian cap of satin and blonde sat tipped slightly askew, perhaps to balance the lopsided hanging of her laced shawl over her left arm. Everyone rose as she entered, but she urged them back into their seats with a desultory wave.

  “I must rest for a moment, if you please,” she explained with a long sigh. “such an amazingly tiring exercise it is to be got up for such outings.”

  “But, Mama, we are already late,” Francie pointed out. “Lord Coombs will be wondering what has become of us.”

  “Oh, you need not worry, Miss Hampton,” Sir Thomas put in smoothly. “The young pup will stay to bark at your heels.”

  Turning a cold shoulder to him, Francie faced her mother, who had settled into the jade cushion of a japanned settee and shut her eyes. “I really must insist that we set out, Mama. We should not abuse the viscount’s generosity in this shameful manner.”

  The heavy lids rose slowly, but her mother stayed in her seat. “Has the carriage been brought around?”

  “Long ago,” Francie replied with a touch of asperity.

  The eyes closed. Then a deep rumbling sigh was heard and Mama put out a hand. “Sir Thomas, if you please.”

  The baronet stepped promptly forward and helped Mrs. Hampton to her feet. Mr. Harvey was left to offer his arm to both young ladies, and, as Francie laid her hand on his sleeve, she seethed with impotent rage. Lord Coombs might indeed be a mere pup, but at least he was a gentleman. And one, what is more, who valued her quite for herself. He was neither dissolute nor a rake. He was perhaps somewhat too earnest, but that was merely a youthful failing. He was, in fact, a veritable paragon, and she
was a fool.

  During the journey to the theater in Sir Thomas’s elegant lozenged town coach, Francie berated herself for not having the good sense to care the least bit for Viscount Coombs. His lordship had been as attentive to her this past week as only a young man in love can be, yet to her it had meant only a chance to briefly escape the turmoil of her emotions. For all her thoughts of market marriages, Francie had no real intention of making one for herself. Such a match was repugnant to her very nature. Was this not why she objected to Mary’s betrothment? As she stepped from the carriage with the aid of an ornately liveried footman, she consoled herself with the thought that for Lord Coombs it was but a calf-love, an infatuation that he would soon forget.

  They entered the theater in a grand procession behind Beatrice Hampton’s regal train to discover Lord Coombs standing dismally by the sweeping staircase, a bouquet of roses drooping in one hand. His fair head might have been bowed in melancholy reflection had not the excessively high points of his collar impeded such an action. But the slump of the shoulders encased in an elegant plum evening coat and the sag of the once-starched cravat told them all of his lordship’s despondency.

  Catching sight of Miss Hampton, however, Lord Coombs underwent an amazing transformation, his figure springing to life as he dashed forward with an eager smile and anxious words.

  “Oh, Miss Hampton! I was certain some misfortune had befallen you—that you would not come—that—” Suddenly he seemed to recall the others surrounding them and broke off in confusion. Flushing brightly, he brushed back his thin blond hair and made a deep bow. “Mrs. Hampton, ma’am. Miss Mary. Gentlemen.”

  But it was obvious that only Miss Frances Hampton existed for him. He presented her grandly with the bouquet and his arm at one and the same time and, though she thanked him prettily enough, Francie ascended the stairs with a plummeting heart. Too many of the baronet’s thrust had gone home for her to ignore the boy’s increasingly effusive infatuation, but she did not have time to consider what she should do before they reached his lordship’s gilded box.

  “Now, Mama, I think you should sit up front with Sir Thomas next to you, whilst Lord Coombs and I take the seats to the left. Mr. Harvey and Mary will not object to having the seats behind, I’m sure,” Francie directed as they passed through the curtains into the box.

  Several people focused on the latecomers, but no one hushed them as it was only the one-act in progress, to which no one was paying the least attention. Through the theater, a babble rose and fell like the tides of the sea, and a number of acquaintances called out to them from both the pit and boxes across the way. With a royally languid nod, Mrs. Hampton acknowledged a select few, then descended in a swaying rustle of satin onto the velvet chair.

  The others remained standing as Mr. Harvey voiced a whispered objection to Francie’s plans. “But of course Miss Mary must be seated next to Sir Thomas,” he was saying to a stony-faced Francie. “I shall be happy—no, honored—to take the chair beside your mother.”

  “But I assure you, Mr. Harvey—” Francie began, only to be cut off by an impatient Lord Coombs.

  “It surely does not matter where they sit, Miss Hampton, so long as you are beside me,” he said as he drew her reluctantly to the chair next to his.

  Frustrated, but unable to continue her protests, Francie sat down rather forcefully, a tight smile fixed on her face for the benefit of any curious onlookers. Mr. Harvey was, in her view, positively stuffy! If he lost Mary to the baronet, it would be no less than what he deserved, she decided. A man who would not make the least attempt to procure the hand of the woman he loved had absolutely no right to love at all.

  Suddenly Francie became aware of a strange warmth covering her hand and looked down to discover Lord Coombs’s white glove placed upon hers. With an ungentle yank, she recovered possession of her hand and delivered a fulminating glare to the unfortunate viscount. His lordship’s face turned crimson in contrition, and Francie knew a moment of pity mingled with self-recrimination. She leaned toward him and playfully rapped his knuckles with her fan, then graced him with an encouraging smile to let him know she was not truly angry. His flush faded from his narrow face, and he looked at her with the eyes of a grateful puppy. Conscience-smitten, Francie turned her attention to the action on the stage below.

  Viscount Coombs’s party remained in their seats at the end of the one-act and received visitors in his box. The theater hummed and buzzed noisily with little time for any action on Francie’s part, though she did attempt a whispered aside to Mr. Harvey that Mary might wish to take a brief airing. He reacted with stiff pride, telling her in a stern hiss that any suggestion of impropriety on his part toward a woman about to affianced to another man would simply not do.

  Francie ground her teeth audibly, though no one could hear over the babble in the small box. Catching sight of Sir Thomas, however, she had the uncomfortable conviction that he was somehow aware of her maneuverings, and she felt a spurt of resentment toward the man who was, after all, the source of all her troubles. During the first act of the Shakespearean tragedy—she was not even certain which one it was, so preoccupied by her own woes was she—Francie felt his burning stare upon her. Somewhat grateful that he was behind her and could not actually see the discomfiture she was suffering, she nonetheless could not shake the disturbing notion that the baronet knew precisely what she was thinking and feeling.

  As the curtain fell on what to Francie had seemed an endless piece of gibberish, everyone stood as if by previous agreement. Mr. Harvey departed to procure a glass of lemonade for Mama—who, of course, had been the only one to remain seated—while Mary stepped into the passageway on Sir Thomas’s arm. Gritting her teeth, Francie accepted Lord Coombs’s offer of escort and they, too, entered the corridor, which was rapidly filling with befrilled, bejeweled and bedaubed members of London’s haut ton.

  Absolutely nothing was going as Francie had planned. How would she ever contrive to settle things between Mary and Mr. Harvey if they did not cooperate? Really, she was quite put out with them both! She did not know precisely how or why, but she was certain tonight’s failure was Sir Thomas’s doing, and she experienced a resurgence of her hostility toward him.

  A flash of light caught her eye as Lord Coombs flipped open an ornate diamond-encrusted snuffbox. A speculative gleam came into Francie’s eye, and she tapped his sleeve lightly.

  “Do you think we could be alone a moment, my lord? I should like to . . . to speak to you about a very important matter.”

  His lordship looked at her as if he had just been given the key to heaven. He nodded vigorously. “Of course, of course.”

  They had stopped before the draped entrance to another box. Coombs now split the curtains, looked inside, then with his hand on her elbow, he guided her within. The box was deserted. They stood hidden from view in the darkest shadows at the very back.

  “Now tell me what I may do for you,” he encouraged.

  Francie stifled any doubts about the wisdom of her actions and parted her lips in a smile that had an instant effect on the viscount. He gulped as she spoke.

  “This is, my lord, a matter of some . . . delicacy,” she began. She halted abruptly. His lordship’s eyes had a heated glow that was very different from their usual friendly warmth.

  “I beg of you to call me Arthur,” he said with an odd urgency.

  “Very well, if you wish, Arthur,” she agreed, biting her lip, her doubts mushrooming. Suddenly she changed her mind. “I think we should perhaps return to our box.”

  The viscount leaned forward until his thighs pressed against her thin muslin dress and his hot breath sent the loose wisps of her hair fluttering at her neck. “There—there is something I must tell you. I cannot wait any longer. I seem to have waited for years already!”

  Like an iron weight, sudden dread oppressed Francie, making her forget the rebuff she had been about to make. “W-what is that?” she asked, not really wishing to receive an answer.

 
“My dear, dear Miss Hampton,” he exclaimed in a voice of ecstatic intoxication as he folded his arms about her. “Your hair is like—is like the setting sun! Your eyes are the most precious of gems! Your lips—your lips are—”

  “Lord Coombs, what are you saying?” Francie cut in with acute distress. She tried to escape his bumbling embrace, but her resistance only seemed to increase his ardor.

  Fondling her bare shoulders with eager hands and nuzzling his lips into the crown of her hair, he groaned, then replied rapturously, “Oh, Miss Hampton—Frances—my love! I am asking you to be my wife.”

  Francie was so astonished that she ceased to struggle altogether and meekly accepted the kiss he planted on her cheek.

  “Your wife?” she echoed blankly.

  “My dearest! My Frances! Tell me you will be mine!”

  His hands began to slid downward, the sticky heat of his breath clung to her neck, and his body strained more forcefully against hers, shaking her from her stupor. Raising her hands, Francie freed herself from his grasp with a hard thrust upon his shoulders.

  “My lord, you forget yourself,” she hissed on a shaky breath. “I have not given you permission to use my name, nor to—to address me in this manner. There is not the least possibility of an alliance between us.”

  His narrow face whitened, then went as scarlet s the velvet seats. “But my dear—my—Miss Hampton,” he stuttered. “You—you must! You must be mine. I love you!”

  She flinched to hear the words spoken with such heated desire. Catching her off guard, he again encaptured her in a clumsy embrace and endeavored to smother her lips with his. As Francie twisted her head, he was unable to succeed, but he left a hot, moist imprint along her cheek that left her feeling sick. She had closed her eyes to shut out the sight of his flushed fervor and opened her mouth to utter a violent protest when she was released abruptly. Her eyes flew open to behold Viscount Coombs dangling in the furious grip of a wrathful Sir Thomas Spencer.