by Fran Baker
Sir Thomas ignored this compliment, taking his balled kerchief and stuffing it into his pocket in silence.
Each of his actions seemed to Francie to be filled with a new poignancy, and she found herself unable to look at him. The intricate scrolls of the marble side table assumed an absorbing interest to her. Tracing the swirls of the marble with one finger, she studied the scrolls while inquiring, “How soon do you think we shall be able to leave?”
“We, Francie?”
“You and I.”
“I rather think I shall be off within the hour,” Sir Thomas replied with the suggestion of a smile.
Opposition was ever the meat of life to Francie. She threw her head up, met his blue gaze squarely, and stated, “Of course I am going with you, Sir Thomas. Mary is, after all, my sister. I shall be needed to accord her chaperonage.”
“It may be hours before I catch up with them—hours in an open curricle, stopping only to change horses. I cannot possibly allow you to accompany me on such a journey.”
“Allow? I am not seeking your permission, Sir Thomas. I am insisting that I come with you. If you do not wish for me to ride in your curricle, very well, I shall hire a coach and go after them myself. Which is what I should have done in the first place,” she finished with a snap.
“I believe, Sir Thomas,” said another, unexpected voice. “that you should accept her companionship, if it will not put you out too much to do so.”
The pair in the hall whirled to gaze upward at Mrs. Hampton, who graced the head of the staircase. At the same instant, Agnes returned, followed by James, bearing a tray stacked with thick slices of heavy bread, slabs of meat and cheese, a mug of ale and one slim pewter flask. Sir Thomas shot an impatient glance over them, then turned back to stare up at Mrs. Hampton. His eyes narrowed and the muscles in his cheek flexed before he brought his gaze to rest briefly on Francie’s tense, determined face.
“Have you eaten” he asked brusquely.
“No, but I’m not the least hungry,” she returned.
“Nonetheless, I suggest that you join me in a quick meal. This isn’t a pleasure outing, Miss Hampton, and you’ll need the strength of solid food before we’re through.”
He turned on his heel and strode into the breakfast room. By the time Francie joined him, he had pieced together a sandwich and was into his second bite. Sitting as far away from him as possible, she likewise put meat and cheese between bread and forced herself to eat.
Words floated through the open doorway as her mother and Miss Dill entered.
“But I cannot feel that it would be right for her to do so,” Agnes was saying in strident tones that conveyed the depth of her opposition.
“You must, of course, feel whatever you choose to, Miss Dill,” Mrs. Hampton said as she subsided onto an embroidered chair cushion. “If you have no other choice but to object to this venture, I beg you will make your wishes known to someone else.”
“Of course I object to it!” Any person of sensibility would!” Miss Dill proclaimed. Facing Francie now, she stretched her hand across the table. “My dear, you must not let your emotions run away with you. If you will but consider a moment, you will see that it is both unnecessary and unwise for you to accompany Sir Thomas.”
Francie retrieved a stray crumb from her lip with the tip of her tongue before responding, “I am going, Agnes, and that is that. Someone must be there to protect Mary’s reputation.”
Arrested by the force of this argument, Miss Dill sat very still, then slowly drew back her hand. Taking a sidelong look at the baronet, she ventured, “Perhaps I could go along . . .”
“My curricle will be damnably overcrowded and weighted down to the speed of syrup as it is, Miss Dill,” Sir Thomas maintained between bites. “I fear you shall have to remain here and pray I don’t ravish Miss Hampton upon the road.”
“Really, sir!” Miss Dill exclaimed, in the same breath begging Francie to reconsider.
“Whichever it is, Miss Hampton had best decide now,” the baronet said, rising. As he took a pair of high-topped boots from James, he sat on the nearest chair and stripped off his pumps, replacing them with the boots. “Either she is coming or not, but I am leaving on the instant.”
“Oh, please, wait!” Francie, too, had risen and now stood half in her cloak and half out, struggling with the bulk of the heavy material. “I need my—my hat and things.”
Without glancing in her direction, Sir Thomas donned his caped greatcoat and pocketed the flask. Striding out, he barked curtly, “I give you one minute, Francie, not a second more.”
As Francie scrambled from behind the table, James held out her sadly rumpled chip bonnet and a small reticule. A smile of gratitude lit her face before she dashed down the hall in Sir Thomas’s shadow. He halted abruptly, and she crashed into his back as her mother’s voice wafted to them.
“Sir Thomas, I trust you to resolve this matter,” Mrs. Hampton said in a voice threaded with what Francie thought to be unnatural humor. “Once and for all,” she added cryptically as the baronet aught hold of Francie’s arm and dragged her out into the night.
Chapter 15
The night clouds clung together, obscuring all view of the moon and stars. Sir Thomas stared up at the sky with a frown as he drew on his gloves. Francie noted his abstraction and, setting her hand lightly on his arm, asked, “Do you think we stand the least chance of catching them?”
His head swung down as if only now remembering her presence. “I would not set out if I did not think so. Come, get you up and let us be off or we shan’t have our chance after all.”
Placing his hands on her slim waist, he lifted her easily to the seat of his curricle, then climbed up beside her. Taking the reins in one hand and his whip in the other, he nodded to his groom, who instantly released the leaders’ heads. The curricle shot away so speedily that Francie feared the groom would not make his leap onto the perch behind them, but he did so quite nimbly and they were off through the city streets.
Though she had traveled these thoroughfares many times, during both day and night, this time everything seemed imbued with a vivid animation, as if the whole of London were aware of her adventure. As their curricle weaved in and out of the traffic, street lamps burst by them with the brightness of fireworks and the most minor noises exploded in Francie’s over-sensitive ears.
Gradually the bustle of town life faded into a quiet rustic calm, and she let loose a long sigh and ceased to grip her reticule so tightly.
Sir Thomas noted her slight movement and darted a glance at her. Returning his eyes to the gray ribbon of visible road, he asked, “Where are your gloves?
“I—well, I lost them today and did not think to get another pair out,” Francie stumbled. She watched the pale silhouette of his profile tighten and thought she heard the word “damnation” drift through the brisk air, but she could not be certain.
That was the extend of their conversation for several miles as the baronet was forced to concentrate on keeping to the darkened road, only narrowly missing two very nasty ruts and once taking a sharp turn within an inch of a sunken ditch. Francie’s thoughts rambled from admiration for such skilled handling of a four-in-hand to castigation of herself for Mary’s present predicament.
In the midst of telling herself precisely how wrongly she had behaved with regard to Mr. Harvey, she realized that the curricle had slowed and was, indeed, stopping. Looking about her, she saw that they had entered the cobbled yard of a posting inn. She inquired of Sir Thomas where they were.
“Barnet,” he answered shortly. “We’re not stopping beyond time to refresh the horses, so don’t get down.”
She had no opportunity to disabuse him of such notions, for he vaulted down and, together with his groom, rapidly watered his team. As they worked, the clouds graciously parted to allow patches of moonlight to streak the earth. When they were off again, Francie felt Sir Thomas’s tension ease and sent a small thank you to the heavens.
Just then Sir Thomas s
tartled her by suddenly requesting, “Explain to me, if you will, how all this came about.”
Hoping the speckled moonlight did not permit him to see her blush, Francie began in an unusually meek voice. “Well, you see, I discovered quite some time ago that Mary . . . cherished a certain . . . regard for Mr. Harvey and—”
“So that explains it!”
“Explains what?” Peering at him through the shadows, she could only just see the sneering tilt of his lips.
“Your sudden . . . attraction—shall we say?—for Mr. Harvey.”
The weight of that harsh truth bowed Francie’s head. From beneath her bonnet, her words rushed out into the night. “Yes. Well, I did not think it . . . right for Mary to—to marry you when she loved him, so I—”
“So you interfered,” he cut in with a voice that echoed his whip cracking overhead. “Tell me, my dear, have you been taking lessons on meddling from your dear Miss Dill?”
“My interference was at least preferable to your indifference!” Francie flared, her head lifting in defiance. “You don’t care a fig for Mary!”
“I care enough to see that her reputation is not damaged from this tangle you have made,” he responded through clenched lips.
“I have made! Why—”
“I am interested in knowing, Miss Hampton,” he went on as if she had not spoken, “exactly how you led them to elope.”
“I did not lead them to it! Indeed, I never meant—”
“No? But what then did you mean? Did you hope for a scene tomorrow night to ridicule me? One very like the last one you contrived?”
His mocking anger had a curious effect on her. Her temper rose, leaping in flames to lick fiercely at his accusations. But since she had spent the last few hours heaping blame upon herself for having brought her sister to such a pass, Francie also recognized the justness of the baronet’s scornful words. And that recognition shot through he with the shattering intensity of a bullet through paper.
“No,” she whispered, turning her head so that he could see only a vague outline of her face. She searched for words to explain to him without also revealing her aching love and found none. So she sat clutching he reticule in her wind-chafed hands, miserably aware of the hard muscles so close to hers, the strong movements of the arm beside hers as it guided the reins.
Obviously he despised her for her part in tonight’s muddle and, indeed, she could not blame him for it. She despised herself. Sinking lower and lower into a pool of self-pity, she began to feel each bump and twist of the ride. It seemed to her she had spent a lifetime being jostled about in curricles. Her back ached abominably and she felt jolted out of her skin, while her cheeks and hands stung from the constant cruel caress of the wind. She refused, however, to give Sir Thomas the satisfaction of an uttered complaint and forced herself to sit straighter still in mute discomfort.
As they pulled into the next posting inn, Francie realized that her weariness following her earlier misadventure had been like a single grain of sand on a beach. Now she knew what it was to feel totally exhausted, both physically and mentally. Her secret relief when Sir Thomas explained that they would be stopping here to change horses was immense. He came round to he side of the curricle and stretched out his arms to her. She hesitated, saw him scowl, then leaned forward and let him lift her to the ground. Her legs were stiff, her first step unsteady, and somehow Francie found herself leaning into the support of the baronet’s broad shoulder, his arm around her back.
Despite her fatigue such intimate contact instantly awakened her senses. Through the heavy materials of his coat and hers, she felt the warmth of his arm like a brand searing into her back. The steady thumping of his heart assaulted her ear where her head lay against his chest, and the scent of starch wafted up from his cravat to tickle her nose. She watched the gravel crunch beneath their feet while tasting the crisp night air as it lay upon her tongue. Ridiculously, she wished this moment could last forever.
It did not do so, of course, and within minutes she was settled on a cushioned bench, her hands and feet held out to a roaring blaze that crackled and popped. Sir Thomas had disappeared to oversee the selection of a fresh team, but had thoughtfully ordered a cup of steaming tea for her. As the pot-bellied landlord handed it to her with a cheery, “This’ll put a spot o’color in yer cheeks, missy!”, she produced a wretched smile. Slowly she removed both her cloak and bonnet and lay them on the bench beside her.
Taking an exploratory sip of the hot tea, she tucked her feet up beneath the torn hem of her gown and stared into the flames. Sorting the blue ones from the red, the red from the white, Francie attempted to make sense of what her mother had told her earlier. If, in truth, Sir Thomas had ceased to keep Caroline Bond before their engagement, she had done him a gross injustice. And, she thought sadly, ruined her own chance for happiness. It didn’t bear thinking of. She set down her cup and placed her hands at the small of her back, trying to ease the cramping pain and striving not to think.
“You must forgive me my earlier temper, Miss Hampton,” said a voice behind her.
Her hands flew out from her back, knocking over the cup and spilling its contents over he bonnet and cloak. Francie jumped up and grabbed her cloak. As she yanked it up, however, the teacup descended from its folds to the floor with a crash. A firm hand moved her to the side. Then Sir Thomas was bending to pick up fragments of broken china.
“It seems I am ever startling you, Francie. I shall learn in future to announce myself with greater care.”
She watched the fire’s radiant glow dance over his wavy black hair bent so near to it, and her breath caught in her throat. She felt a if her voice had been captured in the grip of an unknown hand. She could not speak, though her mind fairly burst with words—of apology, forgiveness, agony and love, all unspoken, all unheard.
Sir Thomas stood up, dumped the shards onto the saucer, and moved to set the saucer on a round table in one corner of the small parlor. Francie focused on the outward swirl of his long, dark coat, trying vainly to ignore the supple grace of his movements. As he returned to stand before her, the agonizing battering of her heart against her ribs commanded all of her attention. But slowly, she became aware of the frown gathering in his deep blue eyes and a question came into her own.
“You look worn to your back teeth, my dear,” he said, his voice devoid of the concern his words expressed. “Your eyes are more heavily shadowed than the sky, and the only color I can see comes where the firelight strikes your hair.”
He paused as if expecting her to argue. When she said nothing, continuing only to stand staring at him with wide eyes, he went on in a voice grown suddenly husky, “You cannot possibly continue on, Francie. I think you should stay here in Welwyn. I’ll collect you on the way back. You’ll be able to rest and still provide the necessary chaperonage for Mary into Town.”
That at last penetrated her benumbed state. She would not be left behind! She reclaimed her voice from the unknown hand and protested angrily, “I’ll do no such paltry thing! I don’t need to be wrapped in swaddling!”
She had intended the words to come ringing forcefully out and she was humiliated to discover that her voice was a feeble thread. Still, she tried to maintain her point by glaring at Sir Thomas.
In one grim stride, he was before her, her shoulders clamped relentlessly in his hands. Shaking her until the loose knot of her hair gave way to spill curls over his whitened knuckles, he demanded irately, “Will you never listen to reason? Will you never use the least sense? Damnation, Francie, must you ever oppose me?”
Of a sudden he stopped shaking her. For an instant that seemed to Francie to burn away the years between them, he stood motionless, staring at her with eyes near-black with hunger. Then his palm came up to cradle her head, and his mouth came down on hers. From the fury and the passion within him, she expected a harsh, punitive kiss filled with rage. But his lips touched hers as lightly as fairy dust touched flower petals. They lingered, barely grazing her skin, as if
he sought only to tempt her.
With a groan, the pent-up desires of three long, miserable years spilled forth, and Francie opened her lips against his, eagerly taking, seeking, tasting the warm moistness of his kiss. Her hands found their way into his hair, twining and twisting with a restless need. She fit her body into the contours of his and reveled in the shudder that shook him. She did not think or care where this would lead. She only knew that her heart was singing, soaring with fulfillment.
He moved his lips a breath away, while his hand gently stroked the line of her throat. “Oh, Francie, I love you. You must know how I love you.”
Knowing he could feel the quickening of her pulse as it throbbed beneath his hand, she pulled slightly away. His hand, however, moved with her, thrilling her pulse to greater pounding.
“Love me?” she repeated on a ribbon of a sigh. “I thought you quite despised me.”
The ghost of a laugh caressed her cheek. His tongue teased her lower lip. “God knows I’ve tried to. But you, my adorable firebrand, kept setting my resolve to flames.” His lips moved to play with the lobe of her ear as he continued to murmur, “I meant to be cool and civil toward you, dear heart, but whenever we were alone, it was like this.”
“Like this?” she asked lightly, nuzzling closer into the fine broadcloth of his greatcoat.
“Like this,” he repeated, his finger tracing the curve of her lips until they quivered for his kiss. “Every time I saw you, I could not keep my hands from you. I was driven mad with wanting you, Francie. I wanted to touch you, to kiss you.”
He suited action to words then, sketching his mouth lightly over hers while his hands warmly framed her face, tilting her head back gently. Then his tongue flicked her lips apart, and his kiss went deeper, deeper, probing and claiming with a feverish hunger. His hands pressed into her cheekbones until Francie thought they must surely snap. And all the while shiver after shiver rushed through her.
Somewhere in the back of her mind it came to her that he had never kissed her like this before. If he had, she would have married him regardless of a hundred Caroline Bonds! When at length he drew slightly away, Francie accused him breathlessly of stealing her soul with that kiss.
