The Rake and the Recluse REDUX (a time travel romance)

by Jenn LeBlanc

  Gideon moved toward Francine, who stood staring after the carriage through the open doorway. “What exactly does he mean that this isn’t over? How could it not be over?” Her voice was panicked as she looked at him.

  He glanced at Perry, who turned to wait inside.

  “Francine, he honestly believes that as long as your maidenhead is intact, he can still lay claim to you.”

  The blood drained from her face. “What?”

  “I’ve no idea how much you heard, but he truly believes that you belong to him. Even our betrothal has not—and will not—stop him.”

  She took a deep breath, trying to steady her ragged nerves. “Well, being forced out of London should do the trick,” she said indignantly. “How is it that men believe they can own women?” she asked, straightening her spine and shifting her weight away from him. “I don’t see how any of this is logical. He is antiquated and ridiculous.” She looked out the doorway again as Gideon’s men walked up.

  “I’m sorry that you’ve had to go through this,” Gideon said.

  She glanced at him, then turned from the entry to return to the ball, but it wasn’t quite the same.

  Hours later, she walked around the entry hall with Gideon at her side, bidding farewell to the people she’d met and thanking them for attending. Gideon appreciated her diplomacy, marveling at what a wonderful and genuine person she was. She invited people to tea, she invited others to supper, and even more to the house party at the end of the summer. She gave a final wave and started up the stairs, but Gideon pulled her back into one final embrace. There didn’t seem to be any words needed between them.

  She smiled and walked up the stairs to her room leaving Gideon in the foyer. She paused at the landing and caught his eye. She nodded at Perry and Shaw who stood next to him, then disappeared into the depths of the first floor balcony.

  “That was quite an eventful evening, Your Grace,” Shaw said with a grin.

  “Indeed, Rox, I haven’t had such an enjoyable time at a ball in years,” Perry added.

  Gideon turned on the men, forcing them to back up a step, then he grinned broadly.

  “Well, gentlemen, I do nothing in small measures, after all.” He shook their hands before they took their leave.

  Gideon saw the last carriage roll away from the house and nodded to Sanders, who clapped his hands and called for the team of footmen and maids to begin the cleaning. Gideon took the stairs two at a time, went straight to his suite, and collapsed on the bed.

  Gideon awoke the next morning more than slightly disgruntled. He thought for sure Francine would have been emboldened by their tryst in the garden, but perhaps the words of her former betrothed had stayed her. When he finally drifted off, his sleep was undisturbed. He rose and dressed for their morning ride, then found Francine in her borrowed riding clothes, already astride Delilah, patiently waiting.

  He stopped short, thinking Sanders must be having a fit with Francine in front of Roxleigh House like this. He smiled as he pulled on his riding gloves, and she smiled back before taking off across the park. Samson bristled, his eyes wide, stamping his hoof impatiently as Gideon vaulted onto his back and gave chase.

  Although she was a natural rider, she was still quite inexperienced. He didn’t want to tempt fate, so he held Samson carefully in check to avoid spooking Delilah.

  They dodged around the park and he reveled in the way her strong laughter carried. She finally rested, leaning back in her saddle and walking the mare. When Gideon pulled Samson abreast of Delilah, Francine smiled coyly at him.

  “I’ll be taking the sisters shopping this afternoon,” she said.

  Gideon deliberated momentarily. He had become so accustomed to barking out orders and seeing them followed that interacting with Francine was oddly difficult. He knew, however, that she wouldn’t allow him leave to treat her commonly.

  “All right,” he said slowly. He felt like he was being forced to relearn how to interact. “But I would appreciate it, for my sake, if you would take the carriage and outriders, considering the events of last night.”

  She smiled; he breathed.

  “Hepplewort must be miles from here by now. You and Trumbull were quite specific when you removed him, and so was I.”

  “Yes. However, he didn’t seem convinced by the first meeting we had that he was to keep his distance, so I am not entirely sure that he’ll take heed this time.” He didn’t like the idea of Francine away from him with Hepplewort on the loose, but he didn’t see much choice. He hoped that Hepplewort was at his estate, taking the time to gather his wits and realize his errors. In the meantime, getting Francine safely married was of the utmost importance.

  “I was hoping we could talk about the wedding,” he said.

  She turned to him. “Thank you. For letting me take the sisters out.” She spoke as if she hadn’t heard him.

  He laughed, considering there was nothing he could have said or done to stop their excursion. “Francine,” he said. “The wedding?”

  “Well. What do you have in mind?”

  He regarded her intently. This has to be a trick. Doesn’t every female dream of planning their wedding? He pulled Samson up, sitting straight in the saddle. No, she wouldn’t, would she? For someone with her past, a wedding would be a sign of bondage and nothing more. The realization saddened him and his voice lowered. “You agreed to marry me,” he said dejectedly.

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Why?”

  “Because—because I love you.”

  “Yes, and I you. But why do you want to be my wife?” he asked in a dishearteningly serious tone.

  “I— I don’t know.” Francine turned away, not wanting to feel the emotions mirrored in his deep gaze. She hadn’t really thought about it. Why is he asking this? She urged Delilah forward. She’d never considered the subject of marriage beyond the obligatory ten-year plan. It was only another check on the list: graduate high school, check; finish college, check; get a good job, check.

  Find a man, she thought as she turned again, looking back at him. Check. She smiled.

  “Every inch of me wants to be with you. I can feel you in my bones, within and without. My skin aches for your touch, when you are nearby and far away. I suppose that is why,” she said as she glanced down. She took a deep breath. “It is as if you are another layer of my soul, perhaps a missing part of the whole of me.”

  He leaned forward in his saddle to hear her clearly, nudging Samson alongside Delilah. He’d never expected to find someone who wanted to marry him for no tangible reason. He’d believed that he’d be relegated to a loveless marriage with a blue-blooded chit who would bear him issue. Previously, his only desire for finding a wife centered on his need to have sons, just as his desire for physical intimacy would lead him to find a mistress, and any need he had for intelligent conversation would be appeased with a visit from his brother or business associates. How he’d come to believe that all these needs would be better served by one person was beyond comprehension for him. Except…that one person was Francine, and that was what made the difference.

  “There is no reason for us not to be together,” she said, smiling without meeting his eyes.

  “I agree. Indeed, I expected you to come to me last night after—well—last night.” He loosened the rein and leaned his elbows on the pommel.

  She laughed and reached out, running her fingers through his inky black hair, pushing it back from his brow. “You’ve no idea how difficult it was for me to not come to you.”

  “Why, then?” he asked, straightening in the saddle and forcing Samson to shift beneath him.

  She placed her hand under his chin and searched his eyes. “I figured you deserved a respite from my rather indecent behavior,” she said in her best proper voice. She dropped her hand and slid from Delilah.

  He jumped from Samson and ran to her, catching her up against him. “I want no such respite,” he said. “I want you. There is no way about it. Do not withhold yourself from me. Not
ever. Do not assume anything about my wishes. If you are unsure of something, you have only to ask. Is that understood?”

  “Yes.” He took her up, kissing her face fervently. “Gideon,” she groaned, then: “Gideon,” she said again, laughing.

  She tried to turn her face away from his kisses. It struck her then that he had refused to—What had he called it? Ruin her. He’d refused to ruin her.

  “Gideon, I am not the one who has been withholding.” She looked up at him from the shade of her long eyelashes, taunting him. He smiled and held her face in his hands.

  “We are leaving on the morrow. We are going directly to Gretna Green, which isn’t far from Eildon. We will be married immediately, and then I am taking you home—for our wedding night.”

  “Still so proper,” she said teasingly, though with a hint of disappointment. “If the issue is that I must be ruined, then be done with it. Ruin me, Gideon,” she pleaded in a throaty voice.

  He groaned and gripped her shoulders as he studied her. “This isn’t something that can be done twice, Francine. I have waited and now want it to be perfect.”

  “There is no such thing as perfect. Waiting for perfect is waiting forever,” she said, then tried to move away.

  “I used to think that before I met you. But for you I want everything to be perfect. Because of you I understand all the fuss that women make over the wedding ceremony. And it is for you that I will endeavor to make that happen,” he said as he smoothed his hands down her back, causing a shiver to streak her spine.

  “Perfection?” she asked breathlessly, staring at the full, soft lips that threatened her mastery.

  “Yes,” he whispered. “Perfection.”

  “But, Gideon,” she complained, in no more than a whisper, her resolve melting under his scrutiny. “You are such a tease.”

  “We only do this once, Francine.” He gave her a cunning look. “How is this going to work if you don’t listen to me?”

  Her gaze jumped to his, feeling the sudden shift in his demeanor. “Just fine, I should think,” she said, glaring at him through a smile. He relented with a silent chuckle.

  “Please let me do this one thing, Francine. Let me do this right.”

  “Right, for the sake of Society, propriety, posterity...”

  “Propriety be damned,” he cut in gruffly. “I want this for you.”

  That was the only thing he could have said to sway her, and there it was. She inhaled sharply, looking into his eyes and remembering how it had felt to have him treasure her innocence. “I love you, Gideon.” He stroked his thumb over her mouth, sealing the words in.

  “And I you.” The words were a prelude to his kiss.

  They took their time returning to the manor, walking side by side as they led the horses. They strode into the dining room for breakfast to find Perry, Shaw, Miss Faversham, Amélie, and Maryse already sitting and chatting. The men realized at second glance that the smaller gentleman with Gideon was actually a gentlemanly-clad Francine and stood.

  She smiled back at them demurely and greeted the sisters, walking over to sit with them. They enjoyed breakfast, the men discussing the pending departures and the ladies discussing their shopping trip.

  The sisters laughed and finished their breakfast quickly, wanting to set out. Nobody had ever taken them shopping. They were not allowed to go into town, much less into crowded boutiques and shops full of other people. They tittered away in French as everyone looked on in wonderment at their pure, unaffected behavior.

  The ladies started at Harrods. Francine enjoyed perusing the displays, but it didn’t look much like the giant conglomeration that she had seen in the news. She assumed this was the original building, by the way it had overtaken several neighboring structures. Inside was a veritable labyrinth of merchandise from home furnishings to groceries and ready-to-wear clothing. She smiled as they moved from department to department. She had never really been much for shopping in her other life, but could see how it could become an obsession for some, especially in a place that seemed such a magical patchwork as this.

  Keeping track of the sisters was like wrangling cats. One would see something and the other would rush over, only to have a newer and shinier item catch her eye, leading her off in the opposite direction.

  Francine was excited to find clothes that didn’t need so much primping and preparation, not to mention assistance. She and Miss Faversham helped the girls choose some comfortable ready-to-wear dresses—simple, easy frocks for the country. She picked out doeskin riding trousers, shirts, jackets, hats, gloves, and boots to match, for all of them.

  They purchased everything they could possibly need and then some, having everything sent to Roxleigh House.

  They eventually left Harrods and returned to the bustling London streets. “I need a bookstore,” Francine said suddenly. They continued walking, avoiding the horse patties and dodging delivery people who were oblivious to their finery. Halfway down the block, Francine spotted a large bookstore. The sun was shining and the only clouds in the sky were from the coal burning fires at the factories.

  Grover moved to follow in the carriage, but Francine waved him off. The street was so crowded with hacks and other carriages, it would be easier for them to walk back.

  “We’re only going to that bookstore,” she said, pointing it out. “There’s no need to follow.”

  The men nodded but kept a close eye on the ladies as they wandered their way to the shop. As they approached the bookstore, the sisters looked around, a bit disgruntled, and Francine glanced at Miss Faversham.

  “Would you mind? Maybe you could take them to the shop across the street? I won’t be long,” she said.

  Miss Faversham nodded and Francine thanked her. She heard a muffled squeal and turned, smiling at the sisters.

  A bell rang at the door as she entered and a small, bespectacled man greeted her from behind a small counter. “Well, miss, what can I help you find today?”

  “Can you show me where the most recent publications are?” He walked around the counter and led her to a shelf beside the front window.

  “These are the newest periodicals and news sheets. The books are here on this shelf,” he said as he inspected some of the titles.

  “Thank you,” she said, nodding. “Are you familiar with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle?”

  He looked puzzled. “No, I regret I’m not, though I can add the name to my notes and—”

  “No, no. No, please, don’t trouble yourself.” She began pulling books from the stacks and soon carried an armload to the counter.

  “Here, miss,” he said, reaching out. “Will this be everything?”

  “Yes, thank you. Will you have this sent to Roxleigh House?”

  “Oh,” he said, then smiled at her. “Why yes, my lady,” he said deferentially. “I had no idea.”

  “Pardon?”

  “My lady,” he said as he walked back around the counter to the front table, picking up a sheet of paper and handing it to her.

  She thanked him and he bowed to her. She walked outside reading. Mrs. Witwick’s Society Page, the title printed in fancy letters across the top. Francine giggled, thinking how much she missed the New York Time’s “Page Six.” She read the headline: “The Rake and the Recluse entertain Society with a spectacular soirée.”

  Reading those words was the last thing she did.

  Miss Faversham brought the sisters to the carriage to wait for Francine, and wait she did, for what seemed entirely too long of a time.

  “I shall be right back,” she said to the sisters. “I’m going to go into the booksellers’.” She stepped out of the carriage and asked Grover and Gentry if they had seen Francine.

  “No, ma’am,” Grover answered. “We saw ‘er enter the bookstore, but I don’t think she’s come out yet.”

  Gentry nodded his head in agreement.

  “I will go check. I’m sure she just got caught up in the stacks. Please watch over the girls, Grover.”

  “I’ll
go with ye,” Gentry said.

  The bell on the door chimed as they entered and a man walked out of the stacks.

  “Well, well,” he said. “Two beautiful young ladies in one day. How did I happen to be so lucky?”

  Miss Faversham smiled. “Is the other young lady back there?”

  The man stopped, a furrow appearing on his brow. “The lady? No, she left more than an hour ago.”

  Miss Faversham’s heart lurched and Gentry pushed past her. “Are you quite sure?” he asked gruffly. “An hour past?”

  “Why yes,” the man said, concern lining his features. “I only just finished wrapping her purchases. The boy should be by any minute to take them to His Grace’s town house.” He held one of the packages up.

  Miss Faversham clutched Gentry’s sleeve to steady herself.

  “Do you know where she went after she left?” he asked.

  “Well.” The man gestured to the street. “She walked out reading Witwick’s, and—and I do not know after that,” he said, looking back to Gentry. “I went to the back to wrap her books. She must be close by, miss,” he added, glancing at Miss Faversham.

  Her face paled.

  Gentry grumbled, taking the packages and turning to the door.

  “Is there a problem?” the bookseller asked carefully.

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  Gentry turned back as they walked from the store. “If you see her, you will hold her, and you will notify His Grace immediately.”

  “Of course, sir,” the man said quickly. “Post-haste.” The door shut, the bell ringing above the bookseller as he stood looking after them.

  Miss Faversham strode ahead of Gentry, searching up and down the street, the sounds of the city muted in her mind as it raced for clues. As they walked toward the carriage, she saw a copy of Mrs. Witwick’s Society Page in the gutter. She reached for it and looked around again, handing it to Gentry.