by Kery, Beth
Francesca went still in the process of lifting her mug to her lips, her gaze bouncing from Ian to Gerard to Ian again. Surely Ian wasn’t planning on confronting Gerard. Surely he wasn’t considering talking to Gerard about her. The thought angered her—what right did he have to tell Gerard what to do when it came to her? At the same time, she’d be lying to herself if she said she didn’t experience a little relief. She’d already determined she wasn’t interested in Gerard’s advances. With Ian here, Gerard’s attraction to her just seemed to muddy the waters even more when all she needed was clarity.
“Francesca doesn’t like people around when she works,” Ian said quietly when Gerard opened his mouth—Francesca would have guessed to protest. “It makes it difficult for her to concentrate.”
She took a sip of her tea to hide the pain that went through her at Ian saying out loud something she’d told him once in an intimate moment. It seemed too strange, the paradox of the closeness she felt with him combined with a glaring distance, given his actions. It suddenly felt unbearable. Strangling. She wanted nothing more than to be alone.
“It’s true,” she told Gerard apologetically. “I freeze up when people are around.”
“We’ll walk then,” Gerard said, shrugging. “I have plenty of questions for you as well, Ian.”
“Grandfather bid on an old boxer-engine World War Two motorcycle at Higsby’s last month. Care to have a look at it?” she heard Ian say to Gerard as they headed toward the door.
“Is it in running condition?” Gerard asked, and Francesca was glad to hear the note of interest in his voice. Ian was trying, at least. He must feel guilty for his earlier heavy-handedness with his cousin. She’d always heard from Ian that Gerard and he were close. If they weren’t getting along, it was most likely due to some misplaced jealousy on Ian’s part.
“Needs some work.” Ian opened the front door and cool air rushed into the room. “I’ll be able to keep an eye on the cottage from the grounds, but lock this after we leave,” he called back to Francesca.
Francesca rolled her eyes.
“Francesca?” he prompted in that hoarse, compelling voice of his. She met his stare reluctantly. “Double lock it. Please.”
“Fine,” she muttered, willing to say anything to get him out of there. It felt like she hadn’t taken a full breath of air into her lungs since she’d entered the sitting room that morning. She finally did so after she’d slammed the door shut behind the two men and twisted the locks.
She couldn’t take this for much longer. If Ian didn’t leave Belford sometime very soon, she would have to be the one to go. It was a simple matter of survival.
But could she really do it? Could she really walk away from him after so many months of worrying, so many unbearable nights of feeling his absence like a gaping hole in her spirit?
If he could do it, you can.
Somehow, that incendiary thought didn’t help any.
* * *
Ian and Gerard returned after their inspection of the grounds, but thankfully her focus on the sketch gave her some measure of defense.
Or so she’d thought.
Someone tapped lightly on the door, but then immediately used the key to enter. Ian. He knew she’d be lost in her own little world. She glanced around distractedly from where she sat on a chair in front of the cottage picture window and saw him walking toward the fireplace, looking rugged and very appealing with a load of logs in his arms and his short hair windblown. He met her gaze, but didn’t speak as he put the logs in the firebox and kindled the fire. She resumed moving her hand over the sketchbook propped in her lap, distantly aware that Gerard stood for a moment at the threshold looking at her before walking out again, closing the door gently behind him.
The thought that she and Ian were alone in the cottage penetrated her awareness. She swallowed uneasily, her entire focus transferring from the view before her and the unfolding image on the page to the sounds of him moving behind her. What had Gerard and he talked about? Would he say anything to her now that they were alone?
She heard his boots scuffling on the marble hearth as he stood. He returned the poker to the holder, with a muted sound of metal on metal. She tried to locate him in the room by sound in the anxious silence that followed.
Her sketching hand went completely still a second later when she felt him touch her nape at her hairline, his fingertips cool . . . slightly abrasive. Shivers cascaded down her spine.
I’ll wait for you in my bedroom tonight.
Her heart seemed to jump into her throat. He hadn’t said the same words he’d uttered in the sitting room early this morning, and yet she’d heard them perfectly in her head. She sat looking out the picture window, frozen, every cell of her being focused on him standing just behind her. His fingers moved slightly, stroking her, creating a fresh wave of tingles down her spine . . . tightening her nipples.
“I’ll lock the door from the outside. Start back to Belford before it gets dark. If you don’t, I’ll come and get you.”
It could have been that he was alluding to the fact that she frequently lost track of time when she worked, and that she would be expected for dinner at Belford. It could have been that he was referring to her prickliness when it came to his presence, and he was letting her know point-blank if she stayed too long, she’d have to endure him.
Whatever the subtleties, he was making it clear that he’d claim her upon his whim.
Anger swelled in her breast at the thought, but that sensation was nothing in comparison to the other places in her body that his touch had enlivened.
Those places prickled with awareness long after he was gone.
* * *
That evening after she got out of a warm, relaxing bath, she found Clarisse in her suite hanging out a dark green dress for her to wear.
“I poured some club soda for you,” Clarisse said, nodding at a glass on a tray sitting on the coffee table. “Her ladyship told me to tell you that they met up with some friends who are staying in town over the holiday, and they’ve been asked to dine at Belford tonight—a Mr. Gravish and his wife. Her ladyship is friends with Mr. Gravish’s mother, and his wife was a school friend of Mr. Noble’s.”
“Ian you mean?” Francesca asked.
Clarisse nodded. “Yes, she knew him when Mr. Noble was still a boy, you know, in the local primary. Back when he first came to Belford Hall, I believe. One of the older maids told me he hadn’t ever been properly schooled before he came to England, and so her ladyship enrolled him in the local school for a year and gave him a private tutor in order to get him up to snuff. Mr. Noble was sharp as a blade, though, even if he was rough around the edges. It only took that year before he was ready for private, but that’s when he met Mrs. Gravish—I mean, she wasn’t Mrs. Gravish back then, of course.” Clarisse realized she’d been prattling on and gave Francesca an anxious glance. “Anyway, I’d started to stay that everyone is going to meet in the sitting room at seven before dinner,” Clarisse said. She held up a pair of brown suede pumps. “These with the dress, miss?”
“Sure,” Francesca said distractedly, thinking about what Clarisse had said about Ian as she removed the towel on her head and watched the young woman bustle around. “Did you have a good time at the ball last night, Clarisse?”
“Oh, yes. It was amazing.” She said excitedly before something seemed to occur to her and she hesitated.
“What is it?” Francesca asked as she toweled her hair.
“It’s only . . .” She bit her lower lip as she withdrew silk underwear from a drawer. “Mr. Noble returning . . . it must have upset you a lot.” She fumbled, looking at Francesca worriedly. “I mean . . . we heard that you and his lordship’s grandson were engaged to be married . . . before,” she finished lamely.
“We were. Once. But that’s over now,” Francesca said, picking up a comb from the dresser.
“But y
ou must still have feelings for him.” Clarisse burst out.
Feelings for him. Against her will, Francesca felt his fingers brush against the tingling skin of her nape. She shivered and her sex tightened just from the memory. “I mean . . . Mr. Noble is the most handsome man I’ve ever seen,” Clarisse added lamely.
“Handsome is as handsome does,” Francesca said with a small smile. “I’m going to go and dry my hair. Oh . . . and Clarisse?”
“Yes?” Clarisse asked over her shoulders, holding a pair of sheer stockings in her hands.
“No offense or anything, but I’ll pick out my own underwear. Call it an American thing.”
Clarisse’s blue eyes went huge before she saw Francesca’s smile. Laughing, she scooped the underthings she’d set on the bureau back into the drawer and closed it.
Francesca dried her hair, and then used a curling iron to make a loose fall of waves. Leaving the bathroom, she stared at the conservative wool dress Clarisse had set out for her for dinner. She thought about Ian’s arrogant assumption that she would go to him tonight in his bedroom.
Maybe she would. Maybe she wouldn’t.
Whatever she chose, she would be miserable. It was only a matter of when she’d feel it. He was the one responsible for all these opposing feelings, all this unbearable friction grinding away inside her. Her agitation caused a usually buried but all-too-familiar rebellious streak to flare to life inside her.
She hung the green dress back in the closet and withdrew a long-sleeved, ruched sheath dress in brilliant cobalt blue. Five minutes later, she studied herself in the full-length mirror. Her long hair spilled around her shoulders, the reddish-gold color a striking contrast to the brilliant hue of the dress. She wore drop pearl earrings and no necklace. The dress had a low-cut, square-neck collar that left her throat, chest, and the top curves of her breasts exposed. It clung to her body, but the ruched fabric added an element of modesty. Overall, the dress gave the impression of sophisticated, confident sexuality.
The last thing she wanted to do at that moment was to let the world suspect how she felt on the inside. This dress would handily disguise all that.
Or that was her plan anyway. She thought it might work until she walked into the subtly lit sitting room minutes later, chin held high, only to discover it was empty. Deflated, she paused just inside the room, checking the clock on one of the bookcases. No . . . it was seven o’clock sharp. Had Clarisse mentioned the wrong room?
A sudden prescience overtook her and she turned to the right. Ian stood at the far side of the room looking devastating in a tuxedo with black tie, a book in his hand, his eyes gleaming from the shadows as he watched her.
* * *
She wavered awkwardly in her heels for a moment before she recalled the confident, unconcerned role she was supposed to be playing for the evening. Shit, she thought as Ian calmly replaced the book he’d been perusing in the shelf and walked toward her. She’d never been much of a good actress.
“Where is everyone else?” she asked.
“I was about to ask you the same thing,” he said. His gaze dropped over her, lingering on the exposed skin of her chest and breasts. Her nipples pinched tight. She gritted her teeth. “That’s a pretty dress.”
“You bought it for me,” she said, as if it were an unimportant, throwaway fact. She started to glance around the empty room, but did a double take when she noticed his small smile.
“And are you wearing it for me?” he asked, his low voice causing her neck to roughen in awareness.
“I brought exactly four dresses to Belford. You’ll likely see me wear most of them. Knowing you, you’ll think I’m wearing all of them for you. I can’t control what you think,” she said coldly.
“No,” he said, his gaze lowering over her once again. Hot. Possessive. His nostrils flared slightly. “It’s hard enough to control our own thoughts. Isn’t it?” She realized she’d been staring covetously at his chest and wide shoulders. He looked indecently handsome in his tux.
She inhaled sharply and looked around the room. “Should we go and look for the others?”
“No, the fire has been laid and a man was in earlier restocking the liquor. This is where we are meeting. Would you like anything from the bar?” he asked.
“A glass of white wine, please,” she said, eager for an excuse to get some distance between them. She stayed where she was at the edge of the room, comforted by the shadows that clung there. He returned soon enough, however, a glass of chardonnay in one hand, a highball glass of bourbon and water in the other. She took the glass from him quickly when he offered it.
“Who told you we were meeting in here tonight?” she asked, fixating on the reason why they were alone instead of surrounded by the protection of chatting friends and family.
“Gerard mentioned it I think. He must have gotten the time wrong.”
“Maybe he wanted to get back at you for earlier,” she said, taking a sip of the chilled, dry wine.
“Get back at me?” he asked in polite confusion, black brows arching.
She rolled her eyes. Sometimes he was so British in what he chose to notice and what he decided to ignore.
“Earlier today. Here in the sitting room. The keys to the cottage?” she pressed when he remained impassive. “What was all that about between you two?” she demanded, finding a vent for her all of her unspoken, volatile questions.
“It was nothing,” he said, shrugging. She gave him a sarcastic glance. He frowned and took a sip of his drink, seeming to consider. “Gerard and I are like brothers at times. As you probably guessed from working with him on the Tyake acquisition, he would do anything for me, and I would do the same for him if he were in a pinch. But the other side of that is a little . . .”
“Brotherly rivalry?” she said dryly. “You never told me about that part of your relationship with him before.”
“I don’t consider it relevant,” Ian replied, leaving her with the definite impression that if there was an issue, it was on Gerard’s side. “Maybe it’s inevitable. His mother and my grandfather were exceptionally close, even though my aunt Simone was almost a generation younger than Grandfather. Gerard was always close to my grandfather as a result of that bond, and they only grew closer when Gerard’s father and mother died years back. Gerard was only eighteen when they were killed in a car wreck. He stayed alone at Chatham, a force unto his own from that day forward. But he still sought out Grandfather. He needed him, I think. Craved a pillar of strength, despite his show of independence. My grandparents have been parental figures to both Gerard and me. It’s only natural that there might be some friction once in a while.”
“And then there’s the whole issue of the title and the properties being divided up between you two,” Francesca observed. “How does Gerard feel about that?” she wondered, knowing from personal experience that Ian was very insouciant about the fact that his grandfather’s title would go to his nephew versus his direct descendent—Ian himself.
He flashed a glance at her, his eyes catching the firelight. “You seem awfully interested in Gerard.”
“He’s been very kind to me since all this business with Tyake started up,” she said stiffly.
“I’ll bet he has been,” he muttered before taking a swift draw on his drink.
He was there for me a hell of a lot more than you were.
His eyes widened slightly. She felt scored by his stare. She hadn’t said the furious thought out loud, had she? Maybe it didn’t matter. Ian was a mind reader when it came to her. She tore her gaze away from his and lowered her head. Her anxiety mounted even higher when she glanced again at the empty room . . . the intimate lighting.
His presence and nearness seemed to set every cell of her being vibrating in acute awareness. If only she could shut off this immense attraction she had for him . . . this compelling connection. Ian had found the strength necessary to sever tha
t connection by leaving her. Why was it so hard for her body and spirit to comprehend that rift?
She hesitated, wanting nothing more than to swallow the familiar question again, but the burn had become too great on her throat and tongue.
“What is it?” he asked quietly, obviously sensing her internal battle.
“Are you well?”
She closed her eyes briefly, mortified at how shaky . . . how naked her simple question had sounded in the silent room. “In good health, I mean,” she hurried to say. When he didn’t immediately reply, she met his stare. She struggled to explain. How could she tell him in these circumstances that she’d existed in hell, wondering if he was suffering or sick for all those months . . . alone. “It’s just . . . you’ve lost weight,” she added lamely.
“I’m healthy enough. The state of unhappiness doesn’t qualify as an illness.”
“I’m sure there are plenty of psychologists out there who would disagree.”
“Do you think I need treatment?” he asked deadpan, his blue eyes spearing.
“What if I do?” she defended. “Most people who’ve been through what you’ve been through would benefit from some support.”
“Don’t worry, Francesca. Please.”
The thread of entreaty in his tone, the way he said her name like a gentle caress with that rough voice, made emotion surge up on her unexpectedly. “Were you unhappy with me? Did I just not want to see the signs?” she asked before she could stop herself. She was a little horrorstruck by her boldness. Or was it her weakness that had made her ask? Would her allowing one question to escape set off a mass outbreak of wild, shameful curiosity?
She had never despised herself more, and yet still she waited, perched on a ledge of anticipation waiting for his reply. The question seemed to hang between them in the full silence. Her throat swelled when he stepped closer and she could make out the tiny, ambient dots of blue in his eyes. He touched her with the ridge of his forefinger just beneath her chin, and then gently stroked her throat. She shuddered at the caress.
