by Sue London
She cut a tiny bite of her pie and considered what to do. She was tempted to press him, but her mother’s voice haunted her. ‘Francie, love, you were being too forward.’ What was wrong with being forward, precisely? It was better than belaboring under a misunderstanding because no one wanted to be impolite.
She smiled sweetly. “It must be quite a nice house if it has a name.”
His long blink as he considered what to say told her that her initial perception had been correct. He didn’t particularly care for falsehoods. “I’ve always liked it.”
Drat the man, but he wasn’t going to make it easy. She swirled the wine in her mug. “Does it have scads of bedrooms for your scads of sisters?”
***
He’d rather started to like Francine Walters, but this just went to prove what Jeremy always warned him about. A woman who scented your funds or family would set all else aside to gain those things for herself. He couldn’t entirely blame her as she had so little of her own. But he had to admit that he was sharply disappointed that it so quickly came to this. It did have the effect of substantially cooling his earlier attraction.
He shrugged. “They don’t all sleep in the same bed, if that’s what you’re asking.”
She tossed back the remainder of her wine. “No need to get testy,” she said. “It just confirms what I already thought. You come from a good family, wherein good means things like money. Who else would eat from a pub nearly every night? You stand every time I leave or enter a room, you know. I’ve never seen such perfect manners. And this after years at sea?”
“I was just at home before we came to Cleadon.” He didn’t know quite how she made him feel so defensive.
“Ah, so mum drilled those manners back into your head?” Miss Walters peered into her mug as though more wine might appear in it. Clearly she’d had more than enough already. When she looked up at him again her expression was mulish. “I have manners, too, you know. I’ve met a duchess. Well, she wasn’t a duchess at the time, but she had aspirations.”
“Would you like to retire, Miss Walters?”
“She was a good shot, too. If she’d shot you she would have aimed for the heart.”
“Then I will steer clear of duchesses,” he assured her.
“Jack says she lives at Belle Fleur now. I’ve never been there but Jack has been there.”
Perhaps he’d been incorrect in thinking she’d been fishing for his family fortune, because she seemed far more interested in proving she had connections of her own. And he’d damn well like to know who Jack was, because Miss Walters was throwing the name around like they were all old friends.
“I’ll wager that Belle Fleur has scads of bedrooms,” she said, snagging the wine bottle from the table. He intercepted it and they had a moment of tug of war, her with her hand on the neck, and he with his hand tight on the lower part of the bottle. She released it with the pronouncement, “Rude.”
Miss Walters was a handful. She stood and drew herself up with exaggerated primness. He stood as well.
“Good evening, Mr. Burnham,” she said, executing a quite credible curtsy considering that she was wobbly from drink.
“Miss Walters,” he said with a nod and slight bow.
She tottered off to her bedroom, leaving him with the banked fire and half a bottle of wine. This morning he’d thought time with her wouldn’t be boring, but it could still be infuriating. It almost seemed she wanted to throw his breeding in his face, while also trying to prove it didn’t put him above her. What a complicated creature she was.
He took a swill straight from the claret bottle.
Furthermore, who in the hell was Jack?
Chapter Ten
Francie woke with a terrible headache. She didn’t know if it was the wine, sleeping too much in her nap, or some other terrible thing. But her head pounded without mercy. It was still pitch dark outside. She would prefer to start on her sewing for the day, but Mr. Burnham slept downstairs and she didn’t want to disturb him. Didn’t want to see him, more like. So she stoked the fire and sat nearby to darn her stockings. By the time dawn crept in through the windows she was working on some of the stockings Phoebe and Lydie left behind. She heard a scrape on the wood floor in the shop and suspected Mr. Burnham was awake and looking for something to do. He was an energetic man, that was for certain, and being trapped here with her was surely going to drive him mad before too much longer. She tried to imagine what his life was really like. Son of a large and wealthy family, but pressed into military service at a young age. He was clearly a man of action, yet could also speak with great authority on detailed science.
She was, obviously, very much his opposite in upbringing. She had little family to speak of and had always been quite poor. She didn’t know very much at all about science. But, she thought as she pulled one of Lydie’s stockings over her hand to check for snags, perhaps they weren’t all that different underneath it all. They both liked to stay busy. She grinned to herself as she thought they both liked to curse a streak when upset. She just usually kept her cursing inside her head.
Her headache had dissipated somewhat. With a spot of tea and a biscuit she might be quite recovered. Rolling up the stockings she stored them in their chest before putting the kettle on. Setting about making the tea, however, just served to remind her how befuddled she’d been yesterday by Mr. Burnham’s attentions. Her father died so long ago that it was strange having a man about the house at all, much less one who muddled her thinking. She remembered that her parents had a teasing way between themselves. Papa would jape and gambol, and Mama would laugh and tell him to stop. They both knew she didn’t mean it. Francie assumed that if she married a man, it would be much the same sort of relationship. And not that she was thinking of Mr. Burnham as a potential suitor, but it was odd to her that teasing laughter did not figure in their relationship. He was, for the most part, quite serious. Or perhaps she was not the sort of woman that a man joked with? Most men upon meeting her assumed her to be as fragile as she looked. Mr. Burnham shouldn’t have that issue, as she’d shot him before he’d even seen her clearly, but he still might not think her the sort of woman who took to cajoling. And perhaps she wasn’t. She’d been quite a serious child in retrospect. It was only the addition of Phoebe and Lydia to their household that made her lighten her dealings with others. Phoebe wasn’t so much serious as she was worried all the time. Francie understood the inclination to worry, she did quite enough of it herself, but it seemed to lay Phoebe low at times. So Francie kept her worries to herself when her cousin was around. Phoebe probably even thought that Francie was an optimist. It wasn’t that so much as she was determined, like her mother. She refused to believe, regardless of the circumstances, that things would ultimately turn out poorly. Because she wouldn’t let them.
The kettle was boiling so Phoebe poured the water and let the tea steep while she changed into her dress for the day. While darning she’d gone back and forth on what to wear. She had only a small selection of dresses to choose from and most of them had been worn a few too many times, but that only left her blue dress. It was a bit too elegant for a simple day around the shop, but she didn’t relish the idea of donning one of the other dresses that Mr. Burnham had already seen a number of times. Was that vanity? She didn’t typically think of herself as a vain person. She only endeavored to be neat and tidy. Who wanted a dressmaker who couldn’t keep a tidy appearance? And there was the argument that perhaps she should present a more elegant facade as she was the lady of the establishment now. Her headache was getting worse rather than better as her thoughts chased around in her head, so she stopped thinking and followed her impulse to don the blue.
It was a fetching shade, just slightly darker than her eyes. Her mother hadn’t been able to resist the color. Wearing it now made Francie miss her mother all the more. Their lives had never been easy, but Mama had always indulged her whenever possible. Smoothing down the skirt she knew it had been the right choice. Missing her mother might
be bittersweet, but it was an ache she hoped never to lose.
“Miss Walters?” Mr. Burnham’s voice floated up the stairs. Just load enough to be heard if she were awake, just quiet enough that it might not wake her.
She walked out to their makeshift parlor. “Come upstairs, Mr. Burnham. The tea is ready and I’ve some biscuits to share.”
His boots thumped loudly on the steps and she turned to busy herself with pouring their mugs.
***
Reggie hadn’t slept particularly well. Mostly, he assumed, because he was having to choose between a damned settee and the floor. Last night neither had been comfortable. He’d been tempted to raid the girls’ stock of fabric to make himself a pallet, but it would be cruel to ruin their livelihood for his own comfort. Probably. Just now his back hurt like the dickens, which was making him understandably grumpy. A good balance of his night had also been spent thinking about Miss Walters. He’d not wanted to, but he would be thinking about something as boring as the effect of water on construction timbers and suddenly his mind would turn to her. It was beyond irritating. She had nothing to do with his life, and he would most likely never see her again after this strange interlude.
At the top step he instinctively looked for her and nearly stumbled. She was wearing almost the precise shade of blue he’d imagined her in. Her back was to him as she fussed with their mugs and pulled a tin from a cupboard. Her hair was swept up again at the back of her head, with ringlets hanging down. His urge to kiss the back of her neck was almost unbearable. She turned to set their bounty on the small table and smiled at him.
“I hope that you like ginger,” she said. She broke one of the biscuits in half and popped the first half in her mouth. Her eyes closed in delight as she crunched on the treat.
He wasn’t sure he trusted himself near her. Ginger biscuits weren’t his particular favorite, but he was sure the flavor would be much sweeter from her tongue.
“Sit, have your tea,” she admonished, sitting at the table herself.
He quietly drew a chair aside to sit down as well. Not too close to her, but the room was intimate no matter what one did.
“I had the most terrible headache this morning,” she admitted, breaking the other half of the biscuit into even smaller pieces. “I awoke early but didn’t want to disturb you.”
What would he have done, he wondered, if she had come downstairs last night? In the darkest hours when he was endeavoring not to think of her, but couldn’t help himself from doing so.
“Are you not feeling well this morning either?” she asked.
“I didn’t sleep well,” he admitted. His voice sounded overly scratchy to his ears, as though he hadn’t used it in days.
“I’m sorry,” she said, even sounding as though she meant it. Amusing as she hadn’t sounded nearly so concerned when she’d apologized for shooting him.
He gently stretched his shoulder and shrugged. “It’s more comfortable than most of the time spent on the ship,” he said, smiling at the thought. In all honestly a hammock was far more comfortable than her shop floor or even her settee. And on good days he might even score an officer’s cabin. But she relaxed her concern as he’d hoped.
“I guess I’ve never thought overly much about the comforts of a ship,” she said. He’d forgotten that she seemed overly interested in sailing tales.
“How entertaining can a pirate tale be when all that Blackbeard is doing is complaining about not getting any sleep?”
She chuckled. “I’ve read other things as well, you know. There was an account just last year in the papers about some of Cook’s travels to the South Pacific.”
“It’s possible you are more well read on sea voyages than I am, Miss Walters.”
“It has always been a particular interest of mine. I inherited my father’s love of the sea and no way to pursue it.”
“Here you have been, pining for the ocean, while I have been forced to spend my time in it.”
“You have no love for it?”
He’d never thought about it overly much. He’d been most interested in protecting his friends. Now, without even Harry in the Navy what did he want? “Let us say that I have the affection of long acquaintance. The sort you might have for a particularly irritating aunt.”
She nodded in understanding. “You feel about the sea as I feel about sewing.”
He raised his brows. “You don’t care for it?”
She shrugged. “It wouldn’t be my first choice, were I given any choices. But it is something I’m well used to and have a bit of talent for.”
“Precisely,” he nodded. “I would neither go out of my way to seek or avoid time spent on the sea. There are other things I would prefer to worry about.”
They seemed to have settled into a coze. But she was as fetching in blue as he’d expected and he wasn’t sure how he was going to keep their chaste distance enforced when she continued to look so adorable breaking her biscuit into small pieces while smiling and chatting about nonsense.
Chapter Eleven
Whatever awkwardness they’d experienced last night seemed to have passed. Mr. Burnham seemed affable enough, for him. He accepted their paltry breakfast well enough considering he was most likely used to a large table with beef and sausages. Oh, and eggs! She was making herself hungrier just considering what sort of breakfast he might have at his family’s home. She felt extravagant when breakfast included fresh bread from the baker, she couldn’t imagine selecting from a sideboard every day.
The only time she’d seen a breakfast like that was in Derbyshire. Not at her cousin’s house, for the Walters were far more modest of means. But one of Jack’s friends had them spend the night, and that girl’s father was a Viscount. It was the first time Francie had ever understood why one could say the table was groaning under the weight of the food. But she’d been so shy that she’d only had toast and some scrumptious eggs coddled in cream that a footman placed in front of her. The two sons of the house had eaten enough to feed an army, or so she’d thought at the time. Looking at Mr. Burnham she thought he could eat a similar breakfast without ill effects.
“I’m sure the pub will be open before too much longer if you’re hungry for something more than this,” she said, worried that she was starving him.
“I’d best be careful with my funds until I know how much longer I’ll be in residence,” he said. “I’ve written to my brother with a request, but that is no guarantee he will see it in time.”
“Oh, well, I could-”
He held his hand up. “It’s not your responsibility to feed me, Miss Walters. I appreciate the hospitality you do show me, as you have your shop and cousins to worry about.”
She smiled. “We are well used to our modest means, but there is enough saved back for at least a bit more hospitality.” She dabbed up the biscuit crumbs from her plate. “Perhaps today I can get eggs or even some sausages from the butcher.”
He drummed his fingers on the table for a moment. “What if you get the eggs and I will get the sausages?”
“Fair enough, I suppose.”
He smiled at her and damn her susceptible self, she felt a flutter in her tummy in response. He was dangerous to her, clearly. She’d been mostly a practical girl growing up, but she had her moments when danger drew her. She remembered a particular incident where she clambered up on a wall to look at the significant drop on the other side. It hadn’t frightened her at all, but her mother had been petrified. Mama had coaxed her off the wall, but then almost crushed her in a tight hug while crying. Francie had to promise over and over not to climb on the wall again before her mother would let her go.
That was the majority of the reason she’d never really told her mother everything she’d done in Derbyshire. She’d spent a good deal of her summers there for a few years after Papa died. In retrospect she realized it gave her mother an opportunity to focus on her work, and it had been a tremendous distraction for a young girl. She’d taken to her cousins Jack and Sam immediately, a
nd they spent their summers riding horses and practicing with guns, swords, and bows. Jack had loved the bow, the Viscounts daughter Sabre loved the sword, but Francie always preferred the gun. One day she’d spent hours practicing and was quite proud of herself, but then Sabre’s brother Robert watched her for less than a minute before frowning and giving her nearly an hour of instruction. Any chance her 11-year-old heart had of developing a tendre for Robert had been crushed by every few minutes hearing a sigh followed by, “No, not like that.” By the end of that summer her aim was stellar, but her affection for dark-haired well-born men was non-existent. She’d spent two more summers there. By the end she didn’t feel as much a part of the group. The rest of the families not only spent their summers together in Derbyshire, but much of the year together in London. The girls were blooming into ton débutantes while Francie remained a country bumpkin. The last week she was there the only one she truly felt comfortable with was George, simply because George didn’t care for any of the frivolity of their class. Francie was very much aware that she held to the edge of respectability by her fingernails, but George didn’t care about any of that. Flaunted a hatred of Society in fact. To Francie that made George some combination of hero and confidant. Because although she was sure Jack loved her, it didn’t seem like her cousin really understood her. That her challenges home in Cleadon were far different than anything Jack faced in Derbyshire or London. Jack had an entire library of books to read, a horse to ride, and a cabinet bursting with fashionable clothes. Oddly, George had all those things, too, but seemed far less affected by them.
