Leaving her overheating from the tips of her toes to her sizzling eyelashes as she beheld—for one brief second more—the man she’d soon learn had earned one of the worst reputations in London, yet somehow also commanded the respect of just about every other man in the ton.
’Twas Lord Blakely who had rescued her that day, sparing her a glance that lasted naught but a second, but inciting her interest, demanding her curiosity, and earning her devotion, however distant, upon his equally brief bow and murmured, “My apologies, miss. I do hope you are unharmed,” before ducking back inside, slamming the door behind him, and roaring recriminations at the men he’d freed her from.
Francine blinked. Waved her hand in front of her face, trying to cool off temperatures that soared every time she thought of him. Of how he’d looked in that oh-so-brief moment—haggard. Tired. Suffering under the weight of responsibilities, yet assuming them all the same. Attractive. Powerful. Thoroughly compelling.
Though his timely rescue made her appreciate him, it was the dark haunting she sensed in his soul that fixed her attention upon him.
Never one for fickleness, her idle interest had only deepened with time, something that was brought home with utter certainty in the last few minutes of mental wrangling:
For after being close enough mere moments ago to count the folds in his snowy-white cravat, see the tiny nick that scarred his nose right at the midpoint and recognize the haunted loneliness still smoldering in his russet eyes—despite his irreverent air—she’d just decided that what she wanted above all things was Lord Blakely. Any way she could get him.
She still felt the imprint of his hand where he’d gripped her arm. Her lady regions still twitched from his invigorating presence, directing her thoughts into entirely new realms. Her intention had been to pay Lord Blakely only for his time and the use of his disreputable reputation but now… Now? Francine was seriously considering adding an entirely new element to her offer. One that included herself.
His wavy black hair, attractively shaped side whiskers and penetrating eyes were the cornerstone of illicit fantasies. Hers, certainly. Who knew that up close he would look so dratted…scrumptious? His appearance put her in mind of a seductive demon. One sent to Earth with the sole purpose of tempting and tormenting young—and not so young—females. She could easily imagine herself ensnared in his fierce embrace and delighting in every aspect of it.
How soon could she escape Aunt Prudence and go to the garden on the chance he’d decided to meet her? Not until after supper, surely.
She patted the sides of her dress, searching for her spectacles.
“Do you have any idea what kind of man Lord Blakely is? What type of scandals he and those awful cubs of his participate in? Such a carousing band of rabblers! How Lady Longford could even consider inviting them…”
Ah. Blakely’s Cubs, Francine thought, abandoning her search when she remembered that Aunt Prudence had made her leave them at home.
Blakely’s Cubs…
She’d heard whispers of the debauched revelries that took place at The Den, one of the more notorious London hells, but hadn’t realized the connection.
Now that she thought back to the group of young men surrounding Lord Blakely, vying for position next to him and doing their best to command his attention—she’d watched their blurred forms for ages before working up the gumption to approach him—she realized he must be one of the patrons of the infamous club. A thrill of excitement flashed through her stomach. If anything, this only made him more appropriate in her eyes.
“He is known for affiliating with the lowest grade of society. Three-quarters of the filth he associates with do not come close to ranking invitations to the best events.”
Barely restraining the smile that threatened, Francine commented, “But are we not all attending the same fête tonight?”
Aunt Prudence ignored her.
So she added, “And he was at the Seftons’ ball three years ago. Or did you not know?”
But her aunt was adept at hearing only what she chose to. “Why, the very thought of one under my protection even being in the same room with that blackguard! It destroys my soul to see you behaving with such utter disgrace, Franny. If you persist in such outlandish behavior—”
“Persist?” Francine was finally compelled to defend herself. “When have I ever done anything to cause embarrassment to your family?” Had she not voluntarily delayed her own come-out a year or more beyond what was customary, waiting for Patience to reach an age where they could debut together, only out of consideration for her aunt?
An aunt who now sputtered before replying. “All those flowers you play with. It is not the least seemly.”
“Aunt, they are herbs and vegetables, not flowers and they supply food to your table.”
“Well.” Her aunt could harrumph with the best of them. “And your face is as brown as a chestnut, despite the powder.” Aunt Pru poked a finger to her chin and turned her head hither and yon. “Unseemly is far too mild a term for what you have done to your skin. Makes you look like a veritable Gypsy.”
“With this hair?” Francine was grateful she’d found at least one thing to laugh about during this conversation. “I seriously doubt anyone will be mistaking me for anything other than a bland English miss.”
“Miss is right.”
Aunt Prudence would latch on to that word. Drat!
“’Tis high time you started behaving as a proper English miss and let me procure a match for you. Both of your cousins have already done so, such grand alliances and without a word of protest from either of them. Why you will not just follow along and behave as they…”
It was to be expected when Patience went along with her mother’s scheming and betrothal arranging, accepting the first man to offer. After all, Patience took after her father in looks (with thin, mud-brown hair and a nose several shades too large for her mouth, giving her a perpetually pinched look), and she followed her mother in temperament. Given that, she hadn’t exactly been lauded a success in her early Seasons.
But Temperance, now? The cousin who had recently taken to asking everyone to call her Tempest… Her quiet acquiescence had surprised Francine.
When she’d first come to live with them, not long after her widowed aunt had remarried, Francine had thought she and Temperance, her younger cousin, might form a bond beyond family and become true friends.
Despite the five-year difference in their ages, they’d shared several meaningful conversations deep into the night when they should have been in the Land of Nod. Yet only a short while later, Temperance changed, becoming aloof and flitting about much like her older sister—the both of them behaving, more often than not, as though not a meaningful thought existed betwixt their ears.
At the time, Francine had not the fortitude to pursue an unwanted friendship nor to discern the impetus behind the sudden shift, not when she still grieved the loss of her parents with nearly every waking breath.
And though she’d tried to reach out a few times since, her every overture was rebuffed, Temperance making it clear as sunshine she’d no need of Francine as anything more than her elder cousin, someone to be friendly toward, share the occasional smile or laugh with, but certainly not as a bosom companion to be confided in.
As to Patience? Only two years younger than Francine, peevish in the extreme, and evolving into the very epitome of her mother so thoroughly it erased any disappointment Francine might have felt over not pursuing a relationship with the cousin closest to her in age.
Contrary to her current preoccupation with unpleasantness, Aunt Prudence had been convivial once upon a time, according to Francine’s papa. Even going so far as to follow her heart into an alliance firmly disapproved by their parents. When the man she’d eloped with fell victim to his parents’ edicts and joined the church (else continue to be cut off from their deep pockets), it seemed he took to heart all the Thou Shall Nots and moral restrictives the Good Book espoused while not embracing any of the mor
e loving examples and positive biblical teachings. Becoming harsh and critical, unforgiving and somewhat of a gaoler if the stories Temperance initially shared were to be believed.
At least Lord Rowden, her aunt’s new husband, cared not about restricting the interests and activities of the female members of his instant family. In truth, he seemed rather apathetic about the lot of them. That very afternoon, she’d overheard her aunt complaining to her spouse. “’Tis most unseemly, still unmarried at her advanced age. She continues to be a horrid example for the girls. Simply appalling.”
“Leave the gel alone,” her uncle had mumbled. Blood relative or not, she always had liked him better. ’Twas easier to be ignored than hounded.
Though Uncle went on to murmur something soothing about her own daughters and their recent engagements, Aunt Prudence had proceeded to list all of Francine’s deplorable, headstrong ways, much as she was doing now. Bandying a harangue about all the suitors she had secured for Francine—and how their “ungrateful niece” better accept the latest one if she knew what was good for her.
Living in such an environment, where her aunt thought she had the right to manage Francine to her whims, rankled. After seven years of such treatment, not to mention witnessing her aunt and uncle’s unenviable, lackluster marriage—combined with the tales she’d heard about her aunt’s restrictive first—Francine vowed her last few months in their household would be on her terms.
As would the direction of her entire future, hence her proposition to the powerful Lord Blakely.
“The sooner you acquiesce and accept Lord Peterson’s perfectly amiable offer, Franny, the sooner we can all move on…”
As Aunt Prudence’s current tirade showed no signs of slowing, Francine’s determination grew. She refused to resign herself to suffering her relative’s unjust complaints and machinations any longer. She refused to allow herself to be browbeaten into a mésalliance, when all she really wanted was freedom.
Freedom. Just the mere thought filled her lungs with ease, promised to lessen the constriction of tightly laced stays—and an ever tighter-wound aunt. Because the longer the unfounded ranting went on, the more restrictive her stays became. The more determined her resolve…
If Aunt Prudence insisted on constantly bombarding Francine with her lack of a suitable match, then Francine was convinced the next best thing was to secure for herself an unsuitable match. And who could be more unsuitable than the condescending, philandering, devilishly attractive Lord Blakely?
Claiming a previously scheduled assignation and smiling gamely through the ribald comments thrown his way, Blakely decided to forgo the last several hands at the card tables and instead chose to explore the very depths of the Longfords’ elaborate garden.
If their earlier encounter was anything to go by, he suspected Lady Francine would be waiting for him in the most secluded section of the extensive grounds—the darkest portion in the far corner, studded with more trees than the rest of the formal, planned-out gardens. Fortunately, he knew exactly where that was, after having met a rather immoral widow there at a previous ball.
His senses acutely attuned to the night, he easily made his way past seven-foot-high hedges, the occasional topiary and a number of benches, gazebos and arbors until arriving at the private setting.
Which was decidedly empty. Damn.
Ah. Just as well.
He was due at The Den. If he delayed significantly longer, Adam might question how the evening went. Come to think on it, with her shockingly bold approach in front of others, Adam was sure to hear of it regardless. But not from Blakely; for he, more than most, knew how to hold his tongue.
He’d put in his appearance as required tonight, so his duties, socially, were once again fulfilled. Now to focus on his unending responsibilities—
A giant sigh heaved from him as he scanned the area one last time. Hoping…
But nay, nothing.
Intent on banishing a specific exasperating female from his mind once and for all, he resolutely dismissed the lingering pang of disappointment. “Asides,” he attempted to console himself, “the last thing I need right now is such an annoying distraction.”
Don’t you mean intriguing?
“Vexing baggage, too bold for—” He cut off the internal debate when he heard someone approaching. His heart gave a strange, unfamiliar lift.
“Too brave for your own good, are you not?” he whispered, a predatory smile curving his lips as he secreted himself away in the darkest shadows while he waited for Lady Francine to arrive.
Scant minutes later, she did, tiptoeing her way through the unlit paths. The shawl that had concealed her upper arms inside now trailed behind, gently flowing from the delicate hand that gripped it. She moved hesitantly, searching out each step before she took it as if in the dead of night she didn’t quite trust her vision. But he could see her clearly.
Her elegantly simple features and the nondescript attire that failed to do her justice indoors transformed in the starlight. The celestial reflections caused her skin to gleam pearlescent, lightening her unfashionably tan exterior to one of cream.
Cream he wanted to sample. Especially after viewing the tempting expanse of her chest visible with her shawl discarded. The salacious swell of her bosom invited his attention more than any he’d seen in recent memory. But he had no business thinking of her diddeys again, even though he could easily see their outline above her stays and beneath the thin fabric of her gown.
She really was a fetching thing, if one could look past the unnecessary face powder, which was easy enough. If one could look past the unmistakable stamp of virgin. Which he couldn’t, no matter how part of him longed to. Nay… He was here to decline her offer in person. Nothing more.
Her courage approaching him earlier deserved no less.
She’d almost reached his hiding spot. He was about to step forth when two whirlwinds came skipping noisily down the path, paying little heed to the dim light. Knowing he didn’t want to involve the latest arrivals, he retreated behind the trunk of a tall tree, further concealing himself as they raced the rest of the way.
“Franny! There you are,” a female with an unfortunately large nose huffed. “We have quite exhausted ourselves, looking all over for you.”
At the peevish announcement, Lady Francine Montfort fisted her hands around the shawl and swung to face the young women. “Francine,” she stressed in a low voice. “Please refrain from calling me Franny in public. You know how I detest it.”
Montfort. Something about the name nudged at a memory, like one’s tongue poking at a sore tooth. What was he not recalling?
“Mother is simply livid at your disappearance.”
“She sent us out here,” the other one said, a bit younger than the first and with a decidedly appropriately sized conk. “Looking for you, that is. Instructed we not return without you.”
“There is no need to concern yourselves. I shall return inside before overly long.” She spun in a slow circle, gesturing to the gardens around her. “Do the crickets not sound lovely? After all the people and hours inside, I just need a bit of fresh air. Alone.”
She sounded admirably convincing. If she hadn’t invited him to meet her, he’d feel he intruded on what was meant to be a private moment between Lady Francine—never Franny, he made a mental note—and nature.
Given what he already knew about her, he knew she and Nature shared an attachment. One he was unaccountably envious of, so hardened by battling his own traitorous nature.
When was the last time he’d stopped to enjoy the breeze upon his cheek? The sound of a cricket or call of a bird? Sunshine and a rare, quiet moment for himself? Not since losing his parents. Not since becoming the Marquis.
“Mother will positively rage.” The older one put that unfortunate nose to use and gave an audible sniff. “You know she detests it when you act the insociable bluestocking, Franny.”
“Aunt Prudence chooses not to like anything that is not perfectly proper, boring
ly suitable or prepared by her new French chef.” Lady Francine’s shoulders rose and fell on a loud exhalation. “Can you not simply tell her I had the headache and am lying down?”
After sneaking a quick glance at who he assumed was her sister, no matter that the two didn’t resemble each other in the slightest, the younger one shook her head. “That would be telling Mother an untruth.”
From her low groan, he could just imagine Lady Francine’s irritation. He smiled, watching with interest when she lifted a hand to her forehead and flicked herself with a light snap of her middle finger.
“Ow. Now my head does ache. You will not be telling a whisker.”
Blakely fought back a laugh. So did the younger one.
“But, Franny…”
“Patience…” Lady Francine said at full volume, then murmured low enough he was sure no one but him heard, “you are surely trying mine.”
She peered through the gloom and spotted a nearby bench, then promptly reclined full-length on its hard surface. Her feet hung off the edge, exposing several inches of stocking-clad legs. His fingers suddenly itched with the need to slowly graze upward toward her thighs, to determine exactly where her stockings ended. By gads, he was half tempted to agree to her outrageous offer.
Don’t be a fool!
In quick succession, she thumped her forehead thrice more. “There. I do have the headache and I am lying down. There is no need to mention that I remained outside—it’s immaterial. Simply tell your mother I shall return when I feel rested.”
“You are so clever!” the younger one applauded, literally clapping her hands together.
“Mother says you think you are too clever, Franny. But she still holds out hope that—”
“Please. No more.” Lady Francine’s deep sigh filled the air as she remained on the bench, her fingers drumming impatiently on her stomach. “Do you not want to return to the dancing and your admiring beaus? Your came-up-to-scratch suitors that so please your mother? Wait…” She paused and made a great show of turning her head while sniffing the night air. “Does it smell like rain to you?”
Ensnared by Innocence: Steamy Regency Shapeshifter Page 3