“My early years were not cold nor harsh. Not as doting nor demonstrative as I suspect yours were. From birth, I was reared to assume the title and all its responsibilities, after all,” he astounded her by confiding. Not so much by what he said but by the fact that he shared.
“But warmer than most I surmise. ’Tis not my mother’s blame I claimed self-reliance straight from the womb. Growing up, I was closest to my cousin Phineas. He was only a year and a half older. While my brother, Nash, is several years younger and a natural ne’er-do-well, one who eschewed responsibilities while I embraced them.” As though the confession had overwhelmed him, he lunged forward to claim her mouth. But once their lips touched and clung, he changed the pressure until it was the merest butterfly wing of a caress, the lingering kiss soft and slow, before relaxing back against the squabs and turning to look once again out the partially shaded window.
Desperately, did she want to ask about Nash and Phineas. Where were they? Had either of them been one of the men surrounding him the night she’d approached? She squelched her curiosity, though, hesitant to interrupt whatever turbulent thoughts entrapped him so. For like a hare caught in a snare, once again, she sensed the hunting of his soul, the haunting, that she did not understand.
“I know not what, precisely, happened to my mother,” he said evenly, without inflection, but without meeting her gaze either, “but I suspect she chose to join my father after his demise was made known to us.”
“She took her own life?” Francine’s heart ached with the weight of grief he must have suffered—stoically endured—but she knew better than to say more, not while he finally confided the very things she held such curiosity over.
“She took herself off,” he corrected, his fingers flexing. “Beyond our estate. Ostensibly to learn more of Father’s last few weeks. Sent word that finding answers brought her a measure of contentment if not peace, and then…”
His head wrenched round and he rested his forehead against hers, but not before she saw him close his eyes. “Then… Nothing. So yet another family member I failed.”
He took on so much! Her arms went to his neck, as she lifted onto her knees the best she could, hugging him to her. “Answers—about your father? Did she divulge her discoveries?”
“Nay, other than to write his last days were likely spent among friends. Some solace, that, I suppose.”
“How long ago was this?”
“Nearly two years after his death.”
Tempest, along with her fascination of heraldry, took joy in perusing their volume of Debrett’s Peerage, and studying family histories. After their reunion at the musicale, her cousin wasted no time revealing what she’d discovered of Lord Blakely’s. “So you have not seen nor heard from her since your twenty-first year? Your father since your nineteenth?”
“Aye.”
“If I am not mistaken, lions are vastly social creatures and—”
His head whipped up and his hands snaked from her waist to clutch her arms, pull them from around his neck and use the pressure to push her away, so he could snare her gaze. His eyes glittering and more intense than she’d witnessed yet. “What did you say?”
“You are not meant to be so alone.”
The pressure on her wrists increased. “Before that.”
“Umm… Social—” To shouts on the street, the carriage gave a lurch and she shifted above him.
“Nay. Lions. What the deuce made you utter that?”
“Your charges. Upon your shield.” His family’s coat of arms. Specifically his.
For Tempest had taught her that a coat of arms belonged not always to the entire family line but to the specific qualifying individual who had it granted by the King of Arms, often with a small change that made a particular design unique to one individual and his immediate family. “For unlike your father’s shield that pictured two lion charges, you added a third. ’Twas the only change you made. I surmise the great cat has some manner of significance to you, else you—”
He released her wrists only to bring his fingers up against her lips. “You see too much. They represent myself, Nash and Phin, the current generation of Hammonds. Though Phin does not share our surname, we grew up alongside each other.” And for all he knew, there were hordes more walking London… Ones not yet identified or known to him.
She reached up to bring his fingers away from her mouth, holding on to his hand with both of hers and giving a slight tug. “You see? Social. You are not meant to be so alone.”
“I have Adam.”
“Ah, the gentleman you so rarely reference. I begin to wonder if he’s a phantom, a figment, for your Mr. Adam is remarkably reclusive.”
* * *
Erasmus managed a laugh at that, despite how it hurt, being so exposed, reliving losses and enduring damn feelings normally kept well buried and completely out of sight. The past few minutes had worn him out like a well-wrung rag.
But, oddly, it wasn’t sex he craved. The oblivion of a well-debauched orgasm. It was her smile.
He needed to lift the sadness lingering in her gaze. Needed to hug her and hold her against his heart until her bright soul soothed his tortured one.
“Adam—reclusive? Not at all.” Just completely devoted to business at the club, and not titled, so therefore not able to mix and mingle among the ton, at the elegant activities where someone in Francine’s set would have met him.
“Lest you forget, minx, he works for a living, managing things for me.” His fingers flexed within her hold, restless. As though even they were uncomfortable that he’d revealed so much, and on so many topics, the last few minutes.
“And now, confession is over.” He’d not be having her hound him with more questions, thinking this new verbose manner would be the norm. “For the summer.”
She jabbed him with an elbow for that. “Very well.”
But talk of Adam only reminded him of what else he needed to mention, no matter that it had the potential to ruin the flavor of the afternoon. “I need your solemn vow on something.”
“Aye. I will jilt you as planned.”
“This is no time for jesting, Francine.”
Her smile faltered, faded from her eyes but remained, marginally so, upon her lips. “My solemn vow? You have it.”
“You would agree so swiftly? Without learning of what I ask first?”
“That, dear sir…” She lightly stroked his fidgety fingers. “Is what comes from trust.”
He gave a grunt. “You shall not venture out. Alone. At night. Especially,” he spoke over her when she would have blithely vowed again. “Alone and at night. Swear to me.”
She held his gaze in such a way that time paused. Halted heavily between them, the stillness unnerving, perhaps, to someone who didn’t care as much as he did for gaining her word. The stillness, now that the clouds, too, seemed exhausted, the tempest outside having paused, rendering the silence between them so very loud that he knew she finally heard him. Was debating her response. “Swear to me,” he urged, his voice rasping out harsher than he’d like. “Do not venture out onto the streets of London at night. Ever. Else I walk from our bargain now without—”
“Nay,” she chastised. “Threats, coercion—whatever you term it—do not become you. Nor do they respect what we have built between us.” The gentle caress that had moved to his palm didn’t change. “I often venture out—alone—into the garden adjacent to Rowden House. Sometimes at night, much more frequently during the day.”
She watched him unflinchingly after delivering that challenging statement.
He forced himself to do the same—silently holding his tongue as she slowly worked through to her ultimate agreement.
For he’d accept nothing less.
“But I do not think that is of which you speak.” Here, she pressed the full of her hand upon his, and it was all he could do to allow his flesh to remain passive against hers, to not squeeze her tight to him and never let go. “So you want me to be accompanied at all times or rem
ain bound to home. Have I the right of things? And you want a solemn vow on it?”
“For now, aye. ’Tis not safe for young ladies to be out unescorted.”
“I suspect there is much more to be learned upon the topic but also suspect, based on that muscle dancing upon your bristly jaw—time to shave again, my lord—you will refuse to divulge further reasons tonight.”
’Twas unnerving, how well she read him.
She drew in a slow breath that made him wait a decidedly long time before it eased out and relaxed her posture. Smiled at him—with her eyes again. “I know you have your reasons even if you will not confide them yet. Very well. I agree.”
“Your cousins too. Secure their promises.”
“Even Patience? You know talking to her is nothing but a chore.” The kinked-up fuzz atop her head waved to him when she rolled her eyes. “If it’s not outright stupidity, she projects belligerence a thousand times ten. Even worse now that she has caught Temperance and I sharing giggles and gossip—but only once, mind. For we have been exceedingly careful ever since.”
“Did I not tell you this is not a jesting matter? Aye, you must caution Patience as well.”
“I shall, you may depend upon it, you mysterious and frustratingly silent man.”
“Silent? When I have set myself to entertaining you every moment of this excessively long, interminable afternoon?” His palm got abandoned so he could receive another pointy elbow—this one in his ribs.
And now, he intentionally sought to lighten things, to return the sparkle to her cheeks his sordid past and rash promise-demand had stolen from her. He smoothed the mutinous mass from her forehead. “Francine, tell me, would that inquisitive mind of yours like to know exactly how to mummify a cat?”
She gave him a sidelong glance, as though she found the swift shift in topic pitch-kettling. “Without the proper tools, I doubt it would prove anything but an extended disaster.”
“Oh, I do not know…I remain confident you could do it.”
“Do you now?” Skepticism became her, the growing flush upon her cheeks, the quick thoughts racing across her expression. “So, I’m to believe you have a collection of everything I would need? Natron, beeswax, loads of linen, sawdust, herbs and oils”—my, she really had paid attention at the exhibit—“and resin? Not to mention a few amulets and possibly charms, if I really wanted to do it right? And the space to lay everything out?”
“Most of that is neither here nor there.” He discounted her impressive list. “In truth, I think you could accomplish it in a trice without bothering with all that.”
“In a trice? Do tell.”
“If it was raining, of course.”
“Raining?” He’d thoroughly stumped her now, one eyebrow winging upward.
“Of a certainty. All you need is a willing cat.”
“Willing? Do you not mean deceased, poor thing?”
“Nay. A lively one would work brilliantly. I am convinced of it. For, you see, all you have need to do is stare at it—and take off your bonnet.”
One turn of the carriage wheels.
Another.
Then…
Thwack! “You wretch!” She laughed, pummeled his shoulder with several light slaps of her palm. “After today, my poor mattress-head will never be the same.”
“Neither will the cat…”
She chuckled along with him.
Equilibrium, lightness of heart, balance of being restored between them once again.
To Francine, what followed was a handful of glorious, magical weeks.
Erasmus was at her side frequently, escorting her to the few remaining balls, routs and fêtes. Finding other entertainments once those dwindled to a halt as, now that sessions in Parliament were coming to a swift close, so many retreated to their country estates. He even fostered a growing relationship with her uncle! The two bonding over some legislation they’d both supported and ensuring her aunt did nothing further to disgrace herself or risk the family name.
It appeared as though the quick jaunt to Brighton had only increased her love of deep play—and her debts, something neither man considered remotely appropriate. Especially given how Francine had confided to Erasmus about sweet, spirited Tempest being won by Lord Wylde across the green. “Thank God he is conscionable,” Erasmus had remarked, eyes glittering in that way that never failed to tighten the muscles in her middle. “Not one to take advantage. Had it been another rake of the ton… Well, Francy, no need to dwell on mayhaps and might-haves now.”
Delighting in each other’s company, they engaged in spirited discussions covering a host of far-ranging topics from Wellington’s recent victory at Salamanca to debating which one of her female relatives was the most irritating—Patience and Aunt Pru tied, being equally so.
It seemed as though Erasmus made it a point to suggest some type of outing almost daily and she noticed each time they were together that the constant, haunted loneliness in his eyes, so evident upon their first interactions, lessened, until one day, it was vanquished for several wondrous hours completely.
In exchange for his sheltering presence, which usually meant that Aunt Prudence kept her opinions and protestations to herself, Francine made it her utmost priority to please him intellectually and sexually. Once or twice he got a little wild—a tad rough—then expressed regret afterward but…well, truth be told, she loved it, couldn’t imagine the sad state of her life had she never experienced his unbridled form of lovemaking. So she gave herself over to it, reveled in it, savoring every aspect of the wanton she became in his arms, positive she never wanted her birthday to arrive.
Who needed money and freedom when they had perfection?
The end of the Season approached inexorably closer, unremarked upon by either of them, as if by not articulating that the official time to terminate their farce was fast approaching, it was of no consequence.
Erasmus continued to squire her about town, accompanying her to London amusements she’d always wanted to explore but had never been able to escape Aunt Prudence’s overbearing thumb long enough to do so. Each evening, when he escorted her home, whether they “indulged” themselves physically or not, he always seduced her lips with his before echoing the reminder to never go out alone.
Francine was all too happy to agree. Aunt Prudence was just plain disagreeable—her French chef had resigned. And Uncle Rowden no longer permitted her any say over the household funds—or her daughters. Taking now the active role in his household he’d previously avoided. “Both gels are engaged, Pru. Francine too. Leave them be,” he ordered one night during dinner. And then, after one more mouthful of the kitchen girl’s mediocre efforts, “My stomach cannot tolerate much more, so aye, find us a chef. The blunt shall be spared for that.”
And if, as time wore on, Francine noticed that Erasmus occasionally seemed even more distracted or abrupt, that the haunted look returned—and with a vengeance—well, all men had their moods—didn’t they?—and she was certain he continued to be as satisfied by their unusual alliance as she was.
Or so she convinced herself. Or tried to.
No longer able to imagine her life without him in it.
Then came the dratted notes.
All from Erasmus and all with but one purpose—canceling their plans.
The first was a carefully penned epistle, the bulk of it apologizing—and profusely so—for the night before when he’d whisked her from the townhouse and into the garden, only to make the most violently passionate love to her. To leave her breathless and panting, her lips swollen from his kiss, her shoulder burning from his teeth, her heart rejoicing that she’d found such a thrilling, responsible man.
But an encounter he obviously regretted.
For, along with begging forgiveness, he explained that he had business to attend and must, with great regret, withdraw from that afternoon’s activities but that he would see her the following day as scheduled.
The second note, which arrived on said “following day”, was
a bit shorter, a bit less personable and ended with a brief, Looking forward to our next excursion, but making no mention of when that might be.
By the third note, Francine knew what to expect.
By the fourth, Aunt Prudence was overjoyed—it seemed Lord Blakely had finally come to his senses and thrown Franny over…and she’d just hired a new chef.
By the time the fifth missive arrived, Francine could read it straight through without crying.
By the sixth, she was thoroughly vexed.
When the seventh note in as many days arrived with a scrawl so illegible she could barely make out the scribbled, I cannot see you again until deep into next month, E, Francine knew exactly what she had to do.
Do not venture out. Especially alone and at night. Swear to me.
Promise or no, she’d not languish away worrying over him for naught or pining for him if he’d decided he’d been her champion long enough.
For six full days she’d portrayed admirable restraint, though it had demanded extreme effort. Who knew being silent and still for days on end could wear one down to the bone?
And now that he’d sent round the notes for an entire sennight? She wasn’t some hen-hearted female lacking in pluck. Nay, ’twas time she knew for certain whether he’d tired of their arrangement or—and this notion made her cringe—tired of her.
And if something else occupied his time, one of those secret wounds she’d long suspected he harbored, then was it not her duty to rescue him this time?
What? You’ll chance the night and your hampered vision to salvage some savage lord who’s merely been dallying with you these last months?
As though witchy Aunt Pru perched upon one shoulder, pointed-toe boots and broom handle digging in, equally pointy black hat swaying in mockery, Francine heard her worst fears. Against his express orders? Franny, have you no shame?
The wretched mental cackle accompanying these words dredged up shudders.
Ugh. But, by now, she certainly possessed the wisdom to ignore any advice from that quarter.
Francine looked around her bedroom, desperate to concoct another Plan of Genius, one that would, without any further ado, see her safely to his home. But first, she needed to ascertain exactly where that was.
Ensnared by Innocence: Steamy Regency Shapeshifter Page 18