One Night in London

by Caroline Linden

  Edward folded his arms and looked at the floor. “We are not close in the manner that I have observed between sisters. Or in the way that people of a different class might be, with no duty and obligation dividing them. We have a common heritage and responsibility to it, and I think we each, in our own ways, try to uphold it.”

  She turned to face him. “Duty and obligation weigh you down a great deal.”

  He met her gaze. “Yes.”

  She felt the gulf between them then, and turned away, pulling her dress into place and fastening it with nearly steady fingers before going to her dressing table to finish her toilette. She wished she hadn’t asked about his brother at all, even as she wished he would reveal this one thing about himself. Perhaps it was an omen for their new relationship. Perhaps he was happy enough to share her bed and indulge the desire that had been smoldering between them for days, but wanted her kept far away from anything to do with his family—which was, she acknowledged, far superior to her own in station. Was she to be his lover who could know him as he really was, and hear his hopes and worries and frustrations as well as his pleasures and amusements? Or the mistress who would get to see him only when he found it convenient, and then just for a few hours of physical pleasure? She didn’t want to be merely a mistress; it implied dependence, and a restricted role. She was an independent woman with means of her own. She hadn’t invited Edward into her house because she wanted his money or protection. She just wanted him . . . but not on any terms.

  As she twisted up her hair, she could see Edward in the mirror. His expression had settled into the reserved, cool cast she remembered from their first meetings—when she thought he needed to smile. She poked some pins into her hair and fiddled with the brush for a moment. Perhaps she was being too hard on him. She was rushing to conclusions about his feelings for her based on one action, when he might have a very good reason for growing quiet and grim. He hadn’t seemed like this a few hours ago, when they were relaxed and easy in bed together. Perhaps he cared deeply for his brothers, and they didn’t return the affection, or caused him a great deal of trouble, or any number of other things. Perhaps— Oh dear, she was truly an idiot for not thinking of this earlier—she had reminded him about the potential problem with his inheritance. That would certainly cause her to become grim and quiet, if she were in his place. Yes, she told herself firmly, she was being a fool, and was likely at fault to begin with. She took a calming breath and forced herself to let go of any hasty resentments. There was no reason to fly into a fit and ruin their relationship before it had a chance to begin.

  “You’ll stay for breakfast, won’t you?” She got up and went to the wardrobe to get a light shawl. It was too warm for a fire, but still cool upstairs.

  Edward looked at her as if she had startled him out of his thoughts, and for a moment said nothing. Francesca just waited, eyebrows arched hopefully. “If you wish,” he said.

  “I do.” She smiled, partly in relief. “Very much so.”

  It felt so natural to walk down the stairs with him. He held the door for her, and then pulled out her chair. Mrs. Hotchkiss had laid out some dishes, rather more than usual. Francesca suspected her housekeeper already knew she had a guest. When the woman bustled in a moment later with a fresh pot of tea, her suspicion was both confirmed and denied. Mrs. Hotchkiss wore her usual beaming smile, but it vanished the moment her eyes landed on Edward. She recovered at once and set the teapot down in front of Francesca as usual, but gave her a questioning look when she had gone around behind Edward, where he couldn’t see. Francesca just shook her head a tiny bit. If Mrs. Hotchkiss had expected Alconbury, then she hadn’t been paying very much attention.

  “Tea?” she asked Edward. He had taken the seat at her left, pushing the chair to the side so he was facing her more directly.

  “Thank you, yes.”

  “Or perhaps coffee?” she asked on impulse, and recognized the spark of craving in his eyes. “Mrs. Hotchkiss, could you please bring some coffee?” She knew Mr. Hotchkiss liked coffee in the mornings, so there was bound to be some in the house.

  Her housekeeper’s brow wrinkled in surprise. “Yes, madam.”

  “It’s not necessary,” Edward said smoothly. “Tea is lovely.”

  “No trouble at all, sir,” said Mrs. Hotchkiss, setting down the toast and hurrying from the room. “I’ll have it ready in no time.”

  “You must tell me where you purchase your coffee,” Francesca said to him as the door swung shut. “I understand there is a great variation.”

  Edward smiled. “You don’t have to buy coffee just for me. I’m quite content with tea.”

  “Perhaps I want you to be more than content,” she said as she prepared herself a cup of tea. “So you’ll be tempted to breakfast with me again.”

  “I most certainly shall,” he replied. “But it won’t be because of the coffee.” She glanced at him, sitting so comfortably at her table, watching her with heat in his gaze, and felt her heart give a hard thump. She could become accustomed to this all too easily.

  Mrs. Hotchkiss came back after they had filled their plates, a steaming cup in her hands. “I just brewed it, sir,” she said, setting it in front of Edward.

  He leaned forward and inhaled deeply, a blissful expression on his face. “Thank you. A fresh cup of coffee is good for the soul.”

  “And the head, says my husband.” The housekeeper nodded emphatically. “Good, strong coffee.” She gave Francesca a mildly surprised but approving look as she bustled back out the door.

  Edward poured cream into his cup. “Her husband, I presume, is also part of the household?”

  “My coachman.” She smiled ruefully. “A very small staff of two.”

  “Why would you need more?” He sipped the coffee. “Particularly not when one can make coffee so well. Great God. Mind you don’t invite my brother for breakfast. Charlie is fiendishly particular about his coffee and would steal her from you in a heartbeat.”

  There it was, another mention of his brother, but this time Francesca resisted temptation. “Heresy, sir,” she said lightly. “Mrs. Hotchkiss is invaluable to me. I would fight desperately to keep her.”

  He drank more coffee, then set the cup down. “I was unfortunately abrupt upstairs. You must have formed an idea that I don’t care for my brothers.”

  She felt his gaze on her, and concentrated on her toast. “It’s not my place to say anything about it.”

  “Your place,” he repeated. “No, perhaps not. It is my place to tell you—you’ve certainly been forthcoming about your family. I am . . .” He paused. “I am not in the habit of talking about mine. I suppose because many people know of us—sometimes too much, to some unfortunate effect—and also because I’ve spent most of my life in the country, where one is generally afforded more privacy. There aren’t so many people I feel compelled to share my private thoughts and feelings with.” He paused again. “It does not come easily to me.”

  “I understand,” she said. “You don’t have to—”

  “No!” He shook his head ruefully. “See, I’ve done it again. It’s too easy for me to act coldly and quash any overtures.” He drank more coffee. “I do care very much for my brothers. In consequence, they vex me greatly, and no doubt I repay them the favor in full. My father raised us to compete with each other, but also to develop our own strengths. Our mother died when we were all young, and my father . . . He was a rather forceful personage, to put it mildly, and he refused to raise weak, insipid sons. Gerard, whom you’ve met, bought a commission in the army and has been killing Frenchmen ever since. I gravitated toward the books, the accounts, the running of my father’s properties, where I might wage my battles with bankers and solicitors.”

  “And Charles?” she asked when he stopped.

  Edward sighed. “Charlie pursues pleasure. He’s very good at it, from what I hear, perhaps because he devotes his every waking moment to it.”

  “And that’s why you had to hire Wittiers,” she said slow
ly. “Because your brother was too . . . ?”

  “Drunk? Occupied chasing women? Unconcerned that we might all lose everything? Yes.”

  “Surely not,” she exclaimed. “He is the eldest!”

  “The heir,” agreed Edward. “The one who has most to lose if this blasted mess can’t be untangled to the House of Lords’ satisfaction. Gerard has his captaincy, at least, and I suppose I could scrape along, but Charlie . . .” He shook his head and finished his coffee. “Wittiers has been solely my undertaking. Gerard has his own ideas about how to solve the problem—he’s much too impatient to let a lawyer handle it—and Charlie won’t do anything at all, so it fell to me.” A faint frown crossed his face. “I didn’t mean to steal Wittiers from you.”

  Francesca bit her lip. “Well, you were quite right to point out that he chose to cast me aside in favor of your case. My complaint did lie with him; you merely happened to take the brunt of my anger.”

  Edward raised his eyes to meet hers. “You can’t know how exhilarating I found it.”

  She laughed as she sliced the top off her egg. “You called me managing.”

  He leaned forward. “You called me heartless.”

  “You didn’t give me what I wanted.”

  His gaze heated. “I have endeavored to improve.”

  Mrs. Hotchkiss came back into the room then, so Francesca settled for sharing a small, wicked smile with him. There were no words to express how much he had improved in her opinion since that first day, anyway. She wasn’t quite sure how he had done it. Her opinion of him had been so low, so venomous, she couldn’t even notice how attractive he was. Or how charming. Or how wicked, beneath his reserved, proper exterior. Or how capable and thoughtful and tender. In short, how utterly right for her he was . . .

  She stopped that thought before it could take hold. It was too soon even to wonder what the future might hold for them. They both had greater purposes to pursue—he, his inheritance, and she, Georgina—and neither was willing to set them aside. Francesca wasn’t a timid woman, but she recognized that there were many obstacles to a life with Edward. He was the son of a duke, for one thing, accustomed to the wealth and dignity of the nobility, while she was the daughter of a slightly scandalous opera singer and a country squire. She was determined to find her niece and raise Georgina as her own, while he was responsible for the Durham estates, which she sensed were enormous and enormously demanding. As much as her heart tripped over itself when he smiled at her, or touched her hand, or said her name, a small, cold voice inside her whispered that all affairs began this way. Their passion might be a nine-days’ wonder, a flame that flared brilliantly for a short time then burnt out, leaving them both a little charred.

  But a short time later when Edward said he must leave, and Francesca walked him to the door, that voice went quiet. She held his coat, allowing herself one last stroke of her hands down his shoulders and arms as he pulled it on. He turned to face her, still shrugging the fine wool coat into place. He looked almost ready to go out for the evening again, aside from his cravat folded into his pocket; almost as if the previous night hadn’t happened. She summoned a smile, telling herself not to be so maudlin. “Good-bye.”

  Edward’s eyes met hers. He walked toward her, closer and closer, until she took an involuntary step backward into the wall. He cupped his hands around her jaw, one thumb brushing her cheek. “Good-bye,” he repeated. “For now.” He kissed her, his tongue sweeping into her mouth so sensually she quivered, and echoes of his lovemaking rippled across her skin. “What are your plans this evening?” he asked, dropping light kisses over her mouth between words.

  “What?” She pressed into him, her arms around him beneath the layers of jacket and coat. “Tonight?”

  “Yes, tonight. I want to see you again.”

  “Oh, yes,” she sighed, and then bit her lip. “Oh, no, actually. I promised to attend the theater with the Ludlows.”

  “Covent Garden?”

  “Yes . . .” It was hard to think, let alone speak, as Edward continued kissing her so lightly, so teasingly.

  “Then I suppose I must let you go. For now.” His mouth descended on hers again.

  She clung to him. “I’ll send a note to Mrs. Ludlow with my regrets.”

  He laughed quietly. “No, my dear, you should go. I’ll find a way to see you.”

  She looked up at him, half drunk with desire, and reason trickled back in. She was acting like a girl in the grip of her first calf love. She took a deep breath, a little surprised at herself for losing her composure so quickly again, and smiled. She released him, smoothing his lapels back into place where she had crumpled them. “I should like that very much,” she said as calmly as possible.

  A trace of amusement still on his face, Edward gave her a scorching look, as if he knew very well that he was leaving her tense and longing for more. “Until then, my dear.”

  She closed the door behind him and slumped against it, her fingertips brushing down her throat, following the trail his lips had so recently traced. Perhaps she should have had more affairs, just so she would be practiced in how to act. Already she was in danger of throwing off all reserve and aplomb and letting herself fall madly, dangerously, passionately in love with Edward de Lacey. That, she reminded herself, would never do, but somehow it felt like a distant and trivial thing to worry about when she was so happy.

  She went back to her breakfast, mildly surprised to see she had eaten anything at all. Edward’s coffee cup still sat on the table, and a rather silly smile curled her lips as she regarded it. She must tell Mrs. Hotchkiss to seek out the best coffee in London this very day.

  Francesca was still at the table when the knocker sounded at the door. She caught her breath, but it was not Edward’s voice in the hall. Alconbury, most likely, from the way he was laughing with Mrs. Hotchkiss. Oh dear, so soon . . . But it was best to get it done with. She owed him the courtesy of learning it from her, before she and Edward were seen in public together and everyone guessed they were lovers just from the blissful look on her face. When he came into the room a moment later, she got to her feet and smiled at him. “Good morning, Alconbury.”

  “A very good morning to you, Francesca dear.” He stopped suddenly and sniffed, and a delighted grin split his face. “God bless my soul—do I smell coffee? Have you finally come to your senses and taken it up?”

  “Er . . . not really.” She took her seat and rang the bell. “But I shall have Mrs. Hotchkiss fetch you some at once.”

  He laughed. “That’s better than nothing, I suppose! I’ve longed for this day for months, you know, to be served coffee at your table . . .” His voice ran out. Francesca glanced at him from under her eyelashes and saw that he was staring at Edward’s coffee cup. The smile had left his face. Oh, dear.

  “You must tell me where to buy the best coffee berries,” she said. “Do sit down.”

  A muscle twitched in his jaw. He circled the table, deliberately taking the seat opposite the one Edward had occupied. “I see I’m not the first to have morning coffee with you.”

  “You must take it as a compliment, an overdue acknowledgment I ought to have served it sooner.”

  “But not to me,” he said quietly. Francesca closed her mouth and devoted herself to crumbling the remains of her toast. Oh, dear.

  “Henry,” she said at the same moment he asked, “Dare I inquire who won you over?”

  She blushed, and his shoulders fell. “Ah,” he said. That was all.

  She pushed back her plate and turned to face him. “Henry, you must know it was never meant to be, between us.”

  “No,” he said in a queer tone. “I don’t suppose I did know.”

  She reached for his hand, but he folded his arms in clear rejection. She clenched her fingers, then tapped them on the table. “I haven’t encouraged your affections that way,” she tried again. “Your friendship has meant the world to me—I never would have survived the last two years without you.”

  “Hmph.�
�� He arched one eyebrow skeptically.

  “I know you may not approve of my actions,” she forged onward, “but I hope you can respect my decisions. I hate it when we disagree, and I never wanted to hurt you.” He just looked at her, his eyes shadowed with anger and hurt. She sighed. “Truly I didn’t. This wasn’t something I planned—”

  Alconbury sat forward, his face taut with urgency. “Then listen to me—I hesitated to confront you with this earlier, because you swore it was just business between the two of you. I had a hard time believing it but I trusted you to guard yourself. Now I see—the bloody bounder no doubt planned all along to help you only to get into your bed!” She started to protest, but he put up one hand to quiet her. “Edward de Lacey is the very model of a cold, uncaring aristocrat. I’ve asked around, you see. His father, the Duke of Durham, was well-known as a hard-driving, domineering man who wielded his considerable power to his advantage, ruthlessly at times. His duchess died some twenty years ago or more, and it’s no secret he raised his sons in his own image, with no moderating maternal influence. Edward is the son most like him, according to all accounts, and I’ve seen nothing to alter that image.”

  “Alconbury,” she said firmly, “you’re condemning a man based on gossip. You would know better if you met him.”

  “I don’t want to meet him,” Alconbury snapped. “This man is too far above you, Francesca! He won’t think anything of discarding you for a more eligible woman of his own class—like Louisa Halston. That was a marriage based on money and power and rank, not any finer emotion such as you might think you feel. At best you’ll only ever be an amusement to him, enjoyed and quickly cast aside. He’ll never marry you, no matter what he says now.”

  “He hasn’t asked me to marry him,” she said without thinking.

  Frantic hope sprang into Alconbury’s eyes. “But I will.” He was off his chair, down on one knee, reaching for her hand. “Francesca, darling, you know I adore you. I have for years. Marry me.”

  Her chest felt squeezed in a vise. “Stop,” she said, her voice low and rough. “Please don’t . . .”