Francesca fluttered her fingers. “It’s forgiven, darling.” She held out her hand, and Georgina ran back to her, throwing her arms around Francesca’s waist. Francesca embraced her in return, bending her head low to rest her cheek on the girl’s head for a moment.
“Good! I did miss you so. Oh—Aunt Franny, you must meet Rotter!” she declared as happily as if the previous confrontation had never happened. A dog was barking furiously at the back door. “Did you see him when you arrived? Mama said Rotter is a terrible name for a dog, but Uncle Percy calls him that anyway. Rotter is a nice dog, except when he’s bad. He likes to sleep under my bed at nights. Would you like to see him?”
At Francesca’s nod, Georgina ran to the door and unbarred it, admitting Percival Watts along with the furiously barking black terrier, who proceeded to race through the narrow hall and then back out the door with Georgina in pursuit. Edward made his way to Francesca’s side and put his arm around her. She was shaking, even though she held herself rigidly erect. He squeezed her hand, wishing intensely that he could make this easier for her somehow.
“Shall we go?” he murmured to her. She nodded slightly.
“So you’ll just be taking Georgie for visits?” demanded Watts, who had been in feverish whispered conversation with his sister. “That’s all?”
Francesca raised her chin and looked at him, her expression growing grim. “Yes, Mr. Watts. For now.”
He smirked. Edward could see why Francesca disliked the man.
“Mr. Watts,” Francesca went on coldly, “I do not like you much. I know you return my dislike in full. For Georgina’s sake, I am willing to pretend politeness, but only if you do the same. Perhaps it would be best if we didn’t see each other much.”
“That’s a splendid idea,” said Mrs. Haywood quickly. “Percy, would you go to the boys for a minute?” He glowered and grumbled, but stalked back down the hall. Mrs. Haywood looked fearfully at Francesca. “You’ll really leave her here, then? With me?”
“She wants to stay,” Francesca replied. Her eyes were clear, her voice level. Only Edward felt the tremor in her body. “I never meant to drag her away if she was happy.”
“Thank you, Lady Gordon,” said Mrs. Haywood, tears filling her eyes again. “I—I love her. She’s not my daughter, but I . . . Thank you. It will be different between us from now on.”
Francesca inclined her head. “I hope so, very much.”
They stepped outside just as Georgina returned, lugging the wriggling terrier in her arms. Francesca smiled and let the little dog lick her hand furiously. Her niece clapped her hands in delight, promising that when Francesca came next, Rotter would do his tricks.
“I am sure he’s wonderful at tricks.” Francesca’s smile was growing strained. “But we must go now. Edward?”
“Of course.” He motioned to the driver. His footmen had already returned to their posts and one held the carriage door.
“Good-bye! I cannot wait for you to come again.” The girl threw her arms around Francesca once more. “Good-bye, sir,” she said more bashfully to Edward.
“Good-bye to you, Miss Haywood. It has been a great pleasure to meet you,” he said gravely, making her a formal bow. Georgina gave him a huge, surprised smile, and he winked at her before turning back to Francesca. “Are you well, dearest?” he asked quietly.
She nodded. “Until later,” she said to Georgina with a forced smile. She kept it on her face as they climbed back into the carriage. She wore it as she leaned forward to wave to her niece until they rounded the bend in the road and the small cottage was lost to sight. Slowly it faded from her lips and she covered her face with her hands. Edward pulled her into his arms, and finally her heartbreak spilled out.
Chapter 24
Edward took her to his home. Francesca didn’t say a word on the way back into town. Grief seemed to have sapped her considerable strength, and laid low even her irrepressible spirit. He wrapped his arms around her and wordlessly offered all the comfort he could. Nothing he could say would ease the sting of Georgiana’s words. Nothing he could do would erase Francesca’s feeling that she had failed. So he just held her and absorbed the silent flood of her tears when she finally shuddered and sobbed out her despair. And he felt her pain as if it were his own; her devastated expression cut him to the core, because he knew what it felt like to feel as though one had lost everything of value in life.
In Berkeley Square, Edward helped her from the carriage and into the house. He ignored the butler’s startled look and led Francesca up the stairs, right into his own suite of rooms. It was where she belonged, really, where he wanted her to be—forever. The truth of that was becoming very clear to him.
She seemed to recover some of herself as he gave orders to the maid hovering at the door. “I should go home,” she said, dashing away the last of her tears and trying to draw herself up.
“Stay,” he said, drawing her close to him. He pressed his lips to her forehead, and her shoulders heaved in a silent sigh.
“She didn’t want me,” came her whisper. “She wanted to stay with Ellen and Percival—”
“She’s just a child,” Edward reminded her. “I know you hate the thought, but Ellen is the only mother she remembers. And, in truth, I cannot say she appears to be a cruel or indifferent mother.”
“No,” Francesca admitted in anguish. “But neither would I have been! If Georgina had lived with me this last year, she would have loved me just as much. I lost her because I was too cautious, too softhearted—I should have demanded Ellen give her to me when John died, I should have put a pistol to Mr. Kendall’s cowardly head and forced him to exert his position, I should have—I should have just taken Georgina away, even if I had to shoot Percival to do it!” She tried to twist out of his grip. “I’m such a fool!”
He grasped her shoulders and held her in spite of her struggles. “Francesca, listen to me. Don’t blame yourself for any of that. You offered to take her when Haywood died, and Ellen said no. Do you really think it would have improved things to go about waving a pistol at people?”
“I don’t care!” she cried hysterically.
“You do,” he countered. “You wouldn’t want to live a life in hiding, or in exile, which you might have been forced to do if you’d acted so rashly. You would have had Georgina, but at what cost to you—and to her? Would Georgina thank you for taking her far away from everything she’s ever known? Would your sister want you to raise her child that way?”
“She wouldn’t want her daughter to be nurse to Ellen’s children!”
“To her half brothers, you mean?” He raised one eyebrow. “You must try to see the best in this. She’s happy and well cared for. Ellen loves her and has promised you may visit at any time. In time, as she grows older, Georgina may even change her mind. It’s not the worst thing for her to grow up unspoiled.”
Francesca glared at him. Her eyes were red and her face was puffy, and she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. “I hate it when you are so reasonable and right, Edward.”
“Do you really?” He grabbed her when she would have backed away, and swung her up into his arms. “Does it make you feel better that I would much rather be wrong in this case?”
“No.” She put her arms around his neck and dropped her head against his shoulder. “Put me down.”
“As you wish.” He carried her across the room, deposited her on his bed, and stripped off his jacket. She rolled onto her side, away from him, as Edward stretched out beside her. He snaked one arm around her and pulled her back into him. Her body fit so perfectly against his. “I’m sorry, darling,” he whispered.
Her hand slipped into his. He laced his fingers through hers and stroked his thumb over her knuckles. “Thank you,” came her thin reply. “For everything.”
“I wish I could have changed things.”
She sighed. She felt so small and limp in his arms, as if she’d been drained of everything vital. “Nobody could. I suppose I could have dragged he
r away, but I couldn’t bear to hear her cry and beg to go back to Ellen.”
“I know,” he said, stroking one hand down her back. “I know.”
“I couldn’t bear to make her miserable—by taking her to stay with me,” she went on. “I couldn’t bear it if she hated me.”
“She wouldn’t hate you.”
“She might have.”
He held her for a long time, until he felt her muscles ease and her breathing deepen in sleep. Even then he didn’t move, content to stay curled around her for the foreseeable future.
This was not at all how he had expected the day to go. Last night, lying sleepless in Francesca’s bed, he’d thought long and hard about what he would say and do in Greenwich. He had asked her on impulse, but as soon as she said yes, of course, as if there had never been a doubt she would go with him, the thought popped into his head that he should propose. It made a great deal of sense at the time, when he’d expected Georgina to come live in Francesca’s house soon, and it perfectly satisfied his craving to have her in his bed every night, at his table every morning, and in his arms whenever he wanted.
He was a little shocked by how quickly and easily the idea took root in his mind. His last marriage proposal, to Louisa, had been the result of discussion with his father and practical analysis of the Halston properties, the advantages of the match, and his compatibility with Louisa herself. It hadn’t happened quickly, but only after prolonged thought and evaluation. In contrast, he barely thought about the disadvantages of wedding Francesca—his unsettled inheritance, the difference in their stations, the rather short duration of their acquaintance, their opposite natures—and instead was consumed by the advantages—namely, the intense happiness he felt in her presence, the way she made him laugh, the way he burned for her. He’d tried to tell himself once upon a time that it was just lust, potent but passing, but now he knew that wasn’t true. Edward, who had thought love was something one cultivated and grew in the appropriate place, had discovered that love could also be a wild, fierce thing that grew where it should not and flourished when it should have died, even when he himself had tried to smother it.
As he lay listening again to the soft, even sound of Francesca’s breathing, he knew that she was the one for him, whether society approved or not. Whether he was Lord Edward de Lacey, brother of the Duke of Durham, or just Edward de Lacey, with no property and virtually penniless. As long as she would have him, the rest of the world could go hang.
Francesca woke up several hours later. She hadn’t known she was tired until Edward laid her down and held her, but once he did, exhaustion almost swallowed her whole.
It took her a few moments to realize where she was. The sky outside the windows was deep indigo, and the room was cloaked in shadows. She pushed herself up and took in the luxurious bed hangings, the finely carved marble fireplace, the elegant furniture and accoutrements. It was the largest bedchamber she had ever seen. It was without question the home of an illustrious person—of a duke, in fact—and suddenly she felt very out of place.
As she slid off the thick, soft mattress, she saw Edward. He sat at a wide desk on the other side of the room, near the windows. He looked up when she stirred, and put down the papers he’d been reading. “How are you feeling?”
She smiled ruefully as she crossed the room to him. “Better. And worse.”
His face relaxed in understanding. He got to his feet and took her hand. “No doubt.”
Francesca bit her lip as an awkward silence descended. Awkward for her, at any rate. Edward was perfectly at home in his private rooms, where he belonged. She was the one who didn’t belong, with her wrinkled riding habit and waterlogged eyes and hair that must be absolutely frightful. “I should go,” she said. “Mrs. Hotchkiss will summon the Runners.”
“I sent a man to tell her you were here.”
“Thank you.”
“Are you hungry?” he asked. “I can send for a tray.”
She hadn’t eaten since breakfast, but shook her head. “No. I—I really should go home.”
Edward put his finger under her chin and tipped up her face. “Why?”
She knew it would hurt to go home, where there was a room all prepared for Georgina that wouldn’t be used. “I’ve imposed on you enough for one day. I’m sure this is not at all what you had planned . . .”
“I’m perfectly willing to make a new plan.” He smoothed his hands over her jaw, around her neck, into the mass of her hair. Francesca swayed toward him at the seductive pull of his touch. “There is a large bath here,” he said between light kisses on her forehead. His fingers were combing through her hair—picking out pins, she realized vaguely. “Bathe with me.”
As always, she was helpless to resist when Edward set out to persuade her. The bath chamber was on the other side of his dressing room. He must have been plotting this bath before she awoke, for the deep copper tub was filled with hot water in no time. The servants slipped out the door, and they were alone.
“I’ve never bathed with a man before,” she said as he unfastened her buttons. The steam in the air was turning her hair into curling tendrils, and she shed the wool bodice with a sigh of relief.
Edward’s eyes were fixed on her as he pulled off his cravat and then his waistcoat. “I shall do my best to make it memorable.”
She managed to smile. He wanted to help her banish the memory of Georgina’s rejection. She was sure that was why he wanted her to stay, even though he was disrobing her with raw sexual hunger in his face. And really, she couldn’t think of a better way to distract herself from melancholy thoughts than to lose herself in Edward’s arms, and give herself over to the scorching passion that flared between them. For a while at least it would burn away the anguish that hovered just around her.
He made love to her in the bath, bringing her to climax twice before the water cooled. Then he carried her back to his bed and worshipped every inch of her with his mouth until she felt wrung out and exhausted, her mind happily blurred. But it didn’t last forever. Reality slowly settled back over her, and Francesca sighed. “I really should go home, you know.”
“By all the gods, why would you do that?” He trailed kisses down the side of her throat until she arched her neck.
“I don’t belong here . . . even though you’ve been so good to me . . .”
Edward raised his head. “Why don’t you think you belong here?”
Faint pink colored her face. “What would your brother say if he knew you brought your mistress to his house?”
Edward’s mouth crooked at the thought of Charlie being offended by a mistress of any stripe—Charlie, who would likely as not have a Cyprian’s ball in the house when he took possession. He shook his head. Then he laughed. “If only you knew,” he said, still grinning. Francesca flushed darker and turned her head away. “It’s just a house,” he said, realizing that it was just a house: a fine, elegant house, but still merely a building of stone and wood. He wasn’t even particularly fond of it, to be honest. He had thought he would fight to the death to keep this house, but now he thought he could be just as happy—happier, even—in Francesca’s home, or any other building, really, as long as she was there with him. “It’s just a house,” he repeated. “And Charlie of all people won’t turn you away. Once you meet him, you’ll understand at once.”
“Just because he might be understanding—”
“You most certainly do belong here.” He ran his palm down the curve of her hip and leg. “Here with me.” She stared at him for a long moment, her eyes shadowed. “Trust me,” he added. “Don’t go home tonight. I want you to stay.”
There was too much at her home to remind her of Georgina and the plans she had made for the girl. He didn’t see any reason for her to bear the full weight of her dashed hopes tonight.
“All right,” she said after a moment. “Just tonight.”
There was a light tap on the door. Edward ignored it, but it came again a few minutes later. He sighed, rolling off th
e bed and reaching for his trousers. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
“What is it?” he snapped at Blackbridge when he opened the door.
“Beg your pardon, sir,” said the butler in a ponderous whisper. “But His Grace has arrived and is asking for you.”
It took Edward a moment to realize Blackbridge meant his brother and not his father. Somehow the thought of Charlie as the duke—no matter how insecure his grip on the title—made him grin. “Very well, I shall meet him directly.”
Blackbridge bowed as Edward closed the door. He went back to Francesca. “I should have a word with my brother. He’ll only be more intolerable the longer I leave him waiting.”
“Of course.” She got up and wrapped his dressing gown around herself, her copper hair shining brightly against the dark blue velvet. “I should send Mrs. Hotchkiss a note. She’ll be anxious to know what happened.”
“By all means. There’s paper in the second drawer.” He indicated the desk before pulling her close for another kiss. “This dressing gown suits you,” he whispered, running his hands down her back to cup her bottom.
“Your brother is waiting,” she said even as she leaned into him.
“Bugger him.” Edward kissed her again, hungry and deep. He almost asked her right then to marry him, but reluctantly acknowledged that he wouldn’t be any more ready to leave after that, and it seemed rude to ask and then leave to see his brother. “I’ll return soon,” he promised, reaching for his shirt.
“I’ll be here,” she replied with a trace of a smile.
He found his brother in the library. Charlie was rummaging in the drawers of the chiffonier by the tall windows overlooking the garden. He barely looked up when Edward came into the room. “Didn’t Father keep the tobacco in here?” he grumbled. “I can’t find his particular blend anywhere, and it’s damned smooth . . .”
“I’ve no idea. Father hadn’t been here in three years.”
Charlie blinked. “Really? So long? Well. I suppose it would have gone off, then . . .” With visible reluctance, he closed the drawers.
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