by Jade Lee
It wasn't hard. Mr. Richards got in a blow to his ribs that left him gasping as he stumbled backwards. Anthony kept his feet—barely—then adjusted his guard. But it was a losing battle. Before long, there would be another blow that snuck through. And another.
He tried to grab the man, to hold him as wrestlers did and stop the attack. But Mr. Richards was strong, and he was not fooled so easily. In the end, all that happened was that Anthony received a punishing blow to his shoulder. And now something was very wrong with his left arm.
Bang!
The sound was like a cannon going off at close range. It took a moment for him to locate the source of the gunfire. Gunfire? A moment beyond that to process that Mr. Richards had stopped attacking to stare slack-jawed at his wife.
Mrs. Richards stood just inside the doorway and was now calmly reloading a fowling gun. Anthony hurriedly looked to Francine. Thankfully, she appeared unharmed though she was staring at the shot marks in the wall.
"Do I have your attention now?" Mrs. Richards asked calmly. "Or do I need to aim closer to someone?" From the look in the woman's eye, she wasn't feeling particular as to whom she would shoot.
"What are you doing?" Mr. Richards cried, though not—thank God—in an angry tone. He seemed more confused than anything else. "The neighbors will have heard that."
At that moment, Francine seemed to come alive. "The neighbors!" she cried. Then she grabbed a lamp and quickly threw it through the window. The glass and the lamp shattered with a deafening clatter.
Then she ran forward, drawing breath into her lungs. Anthony lunged, catching her around the ribs though his shoulder screamed in pain at the tackle. Whatever she planned, he was terrified that her mother might misfire and hit something vital by mistake.
They tumbled to the ground, but Francine still managed to get her words out.
"I am debauched!"
"You are not!" all three of them shouted at once.
And then there was total silence as Francine glared at everyone at once. Then she spoke, her voice ringing clear even if she wasn't screaming.
"I will tell everyone. Lord Hetherset will be forced to end the engagement."
Anthony sighed. "This is not the way."
"Of course this is the way!" she cried. "Father won't listen otherwise."
"But I haven't..." Anthony's voice trailed away. In truth, he had debauched her. Just not completely. And not in this parlor. But two days ago, he had done some very ignoble things with her.
And while Francine smirked in triumph, her mother released a snort of disgust. A quick glance at Mr. Richards showed that the man was getting angry again, his face flushing and his breath getting short.
"Oh, children, will you please just shut up?" Mrs. Richards huffed. "And Miles, go get me a brandy. I have a headache."
It took a moment as everyone stared at Mrs. Richards. But then, bit by bit, everyone did exactly as she instructed. And as Anthony and Francine found their feet, the woman grimaced again.
"Really, Francine, did you have to break the window? Now it's cold."
Francine didn't answer except to open a trunk and lift out a blanket which she quietly offered to her mother. The woman stared at it a moment, then nodded, setting aside the gun in favor of wrapping herself up. Thirty seconds later, Mr. Richards returned with a glass of brandy which she took before she settled down on the couch—right next to the hole from the fowling gun. Then she sipped and looked steadily from one person to the next, all three of them in turn.
"Young man," she said firmly. Anthony straightened.
"Ma'am?"
"You wish to marry my daughter?"
"With all my heart. I love her."
"And Francine—"
"I love him, Mama. Please—"
She shut up the moment her mother raised her hand. "Spare me the protestations right now, child. I have a headache, remember?"
Francine nodded, closing her mouth with an audible click.
Meanwhile, Mr. Richards found his voice again. "The agreement with Lord Hetherset has already been made," he said. "I cannot go back on my word."
"Of course you can," Mrs. Richards said calmly. "Since... well, since that agreement was never posted."
"What?" gasped husband and daughter at the same instant.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Richards took refuge in her brandy glass. Eventually, though, she set it down to look at her husband. "I was never comfortable with that marriage. You know that."
"But we agreed it was best!" Mr. Richards cried.
"No, Miles, you agreed. I... I was still thinking." She looked to her daughter. "Francine was changing. I wanted to know what that was about first."
"But our grandson would be a lord!"
"And what is that to the point? How many lords have you called wastrels and fools?"
"Only a few!"
Mrs. Richards shook her head. "Well, I have been to the parties with Francine. Believe me, Miles, the whole lot of them isn't worth a ha'penny. And I won't have my grandson growing up to be like them."
Mr. Richards protested. "But he won't. There are smart men with a title."
"But they won't marry a cit's daughter. They have their pick of the titled girls."
"Of course they will! She's a jewel! Any man would be happy to have her!"
Francine gasped in shock, her body jerking slightly. Anthony looked at her, realizing that she hadn't ever heard her father speak so proudly of her before. Meanwhile, Mrs. Richards continued in a soothing tone.
"Of course she's a jewel, Miles. So why not give her to the man who deserves her? Not the title, but the man. After all," she said as she stood up from the couch, the blanket dropping slowly from her body. "That's what I did, and I have not regretted it for a moment."
Mr. Richards shook his head. "That wasn't the same thing."
"Of course it was. Papa wanted me to marry that butcher. The one who smelled funny."
"But I was a successful toymaker!"
She snorted. "You were a struggling toymaker with a bad partner. But I saw the worth in you." She crossed to her husband and pressed a gentle kiss to his mouth. And when he wrapped his arm around her, she gently pulled back, twisting them so he was forced to look at Anthony. "Now look at him. He loves her. He will care for her much better than any lackwit aristocrat can."
"I will," Anthony said. "I swear it."
"And if you promote him—"
"Promote!" said Mr. Richards on a gasp.
"Then he will have enough money to support our daughter and your grandchildren as we want."
Mr. Richards wasn't convinced. "But he's just a clerk."
"And you were a failing toymaker. Plus there's one more thing, Miles." Mrs. Richards drew herself out of her husband's arms to stare at him directly. "Wherever my grandchildren are born, I intend to live nearby."
"What?"
"If you don't want them growing up as lackwits or fools, then I need to be nearby to make sure of it. So I will reside in the same city, village, or hamlet as my grandchildren. That is a promise."
Mr. Richards blinked. "But my business is here! I cannot move to Lincolnshire."
Mrs. Richards shrugged. "Do you wish us to live apart then?"
Her husband's brows snapped together. "Certainly not!"
"Then perhaps you should look closer to home for Francine's husband."
Mr. Richards appeared to be thinking about it, albeit reluctantly. And in the silence, Anthony judged it was time for him to say his piece.
"I'm not just a clerk," he said firmly. "I have ideas, sir. Plans that I think could work."
Mr. Richards snorted, and in any other situation Anthony might have laughed at the sound. All three Richards had the exact same snort of disgust.
"Everyone has ideas," Mr. Richards said.
"But I am implementing them. When I am not working for you, I am bookkeeper to a number of businesses. I help them keep accurate accounts, and then I show them where they can improve."
"You are worki
ng for someone else?" Mr. Richard cried, outrage vibrating in his tone.
"In my off-hours, I am building my own list of clients. I believe that, one day, I can have a team of bookkeepers hired specifically to help hundreds of businesses."
"That's ridiculous. Any business worth its salt has its own clerks to handle the money."
Anthony nodded. "Of course they do. That is why my father works for you and has been happy to do so for decades. But what of all the other smaller businesses? Shoemakers and dressmakers? A little butcher or your favorite bakery? They all need the help that I provide."
Mr. Richards frowned. "And what makes you think anyone will listen to you?"
Mrs. Richards touched her husband's arm. "Because he has been so helpful to the ones already using him. Do you recall A Lady's Favor dress shop? I told you about them. They are the ones making Francine's new dresses. They have been using Anthony, and now they dress the most elite clients. They just finished the trousseau for Lady Gwendolyn, Lord Redhill's sister."
Anthony could tell that Mr. Richards wasn't convinced, so he smiled as earnestly as he could manage. "I could explain everything to you, if you like. I would welcome your advice."
"You can't butter me up, boy. This is my daughter you want."
"And what your daughter wants," said Francine as she stepped to take Anthony's hand, "is to marry the man she loves."
Anthony squeezed her hand, silently sending her his love in return. She looked at him and flashed him a radiant smile, the one that never failed to dazzle him. It was some moments later when Mr. Richards released a groan of defeat.
"Oh very well." he grumbled. "You are not fired. And neither is your father."
Mrs. Richards took up the tone. "And listen to me clearly, Francine, you will have a large wedding with all of our friends invited. There will be no more talk of debauching, and you will learn to be more respectful of our things. Your fiancé cannot afford to have you throwing lamps out of windows."
"Of course, Mama. I promise!" Then she rushed forward, hugging first her mother, then her father. "Thank you," she cried. "Thank you, thank you!"
Then it was Anthony's turn as he bowed over his future mother-in-law's hand before gravely shaking Mr. Richards's hand. He couldn't quite think of the man as his future father-in-law yet. Not with his shoulder still screaming and his ribs smarting with every breath.
"You had best work very hard, boy," Mr. Richards warned.
"Never fear, sir. I will."
Then the man turned to his daughter. "And you had better keep bringing me biscuits!"
Francine grinned. "Every day, Papa. In fact, I should like to have more time in the kitchen. I want to do more baking, if it's all right."
Mr. Richards shrugged. "Of course it is. Why would I care if you want to spend more time baking me treats?"
Because she was likely to be baking them to sell, thought Anthony. But he was smart enough to not say that aloud. Mrs. Richards, however, leveled him with a hard stare, though she didn't say anything. Clearly, that would be a battle for another day. And it would largely depend on what Francine wanted to do.
Meanwhile, Francine threw wide the parlor doors and called for champagne. They celebrated together, though at times it felt like a continuation of Mrs. Richards's earlier inquisition. Both parents kept asking him questions about his future, listening attentively to his plans before inserting their advice. It was good advice, so he took careful note of everything that was said. And in the end, everyone seemed satisfied.
It wasn't until the wee hours of the morning that Francine grabbed her mother's hand. "Mama," she began softly, but Anthony heard every word. "In the carriage you said you wouldn't help us. But you hid the agreement. You were helping us all along."
Mrs. Richards shook her head. "I wasn't helping the two of you. I was helping you, Francine. And I said no in the carriage because, well, I didn't know how strongly you felt about each other. Love has to be fought for, you know. And I had to see—"
"If we'd fight? Mama, I broke a window! And ripped my favorite dress!"
"Yes, well, how was I to know you would be so dramatic? Really, Francine, I don't know where you get it from." Then she primly grabbed the fowling gun before departing from the room.
Epilogue
Francine giggled as Ginger chased an old piece of string underneath the kitchen worktable. The feline wasn't a kitten anymore, but the cat was still young enough to keep Francine laughing even if the two of them were crouched under the table. The tarts were almost done, so she pushed up to her feet only to be startled when Anthony appeared around the other side of the table. He was smiling, and his eyes had that darkly intense look that never failed to make her toes curl in her slippers.
She smiled. "Have you come for a cherry tart? They're just about ready."
"No," he said as he stepped up close to her.
She held her ground, lifting her face up for his kiss. She waited, but he didn't meet her mouth, instead he just looked at her. "Anthony?" she asked, feeling a shiver of unease.
"Laugh again for me, Francine," he said, his voice husky.
"Laugh?" she said, a nervous titter escaping her lips. She clapped her hand over her mouth. That was definitely not the sound he wanted.
He gently removed her hand from her face. "I want to remember this moment, here in our kitchen."
She glanced about the tiny space. Actually, it was quite large by London standards, but still smaller than her parents' home. It was more than a month before their wedding, but the two of them had found this flat a week ago. With Anthony's promotion from her father and sales of Francine's tarts growing by leaps and bounds, they had rented it with every penny they could scrape together. Anthony had moved in this morning, and after their wedding, Francine would join him here. But she had wanted to bake him his favorite cherry tarts on his first night in their new home. So she and Ginger had come here, along with large baskets of ingredients: Ginger, because she was a great mouser and would live with them here, and Francine, because she would take any excuse to be alone with him.
"I'm not going to burn the very first batch of tarts in our new home," she said sternly as she tried to push him backwards. He barely moved an inch, but at least it gave her room to turn around and open the oven door.
Heat bloomed around her face, but it was a familiar sensation and one she enjoyed, especially as she could see that the tarts were done to perfection. She grabbed some towels to cover her hands and carefully pulled out the tray. She backed up, trying to maneuver around so she could place the hot treats on the worktable, but Anthony was standing right there. She felt his hand on her backside and giggled.
"That's the sound I was looking for," he said as he placed both hands on her hips and slowly eased her backwards until she ran right into the hot bulge in his pants. She gasped in delight, but as lovely as this was, her attention needed to be on the tarts.
"I'm going to drop the tray," she warned.
"No, you're not. Just go slow." He reached out to help her, but he didn't have any way to protect his hands. Besides, he was right. She had it. A second later, the tray was cooling on the worktable and his hands had slid up to cup her breasts.
She closed her eyes, letting her body relax back against him as his caress built the simmering excitement in her blood. By the time he started kissing her neck, she was reaching behind her to caress him. Since their engagement, she'd become very familiar with the heat of him, the hard length, and the way he growled deep in his throat when she did something he liked. He was making that noise now as he started unfasten her gown. It was a new one, worn specifically because he liked it. He said the deep red color showed off her skin and eyes to perfection, but he really appreciated the way the buttons were easy to slip open. Within moments, he had her dress, corset, and shift on the floor. And still she was pinned facing the worktable as he did wonderful things to her from behind.
"Anthony," she gasped as he pinched her nipples. "Anthony," she gasped again.
"Yes?" he murmured as he slid a hand between her thighs. She was already wet for him there, and she couldn't resist his insistent fingers.
"Anthony," she said, trying to grab onto some sanity. "Our wedding is in a month."
"I know," he said as his fingers pushed deep between her legs.
"I don't want to wait."
She felt him pause, his body stilling behind her. So she took the opportunity to firmly step away from him. She was naked except for her stockings and slippers, her body wet and thrumming with hunger. And as she turned around, she saw the look in his eyes that never failed to thrill her. It was dark and hungry, and it was all for her.
She grinned at him. "Take off your shirt, and I'll give you a reward."
She watched as he swallowed once. Then twice. Then he spoke, his voice thick and hoarse. "Are you sure?"
"I've never been surer of anything."
His shirt was gone in a heartbeat, and she got to look at the long, lean length of his torso. "Beautiful," she murmured.
He shook his head. "That's your name, not mine." Then he grinned. "What's my reward?"
She looked over at her tarts. One of them had broken open, the insides cooling quickly. To test it, she put her finger inside the gooey center. It was a little hot, but not too bad. So she scooped up the mixture and brought it to her lips. While he watched, she slowly licked it. Long strokes of her tongue, sweet nips of her teeth, and finally a long, slow suck to get all the cherry mixture off her fingers.
Anthony watched the whole time, his eyes dark, his nostrils flared and his organ thick and pronounced beneath his pants.
"Do that again," he rasped.
She shook her head. "Not unless you get as naked as I am." Then she smiled because she could see the worry in his eyes. "I insist, my love. I will not wait any longer." And then in the hopes that it would spur him on, she took some more cherry tart and smeared it lightly on her nipples. "Care to taste?" she asked.
He grinned. "You are getting bold, Francine."