It gave her a hint of a wicked side to Edward de Lacey, and that only attracted her more.
They wandered through the rooms, some badly lit and others so filled with paintings it was hard to take them in. The conversation flowed easily now. She had never seen Edward smile so much, and it was making her dizzy. All her protests to Alconbury and Sloan that it was just business began to seem as thin and frail as old lace. She wanted to see him smile—at her. She craved that heady thrill when he laughed at something she’d said. And most dangerously of all, beating beneath her skin like an echo of her pulse, was the desire to see him in the deepest throes of passion.
She had almost forgotten why they were here when Edward stopped abruptly. She had no choice but to stop as well, since her arm was still wound around his, even closer than when they had arrived. She glanced up at him in surprise, and her throat clogged up at his expression as he stared at a woman across the room. Instinctively she just knew who was ahead of them.
Lady Louisa Halston was every bit as beautiful as the gossip sheets said. Slender and delicate, her hair was the color of fresh butter, and spilled from her crown in perfect ringlets. Her gown was up to the minute in fashion, and flattered her coloring and her figure. Francesca could only see her profile from where they stood, but it was very nearly perfect. Her nose was not too large, her chin not too pointed. She stood with her head tilted slightly to one side, studying the painting in front of her with a thoughtful air as her companion spoke and gestured to it.
“Oh, dear,” Francesca said in a too-quick voice, casting about for any reason to leave. “These are all portraits. I don’t think Percival had much of a hand for portraits . . .” She trailed off as Edward’s arm tensed.
“Nonsense,” he said in a smooth, cold tone, all trace of levity and irreverence gone. “Don’t be so hasty.” He turned away and led her to a portrait near the window, of a lady in green.
Dutifully, Francesca examined it. “Lovely.”
“Is that all you have to say?”
She glanced sideways at his grim face. “Yes,” she said. “I don’t feel like mocking her.”
He didn’t comment on her choice of words, just walked on. She wondered if he wanted to see his former fiancée. He certainly wasn’t taking action to avoid her, as he marched them along the room. Then she wondered if perhaps she shouldn’t take it out of his hands and feign a sudden headache. He would have to take her home if she swooned to the floor in pretend illness.
But then it was too late. They turned toward the next room, and came face-to-face with Lady Louisa and her companion. By now a number of other people in the room had noticed, and Francesca dimly heard the buzz of whispers that quieted down. She took a deep breath, not knowing what to expect.
Edward felt Francesca’s tension, but was helpless to reassure her. It was all he could do to keep his emotions battened down after catching sight of Louisa on the opposite side of the gallery. She was still as beautiful as ever, still the same sweet image of ladylike perfection. Suddenly he regretted not going to see her after the end of their engagement, just so he wouldn’t have been caught so unprepared this evening, when he had readily allowed himself to be drawn in by Francesca’s outgoing charm and slightly risqué sense of humor. He forgot all about looking for connections to Percival Watts as they grew more and more at ease. When she slipped and called him Edward again, he felt something like elation humming through him. He would definitely kiss her again, tonight. And this time he wouldn’t force himself to walk away. Whatever happened after that would be . . . inevitable.
That was when he caught sight of Louisa. Like a bucket of cold water thrown in his face, he suddenly felt again all the anger and shock at her betrayal. He steeled himself to it, but still felt it burning at the edges of his mind as Louisa and her companion finally met them.
“Good evening,” Edward said. He bowed his head. “Lady Louisa.”
“Good evening, de Lacey.” The Marquis of Calverton’s eyes gleamed. He was two decades older than Edward, a few inches shorter but a fit, physical man. Durham once bought several brood mares from Calverton’s stud farm, and the marquis had driven a hard, ruthless bargain. Edward respected him for that, but he also never forgot his father cursing Calverton’s name after some especially sharp haggling over one mare. “And good evening to you, Lady Gordon,” Calverton added, to Edward’s surprise. He glanced at her to see a gracious smile on her face as she dipped a curtsey.
“How good of you to remember, my lord.”
He regarded her with entirely too much interest for Edward’s liking. “You are hard to forget, my dear.”
She laughed. “You flatter me.”
“May I present my betrothed, Lady Louisa Halston.” Calverton shot a keen glance at Edward at the word “betrothed,” but he’d been prepared for that; indeed it seemed the only reason Louisa would be out with him. After all, Calverton had a large fortune, and it was indisputably his. “Louisa, this is Lady Gordon,” the marquis added. “She used to have some of the finest singers in London at her salons.”
Louisa hadn’t looked away from Edward since he said her name. Finally she shifted her gaze, to greet Francesca with reserve and propriety. Edward noticed how fragile she seemed next to Francesca. Louisa was slim and pale, holding herself regally still. Francesca seemed to shine with hidden heat, from her glowing hair to her vivid red gown to the warmth of her smile. Francesca was warmth and energy, where Louisa was quiet and peace. Seeing them both at once, he didn’t know what to think. Instinctively he still felt the comfort of Louisa’s serenity, but now he had discovered he craved—much more than he would have ever guessed—Francesca’s vivacity.
“What do you think of the pictures, Lady Gordon?” Calverton asked.
“Quite impressive,” she replied. “How do you find them, Lady Louisa?”
Louisa raised her eyes to Edward’s. “Magnificent,” she said quietly.
He had once imagined that soft blue gaze meeting his every morning and night. If not for a blackmailer, he would still be betrothed to her; it would be her hand on his arm this evening instead of Francesca’s. He and Louisa would have walked through the gallery in polite, dignified appreciation, and not once thought of a cheeky new title for any piece. He would have thought it a lovely evening . . . but it wouldn’t have made him feel the way he did with Francesca, as though he’d ingested a bit of liquid lightning.
Francesca was still chatting easily with Calverton. Louisa was silent, smiling politely, her wary eyes flicking back to Edward from time to time. By God, he had loved this woman, and she was engaged to another man within days of jilting him. Perhaps it should have made him feel better, this proof that Gerard had been right about her and her family, but it didn’t ease the cruel shock of seeing how very deceived he had been in her.
“It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Louisa.” Francesca’s voice broke into his thoughts as she discreetly pinched the inside of his arm, where her hand still curled familiarly. “And to see you again, my lord.”
He snapped his eyes away from Louisa. “Good evening, Calverton. Lady Louisa.”
Calverton put his hand possessively at Louisa’s back and smiled. “And to you, de Lacey. Lady Gordon.” With a polite half bow, he led Louisa away. Edward didn’t watch her go, but he caught a breath of her scent, lilacs, and closed his eyes against the memory. He liked lilacs.
Francesca cleared her throat. “I do believe we’ve seen most of the paintings here. I didn’t see anything that might be Percival’s work.”
Right. Percival Watts. Edward forced his mind to the reason they were here tonight. He had brought her thinking it would help in her search, not end with him facing his faithless fiancée. It wasn’t Francesca’s fault at all, but the evening felt ruined, and he took the escape she offered. “Are you ready to go?”
She glanced at him, her eyes dark. She made no attempt to revive the lighthearted fun they had shared earlier. “Yes.”
He headed for the do
or, Francesca walking beside him without another word.
Chapter 17
The ride home was almost silent. Francesca didn’t know what Edward was thinking, but she could guess. The few glances she stole at his profile told her all she needed to know. Something inside her almost wept at how remote he looked, and she had to bite her lip to keep quiet. By now she knew Edward wasn’t the sort to get angry and swear or punch someone. Instead he became cold and silent, as if retreating inside some internal fortress no one could breach.
In this case, she could almost understand that. She would never forget the expression that flashed ever so briefly across his face when he saw his former fiancée. Lady Louisa Halston was beautiful, true, but more importantly—and more cruelly—Edward had truly cared for her. The pain in his face was too deep, too personal, to spring from anything else. He must have trusted her. And in return, when he most needed her confidence and support, Lady Louisa broke off their engagement and sold his private scandal to Gregory Sloan. Everything must have been for money. Francesca knew the man Lady Louisa had been with. The Marquis of Calverton was in his early fifties, a proud, rather haughty man with an immense fortune and an illustrious title. He had already buried two wives and needed another, since he only had three daughters. He’d visited her salon a few evenings when she had an old friend of her mother’s in to sing. She hadn’t disliked him, but neither had she liked him. He was too calculating for her taste, too aware of his position and everyone else’s. He was nothing like Edward, not by half. If Lady Louisa cared for anything other than money and position, she was likely to regret her new choice of husband.
Not that it was her concern whom Lady Louisa married. She didn’t care a bit . . . except for the small voice inside her heart that practically sang with triumph that Lady Louisa had seen fit to jilt Edward. Her loss would be someone else’s gain . . . perhaps even Francesca’s. At least for a little while.
They had reached her home. The horses stopped; the carriage dipped as the footman jumped down from the back. Edward stepped down when the servant opened the carriage door, holding out his hand to help her alight, a gentleman to the end. She took her time gathering her skirts to climb down. Her personal desires had been doing hard battle with her common sense and cold practicality, but now there was no contest. She would be a liar to say she hadn’t been waiting for this chance for a while now, and she didn’t even pretend she had the discipline to keep herself from seizing it.
“Would you like to come in for a drink?” She glanced up at him. In the lamplight his expression was set and composed, his eyes shadowed by the brim of his hat, and she had no idea what he would reply.
“Perhaps not tonight,” he said.
Francesca stepped closer and laid her hand on his arm. “Perhaps tonight is the perfect time,” she said quietly. He looked down at her, the light catching his gray eyes and turning them to silver. Something flickered there as he caught her meaning. She met his gaze for a moment longer, just to leave no doubt, then turned and walked unhurriedly up her steps.
The Hotchkisses had already gone to bed, since she told them not to wait up for her. They had a small apartment behind the kitchen, close to the mews. She let herself in with her latchkey, leaving the door open behind her. If he didn’t follow in a minute or so, she would close it and pretend nothing had happened. It hadn’t, really, and if nothing continued to happen, she could carry on as before.
She was pulling off her gloves when the door closed. Her heart skipped a beat as he stepped up very close behind her and fingered her shawl. His gloved fingers brushed her bare shoulders, and she shivered as he lifted the silk shawl away and cool air rippled over her skin. A moment later she heard the unmistakable swish of fabric as he shed his coat and hung it up, and that unleashed a different sort of shiver. He was staying.
Trying to ignore the sizzle of anticipation in her veins, she went into the dark drawing room and poured two glasses of wine. Her hands were unnaturally steady, for all that she had just invited a man into her home to seduce him. Francesca considered herself a modern, independent woman, but she’d never done anything like this. Cecil had been dead for two long years. She hadn’t been with a man since. And now she found herself almost melting from the hot burn of desire inside her—for Edward de Lacey of all people, whom she’d accosted like a shrew and who had probably viewed her as a mild annoyance, if not worse. For the man she had thought made of marble, with ice water running in his veins. That didn’t mean she hadn’t been attracted to him, of course, just that she ought to have been able to ignore it. And she had . . . mostly . . . until now.
She turned. He stood in the doorway, arms folded across his chest, watching her with an intensity that made her heart jump. If she had ever doubted he felt the same pull toward her that she felt toward him, now she knew. She held up one of the glasses of wine. “Sherry?” she asked, her voice huskier than usual.
Slowly, he crossed the room and took the glass from her hand. His gaze never left hers as he set it down on the table beside her. She had to tip back her head to meet those eyes, now as turbulent as a stormy sky. His gaze seemed to be asking something, seeking some answer without asking a question. Francesca was pretty certain her thoughts and feelings were written on her face, and after a minute the probing nature of his stare changed to one of purpose. He stripped off his gloves, one at a time, and dropped them to the floor. She dimly heard them hit the carpet as he raised one hand and fingered a loose lock of hair at her temple.
She could feel the heat of his skin, so close to her cheek, and unconsciously she turned her head, leaning into his touch. Edward made a soft, guttural noise in the back of his throat as she rubbed her cheek into his palm. With quick, efficient movements he pulled the combs from her hair until the whole mass tumbled down around her shoulders. Then he dug his fingers into her hair and curled them around the nape of her neck, holding her in place as he pressed his cheek to hers.
It seemed she had waited an eternity for this. She splayed her hands open against his chest and inched closer to him, pressing into the warmth and strength of his body. He said something inaudible, the barest rumble in his chest, and she let her head fall back even more into his cradling hands. Since the day she’d kissed him, she had wanted to feel this again, his arms around her and his heart pounding hard at her touch. Something inside her wanted to purr and stretch like a cat and rub against him.
His thumbs stroked over her cheekbones, moving over her flesh as delicately as the brush of a butterfly’s wing. The pads of his fingertips pressed on the back of her skull, tipping her face up. Francesca closed her eyes, and her chest grew tight as she waited for his lips to touch hers again. Kiss me, she pleaded silently. She didn’t know how she could stand to wait another minute for it, even as his hands skimmed over her skin, his fingers sure and deliberate. He traced her temples, smoothed along her eyebrows, and drew his fingertips down her jaw, exploring each arch of bone and dip of flesh with the barest of touches. She could feel his breath on her cheek, close enough to warm her skin but still too far away. It was exquisite and unbearable all at once.
And then, finally, his lips brushed the corner of hers. Francesca inhaled sharply, hardly realizing she’d been holding her breath, and sensation rushed in with her breath. He kissed her gently, almost tentatively, at first, his lips barely touching hers. She swayed toward him, trying to lean into the kiss and deepen it, only to be held in place by his hands, still twisted in her hair. Without a thought, she surrendered to his control. She had wanted him so badly, knowing it was wrong and unseemly to do so, that now she was almost afraid to move and break the spell. Even as his lips settled on hers a sliver of worry poked at her mind, that he would pull away and turn from her and declare once again that nothing could ever happen between them.
Of course, he’d said that almost a week ago. And she had seen the memory of that kiss smoldering in his eyes more than once since then. Clearly he had failed to persuade himself any more than he had persuaded her.
With unhurried care his mouth pulled at hers, exploring, shaping, and then finally opening to taste hers. She moaned at the first stroke of his tongue against her own. He tasted like wine, the rich warm flavor of port still clinging to him. That must be why she felt tipsy and off-balance, she thought, as if the room had begun tilting from side to side like a ship at sea. She could grow drunk on kisses like this.
He looked at her, his eyebrows raised. Francesca gazed boldly back, and ran the tip of her tongue along her upper lip. Edward inhaled a harsh breath, and then he was kissing her again. There was less control in this kiss. His hands flexed around her neck, and he ran his palms down to cup her shoulders and slide along them, then down her spine. He spread his hands wide over the small of her back, pulling her hips into his. Her back arched as he bore her backward until her shoulders pressed against the wall. She could feel the damask wall covering against her bare skin. The thought flitted away as his hands kept sliding, down to grip the curves of her bottom, to lift her to her toes and drag her even tighter against him. The length and breadth of his erection seemed branded on the skin of her belly, right through her clothes and his. The steady hum of desire inside her grew louder and more strident until it seemed to drown out her heartbeat, shutting out all thought and doubt. Not that she had much of either left; he wouldn’t be here if he didn’t want her, and she’d had plenty of time to think about how much she wanted him. She let go of his shoulders so she could wrap her arms around his neck, trying to hold him to her in this breathless little cocoon of desire. Her left foot lifted of its own volition to rub lightly along the outside of his calf.
One Night in London: The Truth About the Duke Page 18