by Sara Bennett
Francesca groaned beneath his mouth.
“Francesca,” he whispered, and now his breath was on her hair, his lips caressing her temple. She felt her blood beating and her skin tingling, and knew this was desire. The breathless, soaring sort of desire she had only read about in books. She turned her face, but toward him rather than away, and felt his mouth on hers once more.
His kiss was tremendously and excitingly dangerous. Irresistible.
Again heat flashed through her, turning her bones to liquid, and she knew she couldn’t fight him even if she’d wanted to. His mouth was on her throat, hot, tasting her, making her squirm. She gave another little moan, tilting her head back to give him better access.
He was kneeling before her, unwrapping her like a present. Her dress, still sodden beneath the coverlet, was clinging to her. She gave a violent shiver.
“Poor sweet,” he murmured, and began to strip the garment from her, peeling it away from her cold flesh. She might almost have believed he was doing her a favor, if it wasn’t for the hungry expression on his face and the glitter in his black eyes.
Underneath the dress were her chemise and stays and petticoats—the impossible world of Victorian undergarments. He groaned when he saw her. Francesca giggled. “Are you beaten already?” she teased, and wondered at herself. He was seducing her, and she had never felt more at ease. Or perhaps she was seducing him.
“Not me,” he said, and promptly swung her up into his arms, before lowering them both onto the chair. He arranged her onto his lap, and Francesca rested her head on his shoulder. He murmured soothingly, without words, but there was nothing soothing in the way his hands were caressing her shoulders. He explored the plump swell of her breasts with his fingertip, where her stays had pushed them up.
She trembled, but it was no longer with the cold.
He cupped her breast, slipping his hand down the front of her undergarment, her flesh filling his palm to overflowing. An ache formed between her legs. As if he could read her mind, he reached down and laid his hand there, against her petticoats.
“You’re not a child, Francesca,” he said, his voice hoarse. “You know what will happen if you do not tell me nay. I am giving you one last chance to say it.”
She supposed she’d been hoping he would just go on, seduce her, and she’d never have to make a conscious decision. But he was forcing her to choose. He was giving her the responsibility of continuing with her adventure, or bringing it to an abrupt end.
She closed her eyes and felt the heat of him, the heavy rise and fall of his chest. He was here, right now. The man she had dreamed about all her life—her handsome villain—and if she stopped she knew she would always regret it. This might be her only chance to experience something she had dreamed about for years. And where was the danger? He would be gone tomorrow, back to whatever world he inhabited in London, and their paths would never cross again. There was no fear she would lose her heart to him, grow attached, except perhaps as a fond memory. There was no comparison between this and Aphrodite’s many lovers.
She turned to look at him, so there would be no mistake.
“Yes,” she said.
The bedsheets were chill, but he didn’t feel cold. Usually when he came to a woman’s bed she was already naked and prepared for him, but this time it was different. Francesca expected him to undress her.
He’d never seen so many buttons and hooks and ribbons. She was like a gift, waiting to be unwrapped, and his fingers trembled as he removed layer after layer. And then, after each garment was tossed aside, he had to stop and explore. The swell of her breasts, the curve of her thigh, her rounded hip. But then finally there she was, Francesca Greentree, the woman of his dreams. He groaned as he reached for her, tumbling her over, her hair heavy and damp about her face and shoulders.
There would be regrets; he knew it. And repercussions, when the truth about his reasons for being here came out. But right now he didn’t care.
He groaned again, pressing his body to hers, feeling her respond with passion. With his hands stroking her back, he found the curve of her waist and the soft globes of her bottom. She was nuzzling against him, her breath warm as she explored his throat and the hollow there. Then she licked him, tasted him, and lifted her face so that he could kiss her, deeply this time. A lover’s kiss.
Her lips clung; she felt hot and eager. He cupped her breast, feeling the hard nub of her nipple, and bent to take it in his mouth. She arched against him, her legs tangling with his, and he felt the sensitive length of his cock brush against her thigh. He nearly lost control, but he held on, knowing the more she wanted him, the better it would be for them both.
A moment to remember forever.
But she’d discovered his weakness, and her eager hand was upon him, tentatively at first, exploring his hard length, and then as he pressed against her soft core, impatiently. She was hot and moist, and he couldn’t wait any longer. He slid inside her.
She went still. Perhaps he’d overestimated her state of arousal? But no, it was simply that it was new to her. He looked down into her face and saw the surprise in her eyes. She was a virgin, of course she was! He’d never taken a virgin before. For a moment he felt disoriented, confused as to his real reasons for doing this, and then she smiled up at him, and all doubt left him.
“It feels strange,” she murmured, “but nice. I think…yes, I think I am going to like it very much…”
The blood rushed to his head. He began to move against her, no longer trying to hold back. She was obviously enjoying this as much as he, and he let her actions rule him. They clung together, riding the storm, and at the end she gasped and shuddered, and he lost himself in his own pleasure, and hers.
“So that’s what it’s like,” she said dreamily.
And, as they lay in each other’s arms, he felt as if he’d given her something very precious, and it was perfect, but then in a heartbeat it all changed.
It grew awkward.
Sebastian wished he could fall asleep. He deserved it, by God, but Francesca wouldn’t let him. She wriggled out from his grip, and when he tried to hold on to her, murmuring soothing words, she wriggled the harder. It was over, and no amount of hoping would bring it back again.
Giving up, he threw back the covers and rose, and striding naked to the fire, he stretched the tired, aching muscles of his body.
Behind him in the bed she went still, staring. Of course, she hadn’t seen a man in all his glory before, he thought wryly. Let her have her fill! He turned to face her with only a smile.
Her eyes slid over his chest and stomach, dropping to his groin.
But her staring at him was igniting desire again. She was half propped up against the pillows, her wild hair curling around her, her improper mouth swollen from his kisses. She was like a dream come true—she was his dream come true—and he wanted her with a fierce ache.
Her eyes widened at the evidence of his feelings. Perhaps, he thought, he could have her again, before it was over. Was twice too greedy? Sebastian knew he was willing to take what he could get.
“Francesca, you were made for love,” he murmured huskily as he moved toward her. And realized it was the worst thing he could have said. He might as well have told her that she was her mother’s daughter, and for a woman like Francesca, struggling against her bloodline and her nature, it was setting a match to tinder.
She sat bolt upright. “I need to leave now,” she said in a hard little voice.
“Francesca…”
But it was no use; he could see she’d made up her mind. Her clothing had hardly dried, but she began to dress, and with a sigh he did the same. “Wait here,” he said when he was done. “I’ll try and get us some horses.”
When he had gone, Francesca stood by the fire and wondered how she could feel so empty after what she had just experienced. She’d enjoyed what they’d done, yes, and she didn’t regret it, but suddenly she could see how it was possible for a woman to become like her mother. Sebastia
n had made her feel like a goddess, and she already wanted more. It was addictive. She knew she would never be with Sebastian again, but she could also see it might become possible to begin searching for him in every man who looked at her, every man who touched her. Always searching and never finding.
The idea made her sick and dizzy with disgust and terror.
Oh so very easily, she could become another Aphrodite.
The door opened softly and he returned. “There’s only one horse in the stable.”
So she would have to ride pillion, pressed against him, reliving the moments they’d spent together. Francesca dreaded it and longed for it at the same time. It will be a test, she told herself as she followed him down the stairs. If I can bear this without showing my true feelings, then I can do anything.
But the journey was surprisingly swift, and they hardly spoke until the lights of Greentree Manor came into sight. She meant to jump down and run, but he was too quick for her, reaching to help her. She fell against him, and for a moment she was enveloped in the scent and feel of Sebastian Thorne. One last time. And then she was pulling away.
Running. As if he really were the devil.
She heard him call her name, but she didn’t turn. Her head was filled with just one thought, and one regret. She wanted him.
But she couldn’t have him.
The next morning Francesca waited until the hour was late before coming downstairs, and as she had hoped, he was gone. It was as well they were traveling to London after all. She told herself she would be able to forget Sebastian Thorne in the bustle and rush that was the capital, and by the time she returned to the manor, all thought of him would have been washed from her mind.
So very neat and tidy.
She could only pray it was true.
Chapter 9
London
Late summer
As they passed through the newly completed Euston Square Railway Station, Francesca looked up at the grand Euston Arch. The metropolis was changing and growing at an amazing pace. It had been four years since she’d last visited London. That had been when Marietta married her Max in a grand ceremony at St. James’s Church. Since then her sisters had visited Greentree Manor often enough that Francesca had not been obliged to travel south to London. Besides, Max and Marietta spent much of the year in Cornwall with their daughter, while Vivianna and Oliver were currently at their estate in Derbyshire with their two sons.
Her sisters had their own lives to lead, and if sometimes Francesca felt the loneliness of her own solitary state, it was what she had chosen, and she told herself she was content. Better to be alone than prey to her emotions.
I have had my dance with the devil. Why should I need another?
The reminder was meant to comfort her, but it seemed to have the opposite effect.
A railway porter fetched them a hansom cab and loaded their luggage aboard. Amy held up a handkerchief to her nose as the smoke and grime of the city swirled around them, complete with an amazing collection of smells. At least summer meant there were not so many coal fires burning, so there was less chance of the impenetrable fogs that frequently smothered the capital.
The vehicle soon rattled its way into the thick stream of traffic, jostling with carts, omnibuses, carriages, and pedestrians. They were on the final leg of their journey. While Amy fidgeted and Lil sat bolt upright in her corner, looking frighteningly neat, Francesca closed her eyes and tried to picture herself far away from this man-made chaos.
“It seems ages since I was last in London,” Amy said. “I am looking forward to seeing the new London bridge, and the statue of Nelson in Trafalgar Square, and the work on the Houses of Parliament in Westminster. And the shopping. Perhaps I can persuade Helen to come with me, although she never needed much persuading to shop. And you must come, too, my dear. It will do you good to freshen up your wardrobe.”
Francesca opened one eye. “I am happy with the wardrobe I have.”
“Oh Francesca, I do hope you will indulge me! That dreadful green monstrosity you were wearing when Mr. Thorne sat down with us to dinner…I hardly knew where to look. It was one of your charity dresses, wasn’t it?”
Francesca sighed and gave up on calming thoughts. “Mrs. Hall has four children and an invalid husband, Mama. She needs the money. And I find her sewing quite adequate to my needs.”
“You only say that to make me feel guilty,” Amy retorted. “She could be employed making clothing for the servants, or darning the household linen. But please, never ask her to make you another dress!” Their vehicle rattled around a corner, veering to make way for a trolley bus. “I wonder if we will ever see Mr. Thorne again?” she added idly.
“Who?” Francesca exclaimed, as if she truly had forgotten.
Amy smiled. “Mr. Thorne, our gentleman in distress, or perhaps not quite a gentleman. Mr. Jardine seemed to think he was not a man whose acquaintance we should pursue, and I am sure he is right. He usually is.”
“Whatever he was, Mama, he is gone and we will never see him again.”
Amy did not reply, not even to argue that since they were in London and Mr. Thorne lived in London, might they not run into each other accidentally…? Francesca, who had several replies ready, to show just how indifferent she was, felt her spirits sink. Her life, she admitted to herself, seemed very tame now Sebastian was no longer part of it. He had arrived so suddenly, stayed so briefly, she couldn’t believe she could miss him so much. It was to do with the sense of excitement and danger he had brought with him, of course, that was it. Burning buildings and men with pistols and…and other things, she thought hastily, stealing a glance at her companions.
They were deep in their own thoughts.
That was just as well, because the guilty pleasure was probably there on her face for the whole world to see. Scandal, ruination, disgrace—take your pick. She could become the center of any one of them.
“Good heavens, what is that smell?” Amy pressed her handkerchief firmly to her nose. Her eyes were watering.
Lil’s nose gave a brief twitch. “Tannery across the river in Bermondsey,” she said knowledgeably. “And the soap factory in Southwark.”
“Oh,” Amy murmured faintly. “I’d forgotten how Londoners live. Factories, rookeries, mansions, all within a short stroll of each other. Rather dreadful, really.”
“Perhaps we should forget all about Uncle William and turn around and go home?” Francesca said hopefully.
Amy met her eyes, and with an air of determination, set aside her handkerchief. “Certainly not. We are here now. I’m sure we will soon get used to the—the miasma.”
“Eau de London,” Francesca murmured. They had turned into Wensted Square and were approaching the Tremaine house. She could see Amy’s agitation growing with every turn of the wheels. Perhaps she was more afraid of her brother’s temper than she let on, and like Helen, she didn’t enjoy scenes. William was always very good at scenes, in fact he seemed to thrive on them, and he was intimidating when angry.
“He won’t turn us away,” she went on, staring up at the houses lining the square. “But he can be dreadfully unpleasant, my dear, and I think we should prepare ourselves for that until I work him around. I always was able to win my brothers around to my way of thinking; we must hope I haven’t lost the knack.”
“Such a shame Uncle Thomas died so young,” Francesca said, knowing that he had been her favorite brother.
Amy’s smile held sadness. “Thomas and my husband Henry died together in India. They were the best of friends from childhood. I fell in love with Henry when I was still in the schoolroom, and Thomas was so pleased. He was a very pleasant man. William and I have never been close. I used to think he was jealous of Thomas, even when he would so loudly disapprove of him. Of course dear Thomas laughed and took no notice. ‘William will never be happy,’ he’d say, ‘no matter what he does.’ I think, in a way, Thomas pitied him his lack of joy in the world around him.”
“William should be happy
now. He’s head of the family and can order us all about.”
“To give him his due, William has always been most diligent and meticulous when it comes to family matters. I know he can be overbearing and—and difficult, but he is also a man respected by his peers.”
That was all very well, thought Francesca, but Uncle William was such an unpleasantly prickly man, it was sometimes difficult to feel comfortable in his company. He had a morbid dread of some scandal attaching itself to the Tremaine name, and that hadn’t helped his relationship with Amy when she adopted Aphrodite’s daughters.
They had come to a stop outside the Tremaine house. Lil hurried off to find someone to inform that they had arrived, and to help them with their luggage. It was August, late summer, and the sky was hazy over the trees in the garden that graced the center of the square. A young boy was busy sweeping a path for two gentlewomen with parasols, who were crossing the dusty cobbles. As Francesca and Amy ascended the front steps, the door opened.
“Mrs. Jardine?”
It was a nasal-sounding voice, with a thin layer of ice. The woman stood in the doorway, almost as if she was blocking their entry. She was dressed in gray silk, with the skirts so padded out with petticoats and horsehair stiffening that they brushed the door frame on either side. Her hair was so fair almost to be white, and had been caught up and curled into ringlets. It was a style more suited to a young woman, and this woman was thirty at least.
“I am Mrs. March,” she said proudly. “Mr. Tremaine’s housekeeper.” Her eyes were cold, and there was certainly no smile lurking in them. “Your servant tells me that you have come to stay. We were not expecting you, Mrs. Jardine.”
Her tone suggested that she found Amy’s conduct wanting, and it stung Francesca to her mother’s defense.
“This is Mrs. Jardine’s family home, Mrs. March. Surely it isn’t necessary for her to make an appointment?”