by Sara Bennett
Francesca was appalled. “I can’t go about ordering ball gowns to be made up like…like confetti! If we must go to Lady Annear’s ball, then I will wear the same one to both. No one will notice.”
“Or you could get Mrs. Hall to make one for you,” Marietta suggested, with a grin. “I wonder what sort of ball gown she’d make? Brown sacking, probably.”
“Please, Marietta, don’t encourage her.” Aphrodite shuddered.
“No, don’t,” Amy agreed, thoughtful. “But your other idea is a good one. Francesca can wear the rose satin gown to Lady Annear’s ball, and have the modiste make up a new gown for our ball. You’d better go to her immediately…after I reply to this invitation, of course.”
Francesca had come to peer over Amy’s shoulder. “Why would Lady Annear invite us to her ball?” she asked, puzzled. “Do you know her, Mama?”
Amy wrinkled her brow. “It’s odd, but I can’t recall ever meeting her. Perhaps she knows William. He is invited, too. Well, whatever the reason for the invitation, we can’t ignore it. She is an influential woman in London society.”
“Never mind, petit chaton,” Aphrodite murmured, when Francesca sat down beside her, “you will look very pretty, and there will be many men asking you to dance. I feel so sorry for you.”
Francesca smiled. “I must seem churlish. I don’t mean to be.”
“You miss your handsome Mr. Thorne.”
Francesca knew she could argue and deny it, but this was Aphrodite and there wasn’t much point.
The truth was, she did miss him. Everything seemed gray and dull, like a winter’s day, now he was gone. Life held no excitement for her, no adventure. She knew that if she really did marry and spend her time in London attending functions and being respectable, she would probably do something wild and ruin herself completely.
She had become aware the other day, as she was walking in the gardens, of a sudden urge to take off her shoes and run barefoot across the grass. Not exactly the thoughts of a proper young lady.
Which made her wonder if Sebastian was right, and she wasn’t proper at all.
Lady Annear’s house in Belgravia was brilliantly lit. Unlike William Tremaine, she was not too old-fashioned to connect her house to the gas supply. As their carriage drew up, there seemed to be a large number of other carriages, and soon they were politely jostling with the other guests, awaiting their turn to be admitted.
“You look beautiful, my dear,” Amy whispered, squeezing her hand.
Francesca thought she looked very well, too, even though she knew it was vain to think it. But her mirror had told her it was true. The rose red satin was very flattering against her dark hair and eyes, and her creamy skin seemed to glow. The expert cut of the garment accentuated her narrow waist and the swell of her bosom. With sleeves so small as to be almost nonexistent, her arms and shoulders appeared almost naked, and the overskirt was very plain, without any adornment. She wore matching slippers on her feet, and some of Aphrodite’s diamonds gleamed around her throat.
The woman Amy had employed to dress their hair had teased and twisted her dark curls into neat ringlets, and placed a wreath of flowers upon her crown.
She decided that she looked like someone she had always wanted to be. It gave her confidence. Perhaps Aphrodite was right; perhaps she would enjoy herself after all. Was it possible that she could be the woman on the moors, wild and free, and also someone sophisticated enough to glide through London society? Look at her sisters, they managed it!
“Miss Greentree? You are new to London, I think?” Lady Annear’s curious eyes slid over her.
“I admit to preferring the country, my lady.”
She had made a faux pas already. So much for gliding through society. Lady Annear’s well-bred face had gone blank. “How very odd.”
“My daughter will soon grow used to town ways,” Amy put in quickly. “London has so much to offer.”
“Indeed. Especially when the girl is pretty and has a large dowry.” Lady Annear’s voice was droll. “What do you think, Mr. Tremaine? Your niece is quite a catch, is she not?”
William gave her his frosty smile. “Indeed.”
“Rumor has it, sir, that you are looking for an earl?”
William frowned. “I cannot imagine how such a rumor began.”
“Can’t you? Speaking of earls…here is someone you know.” Lady Annear beckoned toward an approaching gentleman, a gentleman who looked very familiar. “It is the Earl of Worthorne. My lord, I believe you have met Miss Francesca Greentree?”
The room was spinning.
She heard a gasp from Amy and a muffled curse from Uncle William, but they were no longer important. All she could see and hear was Sebastian, Mr. Thorne, in the guise of an aristocratic gentleman—an earl, no less! Immaculate black evening wear, a crisply starched white shirt and necktie, his dark, wind-blown hair tamed and brushed, and his handsome villain’s face closely shaved. His wicked black eyes fixed on hers with an apologetic smile that quickly changed to a bright spark of desire as they slid slowly over her new ball gown and the creamy skin it exposed.
Carnal thoughts filled her head. She struggled to lock them away, forcing her attention back to the conversation. But he knew. She saw it in his smile.
“The Earl of Worthorne has been away,” Lady Annear was proceeding smoothly, as if completely unaware of the ripples of shock her words had caused.
“Away?” Amy said faintly.
“I have missed him.” Lady Annear smiled. “I am his godmother, you see, and I take an interest in him. When he lets me.”
Was that true? Or was Her Ladyship in on whatever clever game Sebastian was playing? It didn’t matter, Francesca thought with despair; her evening had just been completely ruined.
She wasn’t looking at him. After that first, startled glance, she’d turned her eyes away and pretended he wasn’t there. He could see the flush on her cheek, the rise and fall of her bosom, the flutter of her long lashes.
He needed to speak to her alone. He had to explain. And the only way he was going to achieve that was to remove her from the chaperonage of her mother and uncle.
“Do you dance, Miss Greentree?”
“No.”
He laughed at her impolite answer. Mrs. Jardine was scandalized. “Francesca!” she hissed.
“Then, please, allow me to teach you? You will have to learn, eventually.” He tucked her hand into his arm, holding it there. Apart from struggling in a most ungenteel manner, she had no choice but to allow him to lead her away.
In the other room, the orchestra was playing a waltz.
“You are as stiff as a marble statue,” he murmured, “although not nearly as cold. I think, if I stroked you, you would grow more responsive.”
He felt her tremble.
“What are you doing here?” she hissed. “You’re impersonating this Earl of Worthorne. Have you no shame?”
“Damn and blast it, Francesca, I’m not impersonating the Earl of Worthorne. I am the Earl of Worthorne.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, but at least she was finally looking. “I don’t believe you,” she stated baldly.
“I really am the Earl of Worthorne,” he repeated. “If you want to accuse me of impersonating someone, then it would be Mr. Thorne. When I put the earl away, I took part of the name for my new identity. Worthorne…Thorne, do you see. But I was always the earl, underneath, and now I am back again.”
She looked miserable.
“You’re not pleased? My godmother heard rumors that your uncle was looking for an earl for you to marry.”
“My uncle is not me,” she whispered furiously. “I will never marry! I told you so. How dare you accuse me of being so mercenary and shallow as to hunt an earl, simply to please my uncle! If I had wished to marry an earl, I would have come down to London years ago.”
“Hush,” he said, squeezing his fingers around her elbow. “I know you better than that. I’m sorry. I was teasing.”
Her mouth t
rembled, and he wanted to kiss it. He wanted to lose himself in her sweetness.
He led her around the edge of the ballroom, and through the open glass doors at the other end. Suddenly they were outside in the garden, with the lights and the noise behind them.
“I thought you were going to dance with me,” she said, surprised and wary, her steps slowing. “We shouldn’t be out here alone.”
“I’m concerned I might act in a manner not entirely earl-like,” he said wryly.
He thought she smiled, but she turned her face away before he could be sure. “You have lied to me. Again.”
“The earl was a naïve and spoiled brat, and Mr. Thorne made him grow up. You wouldn’t have liked me eight years ago.”
“Who says I like you now?” she said airily.
He stroked her bare arm. “I think you do, Francesca.”
“Why did you hide your true identity from me?” she asked hastily, her voice low. “Why did you need to become Mr. Thorne in the first place? I don’t understand.”
He was quiet for so long that she wondered if he was ever going to tell her the truth. But after all he was simply gathering his thoughts. “I had a sister once; her name was Barbara. She was more than a sister; she was my twin.”
His voice went on, weaving the story. It was a sad story, and her eyes filled with tears, but it helped her to understand him and why he had lived the last eight years the way he had. She knew very well how the tragedies in one’s past could mold one’s character.
“I decided that I couldn’t live with myself, not as the man I was. I turned my back on all that—left it to my brother—and became someone else. I wanted to hunt down men like Barbara’s husband. I wanted to do for others what I should have done for her.”
She glanced at him sideways. “So you were always a hero? And here I was thinking of you as a villain committing dastardly deeds. I feel quite let down, Lord Worthorne.”
He bowed gracefully. “My apologies. What can I do to mend matters?”
She gave him another glance, but this one was flirtatious. “Do you realize that we’re outside, alone together, without a chaperone?”
“Now that would concern me if I were still Mr. Thorne, but as I’m now an earl, I think your reputation will be safe.”
She felt like laughing, but she supposed that would only encourage him.
“You’re very beautiful tonight, Francesca,” he said quietly. “I wish we were alone. Completely alone.”
She glanced about her. “I can’t see anyone.”
Had she really said that? She must have, for the next moment he was pulling her into his arms and kissing her as if he wanted to gobble her up.
It had been too long since the last time they were together in his rooms. Wrapped in his arms, she was drowning in the feel of him, the scent of him, the taste of him. He had introduced her to the world of sensuality, and now she never wanted to leave it.
“Am I to call you my lord now whenever I want something from you?” she asked huskily.
“Yes. ‘Kiss me, my lord,’ ‘Caress me, my lord,’ ‘My lord, place your engine of delight within my—’”
“You are outrageous!” She laughed, tilting her head to look at him. She was flirting, urging him on, and she couldn’t seem to help it. She felt wild and out of control. She felt alive.
“The portrait in my rooms in Half Moon Street was of my grandmother,” he said, tracing the shape of her mouth with his finger.
“Oh?” It seemed an odd topic of conversation in the circumstances. She turned her face, rubbing her cheek against his knuckles.
“She was a wild one, so I’ve been told. She led my grandfather a merry dance, but she lived a life to remember. A full life. And never regretted a minute of it.”
“Is that what you plan to do?” She kissed the side of his jaw, running her tongue over his smoothly shaven skin.
He shuddered and held her closer, his breath warm as it stirred her ringlets. “I am pointing out to you how important it is to live your life to the full, Francesca.”
“And you think I haven’t, my lord?”
“I think you’re afraid to, Miss Greentree.”
He thought she was afraid! Francesca felt an insane urge to show him just how unafraid she could be. He was throwing down a dare, and she had never been able to resist a dare.
There was a fountain playing through the shrubs and trees, its waters bubbling and splashing. As they drew closer, she could see that the fountain itself was nicely encircled by closely clipped hedges, while a couple of seats made it a pleasant place to sit and reflect. There was even a gate that led into the area.
No one else was about, and the lanterns that illuminated other areas of the garden had not been strung here. Perfect, Francesca thought as she strolled toward it, Sebastian following.
She heard him click the gate shut, and reached up to try to unfasten the back of her gown, but it was too difficult. Frustrated, she presented her back to him, giving him a helpless glance over her shoulder. “Will you undress me?”
“Damn and blast it, Francesca, what a question,” he groaned, running his hands over her bare shoulders and down her arms. He kissed her nape, his lips trailing over her sensitive skin, making her shiver. “Francesca, if someone—”
“There’s no one here, Sebastian. You said I was afraid of living, and I want to show you I’m not.”
“You don’t need to undress to do that,” he retorted, his mouth against her bare skin. He turned her about, hot gaze traveling over the opulent swell of her breasts. He ran his fingertip along the edge of her gown, dipping into her cleavage. “We can live as much as you like without stripping ourselves naked to the elements.”
“Coward,” she whispered.
His eyes gleamed as he swooped to her mouth, his lips hovering just above it. “There will come a time when you will regret saying that,” he growled, “but not tonight, my Francesca.”
He rested his hands on her narrow waist. With a glance behind him at the rustic bench, he promptly sat down. She stood before him, with her hands on his shoulders and her eyes shining. “What now?” she said. He reached down and began to draw up her skirts, as he’d done the last time, and slipped his hands beneath them.
She could feel his warm palms sliding up over her stockings, pausing at the garters just above her knees, and then closing on the bare flesh of her thighs. His eyes widened in amazement, and she almost laughed aloud. “You are not wearing drawers,” he said, and swallowed.
“I know. Shocking, is it not? I wondered what it would feel like.” She bent down and ran her fingers over the hard ridge of his cock. “May I inspect your ‘engine of delight,’ my lord?”
He caught his breath, but he didn’t stop her. She could see him watching her, his eyes dark beneath his half-lowered lids.
Her fingers found the fastenings and began to undo each button. She felt powerful and sensual, and suddenly it occurred to her that this was what it was like to be a courtesan, giving a man pleasure, and herself as well. But she also knew this was different, because the man she was touching was Sebastian, and it was more than pleasure she was giving him.
I love him.
He had taken her hands in his and was urging her forward. Francesca stepped closer, bemused, dizzy with need, and her skirts frothed over his black evening trousers. He lifted her, helping her to arrange herself on his lap, her thighs straddling his. The tip of his cock brushed her, hard against her softness, and they both went still.
“Gently brought up ladies wear drawers,” he said, his voice low and deep. He couldn’t seem to let the subject go.
“Perhaps I’m not a lady after all.” And she wound her arms around his neck, and kissed him.
His tongue was in her mouth, and she met it, her body clinging to his. His hands were caressing her beneath her gown, and she gasped as his finger slid inside her. “Please,” she whispered, moving against him. “Sebastian, please.”
He was inside her, sliding easily int
o the core of her, filling her. She made a little sound of frustration as she tried to move against him and failed. She wriggled about so that she was able to rest her feet on the bench either side of him, gaining purchase, and then she smiled.
“That’s better,” she whispered, pushing herself upward on his shaft, and then sinking back again. Her body tingled, urging her on. She shifted slightly, so that he rubbed against the swollen nub that was demanding she be so selfish. She bit her lip to stop herself from crying out.
“That’s it,” he groaned. “Use me, Francesca. I am here for you. I am yours.”
He held her thighs, steadying her, but otherwise he let her do as she willed, giving her the permission she needed to chase after her own pleasure.
It came soon enough, wave after wave, her body clenching around him as she gasped wordlessly. And while she was half conscious and dizzy with joy, he drove himself into her again and again, until she thought her bones had turned to water and her heart could never belong to anyone else but him.
Chapter 27
Francesca’s heartbeat was gradually slowing beneath the palm of his hand. Sebastian smiled. He felt he had a right to smile. She’d screamed. He’d had to kiss her to muffle the sound. He didn’t think he’d ever made a woman scream before during lovemaking.
It was Aphrodite who had told him to dare her, to make it a matter of pride, so that she could pretend she was not simply giving in to her desire. Not that he was about to share that information with Francesca. But the courtesan had known exactly how he needed to act in order to persuade her to let go of her inhibitions and begin to inhabit her deepest needs and fantasies. No polite speeches and gentle courting for his Francesca.
She was a child of the storm.
He could imagine her at ramshackle Worthorne Manor, bathing naked in the lake. Or lying naked in his bed. His grandmother, he decided, would smile with approval upon the new lady of the manor. A woman after her own heart.
He felt himself grow hard again, and bent to kiss her cheek, her neck, murmuring words that had no meaning. “Francesca. So beautiful. Let me…”