A Delightful Arrangement

by Cecilia Gray

“More than adequately,” he bit off. “You’ve discussed much with him for such a short dance.”

  “He was quite chatty,” she admitted. “Charming, actually.”

  “Garrulous and verbose, then?”

  “I wouldn’t say that.” She dipped her head to the side. “He was—”

  “Never mind him.” He would not be the jealous ass the duke was. He absolutely would not. Which meant he absolutely had to find something else to talk about. “Are you enjoying your waltz?”

  She grinned as she nodded, and his heart kicked strangely. As the last notes struck he asked, “Is the next space claimed on your card?”

  “Yes, I’m promised to—”

  He saw a dashing figure hoping to intercept them and pulled Franny through the open glass doors to the crowded garden terrace.

  “Lady Francesca is faint from the waltz,” he explained to the concerned partner who followed them outside. “I’m afraid she’ll need to sit out the next dance.”

  “Of course,” the gentleman said. “My best wishes, Lady Francesca.”

  “Er, yes,” she said, puzzled.

  Phillip waited for the annoyingly persistent gentleman to leave after she refused several offers for a drink. “Finally, we’re all alone.”

  “Hardly,” she said, with a glance to the other members of the ton loitering on the terrace. “Is something amiss?”

  “Nothing at all.” He tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and led her in a circular walk around the terrace.

  “Are you under the misapprehension that I’m dizzy from the waltz?”

  “No, merely from my presence,” he joked.

  She sent him a scathing glare but her lips curled at the edges. He’d never noticed before how very full and pink her lips were.

  He dipped his head closer. “Strawberries again,” he said.

  A shiver ran through her and he almost stopped short. She always seemed to react with violent annoyance to his physical attentions, but he could have sworn she was now shivering with desire. Yes, her eyes had widened and her lips had parted slightly. Could Francesca, despite her protests, be attracted to him?

  He had imagined marriage to Francesca many times over the years. He pictured morning walks through the fields, afternoon rides to the lake, and evening conversations by the fire. He pictured, essentially, the life they’d already lived together. And he’d be lying if he didn’t admit he had pictured her in his bed. It had always been rather pleasant but now, he wondered, would it be scorching?

  A shudder ran through his body.

  “You smell like something, too,” Franny said, breaking his reverie.

  He leaned over and offered his neck. “Pray tell, what do I smell like?”

  She inhaled and on her exhale, his stomach tightened with her hot breath against his skin. “You’re spicy and musky,” she said softly. She was so close he could almost feel her lips moving against him.

  He stole the opportunity to pull her into a set of hedges that marked the entrance to a courtyard labyrinth.

  Her eyes widened as he leaned in close. He noted the tremble that ran through her body. He knew exactly how to put an end to her swooning-over-Montfart-or-whatever-his-name-was nonsense.

  He captured her lips and she accepted his mouth with a gasp. He had thought to seduce her slowly, but he immediately plunged his tongue into her mouth, groaning at the strawberry taste of her.

  Suddenly, it wasn’t enough. His hands, set softly against her waist, longed to pull her against him but they couldn’t risk being caught despite their engagement. He’d spent his life protecting her from the duke’s fits of rage. But he couldn’t protect her from ton gossip.

  He pulled away and took note of her heaving chest and glazed eyes. Yes, he thought with satisfaction, she wants me.

  As he led a dazed Franny back towards the ballroom, he wondered what to do about it.

  * * *

  Francesca swallowed as she gazed down at the intricate tucks and draping pinned into place, the trim of Cluny lace, the fashionably new petal sleeves, all in gleaming white.

  “A beautiful choice,” the countess said as she drew a soft hand along the satin sleeve of the wedding gown.

  “I take full accountability and credit.” Chastity giggled, actually giggled as her eyes swept up and down Francesca’s frame. “Although…” She frowned as she lifted the hem of the dress and checked the seams. “Oh no, this won’t do.”

  Chastity charged towards the front of the store past the heavy curtain.

  “What do you suppose she saw that concerns her?” the countess asked, peering at the hem.

  “Who knows?” Francesca was eager to take the dress off. Having it draped over her body, having the countess see it, was only making marriage to Philip more and more inevitable.

  Worse yet, she found herself justifying the union. Telling herself that of course she should marry Phillip. After all, they were suited. Suited! As if that were how marriages should be decided.

  “How did you know you wanted to marry the earl?” she asked suddenly.

  The countess’s dark eyes widened in surprise and she took a step back, as if the question were a physical thing that had pushed her.

  “My, I haven’t thought of that in a while.” The countess took a waiting seat and her fingers tapped her temple as she thought. “I believe our fathers were colleagues in Parliament, for one.”

  “It was arranged, then.”

  “Of course.”

  Another marriage born of duty—and yet theirs seemed to work. Was it possible that a marriage that came of responsibility could actually be happy?

  “What sparked your inquiry?” the countess asked.

  “It came as a surprise to me. My engagement, I mean.”

  “Did it?” The countess’s brow crinkled. “I’d always assumed…you and Phillip were so close.”

  “As friends.”

  “Yet the past week—”

  “It was a surprise,” Francesca insisted as her cheeks burned with thoughts of the past week. That moment in the hedge when she’d sworn she would go up in flames and he’d pulled away—again, his sense of duty superseding all else, as it seemed it always would.

  “An unpleasant one?”

  “Oh no,” Francesca said. “Phillip is wonderful, of course. But I’d expected…a Season. An opportunity to fall in love.”

  The countess wrung her gloved hands as she considered Francesca’s words. The countess had been her mother’s only friend and confidante. Surely she understood Francesca’s need to avoid the life her mother had.

  “I suppose, my dear, I don’t understand. Why wouldn’t that opportunity to fall in love be with Phillip?”

  Francesca stood gaping, her mouth opening and closing like that of a fish.

  “Is…is that why you and Phillip have chosen not to announce?”

  She was saved from having to answer as Chastity burst through the curtain a moment later. “Crisis averted,” she declared, her hands in the air. “They will fix the hems immediately. Come now. Climb out of that dress.”

  The countess’s question plagued her as she was mobbed by a team of shopgirls to unpin and pull off the wedding gown.

  * * *

  “Why the frown?” Chastity asked.

  Phillip dutifully turned his soon-to-be-wife’s best friend in his arms around the ballroom. She was pleasant enough company. He would have given his left leg for shares in her family’s shipping company which was notoriously closed to public investors. If he were smart, he would have used this opportunity to charm her, to convince her that he understood the potential of Drummond shipping. Alas, he had no patience for it. “Last I checked, you are not the lady whose dance card I actually signed for this particular waltz.”

  “She wasn’t feeling well.”

  “Wasn’t she?” Phillip glanced at the corner of the ballroom, where Francesca had been nursing the same glass of punch for the last hour while surrounded by Lady Chesterley and her court of powerful, ma
tron friends. He counted himself fortunate that there wasn’t a gentleman in the bunch. He looked back at Chastity, perhaps the only person who could claim to know Francesca as well as he did. “How are wedding preparations?”

  “Secretive.”

  “Francesca seems happy?”

  “Why, Phillip—I didn’t know you enjoyed fishing for sport.”

  Phillip turned her a little more roughly than necessary.

  “Dispensing with the pleasantries, then?” Chastity asked.

  “I’m always pleasant,” Phillip said.

  “Perhaps that is the problem.”

  “You were rather I wasn’t so pleasant?”

  “I have no preference for whatever nature you choose,” Chastity said. “As long as my Francesca—”

  “My Francesca,” he corrected.

  “Possessiveness is unbecoming in either sex,” Chastity said with a tired sigh.

  “Fair point,” he mumbled, turning Chastity again so he could glance back at Francesca who, dammit, was now in conversation with Montcreif. That blackguard might have the soul of a poet but he had the boxing skills of a house plant, which Phillip wanted to put to the test, unbecoming or not.

  “Is this a waltz or a ballet? I feel I’m en pirouette.”

  “You were saying?” Phillip prodded, keeping her turning in a tight circle so he could keep his eye on Francesca.

  “Apparently my assessment of your pleasantness was premature. At any rate, you’re known for being pleasant. For being nice. For being dutiful in all you do. Your business. Your friendships. Your affairs.”

  He looked sharply at her.

  “And your marriage,” she finished.

  He turned the words about in his head. “Is that what this is about? Does Francesca believe I see her as a duty? That I’m being nice by marrying her?”

  “What are you being?” Chastity asked pointedly. “In love?”

  “Romantic literature will be the death of me.”

  “Let it be your inspiration,” Chastity said.

  Phillip stiffened as Montcreif teased Francesca onto the dance floor. Francesca was dancing in Montcreif’s arms. He was holding her close.

  Yet he could have sworn that her manner, the tilt of her head, the curve of her lips—he’d seen that expression before. It was the expression she wore when she entertained her father’s dinner guests.

  For all she may have thought of him being dutiful, she was the one being dutiful as she danced with Montcreif. She was the one being dutiful when she insisted on enjoying a Season—dutiful to an ideal she had for love. One born of novels and drivel.

  He knew one thing for certain. She was not indifferent to him. Her reactions to him were not born of duty.

  He had every intention of exploiting that.

  Chapter Four

  “Have you seen him?” Francesca smoothed the folds of her teal ballgown and eyed the dance floor warily.

  “Who?” Chastity asked.

  “Phillip,” Francesca answered tightly.

  Chastity’s head swiveled around. “Not a romantic, dark head in sight. Are you expecting him?”

  Butterflies rammed Francesca’s stomach. She didn’t know what to expect from Phillip anymore. Something about him had changed. She wasn’t sure when it had changed or how it had changed, but nothing was the same as it had been before.

  It was as if he’d decided propriety could be damned.

  In the past several weeks he’d found every opportunity to touch her. He often caressed her cheek with the back of his hand—in public.

  Sometimes when no one was looking, he took her mouth with his lips. Sometimes even her tongue.

  Once, on a stroll through Hyde Park when they’d taken a turn on the path earlier than their companions, he’d nuzzled her neck until an unfamiliar cry had burst from her lips and her knees had nearly buckled beneath her. Embarrassingly, she’d clutched his shoulders to remain standing because God forbid she should actually swoon and have him declare her social experiment complete.

  Not that her social experiment was going very well. Viscount Montcreif was trying as hard as ever to win her hand, but finding anything swoonworthy about him was proving near impossible. She was beginning to doubt she’d ever get the benefit of swooning. Not with Phillip paying court at her elbow all night long before whisking her away.

  What was most puzzling was his reaction to their kisses. Most of the time, he chuckled when she was forced to cling to him. Sometimes, however, he growled low against her skin. And sometimes his eyes burned into her, sending a warm sensation to the pit of her stomach, where it then trailed a delicious path to her toes.

  It was impossible to fall in love with someone else when she was constantly looking over her shoulder, waiting for Phillip to pull her into an abandoned corridor or darkened corner. She could barely concentrate on simple conversation with other men, much less graceful dance steps and witty repartee, as she anticipated her next encounter with Phillip.

  Phillip entered the ballroom down the sweeping staircase and her body sang.

  Drat. She was swooning! She was swooning over Phillip, her own betrothed, the very man who felt marriage was a duty. This was the worst luck.

  “Oh, there he is,” Chastity said with an incline of her head. “On the stairs.”

  “Thank you,” she said breathlessly. Thank you, Phillip, for rendering me absolutely worthless for the rest of the night.

  “Are you ready?” Chastity asked.

  “For what?” She craned her neck as Phillip maneuvered his way through the crowded ballroom away from her. No doubt he’d find a way to circle around the room and surprise her from behind.

  “Your wedding,” Chastity said. “The nuptials are approaching even if the announce is not, if I’m not mistaken. Shall I have to ensure your attendance?”

  Francesca groaned. She didn’t have time to wait for Phillip to surprise her. She needed to speak with him now. Both their parents insisted on making a formal announcement before the week was out.

  “I have to go,” she muttered, stalking through the ballroom toward Phillip, who stood with his mother. The countess laughed and placed a gentle hand on his arm. Her breath always caught in her throat when she witnessed these intimate moments with his mother.

  “Francesca.” The always-elegant Countess of March held out her arms for an embrace, which Francesca eagerly accepted. “Thank you very much for the gift. The ribbons were lovely.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said. “Phillip helped me select the colors.” And in doing so, he’d pulled her hands behind her back, wound the ribbons around her wrist and pressed against her. She’d been bound to him, if only for a few moments, as he teased a groan from her while suckling her earlobe. It was irritating.

  He inclined his dark head as she acknowledged him, his mouth twisted in a perpetual knowing smile.

  “Pardon me, but might I have a word, Phillip?” she asked.

  “Of course, my love,” he said.

  She fought her protest as his endearment touched her like a caress. He’d taken up the habit again, but always in front of his mother, when she couldn’t retort.

  He tucked her arm into the crook of his—which was becoming a habit—and walked her around the ballroom.

  “Somewhere private,” she whispered.

  He raised an eyebrow. “With pleasure,” he said, deftly maneuvering them down a hallway into a broom closet with a lamp that had been near burned to the quick so he seemed a shadow in the dark.

  “How do you find these places?”

  “Necessity.” He’d barely closed the door behind them when his lips seared her neck.

  She sighed, as always, and clung to the lapels of his coat. “Wait,” she said weakly. “We need to talk.”

  The rough texture of his tongue lapped along her collarbone and she was thankful for the wall at her back that kept her upright.

  “Talk, my dear,” he murmured. His warm, heavy hands spanned her waist and slipped to grasp her bott
om and pull her against him.

  She moaned, uncertain of how she was supposed to think much less talk.

  “God, Franny,” he breathed into her neck. “This wedding can’t come soon enough.”

  With every last bit of willpower in her possession, she managed a weak but effective push against his chest. “That is what we need to discuss.”

  He pulled away but left his hands on her waist, massaging her hipbone with his thumb, willing her heavy eyelids closed.

  She snapped them open. “We’re to be married. Our engagement announced soon.”

  “I know.” He was grinning. She could hear it in his voice.

  “But we had an arrangement.”

  The circular motion of his thumbs stilled. “And?”

  “And…I don’t know if it’s been fulfilled.”

  He pulled away entirely and folded his arms. His mouth twitched. “What do you mean?” His voice was dangerously low. He was angry. She hadn’t even known he had a temper.

  “I just—”

  “You’ve danced. You’ve attended balls. You’ve flirted,” he said. “Has a single person made you swoon? Has anyone made you feel the way I have? What more do you want, Franny?”

  “I want to fall in love.”

  His voice softened. “Not everyone gets to fall in love.”

  “That’s the saddest thing you’ve ever said.”

  “Most people don’t even get what we have.”

  “What do we have?” she asked, falling hopelessly under his seductive spell again.

  He cupped her cheeks between his hands. “We have friendship. We have history. We have this.” He captured her lips, feathering her mouth open with gentle strokes as she sighed against him.

  Warmth flooded her as his kiss deepened and his tongue delved into her mouth. She tentatively stroked back with her tongue. Phillip groaned and jerked against her, pressing her harder into the wall.

  His hands moved from her cheeks down her neck to her shoulders. He exerted a deliberate, forceful pressure to push away from her slowly. “Do you remember the last time we were in a broom closet?”

  She reared back, blinking away tears that stung at her eyes. “Of course.”

  “Do you remember what I said?”

  “You said you would never let anyone hurt me.” The words echoed in her mind all the time. She’d never had someone want to protect her before. Never had a white knight.