A Delightful Arrangement

by Cecilia Gray

  “I should have meant from myself, too.”

  “Ah, how dutiful of you,” she said.

  He gripped her arms hard, “Duty?” he spat.

  She sought to pull away but then his fingers softened and turned seeking as they ran up her shoulders and tangled in her hair.

  “Duty,” he whispered, like it was a revelation. “Speaking of duty, I’ve never asked you properly, have I?”

  “What?” she asked, her mind still hazy from his kisses and his touch.

  His thumbs stroked her hair. “I’ve never asked you to marry me.”

  “No,” she said carefully. “I suppose you haven’t.”

  “Dearest Franny, you are my oldest friend. My most trusted confidante. The person I know most in this life. The one who knows me best as well. Will you grant me the honor of becoming my wife?”

  She blinked. “You’re actually proposing?”

  “Please, Franny.” He reached for her hands, drew them to his lips and kissed them one by one.

  “But we’re already engaged,” she protested.

  “Yes. My father proposed to your father. It was very romantic, I’m sure. But now I am proposing to you.”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  His grip tightened. “Of course. You know I would never….” He shook his head. “My choice is you. What’s your choice?”

  “You,” she answered quickly, surprised by how her heart leapt at the commitment. He’d been the best, hadn’t he? Phillip had let her have her balls and her flirting, and he’d never once displayed any dark jealousy, any lack of trust—not like her father. He was good to her.

  “That’s a relief.” He smiled, kissing her fingers again. “Shake on it?” he added mischievously.

  Before she could answer, he pressed his lips to hers and sent her heart racing.

  Hours later, when they had both returned to the ball and they had informed his mother it was time and the engagement had been announced to much fanfare and good wishes and she’d distractedly danced with gentlemen she could no longer remember, she had to brush aside her discomfort that his proposal had said nothing of love.

  * * *

  Weddings, Phillip decided as he fought the urge to fidget in front of the altar, were designed as torturous affairs to test a man for the discipline and fortitude required of a lifetime of marriage. He was doubtful as to whether Francesca would even appear despite her acceptance of his impromptu proposal.

  He wasn’t even sure what had compelled him to ask for her hand, but for a moment, in the darkness, only the two of them had existed. He had wanted her to choose him. Actually choose him as if he were a man, and not an alternative to living under her father’s roof.

  Since that proposal, she had been everything he expected. She had danced with him at balls - two dances, as was appropriate. She had smiled as others congratulated him. She had spoken to strangers of how lucky she was.

  She had been, in short, dutiful. Which was scaring the hell out of him.

  When she finally appeared in the doors of the church, a distant figure in white, he nearly choked in relief. She remained covered by a damnable veil for the entire ceremony and only revealed her face for a chaste kiss, which barely began to curb his appetite for her.

  There had only been one moment with her father at the presentation of the bride and groom, but it had passed without incident and he felt her shudder of relief that that chapter of her life was now closed.

  She remained stoically quiet for the remaining celebration, managing perfunctory nods when he repeatedly asked if she were all right. He was relieved when he was finally able to escort her back to his townhouse, where he waited in the study as she did whatever brides did in the bath on their wedding night.

  He wondered how much time she would need to prepare herself. Wondered whether his mother had prepared her in her mother’s absence. He went to his room where he paced in his night robe, glaring at the flimsy wooden door that separated their chambers.

  What if he opened it, and she wasn’t there?

  Worst yet - what if she was - lying there - dutifully. He almost choked on the word.

  With a deep breath, he pushed open the door and slipped into her room.

  She was pacing. Furiously pacing the length of her bed in a simple white nightshift. She whirled and faced him. “What was taking so deuced long?”

  He laughed as relief swept through him. Yes, this was his Franny. He poured a finger of port into two glasses that his valet, bless him, had thought to leave on her nightstand.

  She didn’t wait for him to hand it to her. She clutched it with both palms and downed it before setting the glass down on the dresser with a clink.

  “Hello,” she said awkwardly.

  “Hello, wife,” he said, oddly pleased at the endearment.

  She scooted back on the bed and settled her back against the headboard, causing her white nightshift to rise up and reveal a shapely calf. Her red hair spilled over her shoulders and pooled on the mattress against the green coverlet he’d selected last week to match her eyes.

  He reacted immediately to her, throbbing with need but uncertain of how to proceed. With other women it had been easy, but this was Franny. This was no time for practiced lines or rehearsed caresses.

  She lifted her arms to him and his heart thudded in his chest at the trusting gesture. He gently sat on the bed and engulfed her in a hug that would have been innocent if not for the tips of her breasts burning his skin where they pressed into his side.

  She sighed. “This has been an awfully long day.”

  “Agreed,” he murmured against her shoulder.

  She pulled back. “What now?”

  “Now,” he said hesitantly, “I’m assuming you know?”

  She shrugged. “I think I do.”

  “Now is…” He hesitated to describe it. “Sex. Now we have sex. You may ask as many questions as you like,” he offered, reaching out a hand to lift her heavy hair off her shoulders so it spilled down her back.

  “It’s riotous,” she complained of her hair.

  He shook his head slowly. “It’s bewitching.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “Then why can I only think of kissing you when I see it?” he teased, palming the back of her head easily with his hand.

  “I’m beginning to think it’s all you think of.”

  “Only with you,” he promised. He gently tugged her head towards him and took her lips. She shifted and rose up on her knees to reach his mouth. He slipped his other arm around her back and pulled her against him, gratified when she innocently straddled his lap, pushing her nightshift up to her waist.

  She swept her tongue into his mouth, a trick she’d easily mimicked in the past weeks. He wondered what else she could learn with practice. His hands moved to the ribbons of her shift. His shaking fingers surprised him as he tried to pull the ribbons loose. She cried out, unknowingly pressing her body against his and making him twitch to attention.

  He pulled away, breathing heavily, so grateful to be her first. Slightly saddened that she wasn’t his first. Uncertain of what to make of his emotions.

  Chapter Five

  Phillip had to face facts. He was absolutely, undeniably besotted with his wife. He had probably always loved Franny, but now he was wretchedly in love. Pathetically in love. Straight out of the drivel Franny liked to read in love.

  If he awoke before she did, he waited until her eyelids drifted open and her green eyes met his. He hadn’t even bothered with his own bedchamber in days. His valet had given up on him entirely in disgust.

  He resented Chastity for dragging her away to social functions that did not involve him even as he delighted in her summaries upon her return. He didn’t expect her to spend every waking moment with him, but it would be lovely if she wanted to. He longed for the ease of the countryside that was mere weeks away and its promise of endless hours with her.

  He rushed through dinner just to drag her upstairs to her bedroom, where she was f
ortunately, delightfully, willing and eager. He’d assumed their first time had been a fluke. That the feel of her body sheathed around him was only a hundred times more intense than any other because it had been her first time. But then there had been the second and third and he’d been forced to accept that it had nothing to do with how many times they made love, and everything to do with whom he made love to. It was Franny. It had always been Franny.

  Even now, he was impatiently waiting for her to take her final bites of lamb, willing her fork to travel to that succulent mouth, so he could sweep her upstairs. Or, he considered with a devilish smile, so he could take her on the dining room table. This inevitably led to daydreams about the pianoforte.

  “Why are you grinning?” she asked with a knowing eyebrow arch as she sat across from him in a lovely green dress he was already adept at removing.

  “You’ll see,” he promised.

  “I see,” she said. “That reminds me. I meant to tell you that I’ve been invited to a game of cards tonight.”

  His fork stopped in mid-air. “A game of cards?” His stomach twisted as he remembered the ignorant, carefree words he’d spoken to her months before.

  I don’t see how the occasional card game would hurt. And then, All mature, sensible couples have nights away.

  Unfortunately, he was no longer sensible. He was insane. She would be spending most of the night away and…no, he couldn’t think that of Franny. He wouldn’t become like the duke, but by God, if she was with another man he would maturely and sensibly kill him and then maturely and sensibly be rid of the body. “Is that so?”

  “Yes,” she continued. “Lady Chesterley organized an affair.”

  He choked on the word affair.

  “Are you all right?”

  He nodded, taking a fortifying sip of wine. How would he extricate himself from this predicament? He had promised her a degree of freedom that he now no longer wanted for himself. How could he expect the same of her and still be fair to the marriage ideal he had promised?

  She kept up steady chatter about the various strategies she intended to employ to guarantee her success at the night’s activities and he listened, half impressed by her tactics and half distracted by the slippery slope they were on. First cards. Then what?

  He kissed her to distraction before she left, hoping to leave the impression that he preferred her quick return. As the carriage pulled away, he couldn’t quell the chilling thought.

  What if she was not on her way to a game of cards? He couldn’t help thinking she’d never actually swooned for him. What if she still wanted to swoon, even if in a harmless way?

  He was in a hired hackney to Lady Chesterley’s within moments.

  * * *

  Francesca was pleased to discover that the mathematical theories on faro she had gleaned from a prodigy at last week’s ball were indeed profitable. Strangely, the only joy she derived from the winnings was the story she would be able to share with Phillip when she returned home.

  It was funny that she’d always thought of Phillip’s home as hers, so now that they were married it hadn’t changed in the least. Her home was always with Phillip.

  She puzzled as to why he had not been off to his promised card games and carousing after their marriage. Was he merely allowing her a temporary illusion of marital bliss?

  The thought was depressing. She did not want to embark on his version of a delightful arrangement, where they spent all their time apart. She found their arrangement delightful as it was. And yet, she didn’t know how to tell him this when she’d knowingly agreed to the proposal, knowingly accepted the terms when he’d proposed to her in that broom closet. He’d asked her and only her, and she’d agreed. She couldn’t blame her father.

  She supposed it was her fault for falling in love with him, but how could it be helped when she’d apparently loved him from childhood?

  Francesca sighed as she laid out her next round of bets.

  “Is winning boring you, my dear?” Lady Chesterley asked wryly.

  “Not at all, Lady Chesterley,” she said reassuringly.

  “Excellent,” the matron teased. “I’d hate for my destitution to send you to slumber.”

  Francesca numbly sat through the next round of winnings before extending her apologies and lame excuses to return home. She wondered if Phillip would still be awake at this hour. She wondered what he’d implied by the glint in his eye at dinner. She knew that look. It usually appeared before he ripped off her clothes.

  As the footman welcomed her, she asked, “Has my husband retired for the night?”

  “His lordship is out for the evening.”

  Her veins ran ice cold. “Out?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Out where?”

  “I do not know, my lady.”

  Francesca fought for composure as she thanked him and ran upstairs to her room. Where could he be? Surely not…surely not out with someone unsuitable?

  But oh, what had he said when he first proposed?

  All mature, sensible couples have nights away.

  Her maid entered the room and Francesca ordered her out as tears spilled down her cheeks. The empty ache in her belly consumed her until she curled up on the bed, tucking her knees into her chest. How could she feel such pain if nothing was physically wrong with her? Or was her heart literally breaking? She heard the creak of the wooden door between their rooms and sat up in bed, wiping her cheeks.

  “Franny, darling, what’s wrong?” Phillip asked. He crossed the room quickly and knelt at her bed, the intense concern of his features belying the activity he must have been indulging in.

  “Nothing,” she insisted with a fake smile.

  “Why are you lying to me?” he asked. He stood, pulled off his coat and sat next to her on the bed. He still smelled of musk and spice. No cloying female scent. For that, at least, she was grateful. “Did you lose much? You know I don’t care. I would never…be angry with you that way.”

  “I know,” she said.

  “Please tell me.” He leaned forward and kissed away a tear.

  “You went out.”

  He shook his head, still puzzled. “You’re the one who went out, Franny.”

  “To play cards,” she said. “What were you doing out?”

  He set his jaw stubbornly, confirming her worst suspicions.

  He froze, and it was all the condemnation she needed.

  “Get out! Out!”

  She threw a pillow at him, then another, and as if they were stones, he ducked and backed out of the room.

  * * *

  Well damn, he was in a predicament, Phillip thought as he swirled his brandy.

  He could not tell Francesca the truth. He could not tell her that he’d had a moment of doubt. A moment where he had not trusted her. He would be no better than the duke, and by God, the only thing he wanted to be in this life was better than the duke…for her sake.

  In his hesitation, Francesca made up her own mind—and she’d gone where he never expected.

  An affair. The idea was preposterous. Laughable. He’d never, ever allowed himself to love another woman, having always known he was going to marry Francesca. He wasn’t a saint or a monk, and he’d enjoyed the company of women—women who understood the nature of their relationship—but never someone who could have mistaken his intentions in the slightest.

  He heard a small knock at the door and lifted his head.

  Francesca stood against the frame, small in her nightshift. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I…I was no better than my father.”

  “Stop,” he said, opening his arms. “You don’t need to.”

  She flew into them and rested her head against his shoulder. “I know you, Phillip. I know you wouldn’t, and yet it was so easy for me to assume. Is that what it was like for my father?”

  He kissed the top of her head, knowing she didn’t want answers from him. She just wanted to talk.

  “It must have felt awful to hear me make those assumpt
ions about you. If you’d made them about me…I don’t know that I could…”

  He felt something inside crumble.

  “So tell me,” she said with false cheer, pulling away. “Where did you go tonight? Was it fun?”

  And so he found himself looking into her eyes, and lying. “Yes. The club. It was fun. Absolutely.”

  * * *

  Franny narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re lying.”

  He winced.

  She pulled away and took a step back. “Were you with another woman? Don’t make me into my father, Phillip, don’t make me feel crazy. I can’t think about you with another woman and—”

  “Franny, stop,” he whispered, stilling her chin with his hand. “I wasn’t with another woman.”

  “Then where were you?” she said, feeling half hysterical. How could she do this? How could she become this person - this shadow of her father? “Why won’t you tell me who you were with?”

  “Franny,” he said with a choked laugh, “I was with you. I was following you.”

  “What?”

  “I hired a hackney to Lady Chesterley’s. I lurked like a common criminal, peeking in through the windows. I watched you play faro. I couldn’t see the hands, admittedly, so I assumed you’d lost heavily when you left so early. I had to wait to find another hackney to take me home.”

  “What? I don’t—” She shook her head as if she could shake off her confusion. “Why?”

  “I thought maybe you were being discreet.”

  “Discreet?” she repeated.

  “About keeping company.”

  Dawning realization swept through her. She punched his arm. “How could you think that of me?”

  “I know! I felt awful. That’s why I couldn’t tell you at first. But Franny, how could you think it of me?” he countered.

  “Because…because…” She gave a rueful laugh. “We’re awful. We’re both awful.”

  “We’re not awful.”

  “All your talk about spending nights away from each other.”

  “All your talk about flirting and London life and swooning.”