“I think Lady Claire would prefer we change the topic of conversation,” Alexander said, meeting the earl’s icy gaze. “I’m curious about a young man who, word has it, is tormenting the village of Amberden, taking advantage of young girls, and leaving them with child.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Alexander saw Claire Ashcroft straighten.
“Who is the lucky gent?” the earl asked, chuckling.
Bastard. “I believe he’s an acquaintance of yours.” He cocked a brow in the old man’s direction. “Lord Jared Crayton.”
“Jared?” Claire Ashcroft breathed.
“Young Crayton?” Belmont asked, a hint of a smile peeking out from under his beard.
“The Duke of Worthington’s second son,” Alexander said.
“I know him,” the earl said. “Of course, I know him. He’s a good friend of Claire’s and I’m friends with his father. So he’s getting girls with child?” Belmont asked.
Alexander nodded.
“A randy one, is he?” The old man shrugged. “They probably can’t lift their skirts fast enough for him.” He lifted his shoulders again. “Better some village girl than one of our young maidens.”
“The girls are still being compromised,” Alexander said. “Ruined, whether peasant or noble.”
“It’s not the same, and you know it, Bishop. I’ll wager those village girls are swooning all around, hoping he’ll marry one of them.”
“And I’ll wager he’s promising every last one of them he’ll do just that.” Alexander didn’t try to disguise the anger in his voice.
Belmont flicked a hand in the air. “So he tells a little untruth.”
“A lie,” Alexander corrected.
The earl shrugged again and smiled. “A lie, then. So, he tells a little lie. What of it? A woman of quality would never put herself in that position, would she, Claire?”
A dainty blush crept up his daughter’s creamy cheeks. No doubt, she’d practiced that as well. “Oh, no, Father,” she uttered, her blue eyes wide with shock. “Think of the disgrace.”
“The disgrace?” Alexander echoed, not believing what he’d just heard. “Do you think a commoner is not subjected to disgrace?” Francie was right. A good deal of the ton consisted of liars, cheats, and faithless husbands and wives, who cared not for dignity or morality. For themselves or anyone else.
“Well... ” she hesitated, toying with a long, black tendril. “Of course, most of them would feel a certain amount of disgrace, but in our society, a girl would be ruined.” She drew in a deep breath. “She’d never be able to hold her head up in polite circles again.” A shudder ran over her near-bare shoulders as she murmured, “It would be devastating.”
“Claire’s right,” the earl added. “Admit it, Bishop. You’ve been on both sides of the marker, first as a stable boy and now as near a nobleman as one can get without the parentage.” His beady gaze narrowed on Alexander. “If Crayton’s got wild oats to sow, better he sow them with a village girl than a young lady of the ton.”
Belmont’s words filled Alexander with a mix of bile and disgust. This was the type of attitude he’d held in high esteem, hoping to emulate? The ton cared for no one but themselves and those who traveled in their circles. He’d known that, had even supported their actions, but hearing it applied in such callous terms to Francie and her village sickened him. He’d spent years wanting nothing more than to fit in, embraced by the ton, respected and well-liked. He’d achieved that status and more, yet now the association embarrassed him.
“Of course, he agrees with you, Father,” Claire Ashcroft purred and rested her small hand on Alexander’s coat sleeve. “He’s just too much the gentleman to say anything that would imply his new sister fit into the lesser category.” She smiled that brilliant smile of hers and said, “How noble of you, Alexander.” Her voice dipped an octave as her fingers crept up to stroke the back of his hand. “How utterly noble.”
***
Francie peeked through half-closed lids at the man on the opposite seat of the carriage. Alexander Bishop’s eyes were closed, his dark brows pulled into a straight line, his full lips turned down at the corners. He might look like he was sleeping but Francie guessed it was just a ploy to ignore her. Again.
She’d been the one who planned to ignore him, at least until she’d had time to sort out her feelings. But one couldn’t ignore what one couldn’t see, and Alexander had been absent or unavailable for the past seven days. Francie had tried to keep track of his whereabouts, but her heart sank every time she heard Lady Printon’s name whispered with his. After the second day, she resigned herself to the fact that he was spending the evening and early morning hours with his lady love and given not the least thought to Francie and the kiss they’d shared.
She wanted to hurl angry words at him for abandoning her like a stale loaf of bread after awakening feelings she didn’t know existed. But she couldn’t. Somewhere beneath his cold exterior was a little, orphaned stable boy who’d slept in the straw for weeks, covered in filth, fearful of being discovered and booted out. She ached at the sight of the pale gray scar running down his cheek. A remembrance of his childhood days as well?
Francie shifted in her seat and stretched her arms. Alexander scowled, but his eyes remained closed.
She glanced at Mrs. Vandemeer who slept soundly next to her, eyes closed, mouth open, thin body propped against the burgundy squabs. Had the woman not let out the occasional snore, one might think her dead. Francie leaned forward and whispered, “How long are you going to continue ignoring me?” If he weren’t going to attempt conversation, then she would.
“I’m not ignoring you,” he muttered, his tone as low as hers. “I’m tired.”
“As you should be. Any man who keeps the hours you do must be exhausted.”
A silver eye popped open. “What are you implying?”
“Nothing.” She ignored the edge in his voice. “What could I possibly be implying? Your business is your business.”
“Exactly.” He closed his eyes again.
“What you do and with whom is none of my business.”
“Glad we agree,” he mumbled.
“But if it were, then I would take it as my duty to inform you, your behavior has set the servants’ tongues wagging.”
Both eyes opened. “Behavior? My behavior has set them talking? What about your behavior? Running around Drakemoor barefoot, skirts hiked to your knees? Stealing a pair of my riding breeches? Digging in that infernal dirt all hours of the day and night? Spending hours in the kitchen, cooking with Mrs. Jenkins? For God’s sake, you dare to tell me they’re talking about my behavior?”
She picked at a loose thread on the sleeve of her gown. “I’ve always thought shoes too confining. I love the feel of grass between my toes. And marble is so refreshing on a hot summer’s day. As for the breeches...” She shrugged. “Uncle Bernard never minded when I borrowed his on occasion.”
“Well, I do mind. I mind very much.” Alexander leaned toward her, close enough for her to see the gold flecks in his silver eyes. “Ladies do not wear breeches, and they do not immerse themselves in dirt or show the cook how to make rosemary bread,” he said through clenched teeth.
“Rosemary and thyme bread,” Francie corrected.
His face turned a deep shade of purple. “I swear to God, Francie, you’re going to drive me to Bedlam,” he said under his breath. His eyes narrowed as he studied her. “However, Newgate may have a certain appeal.”
“Newgate’s for criminals. People who do horrible things, like commit murder and the like.”
“I know,” he said, his lips curving at the edges.
Francie backed away until she hit the burgundy velvet squabs behind her. He was only tormenting her. Of course, Alexander would never harm her.
He glanced at Mrs. Vandemeer’s sleeping form and then snagged the ribbons on Francie’s bonnet, tugging them toward him. She had no choice but to follow. When he’d brought her within inches of his face, h
e stopped. His silver eyes glowed as he whispered, “But most of all, a lady never, ever kisses a man as you did the other night.”
Francie tried to pull away, but Alexander wrapped the ribbon around his fist, bringing her closer still. He devoured her with his gaze that breath by breath settled on her lips. “Never, ever,” he murmured.
How dare he accuse her of unladylike behavior when he was the cause of it? And what of him? “And a gentleman should never kiss one woman and court another,” she hissed in an equally hushed tone.
He released her with such force she fell back against the squabs and landed on her elbows. “Stay away from me, Francie. Just stay away.”
“It was just a kiss,” she said, trying to underplay that night.
Mrs. Vandemeer’s body leaned sideways at an arresting angle, her rather large bonnet squashed against the carriage window. Quiet snores erupted from her thin lips.
“Just a kiss?” he growled. “How many other men have you kissed like that?” His eyes narrowed to silver slits. “How many have you allowed such intimacy?” He ran a hand through his perfect hair three times, making pieces stick out. “How many, Francie?” His words fell out in a low, furious tone. “How many have been inside your mouth, tasting you? Touching you?”
Her cheeks burned. “None.”
“None,” he repeated. “I shouldn’t have either. You do realize that, don’t you? Only your betrothed should be permitted such liberties. Only your betrothed should know you taste like honey and whimper when he touches your breast.”
Oh, if only the carriage floor would open right now.
“And we both know,” Alexander whispered, “I’m not your betrothed. I’ll never be your betrothed.”
Her heart splintered beneath his words. Why should she care he’d just declared he’d never marry her? Was there some part of her that hoped he would? Some part of her that wanted him to?
“And now I have to go on, seeing you every day, knowing what you taste like in my mouth, knowing what you feel like beneath my fingers, and try to forget.” His voice grew rough. “I’ve been living in hell these last days. A hell of my own making.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” she said, turning to face him. “It just happened.”
“No, damn it, it did not just happen,” he bit out. “You may not have known what to expect, but I knew exactly what I was doing.” A tortured look crossed his face. “I knew,” he repeated in a raspy voice. “And yet I didn’t stop. I couldn’t stop. Don’t you understand? I wanted to kiss you. I wanted to touch you. I’ve wanted to since the moment I laid eyes on you.”
Alexander wanted her? Goose bumps crept along her arms. Alexander wanted her.
Something wasn’t right. He’d just admitted he wanted her, seconds after telling her he’d never marry her. “You want a mistress, not a wife.”
He cursed under his breath. “I would never do that to you. Or Philip. I owe him my life. You deserve a husband who can love you and make you happy.”
She stared at him.
“I’m not capable of that kind of love.”
“I see.” She turned from him and looked out the window.
“I doubt you do. Did you know I was a stable boy at Drakemoor before Philip took me in?” He let out a short, harsh laugh. “My parents both worked there. My father was a groomsman when he could keep his head out of a bottle. When he couldn’t ,I tried my best to do his job. My mother was a scullery maid who lived her life plagued with one ailment or another. I only desired a normal life with two parents who loved me. But they were too consumed with their own demons to spare an ounce of attention on me. When they died, I couldn’t cry. How can you cry over something you’ve never had?”
“Surely, they loved you in their own way.”
“Of course they did. I’ve got the scar to prove it.” Alexander pointed to the jagged white line running from his eyebrow to his cheek.
“What happened?” Once again, her heart ached for the child he once was.
He ran a finger along the scar, tracing the crooked path down his face. “I tried to protect my mother from a beating. My father didn’t like my interference.”
“I’m so sorry.”
He shrugged. “It was a long time ago.”
“All families aren’t like that. My aunt and uncle raised me and they loved each other very much.”
“I’m sure they did,” he said. “But I gave up on ‘happily ever after’ a long time ago. I’m a man of reality, not fairy tales.”
“Then I’m sorry for you, Alexander.” Sorry you will never permit yourself to love or be loved.
He met her gaze, his eyes dark and piercing. “So am I,” he murmured. “More than you’ll ever know.” Then he closed his eyes, snuffing out their conversation and the small flame of hope in Francie’s heart.
Chapter 11
A little over an hour later, silent and withdrawn, Francie stepped away from the shiny black carriage and entered Madame Druillard’s shop with a yawning Mrs. Vandemeer. Alexander fell in behind her, equally quiet and subdued.
She could care less about the latest fashions or the finest silks, but her father had been so eager to bestow this gift on her she couldn’t refuse him.
Every time she thought of her conversation with Alexander, her head ached and her stomach lurched. He’d been honest with her and she’d tried her best in her most subtle way to persuade him to reconsider his position on marriage. How could she have been so bold? What must he think of her? She’d practically begged him to offer for her.
Why would she do such a thing when she and Alexander couldn’t even agree on dinner selections? Yet, she couldn’t deny the fire that flared between them when they were together. If opposites did indeed attract, then she and Alexander should be melded together.
Mrs. Vandemeer plunked in the nearest chair and busied herself with the tea and biscuits situated on the table before her. Francie glanced at Alexander out of the corner of her eye. Three other women in the shop watched him also, smiling and giggling in an effort to attract his attention. He ignored them all, working his way toward the back of the shop and a petite woman dressed in black who must be Madame Druillard.
Francie studied the older woman from a distance, curious as to what manner of person drew women from every corner of England, each as eager as the next to own one of the modiste’s creations. Madame Druillard was a tiny woman, somewhere in her early fifties, with sharp features and coal-black hair pulled back in a bun. She reminded Francie of a little bird with her beak-like nose and pointed chin. Her skin was alabaster, her lips deep red. Francie couldn’t discern the color of her eyes as they darted back and forth, from Alexander to the large book spread out on a table before her.
Francie moved closer, curious to hear what Alexander was saying to the older woman.
“And of course, she’ll need ball gowns. Several, in fact.” He rubbed his jaw. “I thought perhaps gold with a burgundy trim for one. Royal blue and silver, also. To match her eyes.” He paused. “And green. When she wears green, her red hair shimmers with streaks of gold.”
“Hmmm.” Madame Druillard tapped a long fingernail against her chin. “Where is she, your mademoiselle? I must see her.”
Alexander cleared his throat. “She’s not my mademoiselle. She’s…” he paused, “…she’s my sister.”
Madame Druillard lifted a sleek brow. “Sister? I see. Where is this sister, monsieur?”
Francie stepped around a bolt of dark green fabric. “Madame Druillard?” She smiled at the stern-looking woman. “I am Francie.”
The older woman turned. Her black eyes moved with great precision from the top of Francie’s pale green bonnet to the tips of her scuffed cream shoes. Heat rushed to Francie’s cheeks at the woman’s bold scrutiny. The three young women in the corner of the shop turned to stare as well, assessing her as they would any rival.
Madame Druillard tilted her head one way and then the other, appraising, considering, assessing. After what seemed two eternitie
s, a slow smile spread about her thin lips. “Sister, eh?” she repeated, threw back her head, and laughed.
“Yes,” Francie managed. What was so amusing?
“If you say so, my children, then so be it. Come, dear, let me look at you closer.” She motioned Francie forward with her tiny hand. Francie obeyed, stopping a few feet from her. “Now, Monsieur Bishop says you are in need of a wardrobe, yes?” She fingered the fabric of Francie’s worn gown. “Yes,” she murmured, “you are very beautiful. You should be draped in silks and satins, non, Monsieur Bishop?” she asked, sliding a gaze in his direction.
Alexander gave her a curt nod but said nothing.
“Yes, that is what you shall have. And the hair,” she said, gesturing to the red curls peeking out from under Francie’s bonnet. “Take the bonnet off.” Francie untied the ribbons and slipped the bonnet off her head. “Non! As I guessed. You are not a schoolgirl. When you have silks and satins draping your body, you will be magnifique.”
Francie blushed. “Thank you, Madame Druillard, but I have no need for silk or satin. Perhaps one would be fine. No more than two. I do need day gowns, but five should be sufficient.”
“She needs everything,” Alexander said as though Francie hadn’t spoken. “From top to bottom. Inside and out.”
Of course he was talking about her chemise and pantaloons. “Alexander!”
He threw her a quick, disgusted look and turned back to Madame Druillard. “Her father is an earl. We can’t have her looking like a poor relation any longer. He wants her clothed in the finest garments you have.”
The modiste smiled. “As you wish.”
“Now let’s talk about design.” Alexander pulled out a chair and sat down beside Madame Druillard.
The modiste flicked a few pages of the book she’d been looking at and said, “I think we should begin here.”
For the next hour, Alexander and Madame Druillard pored through the big black book, discussing everything from day gowns to cloaks and gloves. They ignored Francie unless they were debating a particular color or design. Then they scrutinized her person in great detail.
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