“Thank you, no. I won’t be staying long.”
So, the man had a very particular mission that it appeared would be delivered quickly, precisely, and without pretense. Oh, Alexander, why did you have to pick today to be gone? I fear something is amiss. Francie sank into the overstuffed chair by the fire and gestured for Mr. Heath to sit in the matching chair a few feet away. “I rather thought any business you had would be conducted with Mr. Bishop.”
Mr. Heath coughed. Twice. “This visit is of a most delicate nature and as it concerns you directly, I thought it prudent to deliver the information myself.” He paused, “At your residence.”
In Alexander’s absence? Curiosity warred with dread. Had this visit to do with her illegitimacy? Was Mr. Heath trying to spare her embarrassment by seeking her out instead of naming his concerns in Alexander’s presence? If so, she should be most grateful to her father’s solicitor for his discretion.
“Did Mr. Bishop explain the terms and conditions of your father’s estate?”
“Yes. He told me my father’s estate was to be divided between us.”
Mr. Heath studied her from behind his thick spectacles. If only she could see his eyes. “Then he told you he would have to marry you in order to obtain Drakemoor and the other lands?”
“No.” A horrible dread overtook Francie, spiraling from her head to her stomach in one gigantic plummet. “No.” She shook her head. “He said I couldn’t return to Amberden because my father wanted me at Drakemoor. And I couldn’t reside here with Alexander as a single woman.” She lifted her shoulders and let the rest of the sad truth spill out. “My father held a ball in hopes someone would express an interest in furthering my acquaintance, but there were no such offers.” Not even one. “Alexander said the only way around the whole business of maintaining my reputation and keeping us both at Drakemoor was to marry.”
How tawdry and unromantic it all sounded now. “Mr. Bishop is a good man. A very forceful man, but still a good man. You could do worse than marry him.”
Marry a man who only wanted her for her property? Never. Even if the man was Alexander Bishop.
“Miss Jordan?”
Francie glanced up to find Mr. Heath standing next to his chair. In the span of a few minutes, the solicitor had crumbled her dreams. But he’d given her honesty, which was more than her future husband had done. “I thank you for your visit. I am most grateful.”
“I’ve upset you. Please forgive me; that was not my intent.” The man hesitated. “I’ve known Mr. Bishop a good many years and he’s not a man to be forced into doing anything he doesn’t want to do, no matter the stakes. Try to remember that.”
Francie remained in the library a long while after Mr. Heath left. Alexander wanted to marry her for Drakemoor. For her father’s land. She couldn’t marry him now. She wouldn’t marry him. The sooner she exposed his subterfuge to Uncle Bernard and Aunt Eleanor, the sooner they could leave for Amberden. However well intentioned her father had been in his desire to see her and Alexander wed, he should not have meddled. It had only proved disastrous and heartbreaking.
She found her uncle in her father’s study reading; his spectacles perched on the end of his nose. Her fondest memories of her uncle were with his head in a book. He’d once told her words had the power to transcend time and place, to take one from a most miserable, desperate situation to a world of hope and possibility. She’d always believed and trusted him.
“Uncle Bernard?”
He lifted his gray head and pushed his spectacles to the bridge of his nose. A smile appeared beneath his mustache and beard. “Come in, my dear.”
Francie stepped inside and closed the door. Her stomach jumped and quivered as she met his gaze. “I’ve come to deliver grave news. Father’s solicitor just left.”
“Oh?” He raised a bushy brow and waited.
She moved toward him and stopped before his chair. “Alexander is only marrying me to get Drakemoor and my father’s lands.”
She expected him to jump up in shock or, at the very least, frown in concern. He did neither. A horrible blush of guilt crept over his face, settled on his cheeks, slithered to his neck. “You knew?” The one man she’d trusted more than anyone had known and not told her.
“Francie,” her uncle said, placing his hand on her shoulder, “your father believed you and Alexander belonged together and he was determined to give you the chance he never had. Please forgive him for his methods; his intent was pure. As for Alexander, he wants to marry you.” He sighed. “Even if he doesn’t realize it yet himself.”
“Don’t try to defend Alexander. There’s no need.” He’d never said he wanted to marry her. Rather, he’d implied he had to marry her because it was her father’s wish she remain in his society. And there’d been no other suitors. Mustn’t forget that humiliating fact. Alexander may well have felt it a fair trade—he’d marry Francie, a woman he desired but didn’t love, and give her a place in society in exchange for Drakemoor, his one true love. All nice and tidy. Francie need never know. Or so he thought.
But thanks to Mr. Heath’s conscience, she knew the truth. “Child—”
She cut him off. “Alexander never spoke of love or even undying affection. At least in that he was honest with me.”
“He’ll come around,” Bernard soothed. “Once you’re married, he’ll realize how much he cares for you.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Francie said, forcing the words out. There was nothing left to be said. She turned to him and offered a wobbly smile. “I feel a horrible headache coming on. I’d like to rest a while.”
“Do that, child.” Her uncle pulled her into his embrace. “Don’t worry, I won’t say anything to Alexander,” he whispered. “Not a word.”
Francie squeezed her eyes shut. It didn’t matter.
By the time Alexander returned, she’d be gone.
***
Alexander stepped from the carriage and reached up to straighten his cravat. His fingers stilled as he recalled Francie’s words. You can dress as you like, or not. The truth of those words struck him as he stood enveloped by darkness. The house slept. Not even James would greet him at this hour. Who would care whether he wore a coat or cravat? His hands dropped to his sides and he started up the old stone steps.
It would feel good to sit back in his chair and savor a whiskey or two. Maybe even kick off his shoes. Or rather, pull them off, and enjoy the cool surface of hard wood beneath his silk hose. She was starting to affect him, working her way under his skin and into his conscience, and there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it. Not that he really wanted to, other than enjoy the pure spontaneity of her presence.
The meeting had dragged on far too long.
Alexander had wanted to leave hours ago, anxious to reach home before Francie retired for the night. But the three gentlemen, two dukes and an earl, couldn’t decide which of Alexander’s three business ventures they should invest in. Before the meeting adjourned, they’d settled funds for two of them, with a commitment for the third in six months’ time. Everybody had wanted his advice, cocking an ear to listen, hanging on his every word.
Too bad he couldn’t get Francie to behave in a similar manner. He smiled and shook his head. Not very likely, he thought as he pushed open the oak door and stepped into the foyer. The hall was dark, save a small lantern casting dubious shadows from its perch on a marble table. He picked it up and headed for his study.
An overwhelming desire to see Francie struck him square between the shoulders. It was past midnight, but perhaps she was still awake, reading or maybe even listening for his arrival. She’d been in the habit of waiting up for him; she admitted as much the other night when they had the discussion about his relationship with Tess. If she were still awake, what harm would there be in popping his head in to say goodnight? They were, after all, betrothed.
Before he could consider his actions, he turned on his heel and headed up the spiral staircase. His heart pounded faster as he approa
ched her door, rapped softly, and waited. Disappointment filled him when Francie didn’t answer. He should leave now and wait until morning to see her. But he didn’t want to wait, not another hour, or another minute, not even another second. He wanted to see her now and for once in his very organized, proper life, he let impulse take over and turned the knob.
Lavender smothered his senses as he slipped inside without a sound. His body jumped in response. The little witch was gaining control over him, more so every day. He lifted the lantern and pointed it toward the bed. Empty. The counterpane was in perfect order. Not a rumpled sheet or pillow. No one had slept in the bed this night.
A moment of panic gripped him. Where in the devil was she? Perhaps she’d been waiting for him in his study, as anxious to see him as he was to see her, and had fallen asleep. He might well find her tucked beside George and her blasted cat. He raced out of her room and down the stairs, unaware he held his breath until he let it out in a shaky rush and grasped the knob to the study.
A constant, steady droning greeted him, followed by a half-sigh. It was George, lost between sleep and dreams, no doubt salivating over one of Mrs. Jenkins’s beef bones. Alexander stepped into the darkness and held the lantern in front of him. George lay curled upon the Aubusson rug, his tan coat blending into the rug’s fibers, and the little nuisance, Mr. Pib, rested under his chest.
There was no sign of Francie. She wasn’t sitting at his desk or lying on the sofa. The chairs were empty, too. Where in the devil could she be?
He turned to leave, thinking he’d check Philip’s study next, when a faint glimmer from the lantern cast a shadow on his desk. Something lavender, something looking like an envelope lay there. He hoped it wasn’t another blasted invitation from that bothersome Claire Ashcroft.
Alexander walked to his desk and picked up the envelope. His name was scrawled on the outside in a woman’s bold handwriting. Curious, he opened it and pulled out a single sheet of paper. The scent of lavender filled his senses, telling him it was from Francie. Why would she leave him a note? Dread spread its nasty talons, digging into him, drawing blood. Before he read a single word, he knew. She was gone.
He forced himself to read the note anyway, to feel the pain her words would bring, like a knife piercing his heart, draining the life from him, one word at a time. There were three sentences. The first released him from any debt or obligation toward her. The second gifted Drakemoor to him, if not technically, then through forfeiture, for she did not intend to return to her father’s estate. Ever. The third wished him well. Her signature was at the bottom of the page. Francie. Simple. Impersonal. As though he were a stranger. As though he hadn’t touched her, or tasted her, or heard her soft moans as she reached her release in his arms.
Alexander balled up the note and threw it across the room. Damn her! Why did she have to leave now, when he’d just gotten used to the idea of marriage, even admitted to himself he looked forward to marrying her? Now she was gone with nothing more than a single sheet of lavender paper and three sentences.
Did she think she could just wish him well, as though he were a stranger she’d just met? Well, she wasn’t rid of him yet. Not by far. He’d find her, damn it, and then he’d drag her back to Drakemoor. Francie was going to marry him, whether she liked it or not.
Alexander stalked from the room and headed down the hall, his boots resonating through the quiet of night. He didn’t care whose sleep he disturbed, let the whole blessed household wake up. He stopped in front of Bernard’s room and raised a fist, ready to pound on the door, but hesitated. Eleanor may not know of Francie’s departure and there was no sense troubling her if she didn’t, at least not yet. Bernard, on the other hand, probably knew everything about her “escape” plan, down to the last tiny detail. He rapped quietly on the door and waited.
Nothing. He lifted his hand again, preparing to knock louder. The door inched open and a slightly disheveled Bernard peered at him. “Alexander, what’s wrong?”
“I thought you might be able to tell me.” Amazing that he kept his voice low when all he wanted to do was shout out the words at the top of his lungs.
Bernard stepped into the dim hallway and closed the door behind him. “What do you mean? What’s the matter?”
“Where is she?” Alexander was in no mood for games. He was tired and angry. And damn it, more than a little hurt.
“You mean Francie?”
“Who else would I be talking about?” Alexander snapped.
“At this hour, I imagine she’s asleep.”
Even an honest, straightforward person like Bernard could be persuaded to lie for the little witch. “Her bed’s empty.”
“What?” He seemed confused.
“I said her bed’s empty and from the looks of things, she hasn’t slept in it.”
“That’s impossible.” Bernard turned and hurried down the hall, throwing open the door to Francie’s room. Alexander stood behind him, his lantern offering a flickering illumination of the empty bed. The old man let out a long breath. “Where is she? She didn’t feel well. She didn’t even take supper with us. Complained of a headache after—” He halted mid-sentence. “Oh, no. Oh, no.”
“What, Bernard? Tell me.”
Bernard shook his head and turned to Alexander. “She came to me and asked if there was a provision in Philip’s will that required you to marry her.”
Alexander couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. “You told her.” It wasn’t a question or a statement, not even an accusation.
Bernard let out a long sigh. “I had no choice. Philip’s solicitor told her and I couldn’t lie.”
“Philip’s solicitor?”
“He met with Francie today. Apparently, he explained the conditions of the will.”
Alexander closed his eyes. “That makes no sense.”
Bernard shrugged. “I tried to make her see, tried to make her understand her father meant no harm. He wanted the two of you together. That was all.”
“He used us,” Alexander said.
“He didn’t use you. He loved you. He loved both of you. You were the two most important people in the world to him. Philip only wanted you to be happy.”
“As he defined the word.”
“That’s not true.” Bernard threw him a disapproving look. “He wanted you to know the happiness he never knew. He wanted that more than anything.”
Alexander shook his head. “Somewhere along the way, he should have realized he was playing with real people, flesh and blood and feeling, not just whimsical fairy tales.”
“Alexander—”
“Enough. It doesn’t matter why Philip did what he did. At the moment, I only care about finding Francie. I have no idea where to start but Amberden, and I know she wouldn’t be foolish enough to go there alone.”
When Bernard didn’t reply, Alexander narrowed his gaze on him. “Please tell me Francie didn’t go there.”
“I don’t know where she went,” the old man said. Alexander closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, praying for strength to get through this ordeal. When he got his hands on the little minx, he’d make certain she never tried anything like this again.
“...but if I had to guess, I’d say Amberden. She considers it home.”
Alexander’s eyes flew open. “What did you say?”
“It’s the only place she knows. If she were troubled or upset, she’d head home.”
“This is her home.” Alexander fought to keep his voice down. “Drakemoor.”
“I doubt she feels that way at the moment.”
“Then I’ll enlighten her,” Alexander said. “But first I have to find her.”
Chapter 18
Alexander spotted the little cottage at the end of the village and prayed Francie was in it. He edged Baron closer, the sound of the horse’s hooves on stone shattering the night air. If she were inside, lost in the safe embrace of slumber, he could breathe again.
He’d ridden as fast as the midnight road permi
tted, all the while wondering if she’d taken the same path hours before. Wondering, too, if she’d faced a dark road with all of its hidden treacheries. His chest tightened at the thought. A young woman traveling alone could meet a number of misfortunes, anything from a robber to a broken wheel on a carriage. Or worse.
An image of Jared Crayton raced through his head. The last time he’d seen the man, he’d smashed his pretty face and pummeled his body until Crayton fell to the ground in a lifeless heap. All for the sake of Francie. If the bastard were still preying on the innocents of Amberden, he may have come across Francie on her journey. And if he were bent on revenge or worse, still obsessed with her, he might have acted on those feelings. He might have—Alexander forced the possibilities from his brain.
He stopped in front of the cottage, dismounted, and tied Baron to a side post. There were no other signs of a horse or carriage, nothing to indicate anyone had traveled here. Alexander held his breath as he tried the doorknob. Locked. If Francie were inside, at least she’d had sense enough to lock the door behind her. If she weren’t...he’d tear the countryside apart, village by village, estate by estate, until he found her.
He pounded on the door. Again and again he beat on the worn oak, but it was useless. “Francie! Francie!” Her name fell from his lips in a desperate litany. His shoulders slumped as he murmured her name one last time. “Francie.” It was a plea whose only answer was silence. She wasn’t inside and he had no idea where to look next. He turned and headed down the stone path toward Baron and a long night of what he feared would prove a futile search.
“Alexander?”
He swung around.
It was her. Soft and shimmering, cast in an ethereal glow from the candle’s light flickering in her hand, red hair tumbling about her in a mass of curls.
“Alexander?” Uncertainty coated her voice, thick and heavy, smothered in doubt, laced with caution.
“Francie!” He moved toward her in trance-like steps. Once he reached her, Alexander lifted a trembling hand to her cheek. “Why did you leave?” He tried to hide the pain in his voice, tried not to let her see how her leaving ripped his world apart, but the words fell out in ragged breaths, each one more gripping than the last.
A Taste of Seduction (An Unlikely Husband) Page 20