“Your name?” he asked. She looked like a scared rabbit about to bolt. Why was she afraid of him? He’d done no more than look at her.
“Sally,” she murmured. “Sally Baines. I...I live down the street.”
Alexander nodded. “Well, come in, Sally Baines, and I’ll fetch Francie.” He waved his hand toward the sitting room, but the young girl shook her pale blonde head and remained outside.
“No, thank you, sir,” she said. “I’ll wait here.”
“As you wish.” He turned and went in search of Francie, his thoughts on the scared young woman outside. “Francie,” he called, poking his head in the kitchen. “You have a visitor.”
She was putting some green leaves into a small container. She looked up and smiled at him, sending a twinge to his groin. “Who?”
“She said her name is Sally Baines.”
“Sally?” She set the leaves aside and wiped her hands on a towel. “Why didn’t you invite her in?”
“I did,” he said, his voice low. “She’s worse than a scared rabbit. And swollen with child.”
Francie’s eyes filled with tears. “Poor Sally.”
“Crayton, I presume?”
She nodded. “Sally was one of the first. Her parents blamed her. Called her all sorts of horrible names and almost threw her out of the house.”
“I see.” One’s biological parents did not always guarantee safety or love.
“It’s worse,” she whispered. “They tried to force her to marry a man three times her age to save disgrace and when she refused, they threatened to disown her.”
Alexander shook his head. “From the look on her face and the way she’s acting, something’s happened and I’d venture to guess it wasn’t pleasant.”
“Poor Sally,” Francie murmured. “I’ll be back.” She reached up on tiptoe and gave him a peck on the cheek.
Then she was moving past him, a determined warrior on a mission, her red-gold hair flowing behind her. Alexander’s chest tightened as he watched his betrothed, dressed as a commoner, in simple blue muslin and old slippers with her hair unbound and free. And yet, he thought her more beautiful than the grandest of ladies clothed in silk and jewels. It was then he understood the beauty of Francie was not in her face or her hair or even her well-curved body. Francie’s beauty came from her soul.
He watched as she drew Sally into her arms, patted her back when the girl’s shoulders shook and tears flowed from her pale face. All the while, Francie’s lips moved, no doubt whispering soothing words. Alexander stood, mesmerized, as his future wife helped Sally Baines transform from a scared waif to a smiling young woman.
His breath stuck in his throat as she rested her hands on Sally’s belly and he pictured Francie swollen with child. His child. He blinked and turned away. What was he thinking? He had no idea how to be a father. How could he even think about bringing a child into this world with a past like his? Francie’s innocent naïveté was getting to him, making him want to believe in ridiculous impossibilities.
“Her family’s disowned her.”
Alexander looked at Francie, her blue eyes filled with concern for her friend, her full lips parted and waiting. He wished he believed in hopes and dreams and happily ever after. Just this once.
Francie was a gift, a summer’s breeze blowing over him, touching him with her gentle caress. But summer didn’t last forever and breezes gave way to harsh winds and bitter storms that smashed unsuspecting victims in their path. He would not be a victim, no matter how much she entranced him.
“Alexander?” her soft voice reached him. “She has nowhere to go.”
He pushed aside his thoughts and said, “What do you want to do?” He knew she had a plan. She always did.
Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I’d like her to stay here.”
He lifted a brow. “Alone?”
“I could stay—”
“No.” He didn’t give her a chance to finish the thought. “You are not staying here,” he said. “It’s not safe.” He shook his head. “Besides, you’re to be my wife. I want you back at Drakemoor.”
“Sally has no place to go. I’ve got to help her.” He glanced at the very pregnant girl standing just outside the doorway. Damn Jared Crayton and his noble blood. If he got his hands on him again, he’d make certain Crayton never fathered another child.
Alexander turned to Francie and said in a terse voice, “She can stay.” It annoyed him how easily she could get him to do her bidding, as though his sole existence centered on pleasing her. He cleared his throat and continued, “I’ll send someone to stay with her. She’ll need help when her time comes.”
“Thank you, Alexander.”
His chest tightened further at her simple words. He looked away and busied himself with several large wrinkles in his trousers. “Make a list of food items and whatever other provisions she may require.” His gaze darted to Sally once more. “And see that the child has plenty of blankets.” He’d spent the first half of his life shivering under one threadbare blanket and too few clothes.
No child should have to live like that. Not even Jared Crayton’s bastard.
***
“How can it be true?” Claire Ashcroft pulled the sheet around her breasts and stared at her lover. “How can it possibly be true?”
Jared Crayton folded his hands behind his head and cursed. “That bastard doesn’t deserve to touch the hem of her gown.”
“Rest assured, he’s done more than touch that little whore’s clothing.” The very thought of Alexander’s beautiful body entwined with Francie Jordan’s enraged Claire. She wanted to destroy something—a vase, a glass, Francie’s face.
“She told me she wasn’t interested in the opposite sex. If she’s no longer a virgin, Bishop forced her and he’ll pay dearly for that.”
Claire laughed. “That was her way of telling you she wasn’t interested in you.” She reached under the covers and slowly ran her hand down Jared’s chest until she grasped his hardening shaft. “Trust me, she’s no longer a virgin. But Alexander would never force her. He’s too much the gentleman.” Had she thought him capable of ruining a young woman, she would have orchestrated her own ruination ages ago. She’d been so patient, so calculating, so good, and that little bitch had merely opened her legs and stolen him from her. Well, she would steal him back. “I’ll wager she threw herself at him just like her whore mother threw herself at Montrose.”
Jared grabbed a hunk of her hair and pulled her close. “She wouldn’t do that.”
Claire slapped at his hand. “Let go. You’re hurting me.” When she began to exert pressure on him below the sheets, he released her.
“Blast it,” he said, reaching over to encircle her breast. “Just the thought of his hands on her...I’ll kill him.” He squeezed her nipple until she gasped. “I told you this little scheme of yours would never work.”
Claire turned toward him, offering him her other breast. She caressed the tip of his manhood and he shivered, relaxing a bit. “It should have. I gave it much thought and Mr. Heath assured me your little Francie practically swooned when he told her the terms of her father’s will. I believe the man actually felt bad about it. Can you imagine?”
With both hands now teasing her, Jared murmured, “Francie does have a way about her, and I look forward to many hours of enjoying those ways.”
Claire scowled. “Do not forget whose bed you’re in now, and who made you groan with indescribable pleasure only moments ago.” How could he say such a thing? Francie Jordan wasn’t fit to empty Claire’s chamber pot. Perhaps Claire’s scheme had been too subtle. She should have invited the chit to tea where she’d add a few drops of laudanum to her cup. Jared could have carried her off and had his way with her and Claire could have spent hours consoling Alexander.
“You set me on fire, Claire, I will not deny that.” He traced her shoulder and planted a kiss along the hollow of her neck. “We understand each other. But we have other desires...” He licked a nipple. “On
e way or another, you’ll have your Bishop and I’ll have my Francie.”
Claire tilted her head back and closed her eyes as Jared skimmed a hand along her belly. Soon it would be Alexander’s hands touching her, Alexander’s mouth exploring her curves, and Alexander’s—
“You don’t think they’re in love with one another, do you?”
The question burst through Claire’s brain, shattering all thoughts of Alexander. “Don’t ever say that again.” She shoved Jared away, bound off the bed, and scooped her chemise from the floor. Jared’s hot gaze followed her around the room as she retrieved her clothing. He might think he was in love with Francie Jordan, but he still wanted her. Every man wanted her. Soon, Alexander would, too.
There was just the little matter of disposing of Francie Jordan. If Jared were not up to the task of removing the bitch from Alexander’s life permanently, Claire would see to it herself. She would devise a more drastic plan and this time, she would not be so generous with the chit’s welfare.
There had never been a man who did not desire Claire. Alexander would realize he desired her, too, once she stripped him of that little country mouse. Claire smiled and patted her hair in place. Nothing would keep her from the object of her affection. Soon, Alexander Bishop would be hers.
***
“Sometimes, I feel I can see right through to his very soul. And other times, he seems a stranger.” Francie sat beside Aunt Eleanor in her bedroom, waiting for the carriage to arrive that would take them to St. Thomas’s chapel and her husband-to-be.
Aunt Eleanor patted her hand and tried to soothe Francie’s nerves. “It will be all right, child. You’re feeling a case of wedding jitters, that’s all.”
“It’s been like this for over a week.” She shook her head, careful not to undo the magnificent pile of curls heaped atop her head and held in place with several tiny pearl pins. “When I’m too near him, I can’t catch my breath. My stomach gets all quivery, and my heart beats too fast.”
Her aunt merely smiled.
“And the most ridiculous things pop out of my mouth.” She frowned. “Or rather, fly out.”
Her aunt nodded.
“Of course, Alexander isn’t afflicted with any of these conditions. If anything, he’s more remote than ever.” Except when he thinks I’m not looking and he all but devours me with those silver eyes. That’s when my heart jumps to my throat and I forget to breathe.
It had been like this since they’d returned from Amberden almost three weeks ago. Francie had lain awake half the first night, wondering if he’d come to her bed. When she heard his footsteps on the carpet sometime after two in the morning, she’d held her breath. He’d paused for an eternity and then his footsteps trailed past her door, away from her.
He’d spoken little and smiled only once, a faint little half-smile when he spotted her rosemary bread on the table beside the basket of white rolls. He’d eaten one of each and told Francie to send his compliments to the cook, though from the look in his eyes, he knew she’d baked the bread herself.
That small little scrap of praise brightened her day and warmed her night. That was the pitiful part of the whole blasted situation. She’d been reduced to hanging on his every word, hoping for a smile, a gesture, or at least an acknowledgment. She wanted the man she’d seen in Amberden, if only a glimpse, but he’d buried himself so far under proper etiquette and a starched cravat, she wondered if she’d ever see him again.
She longed to feel his fingers stroking her senseless, hear her name on his lips as he entered her, smell the musky scent of their lovemaking clinging to her. “Francie?”
She jumped, startled by her aunt’s voice. “Yes, Aunt Eleanor?”
“Often the most difficult men make the best husbands.”
“They do?” Aunt Eleanor was right about so many things, but this?
“They most certainly do.” Her aunt gave her a knowing look and nodded her gray head. “Your Uncle Bernard is a perfect example.”
Francie laughed. “Uncle Bernard is the ideal husband. I can’t imagine him ever being difficult.”
“He was more than just difficult. Downright impossible was more like it.”
“Uncle Bernard?” She pictured the kind, mild-mannered uncle who possessed the most diplomatic nature of anyone she’d ever met.
“Hmmm. Quiet. Temperamental. Impossible.” Her aunt’s eyes grew misty. “But only with me. You see, he was trying to deny the attraction he felt and the more his feelings grew, the worse his mood got.”
“What happened?” Francie whispered, caught in a love story she never knew existed.
“My father betrothed me to an earl. Bernard was so miserable that one day he exploded and confessed his feelings.” Her eyes twinkled. “Since that day, he’s been the most wonderful, caring man alive.”
“What did your father say?”
Her aunt’s blue eyes clouded. “He believed wealth and power were the most important requirements in a marriage. Love, to him, was a useless waste of human emotion. He never forgave me for choosing Bernard.”
Francie squeezed her aunt’s plump hand. “I’m so very happy you did,” she whispered.
“As am I, child.” She sniffed and said, “But, enough about me. This is your wedding day and you should be smiling and thinking about that handsome groom of yours.”
Francie blushed. If only her aunt knew she’d been thinking of little else these days.
“Your mother and father would be so proud of you,” Aunt Eleanor murmured, her gaze settling on the locket around Francie’s neck.
Their locket. Two ill-fated lovers. Her fingers closed around it. After her father’s death, Bernard presented her with the other piece, the one with her mother’s picture. Last evening, he’d handed her a small white box with a red ribbon tied around it. Inside, she found the locket fastened to a new gold chain.
“Aunt Eleanor, it was you and Uncle Bernard who raised me. I’m happy to have had a chance to know my father, but truly you are my parents.”
Eleanor’s eyes filled and she leaned in to squeeze Francie’s free hand. Francie kissed her aunt’s cheek and closed her eyes, willing her own tears not to flow.
Would she ever know a love as profound as her aunt and uncle’s, or her parents’? She squeezed the locket, praying love would flow to her. This was her wedding day. She wore a beautiful cream silk gown covered with tiny seed pearls and adorned with French lace, the finest money could buy. Alexander had seen to that. Her stomach clenched as she thought of his wedding gift to her, an emerald necklace with a matching bracelet. He’d been most generous with her, in everything but the one thing she wanted most—his love.
Chapter 20
Alexander shifted his weight for the tenth time in as many minutes and checked his timepiece. She was late. The left side of his jaw twitched. She should have been here twenty minutes ago. Where the devil was she? Bernard remained unperturbed by Francie’s absence, his tall, slightly stooped form walking from one corner to the other, hands clasped behind his back. Only Father Braenton, the round little priest with the ruddy cheeks and bright blue eyes, commented on the absence of Alexander’s bride.
“Perhaps Miss Jordan had a problem with her carriage,” Father Braenton offered in a hushed tone.
Alexander shoved his hands in the pockets of his black trousers. “It’s my carriage and it’s in excellent condition.”
“Hmmm. I see,” the priest replied. “An illness then? Someone not feeling well? That might cause a delay.”
Alexander shot him a dark look. “Miss Jordan and her aunt are in quite good health.”
The priest coughed and cleared his throat. “She’s only twenty minutes late.”
“Twenty-two minutes.”
“She’ll be here.”
“I know,” Alexander ground out. But he didn’t know. Not really. Not the deep-gut knowing he usually had about things. He had doubts, several of them. Small niggling tormentors reminding him he’d done nothing to engender Francie’
s affection since their return from Amberden. If anything, he’d been cool and evasive, trying to distance himself from her warm laughter and bright smiles. And he’d been very effective. All he need do was push his mind and body from the first ray of light peeking over the horizon until the house fell silent around the blackness of night. Then he could crawl to bed and sleep a few tortured hours until daylight beckoned him to repeat the ritual.
He ached to touch her, to bury his face in her lavender-scented hair, to taste her welcoming lips, to hear her moan his name. Damn! That was the problem. This obsession with her was driving him mad. He must get control, pull away a little, and detach before he trusted himself to be near her again. He’d shown her too much in Amberden, shown her a vulnerable side of himself even he didn’t like to acknowledge existed. But she’d seen it. He could tell by the way she looked at him sometimes, as though she wanted to comfort him. As though she thought he needed it. He didn’t want or need that kind of attention from anyone.
The sooner Francie learned that, the better. Of course, maybe she already had. She’d grown very quiet in the last couple of weeks. Not at all her usual self. Maybe that’s why she was late. Maybe she wasn’t coming. Maybe he’d succeeded at pushing her away.
“Praise be God,” Father Braenton whispered. “She’s here.”
Alexander tensed, then looked up to see a flurry of white in the back of the church. He just made out the back of Francie’s dress before she disappeared from his sight. His heart rammed against his chest; she came, it beat, in a bounding rhythm. She came.
Music filled the church and within minutes, Alexander found himself standing at the altar with Father Braenton at his side, waiting for Francie to walk down the aisle and join him.
And then she was there, filling the entrance, her arm laced through Bernard’s. She glided toward him like an ethereal vision in a confection of cream silk and tiny pearls. When she reached the altar, she lifted her eyes to meet his.
A Taste of Seduction (An Unlikely Husband) Page 23