by Fran Baker
“Oh, but Mary is very much my concern, Sir Thomas,” she snapped. “And I, for one, do not intend to stand back and watch you humiliate her before the eyes of the ton with your unscrupulous antics.”
“Odd that you should lecture on the subject of humiliating public behavior, Miss Hampton,” he flared. “What you put me through at our very public betrothment ball—”
“Was only what you deserved,” Francie cut in furiously.
Glaring at each other, they sat locked in hostile silence. Francie clearly remembered the bitter moment three years before, when their engagement had ended within the colorful glitter of a crowded ballroom. A vision arose of herself remaining stiff and unresponsive as Sir Thomas gathered her into his arms for the solitary waltz that was in their honor.
“What is it, my darling Francie?” he had queried after once swirling the length of the room without words. “You seem oddly out of sorts for what should be a most joyous occasion.”
“Nothing,” Francie returned in a hollow voice, keeping her gaze fixed steadfastly on a point beyond his shoulder.
“Don’t talk such fustian,” Sir Thomas gently chided, his eyes searching her face. His hand tensed upon her slim waist, but he continued to smile as they whirled together. “I know you too well to be taken in by such nonsense. Something has overset you, my love, and I want to know what.”
The words, though calmly spoken, were underscored by a note of command. At last Francie raised her eyes to meet his. In a suffocated voice, she explained, “I have learned that you have resumed relations with Caroline Bond.” She thought her heart would break simply to utter the words. Desperately, she wanted him to deny it, to put her fears to rest.
“Don’t be a little fool,” he had said sharply.
Her heart had begged her to stop, to let it rest at that, but her pride reared up, overshadowing all else. “You do think me a fool, don’t you, Sir Thomas?” she said disdainfully. “Well, I am not such a goose as to tamely accept your mistress. You thought to keep her discreetly out of sight, perhaps until after the wedding, but Miss Dill informed me of your meeting with her today—today of all days!”
“Miss Dill is an interfering, caper-witted spinster,” Sir Thomas stated unequivocably. “If you had the least sense—”
“If I had the least sense,” Francie interrupted, “I would never have allowed myself to become entangled with a man of your stamp!”
“And precisely what, may I inquire, do you mean by that?” he demanded, his fingers curling tightly around her slender hand in a crushing grip.
“I take leave to tell you, sir, that I will not countenance your succession of lady-loves during our marriage,” she snapped.
A deep red flush slowly stained his cheeks, signaling his suppressed anger. “What you do or do not countenance, my love, is not of the least importance,” he returned in a controlled tone. “And my affairs most certainly do not concern Miss Agnes Dill.”
Francie’s slippered foot faltered and they stopped, standing immobile in the center of the marble floor, surrounded by hundreds of well-wishers. As Sir Thomas made to regain his hold upon her waist, Francie’s hurt found expression at last.
“Thank you,” she said in a clear, cold voice that carried over the dwindling strains of music. “I was under the misapprehension that my wishes would be of some importance to you. Thank you for having the goodness to open my eyes.”
“Francie, for God’s sake,” he began in a hoarse undertone.
“I would not dream of being a meddlesome wife,” she continued in an increasingly loud voice, impervious to the stunned silence now surrounding them. “In point of fact, I wouldn’t dream of being your wife at all!”
She slid the ring from her finger and sent it clattering to the polished marble floor with the resounding finality of a death knell. Then, before anyone could react, she turned and fled from the ballroom, her skirt billowing in a blur of ivory. As a babble began to rise like a distant thunder, the very tall, very plain figure of Miss Agnes Dill separated from the ranks of highly interested spectators to follow Francie’s vanishing form.
It had indeed been a very public humiliation, and even the merest memory of it still pierced Francie’s heart. The power of Sir Thomas Spencer to cause her such great pain had not dimmed. She felt it now as deeply as she had felt it then. Remembering it all, their proximity in the small cabriolet adding to her discomfiture, Francie realized that, if anything had been needed to convince her of the dire necessity to end Mary’s betrothment, this drive had been it.
Obviously he had not changed, unless he had grown more profligate. Certainly, he did not care enough for Mary to alter his rakish ways, even as he had not cared enough for Francie to do so. Francie’s nebulous desire to save her younger sister from her own folly crystallized into solid determination.
Sir Thomas was the first to recover. With a fierce snap of the reins, he set his horse going at a frighteningly fast pace. They exchanged not one word during the swift drive back to Mount Street, but the air between them spoke volumes. As soon as he halted before her town home, Francie climbed down, saying curtly, “I do not need your help, thank you.”
As she sped up the steps, she heard him drive away and could not help turning to watch the tall, proud back disappear from view.
Chapter 3
Dust motes danced in the shaft of morning light spilling across the lowered desktop of the cherrywood secretary. Francie laid down the quill and raised her arms in a long stretch above her head, trying to ease the ache from her shoulders. She felt weary and her hand was cramping, but she still had a sizable stack of invitations to address.
A sigh escaped her as she brought her arms down to lean against the scarred wood of the desk. Mama, of course, had not had the energy to help with the invitations to Mary’s ball, and her younger sister’s few efforts had been hopelessly smudged. So the task had fallen, as she had known it would, to Francie.
The tight, high-collared bodice of her dark green dress heaved as Francie sighed again. Why was she still in London? she asked in momentary frustration. Her attempts during the past week to bring Mary to her senses had been singularly unsuccessful. The realization had slowly come upon her that Mary did not care about Sir Thomas Spencer’s unsuitability as a husband simply because she did not care in the least about Sir Thomas himself. Further, the baronet was all that was kind and considerate toward her sister, making him seem entirely suitable to Mary.
Sir Thomas. As always, the thought of him clouded Francie’s reflection, and she tensed. Throughout the week Sir Thomas and she had behaved toward one another like distant acquaintances—with a polite, but unfeeling, graciousness. Watching the dust waltz through the air, Francie wondered for the thousandth time why he had spoken and touched her so gently upon her first arrival, why he had not again repeated the warm intimacy. Obviously he had expected to smooth everything over with his usual charm. But she was no longer a young miss ready to be beguiled by a handsome face and a pretty manner. She knew full well how shallow the baronet’s charm was, and she knew better than to fall under its spell.
Crossing her arms, Francie ran her hands down the long narrow sleeves that descended from a puff at the shoulders of her gown. Without knowing why, she felt chilled. If she were to be painfully honest, she could not deny the power of Sir Thomas’s charm, or her own secret disappointment at not being the continued recipient of his attention.
She wondered again why she was lingering in London. Reacquaintance with Sir Thomas had proved to be thoroughly unsettling. She had even felt, she was forced to ruefully acknowledge, an undeniable hostility toward Mary—sweet, inoffensive Mary!—each time Sir Thomas had called upon her sister this week.
With an impatient shake of her head that sent her copper ringlets escaping from the confines of a white satin ribbon, Francie shoved all such thoughts from her mind. She was in no mood for such self-recriminations. Collecting her pen with vigor, she dipped it into the squat ink-stand and began again to address envelopes with her n
eat, flowing script. Her concentration was so intense that when a soft voice from behind her asked, “Working hard, Francie?” her hand jerked convulsively, knowing over the inkpot and spilling ink all over the desk.
“Oh! Look what you made me do!” she cried as she leapt to her feet and frantically pulled envelopes clear of the inky flow. Spinning about, she demanded, “What did you mean by sneaking up on me?”
“Allow me—” Sir Thomas began.
“Haven’t you done enough?” she snapped
“Move out of the way, you little fool,” he ordered, and forcibly pushing her to one side, Sir Thomas began mopping up the black flow with brisk, thorough swipes of a large square of monogrammed linen.
Her breath coming in short, furious gasps, Francie stood watching him. He had no right to walk in unannounced, oversetting her in such a manner! Indignantly, she eyed the back of his well-cut snuff-brown coat and studied the snug fit of his fawn pantaloons. He was nothing but a dandy, and the sudden pounding of her pulse had nothing whatsoever to do with the studied disarray of his thick black hair or the breadth of his shoulders beneath that superfine coat. It had to do with the ill-bred manner in which he had startled her.
“Are you accustomed to treating all houses as if you own them? Francie asked with heavy sarcasm, her fingers curling tightly around the vellum envelopes in her hands.
“Had I realized you were within, my dear, I would surely have knocked, if only to please you,” he answered without looking at her.
Francie’s fingers clenched the vellum in a death grip. “Whether or not you thought I was here, you should have knocked.”
“Is this your school lesson on etiquette, Miss Hampton?” Sir Thomas cast an inquiring glance over his shoulder.
Francie fixed him with a stormy glare. “Why do you never show Mary this face of yours? With her you are all that is amiable. I fear you mislead her greatly as to your true nature.”
Sir Thomas slowly turned to face her. His heavy lids dropped over his azure eyes, hiding their expression. The only sign of his annoyance was the muscle flexing in his square jaw. Silence stretched between them until Francie thought she could no longer bear it. Her gaze fastened on the worn pattern of the carpet, and she told herself she hated him, hated him.
“Miss Mary,” he drawled at last, “has far too much wisdom to provoke me. That is a lesson for you to learn.”
Her gaze shot upward to his handsome face, and her body shook with wordless outrage. How dare he put the blame for his ill temper on her! He was quite the rudest, the most arrogant, the worst—
“Come, I am sorry I disturbed you, Francie,” he said in a conciliatory tone. “It was not my intention, I assure you. I came only to discover what help you may require in preparing for the ball.”
“I don’t need your help,” she rejoined.
But her protective anger was already dissipating. How could she maintain her temper when he did not? He was the most disobliging creature alive, and Mary was welcome to him. She would not, Francie reminded herself resolutely, allow him to continue to affect her irrational, contrary senses. She only wished he would not look at her in quite that way . . .
Looking away from his disturbing gaze, she focused on the sodden linen still hanging in his hand, black ink bleeding into the delicate material from lace edge to lace edge.
“You’ve ruined your handkerchief,” she observed.
“It doesn’t matter.” He tossed the spoiled cloth onto the desk behind him.
“Of course it matters,” she contradicted. With three rapid steps, her long, dark green skirt flaring slightly, Francie joined him at the desk. Dropping the envelopes beside the linen, she asked in a tight little voice, “How much?”
“Francie—”
“How much,” she clipped again.
“Fifty pounds, the dozen,” he replied shortly.
“Fifty pounds!” she gasped, her eyes wide with shock. Recovering, she brushed past his tall form, forcing herself to remain calm as her arm lightly grazed his. With a sharp jerk she pulled open one of the desk drawers. “That would be four pounds, three shillings, four pence each,” she recited like a shopkeeper counting change.
Francie’s hand closed over several coins in the drawer, but as she withdrew them she heard a hiss of breath behind her. In one swift, hostile motion, Spencer trapped her. His gloved hand came down forcefully over hers, clamping the coins beneath it to the top of the desk. His muscular body pinned her slim form against the wood, which cut painfully into her back.
“What the devil do you think you’re doing?” he demanded in a voice of barely controlled fury.
“I’m going to pay you for the handkerchief.” Though her breath came fitfully, Francie managed to reply in a steady voice.
His heavy black brows nearly met at the center, and his lips curled upward. His body was pressed so closely upon hers that Francie could feel his muscles tense with anger. Her heart faltered in its beat, and she trembled as she felt his breath lash against her cheek.
“Despise me if you must, Francie,” he rasped, “but don’t insult me.”
A riot of red suffused her features, marking her instant remorse. She wondered if she had indeed seen that flash of hurt cross through his dark eyes. She could not hold his accusing gaze. Her lashes dropped to the curve of her flushed cheeks.
“I don’t despise you,” she admitted in a muffled voice.
“Don’t you?” he mocked.
“Of course not!” Her stain of guilt deepened. He was so close that she could hear him breathe and feel the ripple of his muscles before he stepped away. She strove to bring her own ragged breathing under control as she watched him from behind the thick fringe of her lashes.
Moving to the center of the room, he pulled off his York tan gloves and stood snapping them together, his face expressionless. With sudden surprise, it came to Francie that Sir Thomas did not believe her. Though his eyes were again hidden by his lowered lids, she could see the disbelief in every line of his inflexible stance, in the restless click of the leather gloves. Though she did not pause to question why, the thought pained her, and she knew she must not permit such a mistaken belief to continue.
She took a step forward, raised a placating hand. “Forgive me, Sir Thomas,” she said with a tremulous smile. “I have been unbearably rude. It’s my ungovernable temper. When the ink spilt, I’m afraid so did my humor.”
He studied her face before responding in a voice without inflection. “There is nothing to forgive, Francie. My own temper was as much at fault as yours.”
With a restless movement, he wandered over to stand before the small fire in the grate and then slapped his gloves upon the white mantel. After a lengthy pause, he shot a penetrating look at her over his shoulder and said with a rueful twist of his lips, “Can we not agree, my dear, to meet without coming to blows? If you are to lay me out in lavender each time we meet, I very much fear we shall not get through this betrothment of mine.”
Francie tried desperately to stifle a stab of pain. “Yes, we can agree,” she said as evenly as she could. “Let us put all thoughts of the past behind us, for Mary’s sake as well as our own.”
“For all our sakes, then,” he agreed. He took another turn about the room before stating casually, “Your mother has informed me that you are handling all the preparations for the ball and for the wedding. I thought, perhaps, if you required help in any way—”
“No, no,” she cut in. “There is no need, Sir Thomas. I have everything well in hand, I assure you.”
He ran his deep blue gaze over the haphazard pile of vellum envelopes on the desk. “You were addressing all those on your own?”
“Yes.”
“My housekeeper could assist you in—” he began, only to be silenced by the abrupt flutter of her hands.
“I can only repeat that there is no need. It is quite enough that you are standing the nonsense for everything from the hiring of Gunter’s to the settlement with Madame Fresney. You must allow u
s to manage the rest.”
“You mean, allow you to manage it, my dear,” he chided softly. “And you speak of my conceited pride.”
“It is not pride,” she denied, stiffening beneath the darkling glitter of his eyes. “You must see how it would look should we simply allow you to handle the reins of this affair.”
He stared at her for a long moment then surprised her by throwing back his dark head to laugh, “Francie, Francie,” he said through his deep laughter, “if you have ever let anyone have the handling of your ribbons, it is the greatest piece of news to me.”
Gradually the stiff lines of her mouth relaxed and she joined him in genuine laughter. Still Francie felt a twinge of conscience. Her nature had become too unbending, she admitted, too implacable. As they grew calm, she determined to disprove his poor opinion of her and set about it by summoning tea, then graciously bidding him to take a seat.
Sir Thomas dragged an armless chair from a shadowy corner designed to hide its patched cushion and set it beside hers at the secretary. “Allow me to go over the guest list with you,” he said with a smile. “I have, in fact, brought a small list of obscure relatives my mother recollected we possessed and thus, of course, must not again be forgotten.”
His smile was engaging, his manner even more so. When he chose to be, Sir Thomas could be irresistible, as Francie knew only too well. As she took the chair positioned so disturbingly close to his, she inquired after the health of Lady Spencer, a small, energetic and entirely captivating woman for whom Francie still felt a deep affection.
The tea arrived as the baronet was answering cheerfully that his mother was as much of a whirlwind as ever. James departed after serving them, and they set to work poring over the neatly compiled list of names. They had not progressed far before Sir Thomas reminded Francie of a mutual acquaintance whose habit of inhaling his snuff too deeply, then sneezing for a good hour afterwards, had at one time been a shared jest between them. Their tea sat forgotten as the morning room echoed with comfortable laughter, and it was thus, with their heads bent close over the papers on the desk, that Mary found them some twenty minutes later.