Miss Francie's Folly

by Fran Baker

  She caught sight of Mary stepping lightly through the country dance with Mr. Harvey and realized that now, more than ever, she must not allow her fragile, sweet-natured sister be allied to the hard, cynical, licentious Sir Thomas Spencer. She had not succeeded in making Mary understand his ill-temperament, nor had she convinced Mary that no wife wanted to share a husband with a string of mistresses. Suddenly Francie thought of a new plan, one that had been forming in her mind for days. If Mary could be brought to see that it was not only Cyprians with whom he dallied . . .

  Francie’s captivating India muslin gown had been designed to entice. Peering up at Sir Thomas through the curtain of her lashes, she knew that the gown, at least, had succeeded in its purpose. His blue eyes darkened beneath half-closed lids as they fixed upon the low, square-cut bodice that offered a tantalizing hint of soft, rounded flesh.

  Folding her fan, Francie faced him, a teasing smile playing upon her lips. “I have been sadly remiss, Sir Thomas,” she said. “I came to this ball as a gesture meant to establish peace between us, not to foster further ill will.”

  One black brow climbed, then lowered. His eyes regained a shimmer of amusement. “Then say you will dance with me and all will be forgiven, Miss Hampton.”

  “Very well,” she agreed, dropping her lashes to hide her the triumph in her eyes.

  Thus, as soon as Mr. Harvey had returned Mary to her chair, Francie rose to enter the quadrille with Sir Thomas, earning herself a fulminating frown from the disgruntled Lord Coombs.

  As their gloved hands came together, Francie’s eyes joined with his and she felt her heart skitter, then begin to thump erratically. Surely he must hear it over the music, over the laughter, over the babble of voices filling the room. Unable to withstand the impact of those intense eyes a moment longer, she fixed her own gaze on her feet, pretending to count the steps.

  “You dance as delightfully as ever, my dear,” he commented, forcing her to look up at him.

  She pinned a false smile in place and hoped her inner upheaval did not show upon her face. “Thank you. As I told you before, Sir Thomas, you dance with a grace unusual in a man.”

  His eyes widened slightly, as if he could not believe her unusual amiability. “It has been a great while since you’ve paid me such a compliment, Francie.”

  Continuing to smile brightly, she began to talk of Edmund Kean’s latest brilliant performance at Drury Lane. They had maintained this easy conversation through several turns of the quadrille when Francie’s small fan suddenly slipped from her fingers to the floor. As she bent to retrieve it, she surreptitiously loosened the ribbon lacing her satin slipper over her ankle. Straightening, she bestowed an apologetic smile on her partner.

  “Forgive me, but the cord of my fan somehow gave way,” she explained as she took up his hand to resume the dance.

  They had managed but a few steps when she faltered over the ribbon of her slipper. “Oh, dear,” she said, stopping again to look down at her untied shoe. “I am sorry, Sir Thomas. This doesn’t appear to be my dance, does it?” She flashed him a coquettish smile of apology, and he took her hand to lead her away from the revolving crowd.

  “No matter. It is easily remedied.” He guided her onto one of a series of secluded alcoves scattered throughout Lady Rockhill’s ballroom. It was but a tiny niche with a small seat covered in ice-blue brocade.

  Francie sat down as Sir Thomas yanked the curtained aperture closed. The beat of her heart increased furiously, and her hands shook visibly as she straightened the folds of her skirt. She had sought this tête-a-tête, but now that the moment to expose Sir Thomas as a hardened womanizer had come, Francie no longer desired to do it. Without seeking to understand her sudden reluctance to remain alone with him, she ran her tongue over dry lips, preparing to tell the baronet to wait for her outside while she retied the laces.

  But the opportunity was lost when Sir Thomas immediately bent down on one knee to capture her small foot in the palm of his hand. His fingers deftly crossed the thin ribbon around her slender ankle, his light touch evoking her unwilling response. She forgot Mary. She forgot the seductive game she had meant to play. She forgot even his previous perfidy. Her senses were betraying her, arousing her with a consuming need. In one last bid for sanity, she started to pull her foot free of his light clasp, but his hand tightened about her ankle, circumventing her escape. The polite words of thanks froze on her lips. For a long moment, neither moved.

  “Francie,” he whispered at last.

  His hand crept upward to the soft curve of her calf, where his fingers stirred restlessly against her silk stocking. She stared down at the glossy black waves bent over her foot and tried to speak out, but could not. Her very breath seemed stilled. A fierce longing to thread her fingers through that thick, dark hair possessed her. Her shaking hand came up, stretched out. Then, without warning, before she could realize his intent, Sir Thomas bent further still and pressed his lips warmly on her ankle.

  “Francie,” he murmured again in a near moan.

  He raised his head and the dark desire in his eyes made her heart stop beating. With a flash of insight, Francie knew she had wanted this, wanted it from the moment she had first read her mother’s letter. But the excitement shuddering through her was too dangerous. She labored to draw each simple breath and knew she must escape before passion overcame sense and she was lost forever.

  Suddenly, Sir Thomas rose to his feet, his hands reaching out for her. Knowing she must avoid his embrace at all costs, Francie leapt up and attempted to brush past him, but he blocked her way, then stood staring at her with naked longing in his eyes. Looking up the strong, solid line of his body into his flushed face, she shook her head so hard it stirred the air between them.

  “No,” she breathed.

  Her lips parted on the word, and Francie watched his eyes rake over her pale face to fasten on them. His gaze bespoke the intensity of his need. Again she tried to push past his broad form, but he gripped her shoulders and gave her a slight shake.

  “You can’t return yet, you little fool,” he hissed.

  “No, please,” she begged, raising her hand as if to ward him off. She heard his sharp intake of breath, but kept her eyes fixed on the gold curtain beyond his shoulder. She could not again chance meeting the passion in his eyes, for she knew if she did, she could not long withstand it.

  “Don’t be more of a fool than you can help,” he said harshly. “If you go out looking as you do, without the least hint of color in your cheeks and your eyes overbright, the tongues will begin to clack. Now, if you will resume your seat and try to clam yourself, I vow I shall not importune upon you any further.”

  She darted a glance at his face. A dark stain still covered his taut features and he was breathing heavily. To her surprise, bitterness clouded his eyes as they watched her closely. Slowly, she nodded. His hands fell from her shoulders, and she backed onto the brocade cushion behind her. Twining the copper ribbons of her gown through her fingers, she said in a hollow voice, “Thank you.”

  When he did not respond, she risked another glance up at him. He was leaning against the frame of the arched doorway, tension in every line of his muscular form. His arms were crossed stiffly over his chest, and he studied the toe of his black evening pump with intense interest. Abruptly, his gaze came up to capture hers, and Francie stifled a small gasp. She could not define what she saw there, but it was not the cynical mockery she had expected.

  “You have more color now,” he stated in a flat tone of voice. “I think it is safe to return.” He held out his arm and, numbly, as though from the depths of an indistinct dream, Francie rose to take it. As they moved through the crowded ballroom in silence, she struggled to keep her head high and her smile in place.

  While the rest of the room seemed a mere blur, Francie was entirely conscious of the man walking beside her, of his well-toned length and overpowering masculinity. Having proved to herself that Sir Thomas was every inch the roué she had known him to be
brought her not the least joy, for she knew she could never relate the incident to her sister. Nor would she ever attempt anything like it again. Such games, she had discovered, were much too painful when a player lost.

  As they neared the chairs upon which Mary still sat with Mr. Harvey, Francie noted dimly that her sister was bent earnestly toward the rigid young man, her fingers wrapped tightly around the sticks of her closed fan. Francie’s slight puzzlement became pronounced as, upon catching sight of their approach, Mary started guiltily. Her round cheeks flamed, and she began speaking brightly of the dreadful squeeze of people to be found spilling through Lady Rockhill’s salons.

  Francie’s bemused gaze traveled to Mr. Harvey, then hardened sharply at the sight of the dull red suffusing his face. His hazel eyes slid away from her own, and her brows rose. She shoved her scattered emotions aside. Something was afoot between the pair, but for once in her life, Francie was completely adrift. Why on earth could Mary be looking so conscience-smitten? With characteristic impulsiveness, Francie determined to discover the reason for their guilty flushes.

  Grateful for the distraction from her unsettled emotions, she took the seat beside Mr. Harvey. Tapping his knee with her closed fan with a familiarity that made his mouth gape open in surprise, she said with assumed gaiety, “I do trust the pair of you behaved yourselves while we danced.”

  She was rewarded with a fresh mantling of crimson upon Mary’s face while Mr. Harvey turned a pasty white.

  “But of course! I assure you! We merely conversed!” he sputtered in short bursts.

  Before Francie could pursue this highly intriguing matter, a foppishly dressed blond youth presented himself before her. “I thought you did not dance tonight, Miss Hampton,” he said, barely able to disguise the hurt in his voice.

  “I am sorry, Lord Coombs,” she said. “My sister persuaded me otherwise.”

  He brightened at this, the scowl leaving his boyish features. “Then you will dance with me?”

  “Oh, but I have promised this dance to Mr. Harvey,” she replied, completely astonishing that gentleman. At his lordship’s crestfallen look, she added, “But I promise you, my lord, to save the next waltz for you.”

  Having thus encouraged the youthful viscount, Francie turned with a bright smile to Mr. Harvey and held out her hand. He had no choice but to stand, bow slightly, and take her fingers as she rose gracefully to her feet. Such a want of manners quite obviously shocked the staid Mr. Harvey, and he frowned with disapproval as he began dancing with the older Miss Hampton. They conversed on neutral topics throughout, Francie gauging the character and worth of the gentleman as they did so. When the music halted, she remained standing.

  “Oh, but I should like very much to dance again, Mr. Harvey.”

  He looked at her aghast. “But it would not do, Miss Hampton. To dance twice in a row? Oh, no, it would not do at all!”

  She wanted to laugh, but restrained the impulse. Whatever he and Mary had been up to, it certainly could not have involved a breach of good ton. She had never met a gentleman more concerned with propriety than Mr. Harvey. She allowed him to lead her to her seat, but extracted a reluctant promise for another dance later in the evening.

  The poor man departed with such alacrity that Francie was filled with silent laughter. The happy gleam was still in her eyes when she turned to find herself face to face with Sir Thomas. The metallic glint in his own eyes drained the cheerful brilliance from hers.

  “Francie, I should like to apolo—” he began, only to be cut off as Lord Coombs drew up with Mary on his arm to claim his waltz with Francie.

  Without casting so much as a glance at Sir Thomas, she went directly off with the fair viscount. For the rest of the evening, no gayer lady could be found in Lady Rockhill’s salons than Miss Frances Hampton. She smiled, laughed, and teased gentlemen throughout dance after dance. If the gossips whispered about Miss Mary Hampton’s chaperone, Francie did not listen. She whirled and twirled, chattered and charmed as if she were a young belle making her come-out. When not dancing, she was surrounded by a circle of admiring beaux, of whom Sir Thomas Spencer was not a member.

  Later, as she went into supper on Lord Coombs’s arm and sat down opposite her sister and the baronet, her bright smile wavered for just a moment. But a fresh glass of champagne restored it in full measure.

  Afterward, she did not recall one item of the midnight supper, nor one word she exchanged with anyone. She only remembered—and this only too well!—the touch of Sir Thomas’s hand upon her calf, the press of his lips upon her ankle, and the rasp of his voice as he whispered her name.

  But she thrust these memories aside and hid her hurt beneath a mask of gaiety that focused on everyone present except the gentleman so plaguing her thoughts. She forced herself to be cheerful, and somehow the hours passed and the ball ended and no one suspected how desperately unhappy she was.

  Chapter 5

  The carriage door clapped shut like the iron bars at Newgate. It took all of Francie’s considerable will not to show by even the merest gesture that the journey homeward seemed an endless agony for her. The silence that fell between Sir Thomas, Mary, and herself closed in upon her, suffocating her. She tried to pretend he was not there, but of course his body on the squabs of the seat opposite her dominated the small, darkened interior. No amount of pretense could disregard the nearness of his knee or the long, muscular leg resting just a whisper away from her own.

  She did not know how she managed to survive the rest of the evening. It had all become a miserable masquerade for her, a nightmare of light, sound, and color. Her head ached from the effort of dissembling. She wished Mary would fill the silence with her cheerful prattle, but she too sat staring wordlessly into her lap.

  The instant the carriage drew up before their town house in Mount Street, Francie bid Sir Thomas a hasty goodnight and slipped from her seat to dart lightly up the steps. She heard Mary and Sir Thomas exchanging words behind her, but did not pause to listen. She set her sights on the narrow stairway, seeking only the quiet refuge of her room. But as she gripped the balustrade, she was halted in mid-step by her mother’s voice.

  “Oh, there are at last!” Mrs. Hampton said from the head of the stairs. “I had quite given up hope of seeing you before dawn.”

  Francie’s hand tightened on the mahogany railing. The door behind her opened, and, with the soft rustle of muslin, her sister came to stand next to her.

  “Do come up and tell me about Lady Rockhill’s ball,” their mother encouraged as she turned toward her bedchambers, the lavender lace of her peignoir floating behind her.

  Sighing, Francie mounted the steps. The last thing she desired at this moment was a trying interview with Mama. She had meant to open Mary’s eyes tonight, but instead her own had suddenly seen the true state of affairs. Even after three long years Sir Thomas Spencer had not lessened his ability to wound her. More than anything she had wanted to fall into his arms, and now she sought desperately to forget him.

  In her ivory-and-gilt boudoir, Mrs. Hampton reposed upon a backless chaise longue, the lacy hem of her peignoir spilling to the floor. Her arms were thrown out at the sides and her lids had dropped heavily over her eyes, as if the exertion of greeting her daughters had completely undone her. But as they took their places upon a pair of shabbily elegant straight-backed chairs, the lids came up and a glinting green gaze was directed at them.

  “As it’s nearing three, I do not doubt you enjoyed yourselves.” It was more of a question than a statement, and she waited for them to answer.

  They did so together. “Yes, Mama.”

  Mary went on to tell her mother the ball had been a monstrous crush, a mark of Lady Rockhill’s success.

  When Francie neither agreed nor disagreed, her mother turned a disconcertingly shrewd eye on her, causing her to drop her gaze to the worn carpet before she could give away anything of what she was thinking.

  A short silence descended until Mary nervously inquired how Mama had e
njoyed the Duchess of Oakwood’s card-party.

  “Her Grace exhibited an extreme want of manners by winning every hand,” Mrs. Hampton replied with rather more vigor than was her wont.

  “Oh, Mama, did you go aground?” Francie burst out.

  Her mother once again relaxed against the frayed cushions of her chaise, chiding her placidly, “I hope you are not instructing your charges in the use of such vulgarities.”

  “Of course not,” Francie assured her.

  “I was forced to pledge my bracelet—” Mrs. Hampton began.

  “Oh, Mama!” Francie interposed in a voice full of reproach.

  “—but of course, once our Little Mary is wed, I shall recover it from the Duchess.” Beatrice Hampton spoke without the least appearance of contrition.

  “How can you?” Francie jumped to her feet, no longer able to sit, and paced back and forth in the room. “How can you even consider letting Sir Thomas redeem your gambling losses? Is Mary to be sold for a bracelet?”

  “Please sit down, Frances,” her mother ordered in an unusually sharp voice. “The sight of your disordered flitting is altogether wearying. You have neither the right nor the least cause to judge your sister so harshly.”

  Francie shot a quick look at Mary, who had shrunk into the meager protection of her chair, her blue eyes dark in a colorless face. Casting herself back against her own chair, Francie opened her mouth to renew her protest, but was outmaneuvered by her mother, who closed her eyes and bid Mary to tell her, if she pleased, about the ball.

  As Mary rattled on, describing the decorations and the fashions, the dances and the supper, Francie was left to seethe in silence. Her head now felt rather as if a hunting party were galloping through it, and she longed for her bed, where she intended to put out of her mind all thought of Mary’s betrothal, Mama’s losses and, most of all, Sir Thomas’s perfidious charm. She was about to address her mother, then retire, when Mrs. Hampton’s eyes flew open and fixed themselves on her elder daughter.