Miss Francie's Folly

by Fran Baker

  “I wish you would call me Arthur,” the viscount muttered.

  They did not speak again until they had stopped before her town house. As his lordship’s tiger held the horses still, they sat there a moment longer.

  “I must thank you for all your kindness, Arthur.” Francie used his given name for the first time. “Particularly as I know you were opposed to taking me there.”

  The viscount colored a bit, then awkwardly took her hand. “You don’t think . . . could you possibly reconsider my offer of marriage? M’father would settle a tidy sum upon us, you know.”

  At that, Francie blushed and bent her head. On sudden impulse, she brought her free hand up to touch his cheek. “You are so very kind. I do wish I could. But . . .”

  “But you cannot, eh?” Coombs said, striving vainly for a cheery note.

  “No.” Francie raised her head and placed her lips where her hand had just been. As his lordship went crimson red, she loosed her hand from his and climbed nimbly down from the carriage. She ran up the steps without a backward look, certain that if she did so, her tears of frustration would no longer be contained.

  To her utter surprise, Sir Thomas met her in the foyer. His voice sounded oddly unsteady as he asked, “May I have a word with you, Miss Hampton?”

  Nodding, she followed him into the formal sitting room. She stood, uncertain, in the center of the faded carpet, twisting the silk cord of her reticule in her hands and watching warily as the baronet wandered to the window. His hand played aimlessly with the edge of the pulled drape, but though the action was casual, his stance was not. The seams of his chestnut morning coat seemed stretched to their utmost limit over his set shoulders, and the tensed muscles encased in fawn pantaloons seemed almost ready to snap.

  Twisting her hands together, Francie opened her mouth to ask what he wanted when he spoke without turning.

  “I was standing here but ten minutes ago.”

  At first she did not understand, but slowly she realized he had had a full view of her return with Lord Coombs. Wondering wildly what construction he had put on what must have seen, she could think of nothing to say.

  “Oh,” was all she managed after a monstrous pause.

  He pivoted and faced her then. His heavy lids hid the expression in his eyes, and his features were immobile, unreadable. “I presume I am to wish you happy,” he said without inflection.

  Astounded, Francie could only stare at him in speechless surprise. She had been thinking how to lead him away from the truth of her expedition to the moneylender, but she had not thought of anything as incredible as this! Hot spots of color stained her cheeks as his went pale.

  “I see I am,” he said flatly. He came toward her while she floundered to correct his mistake, but he robbed her of the breath to speak as he continued, “I do wish you happy, Francie. It has not always seemed so in the past, I know, but I have ever wished you well. I only ask you to . . .” His voice faded as he went white about the mouth.

  “To what?” she whispered.

  “To be certain,” he said. “Coombs is a green coxcomb and—”

  “Lord Coombs is quite the kindest man of my acquaintance,” Francie interrupted in instant defense.

  His face went tight, but with a visible grip on his control, he said with quiet calm, “Yes. I’m sorry. I do not wish to quarrel with you again, Francie. I proffer you my . . . my sincere wishes for your future happiness.”

  Two strides had him at the door before Francie cried out, “Wait!”

  He halted, but did not look at her.

  She drew in a deep breath. “You—you are laboring under a misconception, Thomas.”

  He spun round at that, his vivid blue eyes piercing her with a question.

  “I am not marrying Coombs.” Not a muscle in him moved, so she struggled on. “He—he did honor me with an offer, but I—I couldn’t accept. Beyond the fact that he is so young, beyond that, well, I do not—not have the regard for him that a wife should hold for a husband.”

  Though, while speaking, she had looked nervously at everything but the baronet, she fixed a steady eye on him at that last. He did not flinch, as she thought he would, considering his own loveless match, but he completely disconcerted her by coming to stand directly before her. With a gentle hand, he untied the bow of her chip bonnet and drew the hat from her head.

  “I apologize for my premature congratulations. I shall know next time to wait until I read the notice in the Gazette.”

  His crooked smile knocked all her senses off balance. Once again he was relaxed and in control, and she wondered at the oddity of him. He set her bonnet on the cushion of the settee, then collected one of her hands and began slowly to draw off her glove.

  She pulled her trembling hand free from his warm grasp and twirled to sit down next to her hat. She dropped her reticule upon the settee and looked at nothing in particular. Hoping he could not see how her pulses were throbbing, she attempted a coquettish giggle. “Really, Sir Thomas, you are most perplexing.”

  He laughed in reply, then strolled over to lean against the mantel of the fireplace. Eyeing her as she removed her gloves and lay them neatly on the brim of her hat, he remarked, “So you do not love the puppy. And did not, I take it, feel you could come to care for him?”

  Confused by his gentle tone, his softened glance in her direction, Francie answered before she realized what she was saying. “I cannot give what has already been taken by another.”

  Her palm flew to cover her mouth as if to hold back any more incriminating words. Staring at him over her hand, she saw that all the rigidity had returned to his figure. His face was a replica of the bronze statue of a Roman soldier Papa had had in his library before selling it to pay for a night at Boodle’s.

  “Another? Are you saying you love someone else?” Sir Thomas demanded.

  “I—I . . .” she faltered.

  In one long step he had reached her, taken her hands, and yanked her to her feet. “Who is it?”

  Jerking her hands from his searing touch, Francie scowled at him. “Really! This is none of your business! You’ve no right to press me on such a matter!”

  A series of expressions flashed over his face—frustration, anger, longing, and finally a hint of optimism. “Come, Francie. I’m only seeking to help you if I can. As a friend, of course.”

  Striving to find an answer that would satisfy him, yet not reveal her hopeless love for him, Francie was disturbed by the tender stroking of his thumb over the center of her palm. Even her ready temper failed to rescue her, for she could not maintain an animosity she did not truly feel when was being so unbearably irresistible. Her distress was plain. Seeing it, Sir Thomas bent closer to her until she felt the warmth of his breath on her earlobe, smelled the starched cleanliness of his cravat.

  “Tell me,” he coaxed in a loving murmur. “Tell me who has won your heart.”

  Her knees turned to water and she felt herself weaken. But, said a voice that would not be silenced within her, think how he will laugh when he learns of your undying love! Francie stiffened.

  “I cannot,” she mumbled into his too-near shoulder.

  “But of course you can, my sweet friend.”

  This time his lips grazed her earlobe, and an uncontrollable shiver coursed through her. Knowing how determined he could be, she forced herself to step back, look into his eyes, and state firmly, “I cannot, Sir Thomas, for if truth must be told, the gentleman in question does not return my regard.” She looked away. That, at least, was true enough. “He—he would have someone else.” Still true. She faced him again. “I do not wish to humiliate myself by exposing my—my unreturned affections.”

  What did she see flare in his eyes, turning them to blue fire? She could not determine if it was hope or resentment at not having his way. The baronet swept a hand over his eyes, hiding their secrets from her, then lowered it to gaze intently at her.

  “Let’s have done with these games, Francie,” he said in a weary voice. “I c
annot bear this hellish charade any longer.”

  “Games?” she echoed, not understanding his new mood.

  Gentleness fell from him; he captured her arm in a fierce grip before she could step away. “Yes, by God!”

  Confusion became mingled with fright in her eyes, but she lifted her chin, swallowed around the lump in her throat, and requested her instant release. In reply, the hand circling her arm tightened its hold, and Sir Thomas gave her a little shake that rattled her teeth. But Francie freed herself with a mighty wrench of her arm and snatched up her bonnet, bag and gloves, preparing to leave at once.

  “You say you do not wish to quarrel with me, sir, but that is all you ever do,” she said on a breathless sob. “But I am not in the mood for arguing. Pray find someone else on whom to vent your ill humor!”

  She took two quick steps, expecting him to stop her. When he did not, she halted, whirled round, and demanded with something very like despair, “Why must you confuse me so? One moment you are cruel, the next you are kind. I never know what it is you want from me.”

  “Forgive me, Francie,” he returned in a tone of soft intimacy.

  Ignoring him, she strode restlessly around the room. “How can you kiss me when you are to marry Mary? How can you marry at all when you do not care? Do you understand the meaning of marriage, Sir Thomas? I don’t think you even understand the meaning of friendship. Though you claim to be my friend, all you do is argue with me.”

  She stopped and fixed him with a reproving eye. Let him explain himself if he could. But her breath caught in her throat as she grasped the full measure of his gaze. Like an unclouded summer sky, his eyes shone a clear blue, brilliant with promise.

  “If you were not such a firebrand, dearest Francie, we should not argue so often,” he responded with a chuckle that seemed to reach out and touch her.

  “If that is your idea of either an apology or an explanation, then I am surely wasting my time here,” she retorted with a huff. Hat and gloves clutched tightly in one hand, reticule clenched in the other, she once again reached the door. “Good day, Sir Thomas.”

  This time he did stop her. “Stay a moment,” he bid in warm command. As she turned to face him, he went on, his voice low and melting. “I desire nothing less than to have further quarrels with you, Francie. Surely, you must see that I want something far different for us. You must realize that—”

  At that instant the door swept open, banging against Francie’s shoulder.

  “Frances! I did not hurt you, did I?” Miss Dill inquired anxiously as she peered around the door’s edge.

  “No, no. It was a mere bump, that is all,” she replied in a distracted voice.

  “Are you certain, dearest?” put in Mary, following on Miss Dill’s heels. “It would be dreadful to take a bruise and spoil the effect of your ball gown.”

  “Yes! Don’t fuss so!” Francie snapped in vexation. She longed to throw them bodily from the room and discover what Sir Thomas had been about to say. The ardent tone of his voice, the dark glow of his eyes, even the vibrancy of his stance, had all given a heavy significance to his words, and now she would never know what he had been about to say. Already, he had resumed his casual air of boredom, greeting Mary with a light kiss on her forehead.

  “You need not raise your voice to Miss Mary,” Agnes reproached with a frown. Her gaze darted from Francie to Sir Thomas, increasing Francie’s irritation with her.

  Incapable of maintaining social conversation after her double disappointments, Francie excused herself, assuring them all again that her shoulder was unhurt. She sought the solitude of her own chambers, feeling more muddled than ever. She had been nearly undone by Sir Thomas’s gentle tenderness. For a moment she had come much too close to blurting out her love to him, which she must never do. How he would laugh! How it would amuse him to learn that, after jilting him, she now ached to be in his arms.

  Chapter 12

  As was always the case, the exclusive temple of the beau monde shone with company wonderfully select. Here one’s rank and wealth did not automatically procure entrance, for only acceptance by its patronesses could guarantee admittance into the sacrosanct Almack’s.

  Miss Frances Hampton, however, was not feeling properly struck with gratitude to be among the chosen. Since coming to London it seemed she had been constantly in either a state of high dudgeon or a fit of the dismals. Tonight, seated with a glass of lemonade in one hand and her fan in the other, she watched the colorful whirl and twirl of dance after dance and suffered the doldrums. Her failure to gain the necessary funds from the odious Mr. Kemper weighed heavily upon her spirits.

  One brief moment of cheer had lifted her when, in the act of stifling a heavy sigh, she caught sight of Mr. Harvey entering the assembly rooms, in attendance upon Lady Rockhill. Francie had pressed her mother, seated beside her, into signaling to the rotund baroness and, as the newcomers came toward them, the Hampton ladies set aside their glasses of lemonade and rose. Since the last occasion of their meeting had been the night in Drury Lane, the gentleman eyed Francie warily as she presented him with the first real smile she had worn that day. Still cherishing hopes of matching him with Beth, Francie captured his black velvet sleeve with one gloved hand and summoned up a coy laugh.

  “What a pleasant surprise to be sure, Mr. Harvey. We have seen too little of you these past weeks.” She nudged her sister with an elbow and prompted, “Haven’t we missed seeing Mr. Harvey, Mary, dear?”

  The cornette of lace and pleated rose ribbon scarcely moved as Mary acknowledged Mr. Harvey with a tiny, stiff bend of her head. This was not at all promising, and Francie tried to cover her sister’s lack of warmth with a suffusion of her own.

  “But of course you will dance with us tonight! We shall take it very amiss should you forget us.” She ended with a deliberately coy giggle, then tapped his knuckles with her fan.

  “I should, of course, be sorry to disappoint you,” Mr. Harvey said in the tones of a man who has been granted a stay of execution, “but I am here to attend Lady Rockhill and must give my attention to my duty.”

  “Nonsense, dear boy!” interposed that pleasant-faced lady with a swish of tulle shawl over purple satin gown. “You think too much of work. Now that we are here, I insist that you enjoy yourself.”

  “But my lady—”

  “You are not to fret over me, Mr. Harvey. I shall do very well indeed, for Mrs. Hampton and I have just agreed to repair to the card room for a hand of piquet.” With a lightness of foot surprising for one of her figure, Lady Rockhill departed, with Beatrice Hampton strolling languidly behind.

  Francie seized her opportunity without a second’s hesitation. “There, you shall dance with us after all, Mr. Harvey. Nothing could be more perfect. Now, I insist that you lead out Mary—yes, dearest I insist,” she said as Mary raised a trembling hand in protest. “I shall have my dance with Mr. Harvey later.”

  As she spoke Francie thrust the two together then resumed her seat and followed their progress. She reflected that Mr. Perkins must surely be unable to resist Mary tonight, for she looked quite stunning in a white crepe gown festooned with wreaths of roses along the hem. If only he had money, Francie thought with frustration. She absently collected her glass of lemonade and permitted herself to give vent to a repressed sigh.

  The crowd stirred, a rustle of whispering voices rose, and all heads moved in one direction. Francie paused in the act of listlessly taking a sip of her drink and followed the general motion, turning to see a woman poised at the entrance as if caught and held still for one breathtaking instant. From the silver comb adorning the midnight curls vividly streaked with gray, to the deep blue sheath with the spangled gauze overdress ornamenting the delicately petite figure, she was superbly lovely. As she stood still as a statue, the new cynosure of Almack’s leisurely surveyed the rooms with a pair of dazzling blue eyes. Seconds later, she was at Francie’s side.

  “Dear Miss Hampton, how glad I am you have come! It’s been an age, chil
d.” Lady Catherine Spencer’s laughter sounded like chimes in the wind and never failed to captivate. Francie’s glass was plucked from her hand, given imperiously to the baronet standing beside his mother, and Francie was pulled without ceremony to her feet. “How lovely you are looking! You should not be hiding all this beauty in that outlandish school.”

  Despite her downcast mood, Francie answered the laugh with one of her own. “But never, Lady Spencer, as lovely as you. You remain the most ravishing woman in London, you know.”

  The sapphire eyes shimmered with self-amusement. “Now, how am I to respond to that, my dear? If I agree, then I am truly puffed up in my own conceit. But if I disagree, I am overly modest. But I don’t wish to speak of me at all. Where did you get this amazingly stunning dress? Do turn around for me.”

  With some reluctance, for the enchanting Lady Spencer had already drawn a circle of admirers about her, Francie obeyed her command. As she rotated, she felt all their stares upon her, palpably sizing, judging, and she was grateful that her mother had refused to let her wear her India muslin one more time. Declaring that it would be a disgrace to the Hampton name should Francie be seen in that dress yet again, Mama had ordered Madame Fresney to create something suitable whether the silly child wished for it or no. Madame Fresney had proven herself more than equal to the task.

  The very height of fashion, the gown was round, with short, slashed sleeves and a deeply cut neck that draped low over the shoulders and back. The deep green iridescent satin, which glistened and glimmered with Francie’s slightest motion, made it unique and particularly flattering to her. Its radiance reflected the crystal glow of her green eyes while enhancing the burnished copper of her coiled hair. When she ceased to spin around, Francie found herself facing the appreciative gaze of Sir Thomas. Momentarily disconcerted, she dropped her lashes and, though she refused to look up again, she remained vividly aware of his smallest gesture.

  She wondered how any gentleman could appear to supremely handsome in black satin breeches and king’s-blue velvet, then immediately took herself to task for caring a rap how he looked. But from the pearl buttons studding the front of his cream silk waistcoat to the clocks worked elaborately into the white silk of his stockings, she knew him to be the most handsome man in the room. And not the severest self-scold could stop her from acknowledging it in her heart.