by Laura Martin
Despite the desire that still raged through his body, he knew he’d made the right decision. Ben was under no illusion that in a couple of weeks they would have to go their separate ways and he didn’t want to jeopardise any of that time by causing Francesca to feel rushed into a physical relationship. In a week or two things would be different and they would be ready to enjoy each other’s company in every way possible. But today he’d seen the apprehension in her eyes, the nerves. When they tumbled into bed together there would be no uncertainty, no doubt in her mind that it was the right thing.
Closing his eyes, he saw the image of her sitting up in bed, clothed only in a simple cotton chemise. That would certainly haunt his dreams in the weeks to come. Of course he shouldn’t have looked. He should have been a gentleman and turned away. But it had been hard enough walking out through the door—he wasn’t going to torture himself over one look.
‘I should go,’ Francesca said, slipping out of his rooms and passing him quickly.
Instinctively he reached out and caught her by the arm, feeling her stiffen under his touch.
‘Where are you going, Frannie?’ he asked.
For a moment he thought she might flee without answering him.
‘I just thought...’
‘Come back inside and drink your tea,’ he said, gripping her hand in his and caressing the skin on her palm with his thumb. ‘We have a lot to talk about.’
‘Surely you can’t want me to stay after...’ She gestured in the direction of his rooms, her cheeks turning that delightful shade of pink again. She blushed at the slightest embarrassment and it was something he was finding rather attractive.
‘Come back inside,’ he said.
She hesitated.
‘You can even take your clothes off if it makes you more comfortable.’
He saw the flash of panic in her eyes before she realised he was joking. The old Frannie, the one he’d known all those years ago, would have come back with a witty quip of her own, but it seemed that years of socialising with the richest and most powerful people in the country had stolen her sense of humour.
‘Tea?’ Hetty asked, coming up the stairs with a tray and breaking the tension between them at just the right moment. Francesca exhaled, glanced at him and nodded once before turning and making her way back into his rooms. Trying not to notice the enticing sway of her hips, he followed her inside. It was going to be a long few weeks and he only had himself to blame.
Chapter Six
Francesca sipped her tea in silence, feeling her own awkwardness overshadow the entire situation. Ben had been gentle as he’d turned her down and ejected her from her bed, but it had still been a rejection and it was still embarrassing to think she’d offered herself to this man and he’d said no.
‘Shall I pour?’ she asked, grasping for something normal to focus on.
‘Go ahead.’
Out of the corner of her eye she saw him sit back, stretching his legs out in front of him and placing his arms behind his head. He looked like a cat stretching out by a warm fire and she felt a pang of nostalgia. This was how he’d always sat, even as a child. She could remember him flopping down into a fireside chair and relaxing completely.
‘How do you take your tea?’ she asked.
‘Just a little milk,’ he said, reaching out for one of the biscuits the maid had placed on the tray beside the teapot.
Once the tea was made she handed over the cup, trying to ignore the rush of heat she felt as his fingers brushed against hers. She doubted Ben even noticed, he seemed calm and unperturbed, watching her from under his long eyelashes.
‘What exactly did you have in mind?’ she asked when it became apparent that Ben wasn’t about to start a conversation. ‘When you proposed we spend time together?’
He shrugged, reaching for another biscuit. They did look good. Francesca resisted—she might have been able to get away with a biscuit with her tea when she was a young debutante, but now she was a little older she had to watch what she ate to maintain her figure. She eyed Ben and tried not to snort. He didn’t seem to be plagued by the realities of ageing. In fact, she’d wager he looked better today than he had a decade ago. Some men had all the luck.
‘What do you normally do with gentlemen of your acquaintance?’ he asked. ‘Apart from testing out their beds, of course.’
She looked up sharply, but Ben was studiously admiring his cup of tea, just the hint of a smile on his lips. He’d always teased her when they were children. It was one of the things she’d liked best about him. Most of the other local children were too cautious to make friends with the daughter of the nobility and, if they did happen to run into her, they were polite but not really friendly. Ben had been different, he’d always treated her like just another village child, teasing her or challenging her as he would anyone else.
‘I don’t socialise with gentlemen,’ she said. ‘I’m a widow, certain standards are expected.’
‘From whom?’
‘From my family, society, everyone really.’
‘From your husband-to-be?’
‘Lord Huntley?’ she asked. ‘Nothing has been confirmed yet.’ There was the slimmest chance that she might escape that horrible fate, although she wasn’t overly hopeful. ‘But, yes, he does expect me to behave in a particular way.’
‘And if you didn’t, the wedding would be off?’
She nodded.
‘Are you tempted to be a little scandalous?’ he asked.
Once or twice the thought had crossed her mind. It would be easy to engineer a situation to look like she’d been caught in a compromising position. Lord Huntley wouldn’t tolerate too much in the way of public disgrace and she would be free from the proposed marriage. Oh, it would be wonderful not to have to worry about what her married life would be like with the ageing, pompous, overbearing man, but she knew that the alternative was worse. Without Lord Huntley’s money her family would be completely ruined. They would lose their house and her sister, her beautiful, sweet little sister, would lose the dowry Lord Huntley had promised to provide. So she had to accept her fate and try to make the best of it.
‘If only...’ she said. ‘But no. Once I’m out of mourning I expect everything will be arranged.’
They fell silent for a moment, but despite everything that had happened between them it wasn’t an awkward silence.
‘What did you mean when you proposed I give you eight days for the eight years of your sentence?’ she asked, looking at him directly for the first time since he’d convinced her to return to his rooms.
For a long moment he looked at her, his eyes so intense she felt a shiver despite the roaring fire only a few feet away.
‘Honestly?’ he said. ‘I’ve no idea.’
She wondered if he felt it, too, the irresistible pull between them—and, looking into his eyes, she was almost certain he did.
‘You don’t have to go through with it if you don’t want to,’ he said. ‘You have enough in your life making you unhappy—the last thing I want to do is add to that.’
‘No. I want to do it.’ And she realised she did. She wanted to get to know the man she hadn’t been able to forget all the eighteen years he’d been away. ‘But perhaps we can postpone our first rendezvous until tonight,’ she suggested.
‘Am I going to come back from dinner to find you in my bed again?’ he asked.
‘No.’ She held his gaze this time.
‘Shame,’ he murmured, but she knew he only said it to provoke her.
Quickly she stood, bade him farewell and moved towards the door. Before she could open it Ben had darted across the room, placing his hand on the doorknob and opening the door for her. Momentarily she wondered how he’d gone from convict to gentleman, where he’d learned to blend in with the cream of society so well, but now wasn’t the time to ask.
‘Until ton
ight,’ he said and Francesca felt his eyes follow her down the stairs until she was out of sight.
* * *
‘Do you know what you’re doing?’ George Fitzgerald asked as he lounged back in one of Ben’s chairs, warming his feet by the fire. It was still icy out and the month of February was looking to be no warmer than the January. Ben had vague memories of the cold of an English winter, but after so many years spent in the milder conditions in Australia it had come as a bit of a shock. It was true that the climate in New South Wales wasn’t constant sunshine, but the winter temperatures didn’t dip to anywhere near this low.
‘Probably not,’ Ben admitted, trying for the third time to tie his cravat. It was a delicate item of clothing and something he had not had cause to wear until their arrival in London a month ago. However, Francesca had sent a note instructing him to dress in evening wear so here he was.
‘You’re playing a dangerous game.’ Fitzgerald said. ‘She’s basically betrothed. In a few weeks, you’ll have to give her up.’
‘This was never going to be a long-term situation.’
Fitzgerald snorted. ‘I saw the way you looked at her, Crawford, you’re besotted. And I’ve never seen you besotted before.’
Shrugging, he concentrated on the cravat, avoiding Fitzgerald’s eye in the mirror. Besotted was putting it too strongly. He admired Francesca, desired her, thought about her from the moment he woke up until the moment he went to bed, but he wasn’t besotted. It would be wonderful to spend a month or two with Francesca, but he would leave her behind at the end of it. She would marry Lord Huntley and he would return to Australia.
‘Be careful,’ Fitzgerald said.
‘I will.’
‘When are you going to see your father?’ Fitzgerald asked, changing the subject as if sensing Ben didn’t want to talk about his complicated acquaintance with Francesca.
‘He’s in Yorkshire for another two weeks, I’ll go back and see him when he gets home.’
His father had been estate manager to Francesca’s father, Viscount Pottersdown, at the time Ben had been accused of theft. He’d lost his job and his status as well as his son, but the man was resilient and talented. It wasn’t long before he’d found another position with the Earl of Harwich, initially as an assistant to the Earl’s steward, but then slowly taking on more and more responsibility. He now oversaw all the Earl’s estates, hence why he was up in Yorkshire at the moment.
Ben was both excited and dreading seeing his family again in equal measure. It had been so long, with only the irregular correspondence that reached Australia to link them, and he wondered if the years and their different experiences would have put too much emotional distance between them.
‘Will your brothers be home?’
Ben nodded. He had two younger brothers, both of whom had been little more than infants the last time he’d seen them. They now were men in their early twenties, full grown with lives of their own. They worked for his father, overseeing the Earl’s vast estate in Essex, and according to the information in his father’s letters both still lived in the same village they’d grown up in.
The only two members that would be missing were his mother, who had passed away when Ben was nine from a weak chest, and his elder sister. She’d been the oldest, the one he’d looked up to and wanted to emulate when they’d been children, but his father had informed him she’d passed away in childbirth a few years earlier.
‘It’ll be worth it,’ Fitzgerald said quietly. ‘Of course it will be hard, but it will be worth it.’
‘We’re all different people now,’ Ben said. ‘Who knows what it will be like?’
‘Different people, but still family.’ Fitzgerald rose, looking at the clock on the wall. ‘I’d better let you set off,’ he said. ‘Try not to break too many hearts tonight.’
‘It’s never my aim...’ Ben said with a grin, happy they’d moved on from more painful subjects.
‘Come for breakfast tomorrow,’ Fitzgerald said. ‘Aunt Tabitha is asking after you and Robertson is falling for the daughter of the man he hates most in the world. Not that he’ll admit it yet. He needs something to distract him.’
‘I’ll call at eight.’
‘Enjoy your evening.’
As Fitzgerald left, Ben spent a moment looking in the mirror. He looked almost unrecognisable, with the cravat and jacket on top of a pressed white shirt. It was very different to the clothes he wore while out on his farms. Although he employed hundreds of workers now he still got his hands dirty each and every day. To his mind that was the only way to run a successful business.
Trying not to think about the evening ahead, or the sense of anticipation he felt deep inside, he left his rooms. He would not give in to the more primal urges he felt every time he looked at her.
Chapter Seven
Peering out through the door of the carriage for the twentieth time, Francesca forced herself to remain calm. It was only Ben, and if he could get past her mortifying behaviour earlier that day then so could she.
As she saw his tall figure come sauntering down the steps she felt her pulse quicken and all the nerves she had been trying to suppress bubble to the surface.
‘Good evening, Lady Somersham,’ he said, giving a formal bow before hopping up into the carriage beside her. He looked smart and suave, every inch the gentleman even though Francesca knew he wasn’t.
‘We’re not going far—would you prefer to walk?’ she asked. The evening was cold but bright, and suddenly she realised she would prefer not to be cooped up in an enclosed space with Ben. She might do something foolish.
‘That sounds wonderful,’ he said, getting down from the carriage and holding out a gloved hand for her to take. She quickly instructed the driver where to wait for them before hesitantly placing her hand in the crook of Ben’s arm.
‘Where are we going?’ Ben asked as they began to walk along the pavement. Their pace was brisk to try to stave off some of the inevitable chill and, not for the first time, Francesca felt envious of men’s more practical clothing. Ben’s boots and thick coat over his evening wear would keep him considerably warmer than her pretty-but-thin coat and satin shoes.
‘To a dance. At the Assembly Rooms.’
She’d been unsure where to take Ben and had agonised over the decision for hours. Then she’d decided just to take him somewhere she enjoyed spending the evening.
‘Ah, the famous Almack’s,’ Ben said.
‘No, not quite,’ Francesca said quickly. She felt his eyes on her as he turned his head towards her in question. ‘I wasn’t granted a voucher this year,’ she mumbled, hoping he wouldn’t ask any more.
Glancing up, she saw him frown, ‘You’re going to have to explain,’ he said. ‘I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.’
Sighing, she swallowed the memory of her dented pride. ‘To gain entry to Almack’s each week you need a ticket. To get a ticket you need a voucher which proves you are on the approved list of people allowed in to Almack’s that Season.’
‘The approved list?’ Ben asked, his lips turning up into that smile that did strange things to her knees. ‘And who decides who gets approved?’
Francesca grimaced. ‘There is a group of Patronesses and they vet applicants, deciding who to grant vouchers to each year. I think the idea is that one might socialise at Almack’s knowing that everyone is your social equal.’
‘How dreadful,’ Ben murmured. ‘So why didn’t you get a ticket?’
It was a deeply personal question, but from Ben she’d begun to expect no less. He wasn’t constrained by the rules of good etiquette and just came out and asked what he wanted to know.
‘Any number of reasons,’ she said, trying to keep the disappointment she’d felt from her voice. ‘Father’s debts or drinking habits, our declining position as a family in society. It could be anything, really. Although I’ve always
suspected it’s because Lady Golding’s husband pursued me quite relentlessly when we were debutantes and she’s never quite forgiven me for making her feel second-best.’
‘Something as petty as that?’ Ben asked. ‘It sounds like you’re better off out of it.’
‘Mmm...’ she murmured non-committally. With her head she knew he was right. She shouldn’t want to socialise with such a shallow and cruel group of people, but the snub had hurt. Knowing that she’d been judged and found wanting by her peers, whatever the reason, had injured her probably more than it should.
Every Wednesday the cream of society was off dancing and socialising at Almack’s and she was excluded.
‘I suppose it’s hard to be pushed out,’ Ben said perceptively, ‘when it is something you’ve always been part of.’
She nodded. It was exactly that.
‘Plus I love to dance and that was one of the only places I could go without a chaperon and dance without having to worry about any scandal.’
‘So where are we going tonight?’ Ben asked.
‘When I found out I wasn’t going to be granted a voucher for Almack’s I looked around for other Assembly Rooms that held regular dances and I found DeFevrett’s. It’s not far from St James’s and they hold a dance every Wednesday just like Almack’s.’
It was an entirely different atmosphere as well as an entirely different clientele. Whereas Almack’s was filled with the titled and wealthy all dressed in their finest, DeFevrett’s catered to the upper-middle classes. At first Francesca had felt uncomfortable and out of place, but slowly she’d realised that with all her peers spending their night socialising at Almack’s there was no one to spot her attending the less well-to-do dance and had begun to enjoy herself. The first few weeks she’d persuaded Lucy Winthrow, an old friend who had once been a companion to Francesca’s grandmother, to come with her, to act as an unofficial chaperon and make the whole thing a little less scandalous if she did get found out. As the weeks went on Francesca’s confidence had grown and now she felt happy to attend just with Ben as her guest.