In his past years as one of London’s most sought-after additions to any high-profile ball, Phillip had never once grimaced across a ballroom, but now, watching Francesca dancing a quadrille with yet another besotted male, he couldn’t help it.
He should have known Francesca would be a skilled dancer. At the age of seven, she had scaled trees with ease. By twelve, she had bested him on horseback. She excelled at all things physical, including, he remembered vividly, kissing.
It was hard to romanticize a girl who had thrown up on him at age twelve after eating one too many sweetcakes. But when he’d kissed her the other day, she had felt different. Granted, he had seen little of her during her years of mourning, most of which he’d spent in London except for his discreet inquiries into the state of their household. Yet he had noticed her gradual progression to womanhood with each visit home and it hadn’t affected him in any manner until now.
Now, surprisingly, everything about Franny inflamed his blood. Affecting a casual, friendly air around her had become increasingly difficult.
He’d always known he would marry her. From that first day he’d found her in the broom closet he’d absolutely known it was his job, his charge, to protect her, and he intended to do so.
He just hadn’t expected it to be so damned annoying or difficult.
He waited impatiently for the quadrille to end so he could claim his waltz. He had already tried dancing with other partners this evening, but had proven incompetent. His gaze had consistently drifted across the ballroom as he barreled into unsuspecting victims. Once, when Franny had thrown her head back in an unabashed laugh, he’d stopped dancing altogether and stood as if rooted to the ground. It was safer to watch her from the wings. The jade green of her gown was easy to spot amongst the crowd, even if her mass of red hair hadn’t been a beacon in itself.
The last notes of the quadrille drifted through the air and he stalked towards her, muttering a brief acknowledgement to her partner before sweeping her into his arms. The sense of anxious unease that had plagued him through the night finally abated as he stared into those lovely green eyes. “You look beautiful.”
“Thank you.” She gave him a genuine smile and he was a little annoyed that her good mood seemed to stem from her night’s activities, which, thus far, had nothing to do with him. For the first time he felt a twinge of fear—that maybe he wouldn’t be the one to make her swoon. “You look dashing, too.”
He didn’t understand how she could be so petite and yet fit so perfectly in his arms. His hand spanned nearly the entire width of her waist. “Are you enjoying your first ball?”
“Immensely and much to Father’s disapproval.” She lowered her voice. “Can you see him glowering from the corner?”
“Allow me,” he said smoothly, maneuvering them with deftness until he caught sight of her father. “Ah yes, the infamous ducal glower. It must be a day that ends in y.”
She chuckled. “You haven’t commented on my dancing.”
“You dance very well.”
She beamed. “This is my first waltz.”
“I’m honored.” He was actually gratified to be her first waltz, as he knew he had been her first kiss. And she his, if one counted that sloppy effort so many years ago, which he was inclined to do. He felt gripped by the strange notion that he had always been her first everything and he wanted it to remain that way.
“I have found a candidate. Well, several, actually, but I have a definite frontrunner.”
Phillip blinked. “For what?”
“For swooning,” she said matter-of-factly.
Phillip stumbled but quickly put them back on step.
“Viscount Montcreif,” she continued as if the entire world hadn’t gone cold. “He loves the country and has agreed to teach me archery.”
“I can teach you archery.”
Francesca reared back as if she’d never considered the notion. “Oh, well, that’s not the point, is it?”
It damn well was. “If you say so.”
“Montcreif will be in attendance at tomorrow’s ball as well, and I’ve promised him a waltz. I want to make sure I’m performing it adequately.”
“More than adequately,” he bit off. “You’ve discussed much with him for such a short dance.”
“He was quite chatty,” she admitted. “Charming, actually.”
“Garrulous and verbose, then?”
“I wouldn’t say that.” She dipped her head to the side. “He was—”
“Never mind him.” He would not be the jealous ass the duke was. He absolutely would not. Which meant he absolutely had to find something else to talk about. “Are you enjoying your waltz?”
She grinned as she nodded, and his heart kicked strangely. As the last notes struck he asked, “Is the next space claimed on your card?”
“Yes, I’m promised to—”
He saw a dashing figure hoping to intercept them and pulled Franny through the open glass doors to the crowded garden terrace.
“Lady Francesca is faint from the waltz,” he explained to the concerned partner who followed them outside. “I’m afraid she’ll need to sit out the next dance.”
“Of course,” the gentleman said. “My best wishes, Lady Francesca.”
“Er, yes,” she said, puzzled.
Phillip waited for the annoyingly persistent gentleman to leave after she refused several offers for a drink. “Finally, we’re all alone.”
“Hardly,” she said, with a glance to the other members of the ton loitering on the terrace. “Is something amiss?”
“Nothing at all.” He tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and led her in a circular walk around the terrace.
“Are you under the misapprehension that I’m dizzy from the waltz?”
“No, merely from my presence,” he joked.
She sent him a scathing glare but her lips curled at the edges. He’d never noticed before how very full and pink her lips were.
He dipped his head closer. “Strawberries again,” he said.
A shiver ran through her and he almost stopped short. She always seemed to react with violent annoyance to his physical attentions, but he could have sworn she was now shivering with desire. Yes, her eyes had widened and her lips had parted slightly. Could Francesca, despite her protests, be attracted to him?
He had imagined marriage to Francesca many times over the years. He pictured morning walks through the fields, afternoon rides to the lake, and evening conversations by the fire. He pictured, essentially, the life they’d already lived together. And he’d be lying if he didn’t admit he had pictured her in his bed. It had always been rather pleasant but now, he wondered, would it be scorching?
A shudder ran through his body.
“You smell like something, too,” Franny said, breaking his reverie.
He leaned over and offered his neck. “Pray tell, what do I smell like?”
She inhaled and on her exhale, his stomach tightened with her hot breath against his skin. “You’re spicy and musky,” she said softly. She was so close he could almost feel her lips moving against him.
He stole the opportunity to pull her into a set of hedges that marked the entrance to a courtyard labyrinth.
Her eyes widened as he leaned in close. He noted the tremble that ran through her body. He knew exactly how to put an end to her swooning-over-Montfart-or-whatever-his-name-was nonsense.
He captured her lips and she accepted his mouth with a gasp. He had thought to seduce her slowly, but he immediately plunged his tongue into her mouth, groaning at the strawberry taste of her.
Suddenly, it wasn’t enough. His hands, set softly against her waist, longed to pull her against him but they couldn’t risk being caught despite their engagement. He’d spent his life protecting her from the duke’s fits of rage. But he couldn’t protect her from ton gossip.
He pulled away and took note of her heaving chest and glazed eyes. Yes, he thought with satisfaction, she wants me.
As he led a dazed Franny back towards the ballroom, he wondered what to do about it.
* * *
Francesca swallowed as she gazed down at the intricate tucks and draping pinned into place, the trim of Cluny lace, the fashionably new petal sleeves, all in gleaming white.
“A beautiful choice,” the countess said as she drew a soft hand along the satin sleeve of the wedding gown.
“I take full accountability and credit.” Chastity giggled, actually giggled as her eyes swept up and down Francesca’s frame. “Although…” She frowned as she lifted the hem of the dress and checked the seams. “Oh no, this won’t do.”
Chastity charged towards the front of the store past the heavy curtain.
“What do you suppose she saw that concerns her?” the countess asked, peering at the hem.
“Who knows?” Francesca was eager to take the dress off. Having it draped over her body, having the countess see it, was only making marriage to Philip more and more inevitable.
Worse yet, she found herself justifying the union. Telling herself that of course she should marry Phillip. After all, they were suited. Suited! As if that were how marriages should be decided.
“How did you know you wanted to marry the earl?” she asked suddenly.
The countess’s dark eyes widened in surprise and she took a step back, as if the question were a physical thing that had pushed her.
“My, I haven’t thought of that in a while.” The countess took a waiting seat and her fingers tapped her temple as she thought. “I believe our fathers were colleagues in Parliament, for one.”
“It was arranged, then.”
“Of course.”
Another marriage born of duty—and yet theirs seemed to work. Was it possible that a marriage that came of responsibility could actually be happy?
“What sparked your inquiry?” the countess asked.
“It came as a surprise to me. My engagement, I mean.”
“Did it?” The countess’s brow crinkled. “I’d always assumed…you and Phillip were so close.”
“As friends.”
“Yet the past week—”
“It was a surprise,” Francesca insisted as her cheeks burned with thoughts of the past week. That moment in the hedge when she’d sworn she would go up in flames and he’d pulled away—again, his sense of duty superseding all else, as it seemed it always would.
“An unpleasant one?”
“Oh no,” Francesca said. “Phillip is wonderful, of course. But I’d expected…a Season. An opportunity to fall in love.”
The countess wrung her gloved hands as she considered Francesca’s words. The countess had been her mother’s only friend and confidante. Surely she understood Francesca’s need to avoid the life her mother had.
“I suppose, my dear, I don’t understand. Why wouldn’t that opportunity to fall in love be with Phillip?”
Francesca stood gaping, her mouth opening and closing like that of a fish.
“Is…is that why you and Phillip have chosen not to announce?”
She was saved from having to answer as Chastity burst through the curtain a moment later. “Crisis averted,” she declared, her hands in the air. “They will fix the hems immediately. Come now. Climb out of that dress.”
The countess’s question plagued her as she was mobbed by a team of shopgirls to unpin and pull off the wedding gown.
* * *
“Why the frown?” Chastity asked.
Phillip dutifully turned his soon-to-be-wife’s best friend in his arms around the ballroom. She was pleasant enough company. He would have given his left leg for shares in her family’s shipping company which was notoriously closed to public investors. If he were smart, he would have used this opportunity to charm her, to convince her that he understood the potential of Drummond shipping. Alas, he had no patience for it. “Last I checked, you are not the lady whose dance card I actually signed for this particular waltz.”
“She wasn’t feeling well.”
“Wasn’t she?” Phillip glanced at the corner of the ballroom, where Francesca had been nursing the same glass of punch for the last hour while surrounded by Lady Chesterley and her court of powerful, matron friends. He counted himself fortunate that there wasn’t a gentleman in the bunch. He looked back at Chastity, perhaps the only person who could claim to know Francesca as well as he did. “How are wedding preparations?”
“Secretive.”
“Francesca seems happy?”
“Why, Phillip—I didn’t know you enjoyed fishing for sport.”
Phillip turned her a little more roughly than necessary.
“Dispensing with the pleasantries, then?” Chastity asked.
“I’m always pleasant,” Phillip said.
“Perhaps that is the problem.”
“You were rather I wasn’t so pleasant?”
“I have no preference for whatever nature you choose,” Chastity said. “As long as my Francesca—”
“My Francesca,” he corrected.
“Possessiveness is unbecoming in either sex,” Chastity said with a tired sigh.
“Fair point,” he mumbled, turning Chastity again so he could glance back at Francesca who, dammit, was now in conversation with Montcreif. That blackguard might have the soul of a poet but he had the boxing skills of a house plant, which Phillip wanted to put to the test, unbecoming or not.
“Is this a waltz or a ballet? I feel I’m en pirouette.”
“You were saying?” Phillip prodded, keeping her turning in a tight circle so he could keep his eye on Francesca.
“Apparently my assessment of your pleasantness was premature. At any rate, you’re known for being pleasant. For being nice. For being dutiful in all you do. Your business. Your friendships. Your affairs.”
He looked sharply at her.
“And your marriage,” she finished.
He turned the words about in his head. “Is that what this is about? Does Francesca believe I see her as a duty? That I’m being nice by marrying her?”
“What are you being?” Chastity asked pointedly. “In love?”
“Romantic literature will be the death of me.”
“Let it be your inspiration,” Chastity said.
Phillip stiffened as Montcreif teased Francesca onto the dance floor. Francesca was dancing in Montcreif’s arms. He was holding her close.
Yet he could have sworn that her manner, the tilt of her head, the curve of her lips—he’d seen that expression before. It was the expression she wore when she entertained her father’s dinner guests.
For all she may have thought of him being dutiful, she was the one being dutiful as she danced with Montcreif. She was the one being dutiful when she insisted on enjoying a Season—dutiful to an ideal she had for love. One born of novels and drivel.
He knew one thing for certain. She was not indifferent to him. Her reactions to him were not born of duty.
He had every intention of exploiting that.