Lady Belling's Secret (20 page)

“No!” Francesca pushed against his wall of chest, effectively breaking the contact.

“What?” Thomas’s eyes were still heated and languid with passion.

“What?” She stepped away from his body. There wasn’t much room to retreat in the small alcove, and she could still feel the heat of him. His hands were reaching for her again. She already knew that thinking wasn’t possible when he touched her. “You know good and well
what
.”

“Are you still mad at me?” he teased, his voice husky and low. “Didn’t you get my flowers?”

“Yes, I got the daisies. Very charming, but they don’t fix anything.”

Thomas captured one of her hands and brought it to his lips. Her desperate tug was futile. Thomas kissed the palm and the pads of each finger.

“I thought of you all day,” he told her between kissing fingertips. His tender lips caressed her wrist and nibbled up her forearm.

Francesca knew she needed to speak up—now—before it was too late. Again.

“I didn’t think of you. Not even once,” she lied.

Damn it if Thomas didn’t chuckle. “You’re lying to me, Francesca. I know you thought about me all day. I loved you too much and too well last night for you to be able to ignore me. You remembered me and our night with each lovely twinge of sore muscle.”

Francesca huffed out a breath of frustration. She hadn’t even needed the physical proof: slight razor burn on her breast and one thigh, besides the pleasantly sore muscles. It rankled that he guessed that about her.

Thomas’s lips reached her elbow and lavished the sensitive skin with attention.

“Thomas, this must stop.”

“As you wish.”

And he did stop kissing her arm only to shift his attention to her collarbone and the wide, almost too-deep expanse of skin exposed by her low bodice. Her hands lifted to his head, intending to pull him away from his ministrations, to force him to pay attention to her words. Instead, her fingers wove into his silky hair, and her hold was more cradling and tender than that of self-preservation.

“Thomas,” she begged, her voice not quite a moan, but dreadfully close to it. “Please stop and listen…oh…”

Just like so many times before, his hands and mouth were on her, and all sense flew from her head. The man made her stupid and unbelievably reckless.

“I love to listen to you, Francesca.” He slipped down into her bodice, and his fingers did wicked things in there. “You make the most beautiful sounds when I make love to you.” His words were soft and hypnotizing whispered in her ear. His breath tickled her neck and drew her even further into his embrace.

“We’re going to get caught.”

“Not if you make your sweet noises only loud enough for my ears.”

Despite herself, another soft moan escaped her lips as his hands and mouth moved her bodice from her rounded shoulders, exposing the lace of her chemise and most of her breasts. Thomas maneuvered the last few steps to the velvet settee and positioned her on his lap.

“We’re going to get caught,” she repeated, but her hands held tight to him, clutching his shoulders, his neck, his beautiful face.

“Would that be so bad?” He sounded breathless and needy.

“Yes.” She endeavored to be convincing, but Thomas didn’t stop.

“Maybe it would be the best thing.”

“I have to marry Lord Dalton. Christian is very adamant about… Oh my.”

Thomas lifted his head from her exposed breasts. “No more talking. No more thinking. Christian can go to hell.”

Her mouth opened to respond, the protest firmly formed in her mind, a clear and concise argument, but then he kissed her and the thought was gone. Gone with her resolve. Her last coherent
oh no
hung in the back of her mind, ignored. Layers of clothes peeled away and his hot, urgent mouth was on her skin, her breasts. All she knew was that Thomas made her feel everything a woman getting married should feel, except he was the wrong man.

And she didn’t care. At least not right this minute. Being well-behaved was seriously overrated.

“I want you,” he groaned into her hair. “Now.”

Francesca didn’t agree but she didn’t protest either.

She wasn’t sure if it was the rustle of the material or a draft of air on her exposed and passion-moistened skin, but she was aware the minute the curtain opened that they had an audience.

Chapter Nineteen

“At the risk of sounding like a heartbroken fool, I feel I must insist that you unhand my fiancée.” Dalton’s voice was hard and didn’t sound at all like the gentlemanly tone he normally used around her.

Thomas rose to his feet and held tight to Francesca’s waist until she was steady before releasing his hold. She ducked behind him and yanked up her dress. Guilt flooded over her in a nasty wave followed by a wretched flush of shame.

“Dalton.” She swallowed hard and tried again. “Dalton, I’m so sorry.”

It made it so much worse that he wouldn’t look at her. His angry stare trained on Thomas with intense malice.

“Harrington, you will step away from her.” Lord Dalton’s voice was as stony as his countenance. “Unhand her. You’ve done enough.”

“This ought to give you some indication where her feelings lie, don’t you think?” Thomas fairly spit the words out, they were said with such venom.

With that provocation, Dalton strode fully into the room, fist cocked back and ready to fly. Thomas took a step forward, his fist rising to match his opponent.

“Wait!” Francesca bodily shoved herself between the two men. With her arms wide, one hand on each man’s chest, she very firmly shouted, “No!”

Both men stopped advancing, but their arms stayed ready to fly.

“Gentlemen,” she implored. “This is not the time or the place for this discussion.” Francesca looked first from Thomas and then to Dalton, then back to Thomas. “Please, Thomas. Let’s not make this worse than it already is.”

“Francesca, collect your mother. We’re leaving.” Dalton’s gaze never wavered from Thomas.

“She’s not going anywhere.” Thomas stretched out his arm to keep her from moving around him.

“All right,” she began in a soothing tone that she might use while dealing with stray dogs since a wild animal quality had taken over the tiny room. “Since I came to the theater with Dalton, I will leave with him.”

Thomas’s only response was to glare at Dalton, and Dalton answered in kind.

“Please, Dalton, please can we just leave?” She placed both hands on Dalton’s shoulders and bodily turned him around. In the process he lowered his fist and taking a cue from her, stalked back through the curtain.

Francesca watched the green velvet curtain sway from Dalton’s vigorous exit. She turned back to Thomas, preparing to say she didn’t know what to the man she loved, the man who was bound and determined to ruin her life, but the words were driven out of her mind when she saw how betrayed he seemed.

“You’re leaving with him?” He sounded incredulous.

“I came with him,” she reminded him. “He’s still my fiancé—I hope. Dear God, I hope.”

“I don’t give a bloody damn if you came with him or not. We’ve been caught, Francesca. This farce is over.” This was a whole new Thomas—even to him. He had never felt this intensity for anyone or anything before. The whole thing was rather novel, and not necessarily in a good way.

“My life is not a farce.” Then she gasped as if a realization had hit her. “Oh my God. Did you mean for this to happen?” Francesca threw her hand in a wide gesture, encompassing the room, the curtain, the settee, everything. “You meant for us to get caught.”

“I didn’t do it intentionally,” he insisted.

Francesca took another step towards him but still out of arm’s reach. She stared at him with an intense, direct gaze. “Tell me why I should stay?” she asked quietly.

Thomas immediately sensed it was a life-altering question important question, that the right answer was imperative. This was a pivotal moment. Of course, he panicked.

“Because I said so.” As soon as he said it he knew it was wrong. Wrong, wrong, very, very wrong.

“Pardon me?” Her tone was cold as ice. “I’m not a child. I’ve had a father whom I loved dearly and now I have a brother who tries to run my life. I certainly don’t need to take orders from you.”

Thomas started backpedaling. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Pray tell, what, exactly did you mean?” Her hands were on her hips now. This was definitely not an improvement as far as Thomas could see.

“I meant…” Thomas forged on. He was getting angry now, too. This was ridiculous, and he didn’t like feeling out of control. “You can’t go because you’re mine.” Why wasn’t that as patently obvious to her as it was to him? Why was this even a discussion?

“Really? What a charming concept.” The sarcasm fairly dripped from her words. “How exactly do you figure that, my lord?”

“Oh hell, we’re back to ‘my lord’ again?”

“Well, if I’m your property, I should be addressing you correctly. Don’t you think, my lord?” she spit out, with particular emphasis on the honorific. She looked furious, absolutely livid.

He moved towards her, hands out in supplication, intent on taking her into his arms. If he could just kiss her again, she could be brought back around. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

Francesca put up her index finder in warning, stopping him in his tracks.

“That’s the problem, Thomas. I don’t know it.” She was adamant and clearly close to tears. “I don’t think I even know you. A scandal was the one thing I was terrified of. You did this on purpose.” She turned on her heel and walked past the curtain.

Thomas threw himself back on the settee. “Damn it, Damn it, Damn it!”

****

It had been an intensely quiet and tension-filled ride home. Anna and the duchess sat on one side of the carriage and Dalton and Francesca on the other. There had been early attempts to make small talk by the two confused ladies, but their comments fell on deaf ears, and after a few minutes they just shrugged at each other and sat quietly looking out the windows.

Because Dalton was a gentleman to his very core, he alit from the carriage the minute the footman opened the door and handed all three ladies down personally. He also walked them to the front door, graciously accepted their gratitude for the invitation to the theater, bowed over each of their hands, and calmly strode back to his carriage and saluted them out the window as the carriage drove away.

Then, finally, when he was alone, he let his fury loose. Setting free an impressive string of curses, he punched the seat next to him. The overstuffed velvet was completely unsatisfying. It didn’t even leave a dent in the upholstery. Unlike a certain face he’d like to get his hands on. He lifted the seat opposite him and extracted a bottle of excellent Scotch whiskey and a glass. He poured himself a good stiff belt then rapped on the carriage roof and directed the coachman to an address in Mayfair.

By the time the coach stopped in front of the massive house, Dalton had downed three more hearty swigs of the outstanding liquor and was feeling even more outraged and ready for some satisfaction. He banged on the knocker, and the door promptly opened to a stern-looking butler and two smallish bears.

Bears?

“I’m here to see Harrington.” He tried to stride right across the threshold but was effectively stopped in his tracks by the butler. The bears, surprisingly, didn’t seem to be much of a problem. With stately elegance, the butler pushed the bears behind him with one black-clad leg.

Although he was shorter than Dalton, the butler still managed to look down his nose at him. “Lord Harrington is not in.”

“Well, then, where the hell is he?” Dalton demanded, actually getting two steps into the doorway.

“I’m afraid I am not at liberty to say, my lord,” the butler answered, not allowing Dalton any farther into the house. He turned to address the huge, black animals behind him. “You will SIT.” Nothing happened to indicate the animals understood.

“Fine, then. I’ll wait for him here.” Dalton’s arms crossed over his chest, and swayed with drunken, righteous indignation. He was just inebriated enough for this to seem like a good idea. “Why do you have bears in the foyer?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know how long his lordship will be.” The servant completely ignored the bear question, which potentially held even more interest, depending on the answer. Instead he took Dalton’s arm above the elbow and attempted to turn him towards the door and back out again.

Fortunately, that maneuver wasn’t as successful as the other man had hoped. Dalton yanked his arm from the butler’s surprisingly strong grip and marched down the hall to find a sitting room to wait in, hopefully one with a nice fire and a full bottle of spirits and no alarmingly large woodland animals.

“Sir.” Masters followed, hollering after the intruder. “Sir, don’t make me call a footman.”

“Go ahead,” Dalton taunted, throwing open a door and finding the library. “I dare you.” The bears tagged along behind, their tongues lolling out of their mouths.

“Does he have a firearm on his person?”

Dalton spun around, looking for the owner of the disembodied voice.

“Not that he is clearly brandishing, my lord.”

“Then a footman won’t be necessary. Thank you.”

Dalton followed the sound of the voice and found Harrington rising from a huge leather chair in front of the fire.

“I’ll take things from here, Masters. If you’ll just see to another bottle of brandy brought up from the cellar.”

“And the lads, my lord? What shall I do with them?” With a great deal of disdain, the butler indicated the bears that had flopped down on the rug in front of the fire.

“I’m sure you have a few ideas, Masters, but I think it will be best that they stay where I can keep an eye on them.”

Masters nodded ascent and closed the doors, but not before giving a completely disapproving look to Dalton.

Dalton couldn’t believe how calm and collected Harrington was. Damn it, how infuriating. He should just go over there and punch him right in the face.

“I’m glad you came by,” said his nemesis.

Before Harrington could continue, Dalton crossed the room and attempted a roundhouse punch aimed at Harrington’s head. Unfortunately, his intoxicated state did not lend to an especially accurate aim. Thomas easily ducked the blow and fired one back, a solid hit to his midsection which doubled him over, gasping for breath.