Lady Belling's Secret (23 page)

Thomas remembered very clearly: her bodice pulled down, her breast exposed. His mouth had been on her. Thomas swallowed hard. He sank his head beneath the water. He could barely hear Christian’s ranting from under there.

When he came up for air the door to his suite slam open. Or shut. Either way there was slamming and Christian was gone.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Francesca couldn’t sleep. She also couldn’t stop crying. Both were equally distressing. She alternated between incensed fury and maudlin self-pity, with healthy doses of guilt and shame thrown in.

The only innocent party in this whole mess was Lord Dalton. How would she ever face the man again? Of course, she was assuming he would even allow such an event after last evening’s debacle. It was a true testament to his gentlemanly nature that he hadn’t denounced her in the middle of the grand mezzanine of the opera house. She certainly deserved it—that and much more.

When dawn finally arrived, the sun ridiculously cheerful and bright, Francesca greeted it from a hard, marble bench in the garden. The long day stretched before her was guaranteed to be awful.

The ride home in Dalton’s carriage had been the most agonizing of her life. Once home, she had gone directly to her room, and without speaking a single word to anyone, not even Anna, she shut and locked her bedroom door. She had wanted to be alone in her misery, to wallow pathetically in her own self-made stew.

Now it was morning. A new day. A day for repercussions. A fresh, shiny, beautiful day that was just perfect for ruining people’s lives.

She had precious little time left before her mother would come looking for her. She would be first to find her, Francesca was certain. Her mother, with her fiercely loyal and loving heart, might very well be the worst of what she’d have to face today. Was anything ever so terrible as a loving parent who was disappointed in her child? Christian would yell and scream and vow severe punishments. He would be fearsome and horrible, but her mother would not. She could already see the disappointment in her mother’s eyes.

Francesca wiped away yet another tear and cursed herself again.

Lord Dalton was the big unknown. He had every right to publically cry off at the theater the night before. She was still simply astounded that he had not done so at the time. She was certain that their engagement was over. He must feel so humiliated, and she would understand if he wanted to make her feel the same way.

So, like a true coward, Francesca continued to hide in the garden. Not a very adult thing to do from someone who professed, nay demanded, that she be treated as one by both her brother and her lover. Oh what a mess she’d made of everything now.

She could not hide forever. But she stayed on the bench until the sun had risen over the garden wall and the dew on the roses glistened in the morning light.

After all her internal preparations for dealing with her mother, it was Christian who she encountered first after all. He burst through the front door in typical Duke of Morewether fashion: the heavy, oak door banged open, the capes of his great coat flapped behind him, and his gaze was fierce with purpose. The man could definitely make an entrance.

Francesca stopped at the end of the long hallway. She squared her shoulders and inhaled deeply, preparing herself for the onslaught.

Christian glared at her while he peeled off his gloves, shoved them into this overturned hat, and pushed them all into the waiting hand of the butler, who caught Christian’s coat just before it hit the floor. “Into my study. Now,” he growled, and stalked off in the direction of his masculine domain.

Francesca sighed audibly but kept her posture straight and her spine stiff and tried to remember she feared him the least
.
Christian would be loud and lordly. He, however, would not be disappointed in her. He wouldn’t even consider disappointment as an option.

Francesca pushed the study door closed and stood in front of his imposing desk with as much dignity as she could muster. Her brother’s handsome face glowered back at her.

“Shall I ring for tea, or perhaps you’d prefer coffee?” she asked.

“This is not a bloody social call, Frankie,” Christian nearly roared. He sat in the dark-brown leather desk chair and assumed the stance of ultimate authority.

“I always wondered what this felt like for you,” she mused, “when father would call you in here to dress you down after one of your misdeeds.”

“Don’t try to change the subject. You directly disobeyed me.”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t fidget either. She simply stood in front of his desk, her hands clasped in front of her, her gaze meeting his.

“Do you deny it?”

“No, I do not, Christian. You asked me not to speak with Thomas.”

One large hand came up and smacked down on the desk, his heavy, gold signet ring banging loudly against the wood. “No, I expressly forbid it. Damn it, I told you not to see him or speak to him. I told you he wasn’t allowed to see the family anymore.”

Again, Francesca offered no defense on her own behalf.

“Well, I’ve heard everything. I already know it all,” her brother informed her.

“Forgive me for saying so, Christian, but I seriously doubt that.”

“I know that you saw him last night at the opera. That you had some sort of liaison with him in a bloody public alcove, and I know that your fiancé walked in on it.”

“All of that is true.” Francesca nodded.

“You’ve ruined everything. What do you have to say for yourself?” he demanded.

“I’m sorrier than I can say about hurting and humiliating Lord Dalton. I wanted that to be avoided more than anything.”

“What about this family, Frankie? You have ruined this family.”

Before she could respond to that, the study door clicked open and their mother strode in. “I sincerely doubt we’re all ruined, Christian. You’re a very dramatic man. You get that from your father’s side of the family.”

“Do you even have any idea of the magnitude of what she’s done, Mother?”

“No one has seen fit to tell me anything. I get to ride in carriages in prickly silence and walk around listening to sobbing from behind locked doors.” The duchess sat on a chaise and trained her gaze on Francesca. “Why don’t you start telling me now?”

“Tell your mother what you did,” Christian demanded. “Start from the beginning!”

The duchess sighed. “Christian, calm down. You’re going to give yourself apoplexy. Make yourself useful and ring for some tea, will you? I have a feeling we’ll be here a while.”

“I am Morewether,” he yelled, as if everyone in the room doubted his pedigree. “It is my duty to keep this family respectable, and I will not let our name be humiliated in this fashion. She has been allowed to run untethered for far too long. Father was much too liberal with her.”

“Hush,” the duchess scolded her son. “Your sister is not a horse, and I’m sure she’d appreciate if you dropped that metaphor immediately.”

“Before you go defending her too vigorously, let her tell you what she’s done.” Christian gestured to Francesca, who’d remained standing in front of the desk the entire time, to proceed.

Francesca paused for a second to push a stray lock of hair out of her face and tuck it back into her simple bun. “I don’t really know where to start,” she confessed.

“Start at the beginning. Hell, start at the end,” Christian shouted, and threw himself against the back of his chair. “I don’t care. Just start.”

The duchess gave Christian a withering glance which he completely ignored. “Start with last night, dear,” her mother suggested.

“Lord Dalton saw Thomas and I kissing,” During her long wait in the garden, Francesca had thought of a million ways to tell her mother, and when the moment actually came, she just blurted it out.

“Oh. Oh!” The duchess’ hand fluttered around her heart, her face a picture of shocked surprise that wasn’t entirely convincing. Had she already guessed? “Well…”

“Do you see? She has ruined us all,” Christian yelled. “You said, ‘Let her have her fun, what harm can come from it’. This is exactly what I feared.”

“That is not true. From the minute you became Morewether you’ve been unbearable,” Francesca announced. “Father never kept an iron thumb on me.”

“Because you were a girl when Father died, Frankie, you weren’t even out in society yet. How can you know what he would have done?” Christian bellowed, his face turning shockingly pink.

“The only reason you assume I’m running wild is because you’ve bedded everything on two legs for the past ten years.” It was a low thing to say, but it was true, and if he was going to assail her character, then she wanted a few shots in herself. She had a brief and fleeting thought that, again, this didn’t necessarily exemplify the new-and-improved adult Francesca she was desperately trying to achieve.

“I am Morewether,” he shouted at her, and rose from his chair to stand behind the desk. He was still behind the width of the solid wood, but he felt closer. And when he leaned over the desk with his balled fists as anchors in the middle, he felt very close indeed. Francesca refused to be cowed.

“So I’ve heard,” she responded dryly. “What does that have to do with anything? You are the duke, no one is suggesting otherwise. I am merely pointing out that you are a cad and therefore you know one when you see one.”

“What I do is none of your affair. You however, are a—”

“Shouting at each other isn’t going to solve this problem,” their mother interrupted. By now she’d risen from the chaise and stood to one side of the desk. “Christian, your sister has generally behaved with sensibility and decorum—up to this point, anyway.” She glanced at Francesca, who read her mother’s face expecting the dreaded look of disappointment, but there was a different expression from her mother, one so fleeting she wasn’t even sure she’d really seen it. Was it accomplishment? “I think you’d best tell me the whole story.”

“Yes, I’d like to hear that, too.” Christian sat himself down in his chair again, more the lordly duke of the manor and less a rabid brother.

Francesca looked from her brother to her mother. “I will tell you, in private, if that’s all right with you.”

Before their mother could answer, Christian spoke up. “It is not all right with me. I’d just as soon know exactly what I have to deal with here.”

Francesca sat down.
How mortifying.
Nevertheless, she told them. Not everything—some things we’re just between her and Thomas—but she related how she’d encountered him that day in the solicitor’s office and that they’d kissed. She broadly hinted at other activities, but she simply couldn’t bear to discuss that in front of her brother, Morewether or not.

“Are you still…? I mean to say, have you…?” The duchess cleared her throat and tried again. “Frankie, darling, have you and Thomas…”

Francesca gave the slightest hint of a nod.

“Oh dear.” Her mother sagged a little and then eased into the chair next to her.

“I’m going to kill him,” Christian informed them both with a great deal of vehemence. “This is exactly why I forbid you both from seeing each other. I knew he couldn’t be trusted around respectable women. And you… Clearly you no longer qualify as a respectable woman.”

Francesca gasped, and the duchess glared at her son. “Christian! That was uncalled for. Frankie deserves your respect as much now as ever. I realize that you take your ducal responsibilities very seriously, but your father would never have reacted this way.”

There was a light tap on the door, and Anna entered. Without saying a word, she came behind Francesca’s chair and laid a supportive hand on her shoulder.

“I imagine you know all about this?” Christian asked Anna and gestured at Francesca.

“I’ve been piecing it together,” Anna told him. “I cannot believe that all is lost. I am certain there is a way.”

“Has Lord Dalton cancelled the engagement then?” the duchess inquired of Christian.

“I have not heard from him yet this morning, and he was away from home all evening. He wasn’t at the club. So we sit here and wait for the other shoe to drop.”

“There is a chance he won’t want to cancel then,” the duchess sounded thoughtful.

“Oh, Mother,” Christian said in disbelief. “The odds of that aren’t good. Can you really imagine he would still want her after walking in on a scene like last night? You are all hopelessly naïve if you think he won’t demand release from the contracts.”

“I will marry Lord Dalton if he’ll still have me.” Francesca felt she should speak up and remind them all she was still in the room.

“Are you certain, Frankie?” Anna asked her.

“Of course I’m certain. It’s what I’ve been saying all along.” Francesca looked pointedly at her brother. “I know you think I’ve been running around willy-nilly trying my utmost to ruin this family, but that’s simply not true. What happened with Thomas is regrettable. No one knows that more than me. I’ve been sick about it, but it’s over now. I will speak with Lord Dalton when he calls, if he will speak with me.”

“And tell him what?” Christian was still clearly angry, but at least his face was back to a natural color. “Tell him you spoiled yourself with another man? That you might be carrying someone else’s child?”

“Christian!” The duchess jumped to her feet.

“It’s true, isn’t it, Frankie? You don’t know yet that you aren’t pregnant.” Christian raised his eyebrows at his sister, waiting to count the point against her.

Again, she gave an almost imperceptible nod. She had never been so humiliated. The experience was worse than she ever thought it would be, and she had assumed it was going to be awful. Her brother was only repeating everything she had castigated herself for over and over in her head—and how many times in the last several days had that been? A hundred? A thousand? It was so much more real coming out of her brother’s mouth.

“I know you’ll never believe I tried to avoid a scandal. I have thought of little else in the last week.” She hiccupped a little, and she forced down the sob threatening to rise up. “I’m truly sorry.”

“I’m certain you are sorry,” her mother told her, sitting back down in her chair. Then to her brother, “Once you stop thinking like Morewether, angry and righteous, and think like her brother, you will see she is telling you the truth. Unfortunately, Frankie, this may actually cause a scandal, but the family has weathered far worse before—and not so long ago. This family will not disown you or let you die horribly alone as has happened so shamefully before. Those are the things we should be ashamed of as a family—not this.”