Lady Belling's Secret (4 page)

“All right?”

She nodded, and he began to move inside her. Grasping at the counterpane and then his forearms, she’d never expected lovemaking to be this intense. But then again, never in a million years could her naïve younger self ever have conjured the true, stunning beauty of an entirely naked Thomas, either.

Closing her eyes, Frankie focused on the sensations running riot over her. The feel of his large hands holding her hips, the rapturous rhythm as he glided out then in again, a bit more forcefully each time. He brought her to that magical edge, and she raised her hips in chorus with his, straining to get there.

“Look at me,” he commanded.

The intensity of his gaze did it, and she flew off the precipice. Thomas followed her with a deep-throated roar and, seconds later, collapsed against her chest, his face buried in her neck. Her fingers tangled in his hair, and she kissed his brow. They lay like that, catching their breaths, for what felt like an eternity of bliss to Frankie. Eventually he shifted his weight to the side and levered himself from atop her. The fallen curtain was fairly cozy when he spread it over them in a makeshift blanket.

He kissed her ear, her neck, her exposed shoulder. “I couldn’t have ever dared dream of such a homecoming, my dearest Francesca,” he said with closed eyes and a sleepy voice. His heavy arm hugged her tight to his chest, and one leg lay possessively over hers.

Frankie wasn’t sorry, and she’d never regret what had happened here today. Knowing her past, some might consider what machinations had come into play, but she understood that sometimes fate played the cruelest hand. The only thing crueler than bringing Thomas home to her now was that at last, after all these years, he was interested in her.

Actually, the cruelest fate of all was that now she knew she would love him forever. There was no hope for it. She cuddled up against him and closed her eyes to luxuriate in the moment.

And, as she fell asleep, she didn’t think about her fiancé even once.

Chapter Four

When Thomas sleepily reached across the warm cover to pull Francesca back to his embrace, she was gone. There was no sleeping beauty, soft and pliant from lovemaking, asleep in his bed. He sat up, and the curtain serving as a blanket fell to his lap.

“Francesca,” he called out, because that was how he’d come to think of her now. Francesca. Frankie was a girl’s name, a childish nickname. “Francesca?”

Nothing. Silence.

He stood up from the mattress and the curtain fell completely away, leaving him nude to pad across the expanse of the room. He opened the door to the adjoining Countess’s suite and, for good measure, called out her name again. She was indeed gone. Her clothes, which had littered his floor, were also conspicuously absent.

His trousers were discovered crumpled underneath a heap of ugly drapery, and he tugged them on over his bare ass. The sun coming in from the windows had a decided slant, telling him he’d slept most of the day away. Amazing. He hadn’t slept more than a couple of hours at a time since he’d learned of the accident.

When had she left? He should have escorted her home.
That was very badly done, Tom.
He’d wait until dinner and go over to the house when he could be fairly certain everyone would be there. He was even more excited about seeing his second family after today’s events than he’d been when he first arrived back in London. He’d wanted to take a hansom directly from the dock to see them all but there had been so much to do, so many details to take care of. Still, he’d only been back in town a day.

Crazy, but after today, this whole new life felt a little less overwhelming.

He’d had a bit of a plan, actually more of a malformed idea, to enact upon his return to London and society. Of course, when he’d left in such a hurry, he stupidly assumed he would come back a war hero, celebrated and feted around town. He’d live the bachelor life for several more decades. Beyond that, he’d never considered. He’d been so young and so stupid - stupid and impetuous - and had had no idea what he’d pledged himself to when he had run off to war.

These days he had no desire whatsoever to swan about town, having glasses raised to so-called honorable deeds. He had long since abandoned those ridiculous ideas well before his entire family was obliterated in that carriage accident. And wasn’t that absurd? How many times had he cursed his father and wished him dead? Or his brother for his disloyalty? Or his mother for her coldhearted worthlessness? How many times had he resolved to despise them all forever? But still, the carriage accident had been horrific, and he was sorry that he’d ever wanted for anything so awful.

Now that he was the Earl of Harrington, he’d come home knowing he’d be inundated with responsibilities.

He arrived at the front door of the Morewether townhouse only to find the family not at home.

“To the theater, my lord,” their butler told him. “’Tis very good to see you though.”

“I feel very good to be seen.” Thomas cast a glance around the front hall. It felt exactly the same, like home.

“We were all sorry to hear about the earl and the rest.” The man ducked his head, in deference to the dead, Thomas supposed.

“Yes, well, thank you.”

Thomas had to smile when the butler laid his hand on his shoulder. “We all think you’ll do fine, though. You were always a good lad.”

“Thank you for the vote of confidence,” he said. “Please tell the duchess I was by. I wouldn’t want her to think she wasn’t a priority.”

“Most assuredly, my lord.”

Thomas had ridden over to the house instead of taking a carriage. He had been naive to think the family wouldn’t have had any plans for an evening during the season. Five years away and he was completely out of step.

Now that his evening plans had fallen through, he didn’t know what to do with himself. He no longer knew where the card games were played, he didn’t feel like going to the club and certainly not to one of the bawdy houses. He had absolutely no plans to renew old female acquaintances.

It looked like another evening sorting through the mounds of mind-numbing papers in his father’s old study.

Capital.

When Masters delivered a note at half past seven the next morning, Thomas was still up from the night before, the deeds and legal documents and such long abandoned on the massive desk. Instead, signs that the furniture had been rearranged gave his man pause.

“My lord, you have footmen to do this for you.” Masters balanced the missive on a silver salver as he surveyed the changed room.

“I couldn’t asleep anyway,” Thomas said by way of explanation. He pointed to three long bundles of rolled-up Persians. “Have them exchange these rugs for others from around the house. I rather fancy the one in the morning room.”

“Of course. First thing.”

The note was written in a woman’s hand. “Meet me in the park at the Serpentine Bridge—half past 9.” It was signed with an elaborate letter F.

It had niggled at his mind that Francesca had snuck away the day before, and she hadn’t even been at home for him to discuss it with her. Had she been shy afterwards? Embarrassed? He supposed it was foolish to be giddy about seeing her again, but he couldn’t wipe off the grin plastered all over his face.

He’d have to hurry if he was going to make his
tête-à-tête
on time.

Francesca arrived at the bridge early. She was nervous and fretful and sincerely feared that she might cast up her breakfast in the bushes. There was no one in the park at this hour, and certainly not at the location she had chosen. All the nannies and children were off in the meadows, gossiping and playing. She had even managed to sneak out of the house without her maid in tow. This was a conversation she didn’t want any witnesses for.

She rubbed her stomach and scoped out the bushes anew, but she wrenched herself away and paced back to the bank of the pond. Maybe she should have brought Anna with her. She could really use some moral support. She snorted. Moral support, bah. She had no business thinking that phrase. Oh, she could just kill herself for getting into the position where she had to have this conversation.

She whirled around to start her stride back towards the hateful bushes, and there he was, some twenty yards away. He was breathtakingly beautiful. Then he smiled at her in a way that made her heart literally ache.

Thomas’s expression melted when Francesca turned on her heel and fled towards the bushes. Her discomfort was somewhat relieved when she reemerged, holding a handkerchief to her mouth.

“My darling?” Thomas strode towards her, his hand extended to take hers in his own. “Are you all right?”

Francesca pushed her free hand in front of her, the palm out to halt his advance. “Yes.”

“Are you sure? You look pale.”

“No, I’m not sure,” she said just above a whisper. Thomas took another step in her direction, but he stopped when she retreated from him.

“How did you get here?”

Francesca pointed to a carriage a bit farther down the path. It was close, but still out of hearing distance.

“Why did you sneak away? I was disappointed to find you gone.” His smile was so charming and his handsome face so dear to her, it made her tremble knowing what she must tell him. She didn’t immediately answer, but he didn’t seem to notice. “I’m going to see Christian this afternoon.” Thomas’s face was lit up with excitement. Francesca wished she could feel even one whit of the joy that shone on his face.

“Why?” she gasped, fearing his answer and suspecting she already knew why.

“After yesterday? You know why.” Thomas took another step towards her, both hands out, as if eager to touch her. She held up her hand and, when she made an abrupt yelping sound, he stopped. His brows knit together in consternation. “What’s wrong? I don’t understand you.”

Francesca smile was brittle, and she was very near hysterics. “I’m so sorry about yesterday. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“We weren’t thinking, Francesca. We were feeling. It was spontaneous. Don’t tell me it didn’t feel good to you too because I know better.”

“That’s not what I mean.” Her voice was small and shaking with emotions that she was struggling desperately to keep under control.

“I know things didn’t happen in the acceptable way,” Thomas explained. “But I came back to London to get everything in order. I need a wife. It makes perfect sense that it is you.”

Francesca moaned into her square of linen and swayed slightly. Thomas took the opportunity to step forward and take her by the arm, steadying her with his large hands. Even in this state of near panic, she felt the heat from his fingers through her pelisse and blouse, and her traitorous breasts began to ache at the sensory memory of his hands on her before.

“Everything will be fine.” His tone was soothing, his breath warm on her cheek. “We will wed, and no one will ever know about the order of things, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“No.” She bit back a sob.

“No what, my dearest?”

“No, we will not wed. We cannot.”

“Yes, we will.”

“I’m already engaged,” she blurted. “I’m so sorry. You have no idea how sorry I am. Last night was a terrible, terrible mistake, and I’d do anything to take it back.”

He backed away from her, one step, then another. The way he was looking at her caused her physical pain. Francesca put her hands to her face. She wanted to let loose and sob, but now was not the time or the place. She had to stay strong and do the right thing.

“I thought you knew.” Her voice cracked, and she breathed deeply to pull herself back together.

“No. How would I have known?”

“Mother wrote you all the time,” she explained.

Thomas shook his head with vehemence. “I most certainly did not know. What kind of gentleman would I be if I knowingly made love to another man’s fiancée?”

“Oh please,” Francesca protested. “You did it all the time.”

“Not with you. Never with you.” He stared at her like she’d accused him of a war crime before his face grew hard again. “You can’t marry someone else.”

“But I am. I have to. It’s all arranged.” Oh, if she could just turn back time.

“When?” His voice was hard, the timbre low and brutal.

“Two weeks.”
If only it weren’t true
.

“Who?” Again, just the one word, curt and sharp.

“Does it matter?”

“Hell yes, it bloody well matters,” he roared. His temper was better than being drowned in the guilt his affection brought. She should be punished.

“Henry Cavendish, Marquess of Dalton. He’s a good man, one I like and respect. You’ll like him, too.” She tried to smile but was certain it came out more as a grimace.

“How much will he like me when he finds out I’ve stolen his bride’s virginity?” He was pacing now, back and forth, like a wild animal.

“He’ll never know, Thomas. No one will ever know.” Francesca would well make sure of it. This information would go to their graves.

“You’re going to have to break it off with him.” He stopped his stride right in front of her, his face not six inches from hers. Gone was the normal merriment in his eyes, his ever present grin.

She shook her head. “I can’t. It’s all arranged. The contracts have been signed.” He didn’t break eye contact, so she stumbled on, “I’ve given my word and the word of my family.”

“Your family will understand.” His tone was sharp and commanding.

“No they won’t, and neither will society. Thomas, we, us, none of us can afford another scandal.”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass about a scandal, Francesca,” he yelled at her from the top of the path he’d been pacing.

“Shhhhh.” Francesca looked around to ensure that they had not accumulated an audience. She lowered her hands in a quieting gesture. “You may not care about a scandal since you don’t have anyone left to scandalize but yourself. I, however, have a family who, as you know, will be devastated by a scandal. Think what it will do to Mama.”

Thomas’s eyes narrowed. “The duchess wasn’t even involved in the last scandal. I think you all have over-exaggerated that in your minds. It happened almost twenty years ago.”