Lady Belling's Secret (12 page)

All the while, Francesca knew exactly where Thomas was. She could feel his eyes on her every second. The effect was so powerful that it was almost as if he physically touched her. It mattered not whom she was dancing with or with whom she was talking, she could feel his gaze caressing her. From time to time, their paths crossed, and Thomas would surreptitiously stroke her arm or whisper in her ear in passing. She’d never felt so aware of her body, the warmth of her skin, a tingle in her breasts. Her whole being hummed.

Despite her stern words to herself, she found it next to impossible to avoid touching him either. Her palms twitched to stroke his hair and her mouth hungered to kiss him. By the time of their waltz, Francesca was so anxious she felt like a taut guitar string, and Thomas appeared so wound up and aroused that he would be quite willing to fight heaven and earth if it impeded his progress towards her.

She stood in a small group of three young ladies, all of them giggling as she related her tale yet again. The plan had been successful. As far as she could tell, not one negative comment had been made to smudge her reputation.

Francesca knew he was making his way across the room to her in the same manner she had known where he was all evening. The tiny hairs on her neck rose as he drew up behind her. No one else seemed to sense the instant tension that rippled around the two of them in waves, but to Francesca it was as thick as London fog making it difficult to take a full breath.

Thomas took possession of her hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm. “My lady, I do believe that this is our dance.”

“Yes, my lord. The last waltz of the evening.” Forcing her lips into a smile, she nodded at her friends and allowed him to turn her towards the dance floor. “All night I have felt like you were stalking me,” she whispered.

“Hmmm,” he murmured in her ear, causing her breath to actually hitch. He continued in a low voice only she could hear. “And if I was? Stalking you, that is. What do you suppose that would mean?” His gloved hand rested on top of hers, the heavy weight warming her hand.

“I imagine like any wild animal, if you catch me, I will be eaten,” she replied. His hands were huge, and she knew exactly what they felt like on her wet, soapy body.

His smile was completely feline. “Devoured, more likely.”

“Oh, I see.” She tugged her hand free from his arm and turned to face him on the dance floor as the first strains of the music started. “I shall have to be fleet of foot to avoid that fate.”

Thomas placed his hand on her waist and led her into the dance, staring at her intently as they came to the first turn. Pulling her closer than propriety allowed, he growled, the sound a low, feral rumble deep in his throat. “You don’t have a chance of escape, my pretty little bird. I’m going to catch you and I intend to feast upon you. Now that the pressure is off, all I want is to have you alone. Alone and naked in my bed. Or alone and naked in an alcove. Really, just alone and naked anywhere.”

His voice rumbled in her ear, and his breath tickled her neck. The familiar awareness fluttered in her belly. As much as she knew it was wrong and so very stupid, she leaned into him.

“So running would be out of the question then?” Francesca struggled to sound calmer than she felt. The warmth of his hands heated her skin even through his gloves and all the layers of her dress, corset and chemise. Her back must have a permanent imprint of his hand where it seared her flesh, yet she longed to be free of her clothes so that he could place his hands on her more intimately. She didn’t even know if she wanted to resist him anymore, much less if she could. Oh, to have the power to choose what she wanted instead of what was expected of her.

“Actually, running would just prolong the game, my love. But you might find that playing games can be a great deal of fun.”

“This game that we’re playing now isn’t as much fun as it is dangerous.” Francesca wrenched her eyes from his gaze and looked about the room. Even though no one could hear their whispered conversation, she felt as though all eyes were scrutinizing her, even now.

“If you’re looking for your fiancé, he’s in the cardroom.”

“I wasn’t,” she lied.

Thomas snorted in disbelief.

“All right, I was,” she conceded. “He is my fiancé, after all.”

An uncomfortable silence settled on them. They danced without speaking for several rotations of the floor, all the while Francesca could feel frustration coming off Thomas in waves.

“Do you remember that this isn’t our first waltz?” He spun her into the turn. “I believe it was the summer you turned thirteen. Remember?”

Warmth effused her as the memory flooded back. He’d snuck up on her tucked under a potted plant on the balcony as she’d spied on her parents’ country ball. She couldn’t help but smile. “I do remember. As I recall, Mother had insisted that you and Christian come home for the house party to balance out the number of males and females and that neither of you were happy about it.”

Thomas chuckled. “That weekend happened to be quite a pivotal one for me.”

She wanted no more information about
that
from him. She remembered all too well the number of appallingly forward women swarming him and her brother. Still, that summer party was pivotal for her as well. “You have no idea how much what you did affected me. I was completely lost from that time forward.”

“How so?”

“How could I not be? You told a too-tall, too-skinny girl with unfashionable red hair and freckles who was hopelessly in love with you that she was pretty.”

Thomas’s thumb rubbed a circle in the small of her back. “You
were
pretty, even back then.”

“I was horselike.”

Thomas snorted.

“With orange hair,” she added.

“Your hair is magnificent now.”

Francesca wished she was strong enough that his compliments didn’t affect her, but she doubted that would ever be so. “You said it would be.”

“Do you remember how we waltzed?” he asked, his voice low and intimate.

She suppressed a shudder. Of course she remembered—he in his dress blacks and her in her nightgown. He’d bowed to her and kissed her hand and twirled her about the hall. Everything about that night had been magical. By the end of the evening, Thomas could do no wrong and her adoration of him culminated in that awful scene in the park three years later.

“Do you remember?” he prompted.

“Yes,” she admitted on a sigh.

“Waltz with me every night.”

Francesca closed her eyes for a moment and let him lead her through the dance. She’d always been an optimistic girl, hopeful and excited, and all she’d ever wanted was exactly what he was offering now. She’d gone through two seasons and turned down countless marriage offers in the delusional hope that Thomas would come home and see her for the woman she’d become. Until finally,
finally
, she’d given up—or grew up. It didn’t matter. Now the selfish man had come home and she was taken. In what universe was this fair?

Actually, it infuriated her. The more she thought about it, the angrier she got. “I sincerely doubt my husband would like that very much.”

Anger? Jealousy? She wasn’t sure what emotion settled on his face, but the familiar laugh lines etched themselves into harsh angles, transforming his usual beauty into something wholly unfamiliar. “Are you angry at me? Why are you angry at me? Dalton is my fiancé.”

“We’ll see.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” She watched him with wary eyes.

“It means that you’re mine.”

“There is nothing to be done,” she said with finality, then added, “What are you planning?”

He ignored the question. “You love me.”

“I loved you when I was sixteen. You left—and rightly so, I imagine, considering. Still, things have changed. I’ve grown up.” Her whispered voice was harsh with indignation.

Thomas responded with a raised eyebrow. “That fact hasn’t changed. You love me.” He barreled on even as her jaw set and her eyes shrunk to slits. “I want you and I’ll have you.”

“You arrogant…bastard. How dare you?” Had he always been this arrogant?

They entered another tight turn. The dance floor was absurdly crowded, and Thomas pulled her flush against his chest. His growing erection pressed against her belly. She hated herself for her completely visceral response, the rising heat and twinges that she didn’t want to stop until Thomas brought her to a glorious climax. How could she love him and still hate him at the same time?

“Absurdly, I find that I can’t sleep without you, Francesca. I couldn’t last night and I’m sure it will be the same tonight. I’ll lie in my dark room and try to figure out your perfume. I’ll remember the feel of your skin and the silkiness of your hair.”

“Please stop, Thomas,” she whispered in agony.

“I’ll come to you tonight. Leave the downstairs parlor window open.”

“No.”

“No? No?” His voice dropped an octave.

Tears welled in her eyes, and she tried vainly to blink them away. One didn’t have an emotional breakdown while waltzing. “This can’t continue…” And then she couldn’t continue.

Mercifully the waltz ended and she broke away from him, refusing the offer of his arm. Even as the last strains of music drifted away, Francesca made a desperate attempt to keep her pace a stately walk and not break into a run. She needed to get away and she didn’t want him to follow her, even though she could feel him several steps behind her. She blindly made her way through the crowd to where her mother was seated.

****

Thomas let her go. It was against his best interests to make a scene, but it was hell to let another evening get away from him. Her wedding date marched ever closer, and he certainly hadn’t improved his suit tonight. Bad form, indeed.

He ground his teeth in frustration. While flirting with her in the hopes of arousing her to distraction, he’d unfortunately caused the same symptoms in himself. As much as his baser male self urged him on, even pointing the direction in order to be more helpful, to go to her that night as he’d suggested, wouldn’t further his cause. It was to be another night in bed alone. Mary and Jesus, he hoped he wouldn’t spend it dreaming up fresh erotic tortures again.

A quick glance about the ballroom and his gaze connected with Dalton. Thomas’s rival stood in the doorway to the cardroom. He saw a brief flash of anger that was immediately transformed back into the perfect social mask of indifference. Thomas didn’t bother to wonder how much the man had seen of his conversation with Francesca, nor did he concern himself with what the man may have concluded by the drama that played out before him.

Thomas popped off a cheeky salute and grinned broadly at Dalton. Then he strode from the ballroom and home to his own private misery.

Chapter Ten

Thomas pulled up his phaeton in front of the Bellings’ townhouse and tossed the reins to a groom. He had very deliberately chosen a vehicle that only seated two. He needed to get Francesca out of the house so he could speak plainly. She had to be made to see reason. He’d never lived his life by the leave of the
ton
, and he had no intention of starting now. Behaving himself was starting to wear very thin and his temper was beginning to show.

Additionally, he was feeling out of sorts because, once again, he’d gotten very little if any sleep just like the previous two nights. It was as he’d feared. Any time he drifted off, he was awakened by the same erotic dreams as before with only slight variations. The new distressing addition had Francesca running away from him and laughing.

It was extremely unsettling how attached he was getting to her in such a short time. The end result was obvious, at least to him. The obstacles could be surmounted. He had to make her see the possibilities.

He took a moment to wipe the grimace from his face and exchange it for the familiar easy grin he was so well known for. He took a deep breath before he raised the heavy brass knocker. The butler let him in the door and showed him to the parlor where his grin steeled itself into something hard. Francesca sat on the sofa surrounded by flowers, and leaning against the piano in a disgustingly casual fashion was Lord Dalton.

Blast that man. Thomas clenched his hands into fists. The chance of getting her alone now was slim to none. He felt like snarling. In fact, he may have snarled a bit before he caught himself and slid his friendly mask back into place.

He nodded at Lord Dalton in greeting before turning his attention to his lover. She was the very vision of loveliness this afternoon in a gown a soft shade of green that made her complexion glow and yet somehow intensified the green in her eyes. She was the epitome of
tonnish
propriety. So it wasn’t her dress that made her look so… He wasn’t sure what it was exactly. Sultry? No, that wasn’t quite right. Not the dress, it was her hair. Wound up in a complicated knot, many long curls defied the pins meant to hold them in place and coiled about her face and neck, making her appear charmingly mussed. The slightly disheveled appearance was precisely how she looked after she’d been properly kissed.

“I was just agreeing with Lord Dalton that I believe last evening was a triumph.” Francesca smiled at him, and his groin tightened in response. Then she gave the same smile to Dalton, and lust turned to thoughts of murder.

Francesca took note of the darkening of Thomas’s expression.

“I did dance with every single woman at that ball, so I certainly hope so,” Thomas remarked.

He sat himself in a delicate cherry wood chair that didn’t look as though it would be strong enough to hold him. Especially the way he lounged in it insolently with his impossibly long legs stretched out before him. She just wanted to get up and smack him. The man was so irritating.

“Yes, I did notice that you danced with every woman, even my fiancée.”

Dalton’s voice was not the usual friendly, even tone she was used to and a sense of dread crept over her. Thomas looked Dalton in the eye, cocked his brow inquisitively, and smiled in the most condescending way.

“I told Lord Dalton the waltz didn’t signify, as we are practically brother and sister, we’ve known each other so long.” She heard the lie in her own voice and hated it.