Lady Belling's Secret (24 page)

Anna took Francesca’s hand with her own and patted it supportively. “As I’ve been saying all along, it will work out.”

“Are you terribly disappointed in me, Mama?”

“Frankie, I am not especially thrilled with your behavior, but it’s done now.” The duchess stood up, smoothed her skirts, and presented a brave smile. “There is nothing to do but wait. We don’t even know the extent of this scandal yet, but we must be prepared. Callers will be arriving soon, and we’ll find out exactly what the
ton
knows. The rest of it is up to Lord Dalton now. And then we will see what Thomas says.”

“If it comes to it, Thomas will marry her if I have to drive him all the way down the aisle with a rifle to his back,” Christian happily informed the room.

Francesca finally broke down and cried, and it was Christian who folded her in his arms and held her while she sobbed.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Francesca was going to vomit. She was absolutely sure of it, but she must sit and endure. Earlier she had thought to slip away. She’d trotted out the old headache excuse, but her mother had given her a look that nailed her to the spot on the chaise. Apparently, she would need to bleed out her eyeballs if she hoped to get out of this room. But she wanted out of more than this room. She wanted out of her skin, out of this life, just out.

Instead, she pasted on a smile and forced her hands to lie in her lap. She screamed silently, all the while making polite conversation and giving every pretense of a young woman without a care in the world. This was what she hated about men—at least the men in her life. It was infuriating that they had all the control.

Everything was her own fault. She wasn’t blaming Thomas. It’s not like the man was magical or something. She could have told him no at any time. But she hadn’t. She hadn’t said no—not like she meant it—that first morning, or when he bathed her, or when he crawled in her window at night. Everything Christian said was true. Everything she’d tried so hard to avoid: the
ton’s
gossip and censure, the looming scandal, all of it was coming down on their heads and it was completely her fault.

If Dalton refused to marry her, her brother would try to make her marry Thomas. The irony of it was, just two weeks ago, she would have been over-the-moon excited about that possibility. Now, well, now the world, her world, had changed. It had flipped on its axis, and she didn’t know what to expect anymore. The one thing she was sure of, absolutely, positively sure, was that she couldn’t bear a loveless marriage with Thomas. It was a crushing admission to make. She had always loved him, but now the girlish crush from her childhood was nothing compared to what her heart beat with now, and a lifetime of loving him like that without reciprocation would surely kill her. She would have been better off having never experienced passion with him. Francesca heartily wished Thomas had never come home, or at least waited until after she was married.

Francesca eyed the crowd in her parlor. There were no less than ten women in her house who did not live there. The parlor had been as busy as a pond in summer with all of society’s ladies fishing for a hint or clue as to what had happened. As her mother reminded her and Anna this morning before the first caller arrived, society didn’t need actual proof of anything scandalous. They would be more than happy to make up something if they weren’t satisfied.

“…part of the family,” her mother said, “and we’re all just so delighted that he’s come home.”

“Do you think he’ll take a wife this season, now that he’s Harrington?” This from Lady Hildebrandt. Francesca watched the woman’s pinched face as she looked to each of them for a response—either from the questions she said aloud or the unspoken ones.

“Who can know with him,” another lady put forth. “He’s always been a rake, and then running off to join the Navy like that after the public set down from his father.”

“What Harrington does remains to be seen,” her mother replied.

The conversations carried on in that vein for the entire afternoon. Every opportunity one of the ladies had to bring up either Thomas, Dalton or the opera, even out of the blue when they couldn’t figure out a way to slip it into the conversation, they took it. It was exhausting, but her mother and Anna kept the conversation light and away from bear traps and pitfalls.

Finally, the last of the frustrated society ladies walked out the front door with no more information to add to the gossip, and Francesca was excused to take a much-needed nap. She trudged up the stairs to her room. She was so tired she actually used her hand on the banister to pull herself upwards. She’d never felt so weary in her entire life. She wanted nothing more than to sleep to allow her mind to slip into oblivion.

It wasn’t to be. When she opened the door to her room, the first thing she saw was Thomas stretched out on her bed.

It was her gasp of surprise, and not of passion, which awoke him from a sensual dream.

“What are you doing here?” Francesca hissed, quickly shutting the door and turning the key.

“I missed you.” Thomas stretched and grinned. “Come here.”

“No.” She shook her head with vehemence. “Haven’t we caused enough problems? For God’s sake, I spent the entire morning being dressed down by my brother and the afternoon dodging bullets from London’s most influential ladies.”

He noted with no small interest how her arrival back in her rooms had revived his arousal. “Come on,” he cajoled. “Come sit with me. I have much to tell you.”

“Anything you have to tell me can be spoken of with me over here and you over there,” she told him warily.

“What if I told you I’ve fixed everything?” He imparted this news with triumph.

“What are you talking about? Please stop. This is something that can’t just be ‘fixed’.” She closed her eyes and shook her head. “I can’t keep on with this. They all know.”

“Who are ‘they’? The
ton
doesn’t know anything. Christian didn’t when he came to see me this morning.”

“He came to see you this morning?” Her eyes were big with astonishment and something else. Was it accusation?

“He did. He came to see if he could find out what happened last evening.” He ran his fingers through his hair and threw her his best rakish smile, hoping it would be an enticement to come closer.

“He came home acting like he knew everything.” Tears filled her eyes. “He did know enough that I had to tell him. I had to confess everything.”

Thomas sat back on the bed. He was furious with himself that he’d allowed Francesca to suffer that alone. “I’m so sorry. I should have been there.”

“If we start listing all the things we ‘should have’…”

“I don’t regret anything, Francesca.” He stood up from the bed and walked forward with every intention of embracing her, but she held both hands up to ward him off, and he halted. “Stop worrying. I’ve spoken with Dalton.”

Francesca looked confused. “When? After the disaster at the opera?”

“Yes. He came to my house and we talked.”

She looked at him skeptically. “You talked?”

“We did. I think I’ve convinced him to bow out.”

“Why? Why would he do such a thing? Especially after the terrible way I’ve treated him. He is everything that is good and honorable, and we are horrible, horrible people. I can’t even bear to think how humiliated he must have been. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to apologize enough.”

“You don’t need to apologize. He understands.”

“You can’t be serious. Simply because I can’t sufficiently apologize doesn’t mean that I shouldn’t try—if he’ll let me.”

“Listen to me,” he implored. She still wouldn’t let him anywhere near her. “It doesn’t matter anymore. Dalton really does understand.”

“Understand what?”

“He knows how much you love me. He doesn’t want a wife in love with another man.” He smiled reassuringly at her. “He knows that we’ve been together—that we belong together. He understands, and I am confident he will step aside.”

She wasn’t smiling. He was expecting excitement, not thunderclouds building over her head.

“I don’t understand,” she said quietly and with no small amount of ominous foreboding. “What exactly did you tell him?”

Thomas scrambled to collect his thoughts. When did this little slip of a girl turn into a woman who could scare the pants off him?
Don’t say the wrong thing. Don’t say the wrong thing.
“I told him you’ve loved me your whole life, and he guessed we have become intimate.”

Francesca nodded slowly while her eyes slimmed to angry slits.

“What have I said that’s wrong? I am forever at sea with you and always saying the wrong thing. I have told him nothing but the truth.”

“That is true,” she agreed, but her voice was anything but agreeable. “It appears you have omitted nothing.”

“That’s not it…it didn’t come out right,” he stammered. “Let me try again. I didn’t tell him exactly that we’d been intimate. It was sort of rather implied. I respect your good reputation too much to kiss and tell.”

“Really?” Her voice dropped several degrees to downright icy. “Now my reputation is important to you? How important was it to you the rest of this week?”

“Don’t start with that. Jesus, woman.” He threw his hands in the air. “I’ll never win with you. I’ve handed you an almost certain solution. Dalton will bow out, and I will marry you now. I don’t know what else you want from me.”

“Nothing, Thomas. I want nothing from you that you clearly cannot give. I hope Dalton can be persuaded to uphold the engagement. I will beg if necessary.” She wasn’t an angry ice queen anymore. Now she was just a resigned, deflated caricature of Francesca.

He conjured up the last bit of ammunition he had left. “What if you’re pregnant? There has been ample opportunity for a child to be conceived.” It was a dastardly thing to say, but the woman must be made to see reason.

Her hand fluttered at her side, but it didn’t come up all the way to her stomach. Still, he knew he’d scored a point.

“Let us just ponder the possibility”—he sallied on—“that you are pregnant, and that Dalton does choose to end the engagement, you will be left with no other option but to marry me.”

“Obviously, I have no pride left. If Dalton does refuse, I will remove myself to the country. I’ll know soon if I’m increasing, then I really will not have any choices left.” Francesca strode to the window across the room and lifted the sash. “For now though, please go. Don’t ever climb into my window again.”

Talking with Francesca was the most bloody frustrating experience. “You talk in circles. I give you everything you want. I’ve humiliated myself repeatedly for you. How many more times do I have to ask you to marry me?”

“Once would be nice.” Dear God, she was going to cry.

“I’ve asked and asked and asked.”

“No.” The tears were building in her eyes and threatened to fall any second. “You’ve informed. You’ve demanded. You’ve even threatened, but you’ve never asked.”

“If I do, will you say yes?”

“I don’t know.” Her voice wavered, and the tears began with one fat droplet down her cheek. Of course it wasn’t that easy. Nothing ever was with her.

“But you’re not saying no?”

Francesca closed her eyes and took a deep breath that seemed to calm her. “I’m not saying no, but honestly, I don’t know how it could ever work. I need more than you can give me.”

Now his masculine pride was at stake. His voice sounded bitter, even to his own ears. “Oh, and I suppose Dalton can give you that?”

“No. He can’t. But I never expected it from him. I never expected it from you either, until this week, but now I find that I don’t want you without it.” Her quiet dignity was killing him.

“This mysterious ‘thing’ of yours, if I figure it out and can give it to you, then the answer will be yes?”

She didn’t reply with words but she did make a small nod, and Thomas took that as an affirmative. He walked to the window where she stood, but when he passed her, he was unable to resist grabbing a hold of her and sealing their bargain with a passionate kiss before stepping out on the window ledge and dropping to the garden below.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Thomas wandered. Nowhere in particular; he just roamed the city. He generally found it best to move about when he had a problem to solve. He considered going home to get his great black stallion, Achilles, but decided against it. Somehow he felt that he might do better with this problem by walking instead of riding.

He paced the streets and went to the galleries and museums where he knew he wouldn’t be disturbed by gentlemen, either friend or foe. He simply wasn’t in the mood to be nice. Hell, he wasn’t even in the mood to be polite.

He must have walked for miles and didn’t progress in coming up with a solution, and that made him feel woefully inadequate. It was quite dark by the time he found himself at his own front steps, and he was foot weary and mentally exhausted. Thomas didn’t drink when he got home, although that had been his original intent. He recognized that particular activity hadn’t been helping so far. A clear head was needed in order to figure out exactly what was to be done to rectify the situation.

His butler met him at the door with the two boisterous puppies. In fact, he was almost bowled over by their exuberant jumping. Thomas smiled in spite of himself at their joyful greeting. The two pups woofed and galloped up and down the hall, and bounced against his legs as he made his way towards the library.

Masters followed him into the room, unceremoniously tossed one of the pups from the sofa, and without missing a beat, asked what he could do to make his employer more comfortable.

“Nothing, Masters,” Thomas assured him. “Off to sleep with you.”

With a blank expression, Master’s assured him that with the Hounds from Hell running about the house, none of the staff was asleep.

“I did notice the hall was remarkably bare of decoration.” Where usually the tabletops and pedestals were loaded with all those ugly priceless vases and statues, now there was nothing.

Again with a straight face, “The housekeeper and I decided that a good offense was the best defense, my lord.”