While You Were Spying (Regency Spies Book 0) (21 page)

He put his hand on the back of the chair. “Sit down. Please,” he added.

Her eyes widened.
Please
? He was
asking
her? She imagined
please
was not a word the Marquess of Winterbourne had used very often in his lifetime. Well, if he wanted her to sit that badly, she supposed it was the least she could do.

She sat, and he looked relieved. But she had no intention of giving into him. She waited, but he didn’t speak. And when she raised her eyebrows expectantly he clenched his jaw.

“Just—” He turned away from her. “Just give me a moment.”

Her chair faced away from the fire, and he went to the hearth behind her. She heard him rummaging around and craned her neck around the chair back to see him opening the wicker basket.

Why did he insist on staying? Peter could see her back.

Roxbury’s familiar refrain floated through her mind.
Not very quick-witted, are you?
he’d taunt.
Sad, pathetic excuse for a woman
. She recoiled at the memory of what usually came next and fresh humiliation coursed through her. How could she have allowed Roxbury to humiliate her so?

Thank God no one knew how Roxbury had treated her. Even her father, who’d defended her break with Roxbury when her mother had begged, scolded, and cajoled her wayward daughter to change her mind, didn’t know.

Lord Brigham might have sensed that something wasn’t right between the couple, but there was virtually no possibility he could know the truth. Roxbury was too careful, both in his timing and his well-placed aim. Her father had had no concrete reason to support her decision to end the betrothal, and every reason not to, but he’d backed her anyway, and for that support she would be eternally grateful.

Winterbourne was still rummaging behind her, and the silence made her uncomfortable. “I’m sorry I behaved as I did earlier,” she said, feeling some explanation was called for. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“Hmm.”

He shifted something, and she peered back at him again.

“You were betrothed to Roxbury for some time before you broke it off?” he said.

Her heart stopped and then skipped ahead. “Why do you ask?”

“Just curious.” He didn’t look at her, so she couldn’t see the expression on his face. Knowing he could be relentless in his questioning, she was wary of the inquiry.

“Yes. We were betrothed for several months.”

“And you broke it off?” He continued to fumble in the basket, his face hidden from her. “How did your parents take it? Roxbury is an earl—a respected member of the House of Lords. He’s the type of man your father would need in order to further his own career in politics.”

Francesca wasn’t surprised at how quickly Winterbourne had grasped the situation. After all, he knew Society as well as she.

“Yes,” she answered. “Daddy was disappointed but accepted it. Roxbury isn’t wealthy. His estate is heavily mortgaged, and he’s made several bad investments.”

Financial affairs were no secret in the
ton
, and Francesca knew Winterbourne would fill in the rest. Roxbury needed the money his marriage to her would have provided. Not that she was an heiress. Her family wasn’t fabulously wealthy—certainly nowhere near as affluent as Winterbourne was reputed to be—but the Dashings had land and not all of her father’s blunt was tied to the estate. Her father’s careful management of Tanglewilde and his business acumen had increased the family fortunes.

“You ended the affair quietly.” His voice was soft, a caress behind her.

“We hadn’t yet announced it in
The Times
, so discretion was not an issue.”

“You mentioned your parents took the break well, but what about Roxbury?”

She snorted. “Roxbury was more put out by the loss of my dowry than by the loss of my affections.”

“I see.” His voice sounded tight. He stood, and to her surprise, he placed a cup of warm tea in her hands. Without a word, he dropped three lumps of sugar into it and handed her a spoon.

“What is this?” She sniffed the sweet, comforting aroma.

“Tea.” She heard him mutter. “Can’t find any milk in here, so you’ll have to make do without.”

“Don’t trouble yourself,” she answered out of habit. “I don’t take milk in my tea.”

“Right.”

She heard the amusement in his voice and peeked around the chair to watch him again. He squatted in front of the basket, shuffling through it and apparently looking for something. Why was he acting so strangely? Three minutes ago she’d been hysterical—crying and screaming at him to go. And now he served her tea? Didn’t he think her mad?

“Here it is,” he said. He placed another linen-wrapped item from the basket on the table in front of her. No trace of censure or disgust in his features, he took a step back and raised a smug eyebrow.

“There. If my sources are correct, that ought to make you feel better.”

“Sources? What sources?” Her gaze flicked from the linen to his face.

“I can’t answer that. It will ruin the surprise.” He gave every appearance of being extremely pleased with himself.

“Open it.”

With a confused smile, she put a tentative hand on the napkin and felt the warm, solid form beneath it. Feeling like a child at Christmas, she held her breath and unwrapped the package, slowly revealing the surprise underneath.

Gingerbread. Warm, fragrant gingerbread with just a sprinkle of cinnamon on top.

She stared at it, uncomprehending.

“I heard it was your favorite.”

She looked from the gingerbread to him. He still had the self-assured look. She tried to speak, to say something—ask him why or thank him.
Something
. Instead, she burst into tears.

“What the—” He knelt beside her instantly. “Very well. Forget the gingerbread.” Panic rose in his voice. “It was a mistake. No gingerbread.”

He reached out to slide the linen away from her, but she grasped his wrist. “No. I want the gingerbread,” she wailed, sounding exactly as she had when she’d been five and her mother had taken sweets away from her.

“The gingerbread stays then,” Ethan said quickly and cupped her hand in both of his. “You can have as much as you want. Chocolate tarts too. Just stop crying.”

She snuffled and laughed a little. As if she could control any of the emotions rushing through her right now. Through salty tears, she saw his eyes imploring her.

“Please,” he said. His plea, so out of character, set her off again. Lord, how could she have ever mistaken him for Roxbury?

He rose and paced the room, crossing it with three long strides then back again. He muttered to himself, something about doing everything wrong.

“No, you’re not,” she finally managed to squeeze out between sobs. “You’re doing everything right, and I just don’t understand why you’re being so
nice
to me!”

He stopped in mid-stride and stared at her. “Why I’m being so nice to you?” He frowned, took another step or two, obviously trying to make sense of her comment. “Well, I suppose I don’t have a reputation for being nice.”

“No, you don’t.” She sniffled.

“You didn’t have to agree with that.” His tone was dark, suitably offended.

She started laughing, and her chuckles mixed with the lingering sobs. “Sorry.”

He gave her a look of chagrin and came to stand by the table again, just across from her. “At least you’re laughing and not crying. If insulting me is all it takes, do so as much as you like.”

“Oh, no! I didn’t mean to insult you.”

“No, I’m sure you only meant to insult yourself.” He gave her a penetrating look that made her uneasy.

“I don’t understand.”

He leaned a hip on the table beside her and crossed his arms. “You implied that you didn’t expect to be treated well.” His gaze seemed to bore into her.

“No, I didn’t. I said I don’t understand why you are being so nice to me.”

He raised an eyebrow, and she shrank back in her chair, wishing she could escape his gaze. The fire in the hearth seemed as though it was blazing, and the room felt much too warm.

“Oh,” she said. Her voice sounded small and fragile.

He nodded at her gingerbread and tea. “Eat it. You’ll feel better.”

She could hardly resist, especially since she was still hungry, and it didn’t appear he was planning on leaving anytime soon.

She took a sip of her tea, savoring its fragrance and sweetness. She’d often thought there was almost nothing a cup of tea couldn’t make right in the world. Winterbourne nodded at the gingerbread, his eyes never leaving her face. She lifted the warm gingerbread and took a bite, licking the sweet, sticky cinnamon from her fingertips as she did so. At that moment the gingerbread was the most delicious thing she’d ever tasted. She took another bite and another. The cake was so moist it almost dissolved in her mouth. She savored the combination of tangy and sweet then, leaning back to sip her tea, looked up at Winterbourne.

“Would you like some?” She indicated the half-loaf of bread left.

“No. You’re enjoying it too much. Besides, you need to eat something.”

She huffed. “No, I don’t. My mother always says I need to eat less.”

“Why?”

She was becoming familiar with his frown of confusion. Did he really not understand? “Because men don’t like fat women.” She decided to be blunt. ”And my figure isn’t Lucia’s—lithe and willowy.”

He gave her an incredulous look. “Is that what women think?”

“Of course,” she said, taking another bite of gingerbread.

He pushed away from the table and put his hands on the table, leaning close to her. “Not all men prefer skinny women. I want to feel curves and softness beneath me when I—”

Francesca couldn’t take her gaze from his face. Her fingers were paused in front of her parted lips, a bite of gingerbread between them. She was half-mortified at what he was implying, half-hoping he’d go on. His mouth curved in a slow, wicked smile.

Her stomach fluttered and she felt her legs go weak. She was glad she was seated. She knew she shouldn’t, but she lowered the gingerbread “When you?”

“Take a woman to my bed.” His hand reached out and cupped her jaw. He had long, aristocratic fingers, tanned and strong. But there was nothing soft about Winterbourne. She felt the roughness of a callus as he rubbed two fingers over her chin, and she trembled, infused with molten heat.

“Cinnamon.” He licked his fingers and stepped away from her. She didn’t move, savoring the tingle of her skin where his fingers had touched her.

He leaned against the edge of the table again. “You’re not fat.” The whisper of his gaze skated over her, light but penetrating. “You’re—voluptuous.”

She blinked. Voluptuous? She glanced down at herself, messy and unkempt in her faded yellow muslin gown. A mental picture of how she must look popped into her mind and almost sent her running for home and Helen’s skill with a brush and comb. Her hair was probably falling lopsided down her face; indeed, she’d been tucking stray curls behind her ear all day.

And if she had smudges of cinnamon on her chin, it only stood to reason that dirt and dust were smeared across cheek and forehead where she’d casually wiped away perspiration. She need only peek down at her dress to see the stains of blood and alcohol from her earlier surgery. And he was calling her
voluptuous
?

“I think bedraggled would probably suit me better right now,” she told him.

His stare seemed to say otherwise. She couldn’t imagine what he saw to make him look at her so. The heat threatened to rise to her cheeks from her belly, and she averted her eyes to her teacup, lifting it for another fortifying sip.

“Francesca.” His voice floated over her like the last whispers of steam from the cooling tea.

“Hmm?” When she dared glance at him again, she found his gaze still on her. The heat from his body warred with the heat of the tea, shooting through her, making her tingle. He reached out and cupped her jaw, and she fought to steady the tea cup in her trembling hands.

“We need to set a few things straight.”

Her gaze flicked to his. “Please don’t ask me why I behaved as I did,” she whispered. “I-I can’t explain it.”

“I think you can.” His finger traced the curve of her cheek. “Trust me.”

Francesca’s breath hitched, and she felt her insides tearing apart. Again, she was at war, wanting to trust him and afraid at the same time. Once, she’d trusted Roxbury...

“Francesca—”

A brisk knock on the door made her jump.

Ethan, unflappable as usual, dropped his hands and stepped away from her. “Come.”

The door opened and Peter stuck his head inside. “Lady Brigham is looking for you, miss. She sent me to bid you to come inside.” Though the footman appeared as uninterested as his station required, Francesca saw the assessing look he directed at Winterbourne.

She put a hand to her cheek and tried to compose herself. “We’ll be in momentarily, Peter. Thank you.”

“Yes, miss.” He didn’t take his eyes from Winterbourne, who now leaned negligently against the table, arms crossed.

The footman began to close the door.

“Peter,” Francesca called.

He popped his head in again.

“Have you seen Nat? He was supposed to watch the rabbit for me tonight.”

Peter frowned. “No, miss. Would you like me to go to the stables and ask after him?”

She nodded, concern trickling through her. It wasn’t like Nat to neglect his duties. “Yes, and then get to bed, Peter. You’ve had a long day.”

He grinned at her. “Yes, miss.”

The door closed, and Francesca rose and went to the window. “I wonder what could be keeping Nat.”

“Probably lost track of time,” Winterbourne said. “The boy will fetch him.”

Francesca nodded, but she couldn’t stop a tremor of uneasiness as she stared into the dark night.

“P
lease God. Please God,” Francesca chanted under her breath, as she stood in the drafty entrance hall outside the door to the dining room, her hand hovering above the handle. “Please don’t let him be there.”

She’d waited as long as she could to come down to breakfast. She hadn’t wanted to see either her parents or Lucia, and she’d especially wanted to avoid Ethan—Winterbourne, she corrected. But now she’d tarried so long, she feared the sideboard would have already been cleared and she’d have to go without even a cup of tea.