Engaged in Passion (A Bridal Favors Novella) (4 page)

Chapter 3

Anthony was still gripping her hand when his world suddenly crashed about his ears. He was still smiling down at her, still acting as the charming suitor, but his friend's words seemed to pound in his head.

"M-miss Richards?" he stammered. Miss Francine Richards, the one woman in the whole world he absolutely could
not
trifle with? The daughter of the wealthiest milliner in London—his new employer—and the girl destined to marry up in society? He quickly turned to Thomas. "I'm sorry. Could you excuse us for a moment?"

His friend bowed—obviously startled—but did the right thing and excused himself. But then Anthony was left to stare at Francine.

"I thought you were the cook," he said.

He watched as horror filled her expression. A mortified blush stained her cheeks and she bit her lip, an apology in her eyes. "I'm so sorry," she whispered. "I just wanted to pretend for a moment."

"Pretend?" he said, his mind reeling. "Pretend to be—"

"Just a girl. Lady Mysterious..." She looked away, and he caught a flash of tears on her lashes. "I'm sorry."

He swallowed and forcibly brought his thoughts into order. He was thought to be a logical man, a man of numbers and business sense. He needed to call on those skills now and approach the situation calmly.

First, she had not lied to him. She had told him he could find out her name easily enough, but that she wanted to be Lady Mysterious. He could understand the impulse. Though he had no desire to be anyone else, he appreciated how a girl straining under the weight of all her parental expectations might need to pretend—for a little bit—to be just a girl.

Second, it was his own fault for assuming she was a servant. She told him she was not the cook. If he had wished to know her true identity, he could have insisted. But he was just as happy to let her be an exciting unknown.

Finally—and this was the most important—they had not done anything except flirt for a time. Indeed, his body still simmered with the desire to learn more about her, to spend more time exploring her highly intelligent mind. And yes, he had more carnal interests as well, even though he knew the woman was not for him. She was the daughter of his father's employer and
not
someone he should trifle with. But having met her, there was something about her that intrigued him.

Coming to a swift decision, he gestured to the door. "It's rather hot in here. Would you like to take a walk about the garden? If we stay close, it should be proper enough."

She looked back at him, surprise showing in her wide eyes. "You want to walk with me?"

"I'd like nothing better," he answered truthfully. Then he offered her his arm. A moment later, they were stepping out the front door. There were no back gardens, not in this area of London. But there was a group of gentleman smoking out front to the left, and more than a few ladies walking with their husbands to the right. He chose the right, strolling slowly and amiably. As a breeze brushed across their faces, he heard her sigh in delight.

"Are you one of those hardy souls who adore strolling through the countryside?" he asked.

She laughed, the husky sound sending a bolt of awareness to his groin. "Goodness no. I was born in London and have rarely left it."

"Rarely?"

She shrugged. "We go on holiday sometimes. Not often, but every once in a while mother insists. She has family in Lincolnshire and..."

"You don't enjoy it?"

"I don't enjoy climbing over rocks and boulders. I like sitting and talking. And reading." She sighed. "They don't like to read at all!"

"How sad. I love to read. What is your favorite book?"

"Oh well, I have to confess a love of Minerva novels, but I have also read all of Shakespeare and Euripides. Just yesterday, Papa showed me a political pamphlet that he hated, but I didn't think was so terribly bad. It was about the need for boroughs reform. And right now I am reading
Mémoires de Monsieur d'Artagnan
. It's not so easy because it's in French, but I like it." She kept talking as they strolled, and he was amazed at the breadth of her reading tastes.

"You have a most unusual mind," he commented.

Her step hitched. "I... uh..."

She thought he was insulting her, so he rushed to explain. "I have never met a female who was so widely read on all manner of topics. Minerva novels, yes—"

"Mama and I both adore them," she said, a blush staining her cheeks, "even if they are rather silly."

He nodded. "My sister would agree completely. But you have read political treatises, poetry, even mathematical texts. I find myself quite in awe."

Her laughter had a note of embarrassment in it. Obviously few people appreciated her intellect. "I have to do something while the tarts bake. There isn't always a handsome gentleman there to distract me."

"Well, I'm gratified to hear that at least," he returned, his body tightening with the knowledge that she was flirting with him. Women had flirted with him before, of course, but no woman had made him want to flirt back. At least none in the last five years. And her eyes seemed to reflect the starlight as she looked at him. He was quite dazzled, and his steps slowed as he lost himself in the wonder of her gaze.

She was the first to recover, her eyes jumping to another couple strolling in the evening air. It was at that moment he realized they'd been standing stock-still in the middle of the walk, and he quickly guided her back into a leisurely pace away from the other people. He had no wish to share her.

"What do you like to read?" she asked.

They continued to talk, the conversation wandering everywhere with ease. All the while, their steps meandered further away from the party. He kept them to the nicer neighborhoods. He had no intention of falling victim to a footpad. But he was not averse to wandering into the shadows with her either.

"Like you, I have never traveled much outside of London," he commented. "And never to Lincolnshire."

"I should like to see more of the world, but everything I enjoy is in London. Here, there is a lending library, plays and the like to see, and—"

"And you can cook to your heart's content?"

She giggled. "Never that. If I did that, I would never leave the house!"

"Never?" he asked.

"Never."

He nodded, an idea forming in his mind. It was a curse of his, these ideas. Business ideas, investment possibilities, moneymaking schemes. He rarely had the time and never had the resources to put them into effect, but the ideas floated through his head nonetheless. And once there, he couldn't resist pursuing this idea just a little. "I have heard quite a bit about your baking, you know. Even my very prosaic father has mentioned it once or twice."

"Truly?" Her steps stopped, and she turned to face him. The moonlight touched her skin so that she appeared to glow. Alabaster skin, bright mahogany eyes touched with gold, and lips that were flushed a moist red that took a man's mind straight to where it ought not go.

"Truly," he answered, though the word came slowly as he struggled to focus. "According to my father, everyone praises your baking. They say getting your tarts is worth a week's pay."

She giggled, and his groin tightened painfully. "You lie!"

"I do not!" He couldn't stop himself. He had to touch her skin. He had to feel if the flesh was moonlight cool or heated with her blush.

It was warm and alive, and when his thumb brushed across her cheek she gasped. Her eyes went wide, and her lips parted. Her face was tilted up toward him, subconsciously offering him things she ought not.

He swallowed, knowing he was a cad. He knew, too, they had walked far enough that there were no prying eyes to see what he did. And another step would take them into the deep shadows.

He should step away, and yet his thumb would not stop caressing her cheek. And his other hand had slipped around her waist. He had not yet pulled her tight to his body as he was burning to do. But that was mere moments away if he did not stop himself.

"Anthony?" she whispered.

He didn't answer, the roar in his blood too loud for him to think. He loved the sound of his name on her lips. He loved the husky timbre to her voice and the way she was swaying slightly toward him.

He struggled for some semblance of reason. "Your father employs my father," he rasped, speaking to himself more than her.

"They are not here."

No, they certainly weren't. But she was, and with a gentle step, he eased them back into the full shadows.

"We are playing with fire," he murmured, trying to think of all the reasons why this was a very bad idea.

"I don't care."

Neither, apparently, did he, because his mouth descended to hers. He kissed her. He didn't just caress her on the lips, but he teased her mouth open, he thrust his tongue inside her. And when she did not object, he took her deeper into the shadows and began to seduce her in earnest.

Chapter 4

So this is why people kissed. It was wonderful!

Francine had so many thoughts, so many sensations that she couldn't keep track of them all. His lips on hers were only a small part of it. She felt his hand so large and so warm at her waist. His fingers tightened, pulling her closer, and she went willingly.

The hand he had at her cheek had widened until he was cupping her face, his long fingers slipping back into her hair. She winced as he tugged at the pins, drawing back instinctively from his mouth. She regretted that, but then she felt her hair start to tumble down. He was pulling
out
the pins. Bit by bit, her tight chignon was released, and as each lock dropped free, her soul felt like it was escaping too. Her headache eased as it always did when her hair was released. She exhaled a sigh of relief and then, thank goodness, his lips returned to hers.

She'd always wondered what a man's lips would feel like. Thick? Rough? Until now, she hadn't known. His felt—well, it wasn't really a feel, and that surprised her. It was his taste that was delightful. A little tart, probably from the lemonade they had drunk, and a lot spicy. An altogether different kind of taste, and she stretched for him to explore further. She even dared to push her tongue into his mouth, needing to taste him more.

She heard him groan and felt him drag her harder against him. She knew the scent of his cologne and the hard press of his body below. And she felt that organ of his that she wasn't supposed to know about, but did. It was there too—hard and hot—and she marveled at the feel of it even through the separation of their clothing.

She stretched up, but couldn't go any farther, so she wrapped her arms around his neck and tugged. She felt the stiff resistance of his starched shirt, which made the softness of his hair all the more delightful. And she felt the heat of his mouth on hers, the pounding thrust of his tongue into her, and... and... oh!

His hand had left her hair to trail down her shoulder to her bodice. He was touching her breast, lifting it and squeezing it. No one had ever done such a thing to her before. She hadn't even conceived of it until she felt it. She gasped and drew back, but she was pressed against a wall, and she could not move further away.

And now she didn't want to. Not with the way his thumb rolled over her nipple, sending embers of fire through her body. He had lifted his head, but the moon was behind him. She saw his features as shadows, his eyes as dark wells. She might have been frightened if he hadn't started speaking. That his words were directed at himself more than her didn't bother her. In truth, she felt grateful to hear his inner thoughts.