One Night in London (16 page)
Edward was still scolding her, his handsome face dark with passion. Francesca tried to stamp out that last thought, but it had already taken root and sprouted a dangerous weed in her heart. She had finally roused him to a passion, right at the moment she was at her weakest, when she would have given anything for a diversion from her increasingly desperate, and hopeless, search. And now his words were like spikes driven into her conscience: she had been foolish, and rash, and perhaps cost herself a chance to find her niece. She had endangered herself and him both, because of an impulse. He had helped her when he was under no obligation to do so, and today she had only shown him how foolish that was.
“Have you lost your mind, madam?” He stalked up to her when she said nothing. “You can’t just—”
Francesca whirled around and kissed him. Up on her toes, one hand braced on his shoulder, her mouth to his. She felt his jerk of surprise, felt him start to pull back, and she put her hand on his jaw to hold him, very lightly, in place. His lips were firm and warm against hers. For a moment it was like kissing a statue, and she felt the first scratch of humiliation that she had kissed a man who didn’t want her, but then he made a harsh noise of surrender, a split second before his arms swept around her and
he
was kissing
her
. His fingers bit into her flesh as he fitted her body against his. His mouth slanted and opened over hers, demanding and longing at once. It was the kiss of a man who had denied himself for too long, and it was all she could do to hold on, shocked that it felt so utterly right.
His arms tightened and he lifted her, swinging her around until her back was against the wall. His hands, free from having to hold her to him, slid over her body as if he owned every inch and wanted to leave no doubt in her mind of that fact. Francesca shuddered as his fingers curved around her breast, the edge of his thumbnail scraping over her nipple. She arched her back, pressing her hips into his as she gripped the lapels of his jacket for balance. His weight pressed into her, pinning her to the wall and making her vividly aware of the magnificent erection growing harder by the second against her belly.
Oh God. He wanted her. It might only be desire born of anger and the moment, but it stripped away the last of Francesca’s rickety sense of decorum and restraint. She kissed him to stop the flow of his words; she knew she’d been a fool. But she also kissed him to quiet the urge to discover what his lips would feel like against hers. It was a mad, lunatic urge, one she didn’t understand and had tried to banish, and she’d been fairly certain—hopeful, even—that he would recoil in alarm and slay that terrible urge once and for all. Instead . . . oh, heavens . . . Instead he kissed her back as she had never been kissed in her life, and now she feared the urge would never die.
His hand left her breast and slid down the slope of her ribs. She could feel the heat of his touch even through her stays and dress, and then his long fingers splayed over the small of her back, right at her waist, and pressed her to him. She had the sense of being drawn into him, as if their bodies would meld into one if only all these wretched clothes were out of the way. And it felt so right, so necessary, she couldn’t even think why it would be wrong at all if that happened. She pressed into him, kissing him back with all the bold recklessness she had tried to contain for too long.
With a sudden grunt he tore his mouth from hers and twisted out of her arms. Francesca sagged against the wall, barely held up by her shaking legs. She kept her eyes steadfastly closed and managed to turn away from him. Reality flooded back over her in a cold wave. Out of the blue she remembered that he had been engaged to another woman just a few days ago, a woman he allegedly loved very much, and she had a terrible feeling she knew what made him push away from her. It was her own fault—she never should have flirted with him and allowed herself to have such dangerous thoughts about him. She was a Jezebel to have kissed him so boldly in the first place. She told herself she deserved any set-down he gave her, and that she had only herself to blame if he never spoke to her again. But she also wished with every fiber of her being that he wouldn’t say Louisa Halston’s name, not now. Let him regret the kiss for any other reason, but not that one.
“I apologize,” he said in a low, savage voice very unlike his usual refined tones.
“There is no need,” she whispered.
“It won’t happen again.”
Mutely she shook her head. It was too much to hope something that glorious would happen to her again.
There was a long silence. “It absolutely
cannot
happen again,” he said, as if his previous statement hadn’t been strong enough.
She wet her lips. They felt full and sensitive. She could still feel his mouth against them. “Are you persuading me, or yourself?”
For a long moment there was silence. She still hadn’t opened her eyes, unable to face him. And then, quiet but unmistakable, came the sound of the door opening, and closing.
It released the spell that seemed to have frozen her in place. Her knees unlocked and she managed to walk unsteadily to the sofa before collapsing onto it. She covered her face with both hands. What had she done? He might never want to see her again. And she felt a terrible sense of loss that had nothing to do with the help she originally wanted from him.
E
dward drove as if the hounds of hell were chasing him away from Francesca Gordon’s house. He gave his grays their heads and even flicked the whip to push them, and took the road out of London. He needed out of the city, away from her, out of range of the urge to turn around and go back for another kiss. A sane man would have kept right on driving, straight back to Sussex, where his normal, orderly life could proceed without any interference from copper-haired temptresses who twisted him in knots even when he told himself he was on guard against it. Today she’d sent him veering from heart-stopping fear when she plunged into a road teeming with traffic, to fury that she acted so thoughtlessly and dangerously, to shock and then raging desire as she kissed him, first softly and then as deeply and hungrily as he kissed her. God, how she kissed him. His hands shook as he loosened the reins and the wind threatened to take off his hat as the curricle sped along.
Why had she done it? Surely she knew better than to toy with a man like that. Had she only kissed him to distract him from upbraiding her? His jaw tightened as he thought about it. He hoped that wasn’t it. Perhaps, in retrospect, he shouldn’t have scolded her so harshly. The woman he knew would not appreciate it . . . but that woman also wouldn’t have hesitated to tear into him in kind. The Fury who invaded his house to lecture him about stealing her lawyer would have lashed back at him today, and probably tossed him out of her house at the end. That woman he was prepared for, and able to resist—at least, he’d been able to so far, just barely.
But this woman . . . Edward felt a flicker of alarm as he recalled, in lush, exquisite detail, how she fit so perfectly into his arms. How her lips parted under his, hot and wet. How her breast filled his hand. How she clung to him, and pressed against him, and made those tiny sighs of desire and encouragement, urging him on until he could have lost his mind and carried her upstairs to strip her naked and—
The horses had slowed to a stop, their sides heaving with exertion. The curricle was sitting in the middle of the road while he sat lost in thought about the erotic, passionate interlude he had so narrowly avoided. Or lost. It was unnerving that he couldn’t decide if he had avoided something terrible or lost something wonderful. Even more unsettling, he didn’t know how he’d react if presented with the same chance again. It was best, of course, if such a situation never happened again, because then he might . . . might . . .
Might what? He felt a sheen of perspiration on his forehead. What might he do if Francesca ever kissed him again? He would most likely kiss her back—obviously he didn’t have the strength of character not to. She was impulsive and outspoken and daring, all things he didn’t admire in a woman . . . and yet he was both charmed and fascinated by her, even knowing he shouldn’t be. Every man must have a weakness, he supposed, and for some reason she was his.
No, if she kissed him again, he would step back and tell her it was improper. Nothing could happen between them. It was certainly something she shouldn’t do again. It was very wrong of her to kiss him, with that single touch of her fingertips on his jaw to stop his instinctive retreat. Yes, if not for that touch he would have stepped back at once and then . . . Edward shuddered. He would have seized her again for a truer, deeper kiss, just as he had done in reality. Just as he still wanted to do now. Just as he had been thinking about doing almost since the moment he saw her.
He couldn’t blame Francesca. His desire for her was a bonfire, piled high and waiting for just a spark to ignite it. It was hard to blame her for the blaze when all she had done was strike the spark.
The reins slid through his fingers as the horses began stretching their necks. Edward fought to reassert his reason, and make some sense out of the day. Francesca wasn’t a foolish woman. She was a bit impulsive, but not reckless. She must have seen something to make her go tearing through the crowd and fling herself into the Strand. She had screamed “Georgina”; could she possibly have seen her niece in that throng? Could Percival Watts have been at the gallery, and they missed him by minutes? Edward wanted to find the man, but not accost him in the middle of the street where he would likely be on guard, particularly if he had the little girl with him, particularly if Francesca did anything to set him off—like chase him through the streets screaming the child’s name. He hoped it hadn’t been Percival Watts she’d seen, just because it would make things more difficult if the fellow took fright and went deeper into hiding as a result of her pursuit.
Of course, the longer it took them to find the girl, the longer he would be thrown together with Francesca.
He tightened up the reins and turned the horses to go back to town, this time at a more rational pace. He wasn’t going back to Francesca’s, not now, not when he couldn’t promise himself he would act with honor and restraint. The image of her leaning against the wall, her bright hair disheveled, her bosom heaving, her mouth soft and pink from his kiss . . . He cursed under his breath that he couldn’t even control his own thoughts. He would call on her tomorrow, or the next day, or sometime next week, however long it took for the taste of her mouth to fade. By then he would have marshaled his thoughts into proper order again and regained his dignity and sense of honor.
It would be much easier to do that, of course, if he could stop wondering how far she would have let things go if he hadn’t walked away.
A
fter four drafts Francesca managed to compose a note the next morning to Lord Edward, apologizing for her actions. She didn’t specify which actions, so when his reply came, she had to take a deep breath before opening it. But he said nothing of kisses or offense; he accepted her apology and tendered one of his own for scolding her so harshly. Then he asked if she would like to attend another gallery the next day.
Francesca let out her breath in relief. Thank heavens. She honestly hadn’t known what to expect. He had flirted with her, very mildly, and most definitely kissed her back, but that didn’t mean anything. Her heart leaping, she replied in the affirmative. It was a great consolation that he was still willing to help her. She had learned her lesson and wouldn’t do anything inappropriate again.
That week she saw him every day. He took her to galleries open to the public, and private collections whose owners only admitted friends and acquaintances. They visited art dealers and the Royal Academy. She learned more about the art world than she had ever cared to know, but none of it was directly helpful. No one could—or would—tell them where Percival Watts was, or where he was likely to be found. The few people who knew anything of him professed that he had drifted out of his usual haunts over the last few months, and then disappeared entirely a few weeks ago. Coupled with the investigator’s lack of progress tracing Ellen Haywood and Georgina herself, it was very lowering for Francesca’s spirits.
But Edward was undaunted. He seemed far too calm to her increasingly frustrated eyes, but soon she grew to depend on that. Because of his unshakable confidence, she was able to keep herself in check. He was certain this would yield results, and she had promised to trust him. His assurance soothed her impatience, as much as it could be soothed.
“I can’t stand this,” she said as they left a gallery in Pall Mall. “I don’t think we’ll ever find him this way.”
He helped her up into his curricle. “Perhaps not.” He retained hold of her hand until she looked at him. “Would you prefer to sit quietly at home and wait for Jackson?”
She pulled her hand free. “No, but what do you mean, it may not?”
“It may not. Jackson may be the one to find her. I notify him of every trace we uncover of Mr. Watts, and it may be one of those scraps of information—seemingly useless and outdated when we learn it—that eventually leads us to your niece.” He took the reins and jumped up beside her.
“Perhaps,” she grumbled. “I do wish it wouldn’t take so bloody long, though!”
He just smiled, and curled his fingers around her hand, resting on her lap, as he set the horses in motion. Francesca felt the tips of his fingers brush her thigh, and then the weight and size of his hand resting on her leg. Before she could stop it, a vivid memory of that kiss flashed through her mind, followed by more. She bit her lip hard, but the images only grew more erotic, of his hands on her, of his lips on hers, of even more wicked things.
Oh dear. She had tried so hard to forget about that kiss. All week she had behaved with perfect propriety, not making one flirtatious comment. Neither had he, which was, she told herself, confirmation that it had been a momentary lapse on his part. If only she could convince her body that it was never to be repeated. As his hand stayed on hers, and the carriage jostled over the cobbles, she could feel every touch as if her dress and petticoats weren’t even there. And it unleashed a growing hunger for more inside her.
After a few moments he seemed to sense something. He glanced at her. Francesca kept her eyes fixed ahead, but she could feel the blush on her face. A moment later he released her hand, but his fingers stroked over hers in a lingering way that only sent more heat spilling through her. She sucked in a deep breath and forced a bright smile to her lips, determined to pretend it had never happened.
Edward looked at her for a long moment. She braced herself for a reminder that nothing could happen between them. His gaze flickered to her mouth. “Would you . . .”
She had to swallow and wet her dry lips. “Yes?”
“Would you like to attend the gallery at Cleveland House this evening?”
It never occurred to her to refuse. She wanted to see him too much. “Of course.”
She dressed carefully in a dark red gown that evening. She told herself there was nothing wrong with wanting to look her best, but as she came down her stairs to meet him, her pulse jumped anyway. He looked up and saw her. Heat flashed in his eyes for a moment before he masked it, but she saw it, and something inside her ignited in reply.
Cleveland House held the late Duke of Bridgewater’s collection of art. Francesca had never seen it, even though the gallery admitted guests, and some of the works were quite renowned, but tonight she found herself unable to appreciate it. She was too aware of the man beside her. He had flirted with her; he had kissed her; he obviously didn’t mind seeing her and touching her. Perhaps she should just seduce him and be done with it. The temptation became like a fever in her brain.
“Do you not care for painting?” Edward asked as they strolled through the rooms.
“I confess I don’t have a true eye for it.” She paused to examine one artist’s signature, which included a looping W. Watteau, not Watts.
“What is a true eye for art?” He led her on to the next painting, a large canvas portraying the goddess Diana interrupted in her bath by Actaeon. “Do you like this painting?”
“Yes,” she said. “I like the light and shadows.”
“But?” he prompted.
Francesca hesitated. “I should not admit to anything else.”
“Indeed. What else?” He stopped walking and turned toward her, looking down at her with interest.
She smiled to hide the sudden leap in her pulse. “You will think me hopelessly uncivilized, so I won’t tell you.”
“Now I must know.” His attention was fixed on her completely now, his posture inclined toward her, his eyes intent on her face. Once, she would have found it unnerving, wondering if he was trying to intimidate her. Now she found it secretly exhilarating. She recalled the feel of his skin under her fingers, the solid strength of his body against her, the taste of his mouth, and a little smile crossed her lips.
“Must you? On what grounds, sir?”
“On the grounds . . .” He paused to study her. “On the grounds that your expression is too intriguing. It is . . . mysterious. I shall be tormented by wondering what it might mean.”
“Tormented?” She raised her eyebrows in delight.
“Mercilessly,” he murmured, not looking at all upset by the prospect.
Even though she had told herself not to think of it, her imagination refused to heed her reason. What would it be like to kiss him again? Would he stand by his declaration that it must never happen? Or would he give in to the attraction that almost shimmered in the air between them? She had gone from not liking him at all to being keenly attuned to his every subtle change of expression, and the way his mouth moved when he spoke to her. She could sense when his mood changed, and she was entranced by this slightly roguish, naughty side of him tonight.
“Well.” She glanced around and lowered her voice. He leaned nearer, until his cheek was very near her own and she could smell his shaving soap. Just being near him made her feel reckless and wicked, and she wanted to tempt him to feel the same. “I have the most impertinent thoughts at times. I find myself thinking of new titles for pieces which would surely appall those with a natural love of art, to say nothing of the artists.”
“New titles?” he repeated.
“Yes.” She faced the painting in front of them again, one of the celebrated Titians. “I look at this and think, ‘The Perils of Bathing Outdoors.’ Diana will turn the intruder into a stag, but really, she should have built a bathing house if she didn’t want to be spied upon. Don’t you think a goddess could have at least borrowed some screens?”
He looked nonplussed. He turned to inspect the painting again, then back to her. “You,” he said, “are shocking.”
She waved one hand in modest acknowledgment. “Tell me the thought never occurred to you.”
“No,” he said slowly. “It never did, although I could not tell you why. I certainly shall think of that every time I recall this painting.”
Francesca made a penitent face. “I apologize for ruining your enjoyment of it.”
“On the contrary, you have significantly embellished it.” He tucked her hand closer around his arm and began walking again. “What would you call this one?”
She contemplated it for a moment. “ ‘Fair Warning.’ ” His eyebrows shot up. “The lady is fascinated by the man in his prime,” she explained, “without realizing he wants a wife to care for his children and parents there in the background.”
He cocked his head. “I don’t think that’s what the artist intended you to see.”
“Of course not,” she agreed. “But it’s what I see when—”
“When you are feeling mischievous,” he finished when she stopped. “Mocking the finest art ever created.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Edward,” she said, laughing. “I am not mocking it.” He glanced at her curiously, intently. It took a moment for Francesca to realize what she’d said. A blush warmed her face. She cleared her throat. “Forgive me. I did not mean—”
“No,” he said quietly, still watching her in that probing way he had. “By all means, call me by name, Francesca.”
He said it as if he were whispering it over her skin. Her body reacted on instinct, although she was somewhat embarrassed to admit she had already been primed for this. She was attracted to him, more and more every time she saw him, and she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about that kiss, that wicked, wonderful kiss. In her stronger moments, she told herself kissing him had been an unmitigated disaster, because now she not only thought about kissing him, she thought about seducing him. Or being seduced by him. She didn’t have time for an affair right now, certainly not with a man of his station who would . . . who would . . . Oh, Lord, it would be easier to remember the arguments against it if he would stop looking at her like this. She made herself smile, trying to hide the potent attraction heating her blood. “As you like, Edward.”
They walked on. Francesca struggled to keep her mind on what they had come to do, but it was clear to her they wouldn’t find any connection to Percival Watts here. It was a magnificent collection—in spite of her lighthearted comments, she recognized that—but contained nothing like the rough, hazy landscapes she remembered seeing in Percival’s painting studio. Still, she found herself reluctant to go. Far from appearing appalled by her impudent names for the paintings, Edward was intrigued. His hand fell on hers more than once to keep her by his side. He prodded her, and she grew more daring. She named one somber portrait “The Tobacco Hunter,” opining that the fellow looked desperate for a smoke on his pipe. She pronounced a man in one painting an obvious rogue, only to have Edward point out that she was slandering David, God’s chosen king. It took her breath away, to share a guilty but unapologetic grin with him, as if she were slowly pulling him out of his proper deportment with her own less-than-proper behavior.
It gave her a hint of a wicked side to Edward de Lacey, and that only attracted her more.
They wandered through the rooms, some badly lit and others so filled with paintings it was hard to take them in. The conversation flowed easily now. She had never seen Edward smile so much, and it was making her dizzy. All her protests to Alconbury and Sloan that it was just business began to seem as thin and frail as old lace. She wanted to see him smile—at her. She craved that heady thrill when he laughed at something she’d said. And most dangerously of all, beating beneath her skin like an echo of her pulse, was the desire to see him in the deepest throes of passion.
She had almost forgotten why they were here when Edward stopped abruptly. She had no choice but to stop as well, since her arm was still wound around his, even closer than when they had arrived. She glanced up at him in surprise, and her throat clogged up at his expression as he stared at a woman across the room. Instinctively she just knew who was ahead of them.
Lady Louisa Halston was every bit as beautiful as the gossip sheets said. Slender and delicate, her hair was the color of fresh butter, and spilled from her crown in perfect ringlets. Her gown was up to the minute in fashion, and flattered her coloring and her figure. Francesca could only see her profile from where they stood, but it was very nearly perfect. Her nose was not too large, her chin not too pointed. She stood with her head tilted slightly to one side, studying the painting in front of her with a thoughtful air as her companion spoke and gestured to it.
“Oh, dear,” Francesca said in a too-quick voice, casting about for any reason to leave. “These are all portraits. I don’t think Percival had much of a hand for portraits . . .” She trailed off as Edward’s arm tensed.
“Nonsense,” he said in a smooth, cold tone, all trace of levity and irreverence gone. “Don’t be so hasty.” He turned away and led her to a portrait near the window, of a lady in green.
Dutifully, Francesca examined it. “Lovely.”
“Is that all you have to say?”
She glanced sideways at his grim face. “Yes,” she said. “I don’t feel like mocking her.”
He didn’t comment on her choice of words, just walked on. She wondered if he wanted to see his former fiancée. He certainly wasn’t taking action to avoid her, as he marched them along the room. Then she wondered if perhaps she shouldn’t take it out of his hands and feign a sudden headache. He would have to take her home if she swooned to the floor in pretend illness.