One Night in London (17 page)

But then it was too late. They turned toward the next room, and came face-to-face with Lady Louisa and her companion. By now a number of other people in the room had noticed, and Francesca dimly heard the buzz of whispers that quieted down. She took a deep breath, not knowing what to expect.

Edward felt Francesca’s tension, but was helpless to reassure her. It was all he could do to keep his emotions battened down after catching sight of Louisa on the opposite side of the gallery. She was still as beautiful as ever, still the same sweet image of ladylike perfection. Suddenly he regretted not going to see her after the end of their engagement, just so he wouldn’t have been caught so unprepared this evening, when he had readily allowed himself to be drawn in by Francesca’s outgoing charm and slightly risqué sense of humor. He forgot all about looking for connections to Percival Watts as they grew more and more at ease. When she slipped and called him Edward again, he felt something like elation humming through him. He would definitely kiss her again, tonight. And this time he wouldn’t force himself to walk away. Whatever happened after that would be . . . inevitable.

That was when he caught sight of Louisa. Like a bucket of cold water thrown in his face, he suddenly felt again all the anger and shock at her betrayal. He steeled himself to it, but still felt it burning at the edges of his mind as Louisa and her companion finally met them.

“Good evening,” Edward said. He bowed his head. “Lady Louisa.”

“Good evening, de Lacey.” The Marquis of Calverton’s eyes gleamed. He was two decades older than Edward, a few inches shorter but a fit, physical man. Durham once bought several brood mares from Calverton’s stud farm, and the marquis had driven a hard, ruthless bargain. Edward respected him for that, but he also never forgot his father cursing Calverton’s name after some especially sharp haggling over one mare. “And good evening to you, Lady Gordon,” Calverton added, to Edward’s surprise. He glanced at her to see a gracious smile on her face as she dipped a curtsey.

“How good of you to remember, my lord.”

He regarded her with entirely too much interest for Edward’s liking. “You are hard to forget, my dear.”

She laughed. “You flatter me.”

“May I present my betrothed, Lady Louisa Halston.” Calverton shot a keen glance at Edward at the word “betrothed,” but he’d been prepared for that; indeed it seemed the only reason Louisa would be out with him. After all, Calverton had a large fortune, and it was indisputably his. “Louisa, this is Lady Gordon,” the marquis added. “She used to have some of the finest singers in London at her salons.”

Louisa hadn’t looked away from Edward since he said her name. Finally she shifted her gaze, to greet Francesca with reserve and propriety. Edward noticed how fragile she seemed next to Francesca. Louisa was slim and pale, holding herself regally still. Francesca seemed to shine with hidden heat, from her glowing hair to her vivid red gown to the warmth of her smile. Francesca was warmth and energy, where Louisa was quiet and peace. Seeing them both at once, he didn’t know what to think. Instinctively he still felt the comfort of Louisa’s serenity, but now he had discovered he craved—much more than he would have ever guessed—Francesca’s vivacity.

“What do you think of the pictures, Lady Gordon?” Calverton asked.

“Quite impressive,” she replied. “How do you find them, Lady Louisa?”

Louisa raised her eyes to Edward’s. “Magnificent,” she said quietly.

He had once imagined that soft blue gaze meeting his every morning and night. If not for a blackmailer, he would still be betrothed to her; it would be her hand on his arm this evening instead of Francesca’s. He and Louisa would have walked through the gallery in polite, dignified appreciation, and not once thought of a cheeky new title for any piece. He would have thought it a lovely evening . . . but it wouldn’t have made him feel the way he did with Francesca, as though he’d ingested a bit of liquid lightning.

Francesca was still chatting easily with Calverton. Louisa was silent, smiling politely, her wary eyes flicking back to Edward from time to time. By God, he had loved this woman, and she was engaged to another man within days of jilting him. Perhaps it should have made him feel better, this proof that Gerard had been right about her and her family, but it didn’t ease the cruel shock of seeing how very deceived he had been in her.

“It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Louisa.” Francesca’s voice broke into his thoughts as she discreetly pinched the inside of his arm, where her hand still curled familiarly. “And to see you again, my lord.”

He snapped his eyes away from Louisa. “Good evening, Calverton. Lady Louisa.”

Calverton put his hand possessively at Louisa’s back and smiled. “And to you, de Lacey. Lady Gordon.” With a polite half bow, he led Louisa away. Edward didn’t watch her go, but he caught a breath of her scent, lilacs, and closed his eyes against the memory. He liked lilacs.

Francesca cleared her throat. “I do believe we’ve seen most of the paintings here. I didn’t see anything that might be Percival’s work.”

Right. Percival Watts. Edward forced his mind to the reason they were here tonight. He had brought her thinking it would help in her search, not end with him facing his faithless fiancée. It wasn’t Francesca’s fault at all, but the evening felt ruined, and he took the escape she offered. “Are you ready to go?”

She glanced at him, her eyes dark. She made no attempt to revive the lighthearted fun they had shared earlier. “Yes.”

He headed for the door, Francesca walking beside him without another word.

Chapter 17

T
he ride home was almost silent. Francesca didn’t know what Edward was thinking, but she could guess. The few glances she stole at his profile told her all she needed to know. Something inside her almost wept at how remote he looked, and she had to bite her lip to keep quiet. By now she knew Edward wasn’t the sort to get angry and swear or punch someone. Instead he became cold and silent, as if retreating inside some internal fortress no one could breach.

In this case, she could almost understand that. She would never forget the expression that flashed ever so briefly across his face when he saw his former fiancée. Lady Louisa Halston was beautiful, true, but more importantly—and more cruelly—Edward had truly cared for her. The pain in his face was too deep, too personal, to spring from anything else. He must have trusted her. And in return, when he most needed her confidence and support, Lady Louisa broke off their engagement and sold his private scandal to Gregory Sloan. Everything must have been for money. Francesca knew the man Lady Louisa had been with. The Marquis of Calverton was in his early fifties, a proud, rather haughty man with an immense fortune and an illustrious title. He had already buried two wives and needed another, since he only had three daughters. He’d visited her salon a few evenings when she had an old friend of her mother’s in to sing. She hadn’t disliked him, but neither had she liked him. He was too calculating for her taste, too aware of his position and everyone else’s. He was nothing like Edward, not by half. If Lady Louisa cared for anything other than money and position, she was likely to regret her new choice of husband.

Not that it was her concern whom Lady Louisa married. She didn’t care a bit . . . except for the small voice inside her heart that practically sang with triumph that Lady Louisa
had
seen fit to jilt Edward. Her loss would be someone else’s gain . . . perhaps even Francesca’s. At least for a little while.

They had reached her home. The horses stopped; the carriage dipped as the footman jumped down from the back. Edward stepped down when the servant opened the carriage door, holding out his hand to help her alight, a gentleman to the end. She took her time gathering her skirts to climb down. Her personal desires had been doing hard battle with her common sense and cold practicality, but now there was no contest. She would be a liar to say she hadn’t been waiting for this chance for a while now, and she didn’t even pretend she had the discipline to keep herself from seizing it.

“Would you like to come in for a drink?” She glanced up at him. In the lamplight his expression was set and composed, his eyes shadowed by the brim of his hat, and she had no idea what he would reply.

“Perhaps not tonight,” he said.

Francesca stepped closer and laid her hand on his arm. “Perhaps tonight is the perfect time,” she said quietly. He looked down at her, the light catching his gray eyes and turning them to silver. Something flickered there as he caught her meaning. She met his gaze for a moment longer, just to leave no doubt, then turned and walked unhurriedly up her steps.

The Hotchkisses had already gone to bed, since she told them not to wait up for her. They had a small apartment behind the kitchen, close to the mews. She let herself in with her latchkey, leaving the door open behind her. If he didn’t follow in a minute or so, she would close it and pretend nothing had happened. It hadn’t, really, and if nothing continued to happen, she could carry on as before.

She was pulling off her gloves when the door closed. Her heart skipped a beat as he stepped up very close behind her and fingered her shawl. His gloved fingers brushed her bare shoulders, and she shivered as he lifted the silk shawl away and cool air rippled over her skin. A moment later she heard the unmistakable swish of fabric as he shed his coat and hung it up, and that unleashed a different sort of shiver. He was staying.

Trying to ignore the sizzle of anticipation in her veins, she went into the dark drawing room and poured two glasses of wine. Her hands were unnaturally steady, for all that she had just invited a man into her home to seduce him. Francesca considered herself a modern, independent woman, but she’d never done anything like this. Cecil had been dead for two long years. She hadn’t been with a man since. And now she found herself almost melting from the hot burn of desire inside her—for Edward de Lacey of all people, whom she’d accosted like a shrew and who had probably viewed her as a mild annoyance, if not worse. For the man she had thought made of marble, with ice water running in his veins. That didn’t mean she hadn’t been attracted to him, of course, just that she ought to have been able to ignore it. And she had . . . mostly . . . until now.

She turned. He stood in the doorway, arms folded across his chest, watching her with an intensity that made her heart jump. If she had ever doubted he felt the same pull toward her that she felt toward him, now she knew. She held up one of the glasses of wine. “Sherry?” she asked, her voice huskier than usual.

Slowly, he crossed the room and took the glass from her hand. His gaze never left hers as he set it down on the table beside her. She had to tip back her head to meet those eyes, now as turbulent as a stormy sky. His gaze seemed to be asking something, seeking some answer without asking a question. Francesca was pretty certain her thoughts and feelings were written on her face, and after a minute the probing nature of his stare changed to one of purpose. He stripped off his gloves, one at a time, and dropped them to the floor. She dimly heard them hit the carpet as he raised one hand and fingered a loose lock of hair at her temple.

She could feel the heat of his skin, so close to her cheek, and unconsciously she turned her head, leaning into his touch. Edward made a soft, guttural noise in the back of his throat as she rubbed her cheek into his palm. With quick, efficient movements he pulled the combs from her hair until the whole mass tumbled down around her shoulders. Then he dug his fingers into her hair and curled them around the nape of her neck, holding her in place as he pressed his cheek to hers.

It seemed she had waited an eternity for this. She splayed her hands open against his chest and inched closer to him, pressing into the warmth and strength of his body. He said something inaudible, the barest rumble in his chest, and she let her head fall back even more into his cradling hands. Since the day she’d kissed him, she had wanted to feel this again, his arms around her and his heart pounding hard at her touch. Something inside her wanted to purr and stretch like a cat and rub against him.

His thumbs stroked over her cheekbones, moving over her flesh as delicately as the brush of a butterfly’s wing. The pads of his fingertips pressed on the back of her skull, tipping her face up. Francesca closed her eyes, and her chest grew tight as she waited for his lips to touch hers again.
Kiss me
, she pleaded silently. She didn’t know how she could stand to wait another minute for it, even as his hands skimmed over her skin, his fingers sure and deliberate. He traced her temples, smoothed along her eyebrows, and drew his fingertips down her jaw, exploring each arch of bone and dip of flesh with the barest of touches. She could feel his breath on her cheek, close enough to warm her skin but still too far away. It was exquisite and unbearable all at once.

And then, finally, his lips brushed the corner of hers. Francesca inhaled sharply, hardly realizing she’d been holding her breath, and sensation rushed in with her breath. He kissed her gently, almost tentatively, at first, his lips barely touching hers. She swayed toward him, trying to lean into the kiss and deepen it, only to be held in place by his hands, still twisted in her hair. Without a thought, she surrendered to his control. She had wanted him so badly, knowing it was wrong and unseemly to do so, that now she was almost afraid to move and break the spell. Even as his lips settled on hers a sliver of worry poked at her mind, that he would pull away and turn from her and declare once again that nothing could ever happen between them.

Of course, he’d said that almost a week ago. And she had seen the memory of that kiss smoldering in his eyes more than once since then. Clearly he had failed to persuade himself any more than he had persuaded her.

With unhurried care his mouth pulled at hers, exploring, shaping, and then finally opening to taste hers. She moaned at the first stroke of his tongue against her own. He tasted like wine, the rich warm flavor of port still clinging to him. That must be why she felt tipsy and off-balance, she thought, as if the room had begun tilting from side to side like a ship at sea. She could grow drunk on kisses like this.

He looked at her, his eyebrows raised. Francesca gazed boldly back, and ran the tip of her tongue along her upper lip. Edward inhaled a harsh breath, and then he was kissing her again. There was less control in this kiss. His hands flexed around her neck, and he ran his palms down to cup her shoulders and slide along them, then down her spine. He spread his hands wide over the small of her back, pulling her hips into his. Her back arched as he bore her backward until her shoulders pressed against the wall. She could feel the damask wall covering against her bare skin. The thought flitted away as his hands kept sliding, down to grip the curves of her bottom, to lift her to her toes and drag her even tighter against him. The length and breadth of his erection seemed branded on the skin of her belly, right through her clothes and his. The steady hum of desire inside her grew louder and more strident until it seemed to drown out her heartbeat, shutting out all thought and doubt. Not that she had much of either left; he wouldn’t be here if he didn’t want her, and she’d had plenty of time to think about how much she wanted him. She let go of his shoulders so she could wrap her arms around his neck, trying to hold him to her in this breathless little cocoon of desire. Her left foot lifted of its own volition to rub lightly along the outside of his calf.

His breath caught and he laughed quietly. He released her bottom and hiked up handfuls of her skirt. The fabric of her petticoats spilled over her thigh as he reached down and grasped her knee, lifting it almost to his waist. Francesca shuddered as cool air hit her bare leg in intimate places. Her blood was already running hot and fast just from the thought of him touching her there.

The heel of her shoe knocked against the narrow table beside them. He inhaled roughly and raised her knee farther, until he propped her foot on the table. She melted against the wall and clutched at him for balance as he stroked the flat of his palm leisurely down her calf, then circled around to slide up her shin. In the still darkness of the room, the soft shush of his bare hand over the silk of her stocking seemed to reverberate in her bones. He dipped his head, his lips whispering over her temple. His fingers paused. She shivered as he pressed, lightly, on the inside of her knee, opening her until he could move that last little step forward and ease his hips into the embrace of her legs.

Francesca gulped as his body moved against hers. He flexed his spine, rocking his hips into hers, and she spasmed in painful pleasure as the length of his cock rubbed against her most feminine spot. God, he was going to kill her if he kept moving at this languorous pace. It must have been an hour since she walked through her door, and so far he had barely kissed her, yet she felt ready to burst into flame at any moment.

She pushed her hands down his collarbones, forcing the elegant evening jacket back. He gave a low growl, but shrugged out of the coat without a word. She yanked and ripped at the buttons of his waistcoat as he kissed a scorching path along her temple and his fingers continued to play up and down the side of her leg. Her hands were shaking by the time she got the last button undone and tugged the waistcoat off. Edward cooperated enough to pull one arm free and then the other, but otherwise his attention seemed locked on touching every last inch of her skin, from the top of her head to the arch of her foot, after he slipped her high-heeled slipper off and tossed it aside.

But at least she could touch him now. With a few pulls, the front of his shirt came free of his trousers. Now it was his turn to tilt back his head and exhale as she slid her hands up the warm, firm planes of his chest. He let her explore for a moment, and then shifted his weight forward without warning. She was pinned between the wall and Edward, her hands trapped under his shirt, balanced on one increasingly shaky leg. She squirmed a moment before realizing she was stuck, followed closely by the admission that she liked it very much and that it was, in fact, exactly what she had been hoping to achieve. This was what she’d wanted to rouse from Edward: passion, dark and thrilling and purposeful. She just hadn’t expected to be so excited by it—his touch seemed to send sparks radiating across her skin, through her flesh and into her bones. It wasn’t the wild ecstasy of pent-up need that she felt, but the controlled, relentless exploration of a man who would not be rushed. She hated his restraint even as it was twisting her into excited knots from the anticipation.

Edward held her there, cupping her jaw with one hand to hold her face up for his kiss, his other hand gliding over her leg, slowly working its way across her thigh. His hips still rocked against hers with a gentle but persistent pressure. He kissed her deeply, his tongue possessing her mouth as thoroughly as he was about to possess her body. Francesca moved against him, her breath rasping in her throat as she tried without success to impart some of her own frantic need to him.

His fingers slid up over her knee, pausing to finger the ribbon of her garter. A moment later the ribbon eased and slipped away, and he was sliding her stocking over her knee. Her muscles jumped and relaxed as he stroked down her thigh, over her hip, and finally, blessedly, between her legs. She let out her breath in what was nearly a cry of relief and pleasure. Oh God—after waiting so long for him to touch her, she thought she might shatter at the next stroke of his wicked, talented fingers. He knew how to touch her, and where, and how firmly . . . how could he make her come undone so easily? After wanting him so desperately, she was about to climax within seconds after he touched her. She didn’t want that. She wanted him to feel the same pleasure, the same madness, the same abandon she felt.