Simply Unforgettable (17 page)

“Thank you.” She smiled at him again. And yet for some unfathomable reason she felt she had been dishonest with him—or maybe it was not so unfathomable. She was going to have to be very careful not simply to use him in the coming days in order to hide from her bruised heart.

How
foolish
beyond words that she was allowing her heart to be bruised again!

She enjoyed the half hour spent in the tearoom. It was because the Earl of Edgecombe and Amy Marshall again treated her as a favored guest, she told herself, and because the conversation was lively and full of laughter and her surroundings were a feast for the senses. She was going to have much with which to regale her friends tomorrow. And she would, she knew, always remember tonight.

But deep down she knew that she would not have felt half the exhilaration she did feel if Lucius Marshall, Viscount Sinclair, had not been there at the table too. He might be horribly annoying at times, and he had a habit of saying things deliberately to discompose her—or of remaining silent with the same motive—but he was always exciting company, and being in his presence again brought back memories of an episode in her life that she had tried hard to forget but now admitted she would not have missed for all the consideration in the world.

Those days had brought her vividly alive.

And she felt vividly alive again this evening.

She was going to suffer again after tonight was over, she knew, perhaps almost as much as she had suffered back then, but there was nothing she could do to prevent that now, was there? Life just had a habit of doing such things to people. There was no hiding from suffering, no matter how hard one tried to cultivate a tranquil life in which the highs and lows of emotion were leveled off.

The highs would insist upon forcing their way into one's life when one least expected them. Who, after all, could have predicted such a severe snowstorm on just the day she had chosen for travel? Who could have predicted its glorious aftermath?

And who could have predicted that her seemingly innocent decision to accept the invitation to sing at the Reynolds soiree three evenings ago would lead her to meet Lucius again, and that doing so would bring her to this moment?

And because the highs insisted upon invading one's life, then so did the lows. It was inevitable—the two were inextricably bound together.

There was no point in anticipating the latter, though, since they were inevitable anyway. And so she allowed herself openly to enjoy what remained of the evening and anticipated the pleasure she would have in telling Claudia, Anne, and Susanna all about it tomorrow—though the pain would be with her by then.

She danced every remaining set after tea, including one more country dance—the last of the evening—with Viscount Sinclair. She was sorry when the assembly ended, but all good things did end. There was no holding back time.

The low to follow the high began far sooner than she had expected, though.

The Earl of Edgecombe did not need a carriage to take him back home as his house on Brock Street was very close. And since there was such a press of carriages about the Upper Rooms, Viscount Sinclair had directed his own to wait outside the house. Frances strolled back there with Amy, the girl's arm linked through her own, while the two gentlemen came some distance behind.

“I have never had a more wonderful time in my life,” Amy said with a heartfelt sigh as they walked down onto the Circus. “Have you, Miss Allard?”

“Indeed,” Frances said, “I do not believe I have.”

“Everyone wanted to dance with me,” the girl said naively. “And with you too. You did not miss a single set, did you? I was delighted to see Luce dancing with you a second time. He drives Mama to distraction because he
never
dances.”

“Then I must consider myself honored,” Frances said.

“Of course,” Amy continued, “he will have to dance any number of times this Season, I daresay. He promised Grandpapa at Christmas that he would take a bride this year, and I suppose she will be Miss Hunt, who has been waiting for him forever. She is in town already with her mama and papa and the Marquess of Godsworthy, her grandfather, a particular friend of my grandpapa. But
I
will not be able to dance again until next year, when I am to make my come-out. It is most provoking.”

Frances's heart was hammering against her ribs. She had very sensibly sent him on his way after Christmas, and she certainly had not been foolish enough during the last few days to expect any renewal of his attentions. She did not
want
their renewal. But of course knowing that he was about to marry, that he had already chosen his bride, in fact, did hurt. Quite unreasonably so. But then reason had nothing to say to affairs of the heart. She had once spent the night with him. He was the only man with whom she had had sexual relations. It was understandable, then, that she should feel hurt—or if not hurt, then . . . depressed.

“Having to wait for something one desires greatly
is
provoking,” Frances said. “But your come-out will be glorious when the time finally comes, and it will be even more so because you have waited so long. But those are sensible words you have doubtless heard a dozen times. In your place, I would be very inclined to throw a noisy tantrum.”

Amy laughed with delight and squeezed her arm.

“Oh, I
do
like you,” she said. “And when I return to Bath—though I do not know when that will be—I shall write and tell you so and come to the school to see you. I wish we did not have to leave Bath so soon as I feel just like a grown-up here, away from my sisters. But Luce says we must return to London tomorrow or the next day.”

Ah! Another blow. Though in reality it was no such thing, of course. She must not make any grand tragedy out of the events of the past four days. She had not expected to see any of them after tonight—at least, with her intellect she had not expected it.

“I shall look forward to seeing you again at some time in the future, then,” Frances said as they came to a stop outside the house on Brock Street. Viscount Sinclair's carriage waited there, Peters up on the box. She wondered if she could suggest riding alone back to the school, but she knew it would not be allowed. Besides . . .

Well, besides, she could not deprive herself of the last few minutes of agony in his company, could she?

Agony?

What sentimental drivel!

She drew her borrowed shawl more tightly about her shoulders. It was still only springtime and the air was cool.

Amy hugged her as the gentlemen came up to them. The earl held out his right hand and, when Frances set her own in it, covered it with his other hand.

“Miss Allard,” he said, “I thank you most sincerely for coming with us tonight. Your company has meant a great deal to Amy, I know. I will be going to London with my grandchildren within the next day or two. But when I return, I shall invite you to sing for me. I hope you will agree to do it.”

“I would be delighted, my lord,” she said.

“Lucius will take you home now,” he said. “Good night, Miss Allard.”

“Good night, my lord,” she said. “Good night, Amy.”

She was back inside the carriage with Viscount Sinclair again a minute later, and it was proceeding on its way. The journey would take ten minutes, she estimated. She had ten minutes left.

How foolish to feel panic at the thought.

“Tell me you enjoyed yourself tonight,” he said abruptly after the first minute or so had passed in silence.

“Oh, I did,” she assured him. “It was very—”

“If you say
pleasant,
” he said, “I shall throttle you, Frances.”

“—delightful,” she said, and smiled in the darkness.

“Tell me you found it
delightful
because I was there,” he said. “Tell me you would not have enjoyed it nearly as much if I had not been.”

The inside of the carriage was very dark. She could not see his face when she turned her head to look at him.

“I will tell you no such thing,” she said indignantly. “The very idea! The arrogance of it! Of course I would have enjoyed the evening just as much—better!—if you had not been there.”

“Liar!” he said softly.

“You appear to be under the delusion, Lord Sinclair,” she said, “that you are God's gift to women.”

“A cliché unworthy of you,” he said. “Tell me you have regretted rejecting me after Christmas.”

“I have not!” she cried.

“Not even one tiny little bit?” he asked.

“Not even half that much,” she said.

“A quarter, then?” He laughed softly. “You are a terrible liar, Frances.”

“And you,” she said, “are more conceited than any man I have ever met in my life.”

“Is it conceited of me,” he asked her, “to have met someone and felt an overwhelming attraction to her, to have felt her equal attraction to me, to have consummated that attraction, and then to believe that she must have felt some twinge of regret at saying good-bye to me, especially when she did not need to do so?”

“It was better to suffer that little twinge,” she said tartly, “than to become your mistress.”

“Aha!” he said. “So you do admit to some twinge, do you?”

She bit her lip but did not answer him.

“I never did say that making you my mistress was my intention,” he said.

“But you would not say that your intention was marriage either,” she said. “Pardon me, Lord Sinclair, but I am unaware of any other relationship that would have been possible between us if I had gone away with you.”

“Courtship?” he suggested. “We needed more time together, Frances. We were not nearly finished with each other.”

“You speak from the perspective of the idle rich,” she said. “I need to work for my living. And my work is here.”

“I offered to stay here,” he reminded her, “but you would have none of it. And I offered to take you to London with me and find you somewhere to live and some decent female to stay with you for respectability.”

“And you would have paid all the expenses, I suppose,” she said.

“Yes, of course.” She knew from the tone of his voice that his eyebrows had arched arrogantly above his eyes.

“I would have been a
kept
woman,” she cried. “Can you not see that? I would have been your
mistress
no matter what other name you might have attempted to put upon our connection.”

“Lord!” he exclaimed. “You would argue that black is white, Frances, if I dared to suggest otherwise. But arguing gives me a headache, and I avoid headaches at all costs. There is no discussing any matter sensibly with you, is there? You must always have the last word.”

She turned toward him again to make some retort, but
he
turned to
her
first, set one arm about her shoulders, held her chin firm with the other hand, and kissed her hard on the mouth.

The shock of it caused her mind to shatter into incoherence.

“Mmm.” Her hand came up to his shoulder to push him away.

“Don't fight me,” he murmured fiercely against her lips. “Don't fight me, Frances.”

And because his very touch had destroyed all rational thought processes for the moment, she gave up her instinctive resistance to his embrace. She slid her fingers up into his hair instead and kissed him back with all the ardor she had been suppressing for three long months.

He parted her lips with his own, and his tongue came deep into her mouth, filling her with warmth and longing and raw need. For a while she gave in to pure sensation and turned in order to set both arms about him and press her bosom to his chest.

Ah, it had been so long.

It had been forever.

She had missed him so much.

His hands roamed over her and then strained her to him.

But powerful as physical passion could be, it could not entirely obliterate thought for longer than a few moments. She was not free to give in to his ardor as she had been after Christmas because she knew that
he
was not free. He had promised to marry, and he was going to London tomorrow or the next day to do just that. Actually, he had made that promise even before he met her in the snowstorm.

That realization caused her stomach to somersault.

She lowered her hand and pushed against his shoulder.

“No!” she said against his lips.

“Damn it, Frances,” he said, lifting his head a few inches from hers. “Goddamn it all to hell!”

She did not reprove him for the shockingly blasphemous language. She bit her lip instead and blinked her eyes in the darkness so that she would not openly weep.

He tried to renew the interrupted embrace, but she turned her face sharply away.

“Miss Hunt might not approve,” she said.

“Miss—? Who the devil told you about Portia?” he asked.

Ah, so she was
Portia
to him, was she?

“Amy, I suppose.” He answered his own question.

“Yes, Amy,” she admitted. “I wish you joy, Lord Sinclair.”

“If you
Lord Sinclair
me one more time,” he said, “I might well have to do violence to your person, Frances. I am not yet betrothed to Portia Hunt.”

“Not
yet,
” she said. “But you soon will be. Take your arm from about my shoulders if you please.”

He obeyed abruptly, leaving her feeling so bereft that even dragging air into her lungs seemed like a physical effort almost beyond her power to perform.

They rode side by side in silence for the rest of the way. When the carriage made its big turn from Great Pulteney Street onto Sydney Place and then Sutton Road, they both reached for the leather straps over their heads so that they would not touch each other. When the carriage rocked to a halt outside the school, there was suddenly total silence except for the snorting and stamping of the horses.