Читать книгу Reunited With His Long-Lost Cinderella - Laura Martin - Страница 10

Surveying the ballroom, Ben found himself unable to believe he was actually there. Dressed in the finest evening wear, cravat tight around his neck and jacket tailored to precision across his broad shoulders, the son of a land steward was attending one of the most exclusive balls in London.

‘I’m not sure these masks conceal our identities,’ George Fitzgerald said from his position beside him.

Ben shrugged. ‘I’m not sure they’re meant to.’

They were standing at the perimeter of the Scotsworths’ ballroom for what Ben had been informed was an annual masquerade ball. The women were dressed in flamboyant outfits and their masks were nearly all elaborately decorated. Many of the men had gone for a more subtle and less time-consuming approach of wearing their normal evening jackets and adding simple black or single-coloured masks that covered their eyes. Ben’s was black, but did have a rather annoying feather protruding from one edge that every so often would flop in his face and tickle his forehead.

‘Why are we here?’ Fitzgerald asked shrewdly.

Since arriving in London three weeks ago they’d attended a number of balls and soirées, even once braving the unknown world of the opera, but tonight was the first night Ben had actually insisted they accept an invitation.

‘To enjoy the magic of a masquerade ball,’ Ben said with a straight face.

Fitzgerald laughed, clapped his friend on the shoulders and shook his head. ‘Keep your secrets for now, Crawford—one day I’ll find out what you’ve been up to these last few weeks.’

Ben grinned, but it was almost entirely forced. He hoped no one would find out quite how pathetic he’d been in the weeks since their arrival in London. When Sam Robertson, the third member of their little group, had suggested the trip back to their homeland from Australia, Ben had quickly agreed. He had told his friends that he wanted to see his family again, at least what was left of it. Eighteen years ago, he’d left his father and younger brother behind in a sleepy Essex village. For four years he hadn’t heard a word from them—the post never arrived for prisoners held on the hulk ships on the Thames or during the eight-month voyage to Australia. Only once he was working as a convict worker for the late Mr Fitzgerald the elder did he receive a tattered and torn envelope.

His father had written every month and must have paid considerable sums of money to ensure his communications were loaded on to the ships heading for Australia. Ben had no doubt most of these letters had never left England and could be found disintegrating at the bottom of the Thames. But one had got through—one conscientious and kind pensioner guard had taken Ben’s father’s money and promised to do his best to place the letter in Ben’s hand and, nearly a year later, he did just that.

Ever since Ben had kept in contact with his father from the other side of the world. Of course, he was keen to return to Essex and see the old man again and would do so as soon as his father returned from his poorly timed trip to Yorkshire. His father was an estate manager and as such at the whim of the Earl he worked for, but soon he would be back home in Essex and Ben would see him for the first time since the age of twelve. However, the other reason for his agreeing to the trip to England he wasn’t even sure would appear tonight. For three weeks, he’d haunted the ballrooms of London, hoping to catch a glimpse of the girl he’d left behind all those years ago.

Francesca. She was a woman now, of course. A woman who’d probably hadn’t thought of him much at all these last eighteen years. When he’d landed in England he’d made some discreet enquiries and found she’d been married and recently widowed. He was beginning to understand those in mourning didn’t socialise as much as the rest of the lords and ladies and had started to despair of ever setting eyes on her, but tonight he’d heard a rumour Francesca would be in attendance to chaperon her younger sister.

So here he was, waiting eagerly for a glimpse of the woman who probably didn’t even remember him.

He surveyed the ballroom again and for an instant it felt as though his heart stopped in his chest. There she was, unmistakable despite the mask and the eighteen years since he’d last seen her. Dressed in muted greys and violets, colours he was informed signalled the period of half-mourning, Lady Francesca Somersham still cut a striking figure. She was older than most of the debutantes, but having been married and widowed in the years since Ben had last seen her that was hardly surprising. Despite being almost thirty she still turned heads and Ben saw two gentlemen start in her direction as soon as they noticed her entrance into the ballroom.

This was what he’d been waiting for the past three weeks, but now she was here in the same room as him he was unsure of what he wanted next.

‘Enough,’ he murmured to himself. He wasn’t the lowly son of a steward any more. Over the years since he’d finished his sentence Ben had worked hard and taken risks, most of which had paid off, meaning he was now a very successful Australian landowner. There was no need to skulk about watching from a distance. Today he would talk to the woman he had been dreaming about for the past eighteen years despite his best efforts to forget her.

Quickly, he weaved through the crowds, ignoring the appraising looks from the masked debutantes. Fitzgerald was correct, these flimsy masks didn’t do much to conceal the face, but he was largely unknown and as such was a man of interest.

‘Mr Crawford,’ a pretty young woman murmured in his ear as he moved past her. ‘We really must find some time to spend together.’

Ben grimaced, but quickly turned it into a smile. Since arriving in London he had made the acquaintance of a number of women, mostly widows or those with husbands happy to turn a blind eye. He’d danced with them, talked to them, but never anything more despite their sometimes quite obvious offering of themselves. Ben might have a reputation as a man the ladies could not resist, but nothing was going to jeopardise his getting close to Lady Somersham, especially not a meaningless fling.

‘I await that moment with anticipation,’ he said, planting a fleeting kiss on the young lady’s hand, but moving on quickly, using the press of people to his advantage and weaving a path away from Mrs Templeton’s inviting eyes.

Suddenly she was in front of him and for a moment Ben felt the breath being sucked out of his lungs. She was beautiful. Gone was the gangly-legged, freckle-nosed girl he’d played with throughout his childhood and in her place was a woman of poise and grace. Ben took a moment to study her hair, sleek and tamed into a complicated bun at the back of her head. When they were children Francesca’s hair had always been an uncontrollable mess, frizzy and wild and more often than not flying behind her as she did something dangerous at great speed. He felt a sharp stab of desire deep inside him and fought to keep himself under control.

‘Lady Somersham,’ Ben said, pausing a couple of feet in front of her and bowing formally. He might have been brought up the son of a steward, but he was a great imitator and just a couple of days in London society had led to him being able to replicate the gestures and customs perfectly.

Francesca turned to him and, even though nearly every other part of her had changed, she fixed the same mischievous blue eyes on him that he remembered from childhood.

‘You have me at a disadvantage,’ she said after studying him for a few seconds.

‘Isn’t that the point of masquerade balls?’ Ben asked. ‘To conjure an atmosphere of mystery and allow you to creep into dark corners with an unknown admirer.’

‘Perhaps to conjure an atmosphere of mystery...’ Lady Somersham conceded. ‘But I’m sure my mother always told me to keep away from strange men and dark corners.’

‘And do you always take your mother’s advice?’

There was that smile, just a hint of the impish grin he remembered from childhood.

‘She likes to think I do.’

‘Lady Somersham,’ a deep voice boomed, causing heads to turn in their direction even half a ballroom away. This was the overweight, red-faced man who was destined to be Francesca’s next husband if rumours were to be believed.

‘You’re not meant to tell anyone who I am, Lord Huntley,’ Francesca said, turning to face the man. She smiled at him, too, but Ben could tell this was forced, a mere upturning of the corners of her mouth with no glimmer of pleasure in her eyes.

‘Nonsense. Everyone knows who everyone else is. Damn ridiculous idea if you ask me, all this prancing around in masks.’

Ben noted Lord Huntley had not deigned to don a mask of his own, leaving his red-rimmed and wrinkled eyes unadorned. Surely a mask would be of benefit to this man, even if it were purely to draw one’s eyes away from his generous jowls.

‘I think it is rather fun,’ Lady Somersham said and Ben had to wonder if she was just saying it to be perverse. Lord Huntley made him want to run in the opposite direction and he never had the awful prospect of having to one day be intimate with the man hanging over him.

‘Where’s your father?’ Lord Huntley barked, looking around as if Lord Pottersdown might be hiding behind a pot plant or marble statue.

‘I’m not sure,’ Francesca said, her eyes involuntarily flicking towards the doors that led into the ballroom. The gaming tables, no doubt. These past few weeks Ben had learned a lot about Francesca’s life just by listening to gossip. The ballrooms and dinner parties were rife with it and, although there was a lot of exaggeration and a few things that were clearly completely fabricated, you could glean some very interesting things if you filtered the dross out.

‘Losing more of the family fortune,’ Lord Huntley snorted derisively. He’d come to the same conclusion, it would seem.

Ben saw Francesca’s cheeks redden under the delicate rim of the mask and for an instant got the urge to manhandle Lord Huntley outside and send him on his way for embarrassing her. Then he remembered that he wasn’t her protector, he wasn’t anything to her, just a man who had once been a boy she’d known. A man she might not even remember.

‘Wait here,’ Lord Huntley commanded. ‘I’ll go fetch him. We need to pin down the agreement for this marriage.’

‘I’m still in mourning...’ Francesca said, but Lord Huntley had already departed, heading through the ballroom with his rotund belly leading the way. Not once had he even acknowledged Ben’s presence.

* * *

‘I’m sorry,’ Francesca said, trying to fight the tears that were building in her eyes. ‘That was incredibly rude, you shouldn’t have had to see that.’

Really she was apologising for Lord Huntley, the oaf of a man who would one day soon be her husband. The thought made her feel peculiarly queasy.

Trying to focus on the man in front of her, she couldn’t help but notice how he was the opposite of Lord Huntley, being tall and broad shouldered. She could tell there wasn’t a single ounce of fat on him even through the thick material of his jacket. His skin didn’t have that sickly grey tone to it, instead there was an unusual but healthy tan on his cheeks as if he spent a large portion of his day outdoors.

‘The best way to avoid discussing your marriage to him tonight is to not be here when he returns with your father,’ the masked stranger said nonchalantly. Feeling her eyes widen, Francesca tried not to splutter. Most people would politely ignore the exchange they had just witnessed, but it seemed the man in front of her wasn’t about to do that. ‘Come on,’ he said, a gleam in his eye that Francesca found vaguely familiar.

Offering her his arm, he flashed her a rather seductive smile as she hesitated. What she should do was wait here for her father and the man who was angling to become her future husband and listen while they discussed her like a horse for sale. Not that she had any illusions that her presence would make any difference to the outcome. She had absolutely no say in whom she married or when, both her father and Lord Huntley had made that perfectly clear.

Feeling rebellious, she took the man’s arm and allowed him to lead her through the ballroom away from the direction Lord Huntley had disappeared in.

‘You must tell me your name,’ she said, peeking up at him from under a carefully curled ringlet that framed her face. Her hair was difficult to tame, but her current maid was an expert at fighting the curly locks into submission and making her look presentable. As long as she didn’t go out in the rain.

‘Ben,’ he offered.

‘I can’t call you Ben.’

He shrugged, smiled at her and said, ‘That’s all you’re getting. This is a night of mystery after all.’

‘Well, Ben,’ she said, leaning in so no one would overhear her being quite so familiar with a stranger, ‘now you’ve removed me from having to discuss my future with Lord Huntley, what do you propose?’ She felt reckless, giddy. Francesca knew it was because she was near to hysteria, her emotions running high at the thought of having her whole future decided for her and a marriage to another man she did not like.

‘We could go somewhere a little more private,’ he suggested, that glint in his eyes again. Francesca trawled back through her memory, trying to place the man. They must have been introduced before, otherwise why was she finding him quite so peculiarly familiar? It was a sensation rather than anything else, a feeling rooted deep inside that she knew the man escorting her around the ballroom.

‘I don’t think that’s wise,’ she said. Years earlier she might have been tempted. He was a good-looking man and she was desperate for a dash of romance, of adventure. But she wasn’t a giddy debutante any longer, far from it. She was a widow in her late twenties, and that meant she’d had plenty of time to realise that liaisons with strange men in dark corners never ended well for anyone, no matter how tempting it might be.

She glanced at the man beside her and saw he wasn’t surprised by her answer. Francesca knew many widows had a looser sense of what was acceptable behaviour and what wasn’t, with many of them engaging in discreet affairs, but she wasn’t one of them. Her father had made it clear when she’d been forced to go back and live with her parents that she would keep her reputation pristine and pure so no potential suitors would be put off. It had worked, she thought glumly, she wasn’t even out of her mourning period for her first husband, Lord Somersham, and she was practically betrothed to Lord Huntley.

‘Then dance with me,’ he said, pausing before changing direction to the dance floor.

‘I’m not meant to dance,’ she said, gesturing to her half-mourning clothes.

‘Surely this world is more fun if you do one or two things you’re not supposed to.’

She felt herself hesitate. She would love to dance, especially with this man by her side. He was strong and young and had a vitality about him that neither her late husband or Lord Huntley had ever exuded. Imagining what it would be like to be swept around the ballroom in his strong arms, she felt herself nodding.

Trying to close her mind off to all the whispers and disapproval that would be coming her way, she allowed her companion to lead her into position. Francesca loved to dance, she’d loved to dance since she was small and had often roped in anyone and everyone to be her dance partner. Governesses, maids, the grouchy old butler, even Ben Crawford, the skinny little son of the estate manager she’d spent her summers playing with.

Ben. She looked up quickly, but the idea was absurd. This man, this charming and confident and attractive man in front of her, was not Ben Crawford. The son of an estate manager wouldn’t be so self-assured in a room full of lord and ladies, and of course he couldn’t be here, he’d been transported to Australia all those years ago. Francesca suppressed the feelings of sadness that always threatened to overtake her when she thought about her childhood friend. Now wasn’t the time.

She glanced at her companion again. He did have something about him though, the same cheeky smile and the same mischief in his eyes. Perhaps that was why she thought the man looked familiar. He reminded her of the friend she had lost all those years ago.

The music started and Francesca felt the pleasure diffuse through her body. She felt as though she was walking on the clouds whenever she danced, loving the instinctive way her body would move to the music. Her partner was both well practised and a natural dancer, twirling her round effortlessly and all the time managing to keep those lively eyes fixed on her and a smile on his lips.

For a second Francesca wondered what it would be like to have a man like this slip into her bed every night, to feel his hard body on top of hers and his soft lips on her skin. Instinctively she knew he would not be selfish in taking his pleasure and a blush spread across her cheeks as she imagined an unending night of passion with him.

‘Now you must tell me what has put such a beautiful blush on your cheeks,’ he murmured, leaning in close so his breath tickled her ear.

Francesca was unable to speak, knowing her voice would come out as a muted squeak if she opened her mouth.

‘Perhaps you’re thinking of moving in just a little closer,’ he whispered, pressing his hand ever so slightly harder into the small of her back. Against her better judgement Francesca allowed her body to press closer in to his, feeling the delightful swish of his legs against hers as they danced. ‘Or perhaps you’re imagining how it might feel if I kissed you here,’ he said, raising a finger and oh-so-briefly trailing it across the skin of her neck.

Now she was imagining that.

‘Or here.’ His fingers had dropped to her collarbone.

Guiltily Francesca glanced around the ballroom to see if anyone had seen the entirely inappropriate touch she’d just allowed. No doubt the gossips were already judging her for dancing when she was still in half-mourning. Even though this was a masquerade ball she was under no illusion that no one knew who she was.

Thankfully the music stopped and she felt the spell break. Her companion stepped away and bowed formally, only the sparkling of his eyes hinting at the inappropriate way he’d acted during their dance.

‘I hear the private terrace is a beautifully secluded spot,’ he murmured in her ear as he escorted her back to the perimeter of the ballroom. ‘If you go out of the ballroom, through the third door on the left and into the library, there are glass doors leading on to the private terrace there.’

He bowed again, then placed a kiss on her gloved hand before disappearing off into the crowd.

Francesca watched him go. There was no way she could join him on this private terrace, no matter how much her body wanted her to. Sighing, she turned back to look for her father and Lord Huntley. It had been a wonderful interlude with her mysterious gentlemen, but nothing more. She had to focus on coming to terms with marrying yet another man she did not particularly like.