Читать книгу Reunited With His Long-Lost Cinderella - Laura Martin, Laura Martin - Страница 11

‘Why the long face?’ Sam Robertson asked as he came and sat down in one of the comfortable armchairs in Lady Winston’s drawing room alongside Ben and George Fitzgerald. Lady Winston was Fitzgerald’s aunt and their hostess for their time in London. She’d been kind to them, accepting Ben and Sam as if they were her relatives alongside Fitzgerald.

Up until recently Ben had been staying at her town house alongside his two friends, but he’d craved a little privacy to conduct his affairs and had rented a set of rooms nearby. He did, however, drop in most days for at least one meal, or to partake in the particularly delicious mid-afternoon snack Lady Winston insisted on serving. The platter of cakes, scones and biscuits was enough to keep ten men going for an entire day, but between the three of them they often devoured it completely.

‘Do you remember when we were on the transport ship together,’ Ben said after loading his plate up with biscuits and cakes, ‘I told you about the girl I used to be friends with? The one whose father falsely accused me of stealing the family jewellery.’

‘Of course. Francesca, wasn’t it?’

He nodded. ‘I saw her last night. I talked to her.’

‘Did she remember who you were?’ Robertson asked.

‘It was at the masquerade. I was wearing a mask.’

‘The lady in violet,’ Fitzgerald said, understanding dawning in his eyes, ‘The one you asked me to escort to the library.’

‘Did you want her to remember you?’ Robertson asked.

Ben shrugged, trying to act nonchalant. Of course he’d wanted her to remember him. For so long she’d haunted his dreams and, if he was completely honest, she was one of the main reasons prompting his return to England. He had needed to see she was happy, that her father hadn’t completely ruined her life as well.

Now he had set eyes on her again, his feelings were even more complicated. As they’d danced on the terrace the night before he had seen the recognition slowly dawning in Francesca’s eyes and he’d been all ready to reveal his identity to her, but then an unfamiliar stab of uncertainty had stopped him. She was a lady, the daughter of a viscount. He might be a wealthy landowner now, but his origins still meant he was an imposter in society. What if she shunned him? He’d taken the easy way out, the coward’s way, and had slipped away before she confronted him about his identity.

‘Did you tell her who you were?’ Fitzgerald asked.

He shook his head. ‘I planned to...’

‘So what happened?’

Ben shrugged. ‘She probably doesn’t even remember me anyway.’

‘Unlikely,’ Robertson said. ‘Surely she’d remember the man her father had falsely arrested?’

At the end of that last summer before Ben had been arrested there was a robbery at Elmington Manor, Francesca’s childhood home. A large amount of jewellery was stolen, along with some cash and other small valuables. The hue and cry was raised and the magistrate along with other upstanding men in the community began their search.

After a week a small locket had been found in Ben’s possession. It had Francesca’s initials on it and immediately Ben had been arrested. He’d begged his accusers to just go and ask Francesca, to confirm that she’d given him the locket as a gift, as a token of their friendship.

The magistrate refused, no doubt eager to stay in favour with Lord Pottersdown, but one day a week into his incarceration Francesca had turned up anyway. She told anyone who would listen that Ben was speaking the truth—she had given him the locket. Over and over she told the magistrate that her father had set the whole thing up, that he had framed Ben in a desperate attempt to cover his own debts. Of course, no one had listened. She was just a girl, a ten-year-old who was obviously infatuated with a common thief.

Eventually her father had arrived and dragged her away. Ben would never forget the moment the door of the county gaol closed behind her; in that moment, his heart had broken. Three months later he was sent to the hulk ships that lined the Thames and a year after that he was aboard a transportation ship to Australia.

In the eight years of his sentence and the ten years since he’d acquired his freedom he hadn’t ever been able to forget his childhood friend. He’d dreamed of coming back for her, to rescue her from her cruel father. As he’d grown older he’d let go of any thoughts of rescue, knowing that by now Francesca would be living her own life, but he’d never given up the hope that one day he might see her again.

What he hadn’t expected was the attraction he’d felt for her. When he’d last seen her they’d both been children. He had loved her, there was no denying that, but in a way one friend loves another. Now he felt something much more primal, much more pressing. He desired her. Francesca was beautiful now, sleek and elegant and graceful. When they’d danced, he’d felt raw desire for the woman in his arms and it had taken all his self-control not to kiss her there and then on the terrace. Even though once they had been very close he knew it was unlikely a woman of Francesca’s status would allow herself to be seduced by him.

‘So you’re just going to leave it?’ Robertson asked, his voice a touch incredulous.

Ben shook his head. He couldn’t leave it like that. He had just needed to regroup, that was all, decide what he actually wanted from Francesca before he saw her again.

‘She was very pretty,’ Fitzgerald said quietly. Probably the most perceptive of the three friends, George Fitzgerald had a way of seeing past the façade and getting to the heart of a problem.

‘She’s changed a lot,’ Ben said carefully.

‘And she’s a widow...’

‘Not that kind,’ Ben said quickly. She was a respectable woman, he knew that much, and he also knew how reputation mattered to the ladies and gentlemen of society.

‘Fair enough. Isn’t she engaged, though?’ Fitzgerald asked.

‘Not yet,’ he said, thinking of the boorish man he’d met fleetingly the night before. He couldn’t imagine the girl he’d once known married to such an oaf and likely that was the source of sadness in her eyes. She’d said as much, with her desire for a little freedom in her choice, in her life.

‘Then you have a window of opportunity, surely?’ Robertson said.

‘I do,’ he said quietly. First he needed to work out what he wanted from Francesca—only then would he seek her out again.

* * *

Taking a deep breath, Francesca looked up at the building in front of her. It was in a desirable part of London, the street lined with trees and well-dressed men and women strolling along the pavements arm in arm. Really, she shouldn’t be nervous.

Telling herself not to be so silly, she crossed the road and climbed the five steps that led to the front door. There she hesitated, not knowing what the correct etiquette was when visiting a gentleman’s rooms.

Francesca had been an unmarried debutante for two years, unhappily married for seven, and then a widow for almost a year now. That made ten years of adulthood in which she had never visited a gentleman’s rooms. Many of her contemporaries would whisper and giggle about their affairs, taking pleasure in sneaking off behind their husbands’ backs to meet their lovers, but she had never done anything like that. So she lifted the knocker and let it drop a couple of times, all the while feeling completely out of her depth.

‘Good morning, miss,’ a pretty young girl said as she answered the door. She was dressed in a French maid’s uniform that had been popular for a certain set of the ton to instruct their maids to wear a couple of years earlier.

‘I’m here to see Mr Crawford,’ Francesca said quietly, hoping no one would overhear.

‘I’ll see if he’s in, miss, if you’d like to wait here.’

The maid indicated a spot in the hallway where a couple of chairs had been set out for waiting visitors. Francesca perched, ready to flee at the slightest sign of anyone recognising her.

Two minutes later the maid returned, almost skipping down the stairs.

‘Mr Crawford will see you,’ she said. ‘Follow me.’

Feeling increasingly nervous with every step, she followed the young maid up two flights of stairs to the top floor of the building. There, lounging against the door frame of an open door, was Ben. Without the mask it was unmistakably him, the boy she’d called her closest friend throughout their childhood. He gave her a half-smile, full of charm, and despite her nerves Francesca felt her heart flip inside her chest.

‘Lady Somersham,’ he said, his voice low, ‘What a pleasant surprise.’ He didn’t look surprised to see her, he didn’t look as if anything in the world could ruffle him, especially not the mere reappearance of an old childhood friend.

‘Mr Crawford,’ she greeted him formally, her upbringing taking over as her mind went completely blank. She wanted to reach out, to touch his face, trace the lines with her fingers and convince herself he was really there and not just a figment of her imagination.

‘I think you can call me Ben, Frannie,’ he said with that roguishly charming smile. ‘It’s not as though we’re strangers.’

He was right. They were far from strangers, but the boy she’d known had grown up into a man she didn’t much recognise. A man her body was reacting to in a most inappropriate way.

‘What brings you to this part of town?’ he asked, still leaning against the doorframe.

With her eyes narrowing, Francesca took in his appearance. He was wearing a shirt and trousers only, no jacket and no necktie or cravat. His shirt was half-untucked and opened at the neck, revealing a hint of the bronzed skin of his chest underneath.

A moment of realisation dawned and her hand rose involuntarily to her mouth. It was the middle of the day, but that didn’t mean to say he didn’t have company.

‘It’s a bad time...’ she began to say, starting to back away. How could she be so foolish? He was a grown man, a man who wasn’t tied by the expectations of society like she was. She felt unexpected jealousy and quickly tried to tamper it down before it could show on her face.

‘Not for me.’ Ben caught her by the hand, then stepped back, motioning for her to enter his rooms first.

They were sparsely furnished with just the essentials. A small sitting room with a couple of chairs alongside a writing table and then a bedroom leading off the sitting room with a bed and wardrobe. It didn’t look as though Ben had brought much of his own to personalise the space, but if the rumours were to be believed he had only recently arrived from Australia and as such probably wouldn’t have much more than his clothes and a few of his dearest possessions with him.

‘Would you like me to call for something to drink?’ he asked, motioning for her to take one of the chairs. He perched on the windowsill, leaning casually back against the glass.

Now she was here, Francesca didn’t know what to say. At the ball three nights ago when she’d realised who the mysterious man in the mask really was she’d barely been able to believe it. Ben, the boy she’d loved ever since she could remember. The one she’d carried in her heart all these years, never daring to hope she might see him again. And now he was here, in the flesh. All six foot of him, and he was grinning at her like they were twelve again.

‘You’re looking well, Frannie,’ he said softly.

His words and his tone unnerved her. His voice was low and gravelly and it cut through her body and penetrated her soul. There was something about the way he looked at her that made her want to throw herself into his arms and find out just how strong the taut muscles were. Ben had aged well and barely looked his thirty years; only the faint few lines around his eyes gave away the life he’d lived already.

Self-consciously she touched her hair. Ten years ago she’d been considered a diamond of the Season. That was after hours of her maid taming and curling her hair and strapping her into beautiful dresses, but Francesca had still felt like a fraud. Then she’d been more at home in breeches and a shirt with her hair loose and streaming out behind her.

Now she was twenty-eight. Many of her friends had children the same age as she’d been when Ben was sent away. She was no longer young, no longer so smooth and polished. Years of living with a man who gradually resented her more and more had caused her to age a little. Ben, with his handsome tanned face and muscular physique, was probably used to pretty young things throwing themselves at him.

‘So are you,’ she said.

It was true. The boy she remembered had been all arms and legs. Tall for his age but skinny, with a cheeky grin that had been too big for his face. He’d been tanned then, too, a consequence of spending every waking hour running through the countryside.

The man in front of her bore a passing resemblance to that boy, but the changes were innumerable. He was taller now, with long legs and a broad body, no longer skinny, but a frame filled with hard muscle. His hair was still the same dark brown and his eyes a dark, deep green, but his face had changed over the years. The smile was still there, but layered behind the cheekiness was years of experience and Francesca knew instinctively it had charmed hundreds of women.

‘You left the masquerade without saying anything,’ she said, not knowing how to start. She could hardly come out and tell him she’d thought about him every day for the last eighteen years.

‘I didn’t want to embarrass you,’ he said quietly.

Francesca nodded slowly, feeling the pain at the instant reminder in their difference in circumstances. It had always haunted them, always kept them apart even as children. Again and again her father had threatened to have Ben whipped if he caught her running wild around the estate with him again. He wasn’t deemed suitable company for the daughter of a viscount. Now was no different, not really. Francesca was expected to marry well again and keep herself scandal-free until then. Socialising with an ex-convict would hardly be keeping a low profile.

Lord Huntley. She’d almost forgotten about him in the heat of the moment. The man she was destined to marry as soon as her mourning period was over. He would be livid if he knew she was here. He might even call off the marriage. Even though she despised the man she had to marry him. Yet still she could not bring herself to leave.

‘Sit down, Frannie,’ he said, motioning to one of the chairs. She obeyed, glad to sink into the soft fabric. This whole encounter had drained her already and a seat was welcome while she worked out what she had wanted when she came to see Ben.

‘How are you here?’ she asked. There were so many things she wanted to know, so many questions she barely knew where to start.

‘I took a ship from Australia,’ Ben said, grinning as she rolled her eyes at him. Already she was beginning to feel more at ease.

‘You know that’s not what I mean.’

‘I think my life story might be a little too long for you to listen to.’

‘I don’t need your life story,’ Francesca said, leaning forward in her chair, ‘Not all of it at least. Just what you’ve been doing for the past eighteen years.’

‘This and that,’ he said. ‘I’m more interested in you.’

‘This and that isn’t a proper answer.’

‘I served my sentence,’ he said and Francesca noted the subtle flash of pain in his eyes as he remembered the years he must have spent toiling under the hot Australian sun. ‘Then I was lucky enough to be taken in by a kind man who mentored me and showed me how to thrive in a hostile land. I had good friends and I built a life for myself out there. A good life.’

What he wasn’t saying was the pain he must have felt at everything he’d left behind. His father and siblings, people who cared for him, people who loved him.

‘How about you?’ he asked.

‘I was married,’ Francesca said, wondering how to condense the last unhappy decade and a half into a few sentences. ‘And now I’m a widow.’ It was depressing when she said it like that. Eighteen years Ben had been gone and all she had to show for it was a dead husband she hadn’t much liked and now the prospect of another marriage she was being forced into.

‘My Frannie,’ Ben said, slipping from his chair and kneeling in front of her. With callused fingers he reached up and stroked her cheek, and Francesca instinctively closed her eyes and sank into the caress. She didn’t know this man, not how he was now, but everything about him seemed right. Her body and her heart were telling her to fall into his arms even though she’d barely exchanged a hundred words with him. ‘Such sadness,’ he said, ‘What can I do to make you smile again?’ The words were almost a whisper and conjured up thoughts of all sorts of inappropriate actions. She could almost feel his lips on her skin, his hands on her body, his legs entwined with hers. Unconsciously she leaned forward ever so slightly, catching herself at the last moment and recoiling sharply.

‘I need to go,’ she said, the words catching in her throat. Thoughts of Lord Huntley flooded into her mind and she had to blink away the tears. He was her future, not the man in front of her.

Lord Huntley with his wobbling jowls and mottled skin. What a contrast to Ben who was the embodiment of vigour and health. At the masquerade his eyes had seemed to penetrate to her very soul and today she felt as though his lips were teasing her, inviting her in.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said and stepped towards the door.

Her hand was on the doorknob when she felt a soft touch on her arm. He must have moved as quickly and silently as one of the big cats that she’d seen the previous year at an exhibition. The black panther had stalked around the tiny cage as if constantly on the lookout for prey.

‘Wait,’ he said. His fingers burned through the material of her dress and she felt the heat of his skin on hers. Taking a deep breath to compose herself, she turned and found Ben standing directly behind her. They were close, far too close for propriety, but she’d thrown all notions of good behaviour away when she’d knocked on a bachelor’s door. Slowly she raised her chin so she was looking into his eyes.

It was a mistake. The moment her eyes met his she knew it was futile to resist. It might not be today or this week, but one day she would succumb to those eyes, to the man behind them.

‘I missed you, Frannie,’ he said, raising a hand and tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered, caressing her neck like the most intimate of lovers, and it took all her self-control not to sigh with contentment.

‘I missed you, too,’ she found herself admitting. She needed to get out of his rooms, needed to escape before she did something she would regret. Something that would put her whole future, the future of her entire family, in jeopardy. ‘But I can’t see you again.’

‘Lord Huntley?’ Ben asked, an amused look in his eyes.

‘He wouldn’t approve.’

Ben leaned in, his breath tickling her ear. ‘Sometimes it feels good to be just a little bit bad, doesn’t it?’

Francesca swallowed, knowing if she tried to speak her voice would come out as a series of squeaks instead of words.

‘I should go,’ was all she managed to repeat eventually. Ben smiled and leaned forward, kissing her cheek with a gentle brush of his lips. Francesca was mortified by the small sigh that managed to escape from her throat and knew she was turning pink.

‘If you wish,’ he said, his eyes never leaving hers.

Nervously she groped for the doorknob again, her fingers slipping in her anxiety to get away. After two more attempts she had it gripped in her hand and twisted, almost falling out into the corridor. She’d hoped the spell he seemed to hold over her might break if she put a little distance between them, but it didn’t seem to make any difference. With a hurried little curtsy that made her feel completely ridiculous, she scurried off down the hall, feeling his eyes on her back the entire way.