Ensnared by Innocence: Steamy Regency Shapeshifter Read online

  “Must you remind me?” Francine took another sip, purposefully looking away.

  “Mayhap I want to hear it again.”

  She swiveled her head to give him an arch look, but willing to flatter his ego nevertheless; he had been remarkably patient with her oft-vexatious relatives. “There never was a second choice—it was you or no one at all.”

  He made a low, pleased noise in his throat. The knave seemed to be fighting a smile as he indicated the unsteady man who’d just passed. “Not even that fine specimen?”

  “Particularly not. He takes snuff,” she confided. “Flakes of it are always hovering at the corners of his lips.”

  “Unsightly,” Erasmus agreed.

  “Untidy.”

  “Undignified.”

  “Intolerable.” Francine shuddered in mock horror.

  “Indubitably.”

  “Effectively.”

  “And with that, my dear, I do believe you have quite effectively put a halt to whatever topic we were conversing upon. Unless, might you permit me to inquire—just what is it we are now discussing?” He placed her empty glass on a tray and lifted her hand, bowing over it as if they were being introduced for the first time.

  “You may inquire.” Francine tried to muffle her laughter but failed miserably. “But I have not a clue.”

  “Pardon the interruption, my lord.” A servant behind Lord Blakely stood, nervously shifting from one foot to the other, seeming somewhat out of breath. “You are Lord Blakely, correct?”

  Erasmus inclined his head. “Aye. What is it?”

  “Very well. I’ve found you.” The servant released a loud sigh and held out a folded, waxed-sealed note. “I was instructed to put this into your hand directly.” He followed through when Erasmus held out his palm. Then in a much quieter tone, looking furtively from side to side, the young man leaned in and said quietly, “I was told it’s most urgent, my lord, that you read it with all due haste.”

  Behaving as though such an odd occurrence was nothing out of the everyday ordinary, Erasmus retrieved a coin from his pocket and held that out to the servant.

  “You may consider your duty dispatched,” he said with a surprisingly serene air.

  “My lord. Thank you.” The man bowed himself off, leaving Francine rather startled.

  When Erasmus made no move, she pointed to the note. “Are you not going to read it?”

  He hesitated, as though about to say something, then, a small muscle ticking in his jaw, he did so, quickly severing the page from the wax closure and opening it, turning toward the wall, as though retrieving another glass, not making it obvious to anyone but her what had his attention.

  She heard the gasp, saw the slight paling of his features that he so quickly erased. When he turned back to her, in complete command of his expression once again, one would never guess that whatever he’d just read had prompted such a reaction.

  “And now, my dear, I most heartily regret that I must step away for a moment. Do forgive me. I am needed elsewhere. I—”

  Once again, he stopped himself from saying something. He took her gloved hand, gave it a soothingly tight squeeze, brushed his thumb over the back in an unmistakable caress and met her gaze, allowing his to show the molten heat he’d kept banked the last hour or more. “I shall return to escort you home before the night is through, have no fear. Sooner if I can manage it.”

  Then he was gone, striding off, leaving her staring at the immaculate, enthralling precision of six foot, three inches—or thereabouts—of strong, powerful, tortured man in one bang-up fine assortment of attire…

  For he’d dressed quite formally for the evening, going so far as to wear black knee breeches for the occasion. Above which the fitted burgundy tailcoat displayed his broad shoulders to perfection; below which, white silk stockings graced his lower legs above the buckled shoes.

  Despite her curiosity over the note that had troubled him so, she couldn’t help the little heartsick sigh that escaped, watching the muscles in his lower legs flex and move as they made their way toward the door, taking her stalwart protector—and the devastatingly attractive view—away.

  Once Erasmus left, the string quartet Francine had so looked forward to, while still something of an allure, took on less prominence compared to her concern over what might have demanded her betrothed’s attention with such urgency.

  Nevertheless, not one to wander aimlessly when there might be things to learn, she sought out the Stantons’ middle daughter, knowing they shared an interest in mathematics and curious whether Louisa had made any strides in her efforts to learn the probabilities surrounding Vingt-un depending upon what was already visible on the table, as she’d expressed an interest in calculating the last time their paths crossed.

  Instead, finding her friend surrounded by beaus despite the horrid harpsichord melodies, Francine decided to explore the open and candlelit areas of the large townhouse, inviting guests to enjoy. Quite massive, even by London standards, the prior Lord Stanton going so far as to purchase the one next door and combine the two, creating a lively space for gatherings, as well as other vast rooms not often found in town.

  Two staircases, several turns and a long hallway later, she found herself perusing the majestic portraits in the upstairs gallery. Surprisingly, she was the only person taking pleasure in that particular pastime, now that the few others who’d been there when she arrived had left, murmuring about locating refreshments and retiring rooms before the music began anew.

  Upon reaching the far end of the long gallery, she craned her neck to inspect a painted family from another century. “Hoops galore,” she whispered, in awe of the exorbitantly wide panniers that supported the sumptuous dresses worn by the females depicted in the portrait. “How did they sit? Use a chamber pot?”

  At that particular image in her head, a light snicker escaped. Before the sound died down, hushed voices beyond the arched doorway captured her attention.

  Was that her youngest cousin? Whispering intently on the other side of the door? Despite her uncertainty, her feet refused to move, no matter that listening in showed every bit of ill breeding her aunt liked to unjustly accuse her of.

  “…speak with you most candidly, my lord, if you would but allow it?” That was Temperance, most assuredly; Francine had heard the exact hushed, low whisper when they used to confide in each other and didn’t want to wake any of the household.

  She stepped closer to the hinges, even dared to glance through the small crevice before hesitation took her a single step away, allowing only her ears and not her eyes to be privy to what occurred on the other side.

  “By all means, Miss Comberlander, I believe ’tis imperative, of the utmost importance in fact, that two people seeking to spend the rest of their time on this earth together can and do speak to each other with nothing but plain honesty between them.”

  ’Twas Lord Wylde conversing quietly with Temperance, the man she’d recently become engaged to. Renowned for his fastidious appearance, he easily rivaled Beau Brummell as an arbiter of men’s fashion, one others sought to emulate, his waistcoats always sporting the most detailed embroidery and vivid colors, his neckcloths the most intricate of arrangements. When he wasn’t fluid perfection on the dance floor, Francine had noted, he had the most precise, regal manner, reminding her of those in the military, but without that experience himself—or so she thought.

  “Without reservations muddying the waters,” he continued. “So, aye, speak plainly if you would.”

  “I am relieved to hear you feel thus, however it pains me to say this…” Even Francine could hear the hesitation in Temperance’s voice. “The unadorned truth is, my lord… Lord Wylde, I-simply-do-not-see-the-two-of-us-spending-our-remaining-days-together,” she rushed out in one long word. “Indefinitely, that is. Ad finitum.”

  The man gave a quiet grunt after the Latin addition. “You do not, do you?”

  “Please know, ’tis nothing against you, specifically. Nothing at all. In actual
ity, I find you a very fine specimen indeed. Very cordial, extremely pleasant. You have been nothing but amiable in all your dealings with my mother as well—no mean feat, I admit. And I appreciate the conversations we have had to date, however brief, and find you a magnificent dancer, if I may be so bold.”

  Francine couldn’t help but wonder, with all that her cousin found to admire in the attractive lord, why on earth wouldn’t she want to marry him?

  “Well, then?” the lord in question questioned, blatant curiosity in his tone, as though he wondered the same thing.

  Another couple entered the gallery across the way and Francine had to restrain herself from shooing them back out. As long as they stayed on the opposite side, there’d be no chance of them eavesdropping as well. That thought should have made her feel guilty enough to move.

  It didn’t. If anything, she leaned closer to the crack along the door and tilted her head to better hear how Temperance responded. But Lord Wylde wasn’t yet finished.

  With a quiet dignity she could not help but applaud, he added, “Might you now enumerate the reasons why I shall not suit as a forever mate? If I am to be jilted for a second time in as many years, I believe ’tis fitting I understand the rationale, do you not agree?”

  “Of a certainty,” her cousin rushed to assure him. “And that is the truth—exactly what has given me the most pause.”

  Francine had all but forgotten the furor over the public jilt two years ago, his from-the-womb betrothed taking off mere hours before their scheduled nuptials—at St. George’s, no less—eloping to Scotland with the fourth son of another family, one with a much less illustrious reputation than Lord Wylde himself had possessed (up to that point).

  It wasn’t so much that the woman had discarded their union for one not considered anywhere near as grand, but that she had done so with such a lack of consideration for his reputation—literally abandoning him in front of everyone already in attendance at the majestic church. With nothing more than a note, delivered by a hired messenger, not even a family servant, only minutes before the event was scheduled to begin.

  “In truth, Lord Wylde,” Temperance continued, sounding truly regretful, “it is because of how very comfortable I do feel with you, that we ought not marry. I believe we would be doing both ourselves an extreme disfavor.”

  “Disfavor?” he queried, making no effort to hide how flummoxed he was at her attempted explanation. “When we already get along tolerably well? When a budding friendship might become something more?”

  “But that is my point exactly!” Temperance said with the most animation Francine had heard yet, starting to sound more like a Tempest indeed.

  Her neck was starting to hurt, still staring at the antiquated painting, as she was. But at least her seeming fascination with the piece had induced the other couple to circle, before they’d reached the far end where she stood, and start making their way back toward the entrance, thus preserving the remainder of her cousin’s privacy—that which Francine herself was still invading.

  “I do not want to tolerate a life’s mate, my lord, I want to rejoice in him, and him me. And again, please forgive my blunt speaking…” Temperance was all quiet earnestness now. “But friendship is all it would ever be between us, of that I am quite confident.”

  “Are your affections fixed elsewhere?”

  “As those of your prior betrothed were? Nay, they are not. I answer you with all honesty. There is no one else I have a tendre for, no inkling nor cravings in any direction, save those I harbor toward the future.

  “Nonsensical in the extreme or not”—once again, Temperance’s voice expressed both regret and enthusiasm—“I cannot help but wish for more, for myself and for you.”

  “Damn me, Miss Comberlander, I begin to regret not wooing you in truth. You are a fine young woman and I have no doubt will make some man a perfect match. Would that it could be me, but alas, I understand, more than I care to admit, what you share.”

  “I fear it sounds rather fickle of me, but I wish not to feel quite so very comfortable with a man I am to be sharing such intimate and enduring activities with. To put it bluntly, Lord Wylde, I could not think of you more as a brother had we grown up together since the time of leading strings. Please, be as forthright with me now. I meant it when I said I do not want to harm you, nor your reputation, further, and I regret, abominably so, that this most assuredly will.

  “If, for whatever reason, you have your heart set on marrying me, I will go through with it, with as much equanimity as I can muster. And I vow to be faithful henceforth. Regardless—”

  “Halt.” It sounded as though he took a step forward, possibly touched Temperance to stem the heartfelt avowals. “Nay, I shall not require nor request such a sacrifice on your part, nor of mine. For if truth be known, I only offered for you out of a sense of protective pity.” My, oh my, the things one learned listening at cracks. “Now I hesitate to share this with you, but believe it is information you deserve to know. I was casually gaming at a house party, hosted by the parents of a friend of mine, where your mother was in attendance.

  “Though she was bosky at the time, I regret to inform you she made remarks about bartering you, your future, to more than one insalubrious type present. She had an amazing run, and continued to win each time such an outlandish thing was mentioned, but when it happened a third time, and the cards I was dealt gave me their blessing, I did all I could to secure you from her, unwilling to risk your hand being transferred elsewhere. And to someone who might be lacking in my, shall we say, sense of moral fortitude?”

  Francine couldn’t help but gasp and staggered into the corner, abandoning her desire to listen in upon the heels of that revelation.

  Dastardly rakes and scurrilous scoundrels, but her aunt was truly, truly vile.

  So, Francine had not been the only dependent Aunt Pru was willing to sacrifice over her unhealthy addiction to gaming?

  Nor did Tempest sound anything like the mutton-headed flit-about she often did at home and in the presence of their other relatives, all of her words pronounced accurately, all of her reasoning quite sound. Leading Francine to conclude she herself had been outwitted by her quick-thinking cousin. Definitely time to find out why.

  On silent, slippered feet, she retraced her steps to the other side of the gallery, where an elaborately wide settee resided under an equally wide family painting, this one showing their country estate, she assumed, the peaceful, rolling green hills, beautiful three-story manor house and picnicking throng helping settle the maelstrom of thoughts surging through her baffled brain.

  7

  A Wild Interruption

  Meet me outside. At the mews.

  Another has been found.

  —A

  Two brief lines that struck sheer horror into his heart, sent terror slicing through him yet again. Another? God in heaven, when would this stop?

  “What the devil happened?”

  Foregoing any manner of greeting, Blakely’s demand blasted the pungent air of the Stanton stables the moment he ducked inside the long structure and found his quarry. Air redolent with leather, horseflesh and their leavings. His nose having delivered him to the corner Adam inhabited, the one furthest from the beehive of activity taking place closer to the main entrance.

  Not unexpectedly, given the elegant throng attending the auditory festivities tonight, just a wall or several away, the space was crowded with enough carriages, horses, and their coachmen, tigers and grooms, that two more men, conversing in hushed whispers, shouldn’t rouse significant interest. To make sure, Blakely stepped deeper into the shadows, his formal dress glaringly more out of place than the working-man’s type attire Adam preferred.

  “Who is manning the club if your arse is here?”

  The same age as Blakely, give or take, Adam had his own secrets—staggering ones—Blakely had learned of quite by accident. The brawny, sandy-haired American from the Texas frontier had come to London on his own quest—and to Blakely’s a
ide one evil, misbegotten night, assisting him with some wretched business, then staying on. From stranger to confidant in the span of a few short hours. Despite his peculiarities, a man Blakely trusted as no other—not even his erstwhile, missing family members, damn their hidden hides.

  Where the bloody hell was Nash? He’d usually show his furry face by now. Damn buffoon grew out his own whiskery bristles into an unfashionable beard, thinking ’twould mask The Change. Not hardly, especially not given the careless way his brother insisted upon dressing, eschewing any manner of more formal garments befitting his station.

  While Blakely had always used his birthright and his title—his arrogant bearing easily exaggerated given his naturally reserved inclinations—to keep most at a distance, Nash did the opposite: letting his long, untrimmed hair and untamed beard, and the casual dregs he dressed in, combined with an intentionally surly nature to keep others away and maintain his privacy.

  Adam wasn’t much better, foregoing any effort at the impeccable appearance Blakely depended upon so… Adam with his horridly plain bandanna tied around his neck in lieu of a neckcloth. His unusual pantaloons a stiff, thick texture, much looser around the legs and longer than typical. His upper lip taken over by a giant, furry caterpillar of a mustache—totally not in vogue. Totally “Texan”, circa 1790s—according to his pseudo-assistant and true friend.

  “Baywick stayed,” Adam answered now, mentioning one of their doorkeepers. “Add to that, with what happened, I ushered out everyone who didn’t belong, made sure those who did were tucked in tight, and locked the doors with Bay keeping watch.”

  Blakely nodded, already his body tensing for the news that was imminent. “What transpired?”