Ensnared by Innocence: Steamy Regency Shapeshifter Read online

  Kat had been married for three years now, still without issue, poor dear, and…well…

  Well, now that Francine was finally engaged? Finally engaging in her own clandestine activities—stolen kisses, brief touches and heated looks aplenty, if not the significantly more she’d rather. Well, Francine found that she had to tell someone. Had multiple topics to question her friend on, both about things she and her betrothed had done together—and several they hadn’t but ones she wondered about all the same.

  Who better than to confide in except her married bosom friend?

  “There!” Finally. The worst knot came free, giving Francine a chance to stretch as she pulled the long thread out, her thoughts reluctantly turning to her aunt.

  Despite her begrudgingly obsequious behavior toward Lord Blakely, now that he’d ferreted out her secrets, Aunt Prudence had been quite the stickler when it came to observing the proprieties. Almost as though she’d resigned herself to having her niece marry a nobleman not of her choosing—not a gambling cohort, more like—and now that he’d been “secured”, in a manner of speaking, she became determined to behave how a true guardian should.

  To the point that Francine had spent far less time—alone—with him than she’d hoped. Or expected. “Leastwise he’s not here to see the disaster that has become my hair.”

  Measly solace, that, with the townhouse unaccountably still—normally a boon but not with the wretched storms keeping her confined inside for the second day in a row. Boredom had set in. The dreaded ennui, worse than any she’d ever known.

  Time with Erasmus had bestowed such a generous glimpse of pure independence, and she was fiendishly resentful at having it summarily stripped.

  At a light yet persistent knocking and slightly louder throat-clear, she lifted her head toward the open door and found their butler, patiently waiting for her head to come down out of the clouds and acknowledge his presence. With so few beings currently in residence, at least she knew who it was, never mind that she couldn’t see him well, not through the smudge on her left spectacle, nor even the clear glass of her right, not after concentrating up close for so long.

  “Aye, Mr. Burford? Have you come with fortuitous news, perhaps?”

  The always pink-cheeked, rotund man put her in mind of an overweight yet spry, nearly silent cherub. Since encountering each other’s unguarded expressions when one of her cousins spouted something erroneous, then again when the other used a jolter-headed version of a word, they’d begun exchanging pointed looks upon said occurrences and had become quite the allies.

  Whether smiling over ridiculous utterances, compliments of one of her relatives, or exchanging between themselves a handful of grammatically flawless sentences in passing, she felt a true kinship with the quiet servant. “You have ordered off the rain clouds as I requested, is that it?”

  “Aye, my lady. Ordered as directed. I trust they will be trouncing off to the south in moments. Told yon sun to rear its beaming head seconds after.”

  “Excellent news, my good sir. You are to be commended for such outstanding butlering, Mr. B.” Though she couldn’t see it—or him—worth a farthing, not after focusing on untangling her dreadful coil of threads this last hour, she knew that he smiled. For it shone in his voice. “I shall order you an increase in salary, shall I, the next time I see my aunt?”

  He couldn’t muffle his snort of laughter at that absurdity. “Always pleased to please my lady. Ahem. Lady Francine.” His voice got louder and deeper, somewhat languid—his Official Butlering Voice, they’d jested. “My lady, you have a visitor.”

  A visitor?

  A visitor!

  She scrambled to her feet, dislodging her detangling efforts to the floor. No time to retrieve the hash! Not when her hands were frantically trying to tame hair that frizzed and frazzled and flew every which way when it rained for hours on end, and a maid wasn’t there to lend talents to taming the vexing disarray.

  Her agitated motions to curb the frizzled mess knocked her spectacles off.

  While her hands valiantly attempted to salvage some semblance of presentability, the rest of her had frozen in place.

  “Who?” It came out a squeak, for no one ever visited her, not when her aunt wasn’t home arranging callers and lives. Not since Katherina had gotten married and stopped coming to London as well. Not when the knocker had been taken off the front door, signaling the family was not at home to receive afternoon callers.

  She blinked, trying fruitlessly to focus in the gloom, only to see Mr. Burford turn his attention beyond the room and nod to some unseen person. “My lord.”

  Then back to her, making a sharp, make-haste motion with his hand, hidden from the approaching visitor.

  “Lord Blakely,” Burford announced in his intentionally somber tone, causing Francine’s heart to leap, her stomach to drop and her arms to fall to her side—as her unruly hair spoke volumes, defying her every attempt at obedience.

  “Erasmus,” whispered from her, the casual address she shouldn’t speak in front of others escaping on a sigh. Then her hands lifted again, patting, tugging, praying for some semblance of muffled order to magically appear upon her blighted head.

  * * *

  Enjoying every word of the curious and extended exchange between his betrothed and the servant, Blakely paused at the doorway until Burford called his name much louder than necessary, as though he wanted Francine unaware of how close he’d been. How much he’d overheard. How much he’d seen.

  During the hours of hard riding yesterday and the agonizing events of last evening he was determined to blot from his mind… During the estate and family matters he’d seen efficiently to beforehand, permitting his earlier-than-expected return…

  During all that time, he’d imagined the delighted pleasure on her face when he surprised her with his early arrival.

  Yet never could he have prepared himself for the sight that greeted him now. How the perfect blonde ringlets had transformed into an anything-but-angelic halo of chaos. Rioting about her pretty but flushed face as though in battle. Giving her an untamed look, an extraordinary wildness that touched him in an unforeseen manner.

  Nor could he have prepared himself for the way her hushed little moan of his name, Erasmus, would sound like the sun singing to his dark soul. How inviting her to use it weeks ago would weaken the barriers he normally kept fortified.

  How her very presence constantly drew him forth, inviting him to be as free and easy with her, with himself…

  How she alone would claw her way inside and start to wind around his chest—

  Nay. Erasmus shook himself. Definitely not in the vicinity of the cold, unfeeling organ that resided therein.

  Definitely not his chest.

  His sword.

  Of a sudden, quite unexpectedly given his plans for the day, he yearned for her to be his scabbard, yearned to throw her down, toss up her skirts and sheathe himself in the warm, wet welcome he knew would be waiting.

  Despite the fetching tumult tempting his fingers to rumple it further, her rattled gaze arrested the ardent impulses. Subdued the growing need.

  Eyes wide and startlingly bright from within the center of the white-gold mane of hair all a rumpus about her face. Eyes conveying surprise—and sheer embarrassment if he read her right.

  ’Twas a struggle, indeed, to keep the smile from his countenance. But one he mastered, lest she think he was laughing at her. It was a sheer delight, seeing this new side of her, one not completely composed. One he suspected few were fortunate to witness.

  He felt quite…honored at the realization. No matter how peculiar—that seeing her completely undone should bring him satisfaction of all things

  Then she blinked, slowly…once…twice…and all was erased. Replaced with—now that he’d glimpsed the truth—a bamboozle of poise.

  “My lord. Welcome.” She even gave a perfect curtsy, not too deep nor too shallow, just contrived enough that he knew he had ascertained her embarrassment accurately
.

  “Lady Francine, shall I send for…”

  Behind him, the butler’s words dwindled, distracting Francine and tugging her gaze from his.

  Erasmus shifted so he could observe them both.

  “No need,” she told the other man calmly. “Lord Blakely has called before. As my betrothed, there exists no harm in us spending a short time alone.”

  The butler inclined his head. “As you wish, my lady. Refreshments, then? Shall I send those in?”

  She hesitated, so Erasmus stepped in, removing his gloves and placing them, along with his already discarded overcoat and hat, upon a small table near the door.

  “Burford, thank you, but nay,” he told the man. “Refreshments are not needed. Just leave us please, for—” He snared her overly bright gaze, doubtful he successfully banked the hunger gleaming from his. “For ten minutes. No longer.”

  “Aye, my lord. As you say.” Responding to the authority of a peer who knew how to wield it, Burford bowed out the door, silently tugging it closed behind him—all but three inches.

  How very unexpected—Lady Francine, the most serene, pulled-together female of his London acquaintance, mortified at being caught not quite at her best?

  A sense of ease expanded his chest once they were blessedly alone, for ’twas almost a balm to discover his perfect intended wasn’t. Wasn’t quite the sublime English miss she presented outwardly to all and sundry, had her own little foibles, in fact. Lord knew he had his.

  Made her seem a little more…approachable. Keepable, even.

  Don’t go there, you knave. Keepable? ’Tis not even a word.

  He slammed the lid on the interruption.

  Did he chaff her over it? Tease her? Put her at ease?

  Or did he do the opposite…

  Attempt to teach her a lesson for not being completely truthful with him, never mind that it was her own feelings this time, not some bounder of a tale perpetuating fabricated lists of other men?

  A snarl threatened at the thought of other fellows sniffing around her. A twitch of his shoulders and he shook it off.

  She hadn’t moved, looked like a figurine, or two halves of one:

  The perfect half? Her day dress of ecru and apricot; her slippers and the glimpse of peach-colored stocking (only seen as the back of her skirt had caught on the settee behind her, leaving the hem angled, did she but know it, and exposing an enticing amount of ankle and lower leg).

  The other half? Above the lace-edged, puffed sleeves and straight-across neckline?

  Above the elegant cameo brooch he’d given her as a private betrothal present, it being more to his taste than the gaudy array of diamonds and emeralds he’d handed over publicly to further cement their agreement in her aunt’s eyes…

  The beautifully carved shell, portraying some Roman goddess—he knew not which—bedecked with little dangling bits and bobbles that she’d fastened around her neck with a ribbon… That she wore, even now, when she had no expectation of seeing him today?

  The disheveled portion above that?

  Called to him more than enticing ankles ever could. For ’twas the rapid heartbeat pulsing in her neck, the swift intakes of air, the breathless way she held his gaze, left off her frenzied smoothing of hair and dress. And waited.

  Ah. This should prove interesting.

  You’re not truly becoming interested, are you? Attached?

  All right, then, not interesting, per se. Amusing.

  Time to amuse himself. That’s all this was. Amusing himself with a pleasant frolic before the urges commanded his full attention.

  Time to test her.

  But first, to ascertain whether to anticipate an annoying visit from her aunt. “What, no chaperone today?”

  “Not today, for we have limited staff at the moment.”

  “Hmmm.” Limited staff? When it wasn’t as though he’d ever noticed a multitude of servants underfoot during his prior visits. Was her uncle having solvency issues? Could the man not afford to pay his people? Erasmus shrugged broad shoulders that seemed to carry more weight with every passing year. Something to have his man of affairs explore… Whether or not the family had more pressing issues than her aunt’s gambling travails.

  “Only ten minutes?” Fuddled by his arrival she might be, but her disappointment wasn’t masked in the least. Her utter frustration.

  So, despite the lukewarm reception, she wanted far longer together? Fighting the flare of heat that realization brought, he glanced behind him at the door that had been left ajar.

  With a self-satisfied smile, he stepped back and, with one finger, pushed it the rest of the way shut, just short of clicking.

  When he turned back to her, he intentionally made his voice brusque. “Retrieve your embroidery from the floor. Spectacles also.”

  Mayhap she’d not seen this side of him sufficiently, for she hesitated. Mayhap, in her disharmony of the moment, she simply forgot that part of their agreement was her complete obedience. Regardless, he expected compliance. “Now, my dear. Place them on the table there in front— Nay, not your spectacles. Keep those with you for you will no doubt need them later. Your pocket is fine.

  “Now come here.” As she slowly obeyed, portraying self-assurance in every line—that wasn’t her hair—his pride in her grew. She really was a fetching little thing.

  Little? She’s taller than nearly every woman you’ve ever been with.

  Aye, but trimmer too. Almost ethereal at times, with that controlled comportment that so drew him.

  She stopped four feet away.

  “Nay. Here.” He lowered his gaze to the floor in front of his polished boots and waited until she approached, stood directly before him, still holding his gaze.

  Their proximity magnified everything he already sensed about her.

  Mortification had been replaced, not with trepidation or even hesitation. But with desire. He caught it in the molten turn to her normally sedate blue eyes, in the way her mouth parted slightly, tongue grazing her bottom lip. Scented it, some unique attraction reaching out from her toward him, luring him closer. Physically, yes. But on other levels as well.

  Ones he shouldn’t admit, not even to himself—not if he was to fulfill the duties he’d been tasked with.

  You can also scent it from betwixt her legs. Why don’t you—

  Nearly biting his tongue off in an effort to thwart that direction of thinking—to completely realign the current tenor of the day—he had to unclench his teeth to say what he’d come here for in the first place, as silkily as he could manage, “Retrieve your cloak—and your cousins, if you must—for I have come to escort you on a surprise outing.”

  * * *

  Her marauding hair muffled as well as she could manage, Francine stood before Erasmus, praying the trembling of her knees wasn’t evident.

  “An outing?” When all she really wanted to do was launch herself in his arms. When all she really wanted to say was, You look exhausted. Marvelous. Like manna to my starved senses. Instead…

  “’Tis wonderful to see you. Especially so much sooner than expected.” That serene voice was hers? Even given how he’d just ordered her about, bent her to his will with nary a peep of protest ushered from her lips? Caused a riotous tumult to storm through her when he firmed his voice, his expression, yet couldn’t stifle the caring in his gaze? “I trust your trip proved a success?”

  He made some sort of noise in his throat. A decided non-answer. To either question.

  Lingering embarrassment shimmered through her, consumed by the yearning his nearness wrought. His eyes glittered down at her, intensifying the latter. “Erasmus?”

  “This is quite becoming a habit, my dear. You care so little for your work that you discard it upon the ground?” He glanced behind her, at the table where she’d placed the fallen embroidery, then his gaze shifted back to capture hers. “Or is it my appearance that causes your efforts to leap from your lap?”

  Heat flared anew across her cheeks. “I have, ah, tr
ained it do tricks, you see.”

  One brow above the sable of his eyes arched at that. “As you would a dog?”

  “Nay, for a dog is taught to jump in one’s lap.”

  The sardonic tilt evened out as a subtle, pleased gleam took hold. “Though it demonstrates a decided lack of restraint upon the part of one who prides himself on that very quality, I vow, I cannot wait a moment longer to hold you. Come here.”

  His words were gruff; her delight boundless.

  He caught her to him in a fierce hug that lifted her feet right off the ground.

  After weeks as an engaged couple, one might think their attraction to each other would have waned. That the lift of spirits caused by hearing his deep voice or seeing his stern countenance might dwindle from a veritable vault of elevation to a mere nudge. One would be wrong.

  His solid arms held her easily aloft, positioned her face next to his for a quick nuzzle—his cheek against hers. She inhaled his invigorating presence clear down to her toes.

  Giddy of a sudden, for he’d seen the monstrous beast her hair could become and hadn’t run screaming in terror. Nor had he taunted her with jests as she’d suffered as a child. But more than that, he seemed so very pleased to see her again. And he was strong. Impressively so, to hold her long self aloft with nary a grunt.

  Was there a better man anywhere?

  “I cannot believe you’re here! You dictatorial wretch, and after telling me you would likely be gone a sennight.” She laughed, feet dangling in the air.

  Her fingers stroked over one side of his face. Only the tips touched the angled perfection of one side whisker. The rest caressing soft skin. “My oh my, Erasmus, but your skin feels wickedly smooth today.”

  And warm. Inviting.

  After strengthening the force of his hug for a moment, he released her, placing her carefully back on her feet—but kept her far closer than custom might dictate with one hand braced around her nape, his thumb caressing the back of her head. “Gratified, am I, that you noticed. I told Franklin ’twas time for a new blade.”

  Francine toed one of his shins with her right foot. “For shame. I have no doubt that Franklin himself suggested the new blade.”