Ensnared by Innocence: Steamy Regency Shapeshifter Page 8

  If he appeared today.

  Her aunt and cousins had already retired to their rooms for their daily restorative, leaving Francine to wait alone—thank goodness—but what could be keeping Lord Blak—

  Pain shot through her hand.

  Drat!

  The needle had gone straight into her finger. Clenching her back teeth, she yanked it free, popped the digit in her mouth and sucked.

  Rattish rodents, but that hurt! Eyes watering, she willed the pain away and sucked harder on the stinging spot.

  Burford knocked once and announced a guest.

  Lord Blakely stepped into the room, his gaze immediately catching hers, then avidly going to her mouth.

  How was it he always caught her at her worst?

  She stood abruptly, pulling her finger free and curtsying—when she’d much rather be cursing. Her embroidery fell from her lap to the floor, but she at least salvaged her spectacles before they slid from her nose and disembarked as well.

  Behind the visiting lord, the servant’s grey eyebrows climbed skyward, toward his receding hairline, vast curiosity reflected in his expression, as he backed out, leaving the door wide open.

  Gulping down the disquiet circling through her middle, she turned to face the man she most wanted to see. My, oh my. In daylight he proved every bit as intimidating, as intriguing, as he did in starlight.

  He was here! He’d come as promised.

  Come and made an already pleasant day—if one discounted her recent bout of anxious worrying—that much more enthralling.

  “Lady Francine. I trust you are having a pleasant afternoon?”

  His voice was deeper than she recalled.

  His height just as impressive.

  Her reaction to both rolling through her as though she’d been knocked asunder by a boulder of lust.

  “My lord. Welcome.” She curtsied again, noticed her fingers still clenching the spectacles, so she quickly folded the earpieces and crammed them in her pocket.

  It took everything in her to hold his gaze, to see the awareness in his he didn’t try to disguise. Along with the amusement dancing in his eyes as he bent to rescue her mediocre efforts at needlework.

  “I have come to speak with your guardian about your hand,” he said very properly, then winked, spoiling the effect.

  She reached for the knotted handiwork he held between them.

  “You are decidedly late,” she commented lightly, working to keep any accusation from her tone.

  “Ah, but I am here.”

  Said as if his presence hadn’t been a foregone conclusion.

  Had he seriously considered changing his mind? Discomfited by the thought, she hastily dropped another curtsy. A third? Just how nervous are you? “For which I am most grateful, my lord.”

  When she again straightened, he raised one finger and tapped her cheek. “Leave off the powder from now on. I want to view your countenance in its natural state henceforth.”

  “Tell that to my aunt.”

  “I shall.”

  “Franny!” Her aunt’s shrill preceded her presence. “What is this Burford tells me about a caller?” Aunt Prudence bustled in, instantly aghast at the identity of Francine’s guest. “Blakely, you fiend! How dare you darken my door! You are most certainly not welcome in—”

  “Madam,” he began, and Francine rather liked the way he snubbed her aunt by forgoing any formal greeting or acknowledgement of her own courtesy title. “I would like a word with your husband.”

  “He is in the country. Departed this morning, so you will have to leave and—”

  Francine heard his muttered, “Smart man,” and stifled a laugh. Her finger felt better already. As did her confidence. This was the man she easily conversed with the night before, shared her secrets with and hoped he’d eventually confide his as well.

  “Then I will speak with you, madam, though we both might wish otherwise.”

  Her aunt sputtered a protest but only minutes later—after unceremoniously overriding every one of her aunt’s objections—Lord Blakely had officially proposed, Francine had accepted and he’d summarily dispatched her still-harping aunt so the two of them could have a few private moments.

  “You were very masterful. I am in alt over how well you handle her,” Francine told him once they were blessedly alone, and he’d dispensed with his gloves and swept her into his embrace. “Did you see how her eyes nearly quit their sockets when you told her you’d come to claim my hand and would brook nothing but her complete cooperation?”

  “The privilege of being a marquis, my dear.”

  “I was half afraid you were not going to call,” she confessed, though in truth, it had been more like seven-eights.

  * * *

  Get a hold of yourself, man! Frighten her off. Before you do something she’ll not live to regret.

  “I was unavoidably detained.” Blakely wasn’t about to tell her how he’d debated with himself, weighing the benefits to them both, versus the risks to Lady Francine should they pursue this charade.

  In the end, his conscience had decided for him. He wouldn’t have a moment’s peace until he assured himself she wasn’t in any lingering danger. He shifted, angling his hips toward the inviting warmth at the juncture of her thighs and lowered his head to take possession of her lips.

  Then he caught sight of the reddened marks on her flushed skin. The marks his abrasive, day-old beard had left the prior evening.

  He tilted her head to better see and almost came undone.

  “Did I do this?” he demanded, tugging the collar away from her neck to expose the wicked bruise that marred her shoulder.

  She shivered at the contact and he felt like a lout.

  “I love how your touch burns across my skin.”

  God, she was innocent.

  He’d injured her to that extent—and hadn’t even known? He released the fabric and cursed. “I shall never touch you again,” he said rashly. “I pledge it with—”

  “You had better.”

  “Upon my word.” They were halting the madness now. He’d already marked her? And with The Change weeks away yet. “I shall still enact the farce, but I vow, I will not—”

  She took his hands in hers and captured his full attention with one glance from those shining blue eyes. “You had most certainly better touch me again.”

  “Beg pardon?” She wasn’t issuing recriminations?

  Why should she? You do it enough for the both of you.

  “I am quite fine, I assure you.” Her thumbs stroked over the back of his hands. “Did you not notice the color?” Her chin dipped toward her shoulder, inviting him to look again.

  Fading green and yellow, not purple and fresh, you clodpate.

  “’Tis already yellowing. It happened last week, not last night. Quit coddling, it’s unnecessary. I would much prefer you tell me how you received the scar on your nose.”

  “Ahem. I think not.” More disconcerted than he wanted to admit, he pulled away and walked to the window.

  Amused laughter spilled from her. “Lord Blakely, I do declare that you are blushing. Have I not shown my integrity, my trustworthiness by all that I confessed to you last eve? Will you not grant me the same consideration?”

  “In a fight. With my brother.” And that was all he was saying on the matter.

  “I did not realize you had a brother.”

  Which told him something else about her. She hadn’t looked him up in Debrett’s, chased down his family tree before chasing him down…

  He wasn’t quite sure why that should matter but it did. Made him seem less like a prize to her. More like a person.

  He spun to face her. “We are no longer close. He is living abroad.” Or on a ship. Or in a dungeon. He never knew anymore.

  “And what might the two of you have fought over?” She looked at him thoughtfully. “A woman, perhaps?”

  “It was several years ago,” Blakely excused himself. He couldn’t very well tell her it was over a woman. The
female in question had already lost consciousness, from several rounds of ferocious fornicating, and they’d both wanted another go at her. “It was not one of my finer moments.”

  “I shall conclude by your evasive answer-non-answer that it was about a woman.”

  “I believe, Lady Francine”—he stalked toward her, intent on making her forget this unpalatable line of questioning—“that agreeing to participate in your outlandish scheme and coming up to snuff so quickly should give me a measure of anonymity upon certain select subjects.”

  “So it should.”

  He breathed a sigh of relief—

  “But speaking of women…”

  That caught in his throat.

  “Did you find me satisfactory last evening?”

  Any more and he’d actually consider proposing in truth. If not for the pesky, life-endangering concern that ruled his existence.

  Refusing to dwell on his unwanted reality, he hauled her against his rigid flesh, his broad palms dwelling instead on the lush curve of her derrière. “What makes you ask?”

  Her eyes flashed to his, then dropped away. “Your reputation along with your assurance not to publicly indulge with other women during our engagement.” She ran her hands along the sleeves of his tailcoat until they rested on his shoulders. He felt her touch clear to his toes—and everywhere in between.

  “What of it?” His words were strangled.

  “I have another proposition for you, Lord Blakely.”

  “Call me Erasmus.” ’Twas not an appellation many used. Reserved for his mother, mainly, most calling him Blakely the last fifteen years—or, in more intimate settings, the abbreviated Blake.

  He wasn’t sure if it was his slight history with her father, or his even slighter history with her, but for whatever reason, it seemed important.

  Something to set her apart from the others. “After all, we are engaged, are we not?”

  “Thank you for the honor.” Her fingers worked their way to the front of his shirt, toying with his neckcloth, completely destroying the Maharatta that had taken his valet far too long to fashion. She could untie every one of his damn neckcloths, if he could just hold her like this, breathe in her fresh, clean, vibrant scent. Bask in her presence. Both calming and invigorating.

  “Erasmus, I confess, last evening went far beyond my every expectation and I…” She gave a little wiggle and he allowed her to take a single step back. Her eyes went from studying what her fingers were doing to focus instead on his groin. Hard as stone already, his erection was easily visible beneath his buff pantaloons. If this kept up, he’d need to darken his wardrobe. “I want to meddle again. With you.” Keeping her head directed downward, she spoke those unexpected, hushed words to his eager anatomy. Then she angled her gaze back to his, her normally porcelain cheeks brimming with pink. “That is, during the term of our agreement, I would like to propose that you avoid privately indulging with other women and give me the opportunity to satisfy all of your carnal desires.”

  As if he even had to think about it.

  But he did, Blakely knew he did.

  He paused, gauging his own response.

  Stirrings of arousal stampeded his blood but little else. His teeth, nails, his control…they all remained intact. He ran a hand over his jaw, testing the thickness of his whiskers. Normal. Good. He still had some time before the urges strengthened. Last night he’d been so far gone he hadn’t paused to sufficiently consider how much mastery over his feline cells he commanded—not once her toad-eating aunt and scrub of a former suitor had appeared. He considered them now.

  “Hmmm.” He made a show of hesitancy. “And in exchange for satisfying my desires, what might be expected of me in return?”

  “I shall allow you to fulfill all of mine.”

  Could there be another woman on the planet as perfect for his needs?

  “So do you agree?” She gave a little jump, adorable in her enthusiasm. “To my latest proposition?”

  “I will go one better. I shall claim you so thoroughly, in public and in private, that you will forever be safe from moneygrubbers like Peterson and your aunt.”

  “Splendid!”

  But could he keep her safe from himself?

  That evening Lord Blakely returned to escort her to a musicale at the home of a now-married and moved-away friend whose mother still had four more daughters to see matched and hoped their tuneful talents might entice wavering suitors to come up to scratch before the end of yet another Season.

  Recalling her friend’s decided lack of talent in the instrumental arena left Francine sincerely doubting this would be the case. But no matter, their home was grand—as was the company who’d just handed her up the steps to his conveyance with a light stroke upon the back of her glove before releasing her fingers.

  Of course, Aunt Prudence and Francine’s cousins had also been invited to share the ride in his majestic carriage—Aunt Prudence wouldn’t have it any other way. Once they were all seated and en route, the barrage began.

  “What will people think?” Aunt Prudence complained across the carriage, fixing Francine and Lord Blakely with what could almost be termed an evil eye. “Your marriage announcement coming on the heels of one singular meeting? ’Tis preposterous! Void of any semblance of authenticity! And put those horrid spectacles away, Franny. They make you look like a bluestocking. ’Tis absolutely appalling.”

  Knowing better than to argue, Francine slipped them off and tucked them into her reticule. Next to her, Lord Blakely—Erasmus, she reminded herself—lifted her gloved hand and placed it near his knee, ignoring Aunt Prudence’s gasps of protest. “Anyone who matters will mind their own business,” he said, leaning over to douse the lantern, plunging them into darkness. “Everyone else will assume that your niece charmed me with just one glance. One dance.”

  He spoke with such conviction that even knowing it was a falsehood—they’d never danced and it’d taken substantially more than a glance to convince him—the words warmed Francine down to her slippers. Touching the fine silk of his breeches with her fingertips increased the heat flowing through her until she felt like fanning herself. Even through her gloves, his nearness made her burn.

  “Add to that,” he continued, “how could I be anything but honored to escort my betrothed and her delightful family about this fine evening?”

  Did anyone else notice Erasmus hesitate over the word delightful?

  “Well, I think it’s quite gran-dose,” exclaimed Patience. “Marrying a marquis! I am quite green over it. Mother found me but a mere viscount.”

  “Grandiose?” Francine prompted, but it flew over the girl’s head and out the window.

  “Just like a fairy tale,” Temperance enthused on a sigh. “Lord Blakely has swept you off your feet. Papa will be so excited.”

  “Your papa will be nothing of the kind,” muttered Aunt Prudence, berating her daughters for their show of support. “Having such an outlandish event occur with him from town? Why, I never…”

  Francine took advantage of their preoccupation to tilt her head toward Lord Blakely. “Thank you again, my lord. For everything.”

  “’Tis my pleasure.”

  “Lord Blakely?” Temperance spoke into the void. “Do you mind if I inquire about your family coat of arms?”

  “Not a bit.”

  “’Tis a particular fascination of mine, you see, and—”

  “Hush, girl. You think he is in possession of time sufficient to entertain you and your nonsensical obsessions?”

  “Madam, let the lady speak.”

  “Thank you, my lord. I could not help but notice yours has three lion charges, when the one included within my research volume on heraldic histories only shows two for the Hammond family name. Do you know, perchance, who changed it and why?”

  Francine couldn’t help but be gratified when her aunt huffed with irritation and blustered about. Good. She hadn’t yet browbeaten the intellectual curiosity out of her youngest. Not for lack of trying,
Francine knew.

  While Erasmus answered, his hand tightened upon her own, crushing her palm into the muscled strength of his thigh. Banked nerves fluttered to life in her stomach. When might he touch her again? Without an audience?

  While she mentally calculated the distance her fingers would need to travel to encounter illicit terrain and acknowledged how very much she wanted to touch him without the barrier of clothing, he proceeded to answer her cousin, correcting her where needed and informing everywhere else.

  Even Patience joined in a time or two, not sounding the complete jolterhead, which in and of itself proved a minor miracle.

  Fortunately their animated conversation left Francine free to indulge in all manner of lustful imaginings—and now that she knew exactly how wonderful knowing him in the intimate sense was, the daydreams she currently entertained brimmed with so much more detail than her vague imaginings of the past.

  Every time he spoke with tolerance and ease in his fine voice, her appreciation grew and she slid her hand fractionally closer to his groin. By her figuring, at this rate she’d reach the summit of his thighs about the time Aunt Prudence lost complete and utter patience with her offspring. Francine couldn’t stop the grin that lifted her cheeks.

  Too soon, the carriage rolled to a creaking stop and swayed in place. It was several moments before she noticed the heavy silence permeating the interior. Francine shook off her own amusing, debauched thoughts. “Have we arrived?”

  “I have just informed your aunt that she and her charges will be exiting my conveyance. We shall join them for the musicale in a few moments.”

  “That is not done. Franny cannot be left alone with you! In a closed carriage. Anywhere!”

  Lord Blakely’s coachman opened the door and lowered the steps, allowing light from the townhouse to spill gently into the carriage. “Lady Francine is my affianced, and unless you want your husband learning the sordid details about your association with Peter—”

  “Shhht!” her aunt veritably shrieked, drawing curious looks from her daughters. “Very well.” Aunt Prudence swept her girls out the door so fast Francine felt the breeze from their exit. “But if you ever mention—”