A Taste of Seduction (An Unlikely Husband) (10 page)

“Very little. The only one who knows the truth is Philip.” His voice grew thick with emotion. “And Eleanor. She loves Francie like her own daughter. She would do anything to protect her.”

Even suffer a beating for her
.

“You must protect her, Alexander.” Bernard’s voice turned shaky with grief and fear. “From Crayton and people like him.”

“She’ll be under Montrose protection. And mine.” He owed Philip. The least he could do was see to his daughter’s safety.

“I know you’ll take care of her,” Bernard said. “She’ll be safe with you.” He smiled. “You’ve turned into a fine young man.”

Alexander’s eyes narrowed. “Why would you say that? Should I know you?” When he saw the old man in the carriage yesterday, he thought there was something vaguely familiar about him.

“Perhaps.
Perhaps not. But I remember you,” Bernard said, stroking his beard. “You used to hide in the stables when Philip and I came for a ride. I brought you bits of peppermint. You were too shy to come out of your hiding place, so I left them in a handkerchief tied to a stall door.”

Alexander showed no expression. He’d loved the peppermints, had guarded them like treasures, and savored the fresh, mint taste of the little candies. Until his father discovered them one morning and made him turn them over. From that day on, Alexander collected the candies from the stall door, but never opened the handkerchief. If he’d done so, a beating would follow. Instead, he deposited it on his father’s night table, right next to his whiskey bottle.

So this was the man who’d shown him kindness when he believed none existed. This was the man who’d taken a moment of his time to make a frightened child smile.

“Thank you for the peppermints. They became one of my fondest childhood memories.”

The older man’s smile deepened. “You’re very welcome. I see fortune has smiled upon you.”

Alexander nodded. “Fortune
, indeed, in the name of Philip Cardinger.”

“Philip thinks of you as his son.” Bernard puffed on his pipe. “He’s very proud of you.”

The unexpected words touched Alexander, transforming him into the little boy of long ago, waiting for the peppermints. Only instead of peppermints, he waited for praise. Alexander was a grown man, successful in trade and commerce. He did not need kind little words doled out to him by anyone, least of all Francie’s uncle. He threw down his cigar and stamped it out with the heel of his shoe.

Because he could think of no other response, Alexander nodded and muttered, “Thank you.”

Long after Bernard returned to the cozy warmth of the fire inside, Alexander remained in the cool, night air, contemplating his predicament. He was about to take a stand against the son of one of the most powerful men in the land, one who would not appreciate having his son’s indiscretions thrown at him by a commoner. Despite the power of the Montrose name behind him, if the duke’s reputation were true, he’d ignore Alexander’s words and do nothing.

If that should happen, Alexander would pay a private visit to Jared Crayton and employ whatever means necessary to stop the man. He sighed. The whole situation could get quite messy. Did he really have a choice? Did he not owe Philip for giving him a privileged life? Was this not the perfect opportunity to repay a debt of gratitude?

The answers were simple. Alexander Bishop was a man of duty and honor, first, foremost, and always. He would do his duty and bring honor to his name.

He would protect Francie Jordan.

Francie was a daydream away from falling headlong into an afternoon nap, when a quick, urgent tapping dragged her back to the present. What was that insistent noise? Her gaze moved toward the sound and settled on the door. Someone was knocking. A quite determined someone judging by the frequency of the knocks. She ran a quick hand through her curly hair and scurried out of the overstuffed chair.

“Yes?” Francie asked, opening the door a fraction. It was James
, the butler. “Begging your pardon, Miss Jordan,” he said, with a quick tap of his foot, “but Mr. Bishop would like to see you in his study.” His nose twitched twice.

“Again?” She’d been called to Alexander’s study three times in the last three hours. First
, he’d summoned her to inform her animals were not permitted in the house. Fine. Perhaps it had been a little bold of George to climb upon Alexander’s favorite chair. It was a huge, burgundy affair, with extra cushions that puffed out and sank in when a body sat in it. George would like that. And he did. Too much.

She’d shooed the poor animal outside, settled him in the stables
, and not more than one hour later, Alexander summoned her yet again. It was Mr. Pib this time. Wasn’t he supposed to be outside? Alexander asked, pointing to the calico cat perched on top of the heavy brocade draperies. After much coaxing and a few little bribes, Francie convinced Mr. Pib that life outside proved more entertaining than watching a disagreeable crank thumb through papers.

And the third time...well, how George found his way back into the house without being noticed was a mystery. But there he’d been, curled up on that blasted chair as though it was made especially for him. Alexander had not been very happy.

So what could be the problem this time?

James couldn’t look her in the eye. His dark gaze shot about the hallway, darting to the right, swinging to the left, everywhere but on her. That was the first hint Alexander was not calling on her for pleasant conversation.

It was all very strange. Very strange indeed. Until today, Alexander hadn’t spoken more than five sentences to her, taking most of his meals out, presumably with Lady Printon. When he was home, he closeted himself in his study from early in the morning until late at night, with only a short break to ride Baron.

Not that Francie was keeping watch, because she wasn’t. She could care less if he stayed the night at Lady Printon’s, though she knew from the heavy footsteps trailing down the hall in the early hours of the morning, he did not. She’d grown accustomed to listening for him and found it quite a coincidence that she preferred to read into the night and usually didn’t tire until after he walked past her door. Some nights, his steps paused outside for the briefest of moments, and then moved on. Francie held her breath each night, wondering if he’d stop and knock, but most of all wondering what she’d do if he did.

The strange awareness between them began in Amberden. Everything changed in the fields where they’d found Aunt Eleanor. Why did Alexander take such great pains to ignore her? Was he embarrassed or angered by what transpired in Amberden? Not, of course, by Aunt Eleanor’s injuries, but rather, his reaction to Francie’s request. She’d seen the pain in his silver eyes, but there’d been a hint of something else as well. Understanding. She had not imagined the protectiveness in his voice. It was there. But was it for her alone or the whole village?

And if it were for her alone?
What then? Alexander became just as vulnerable as she, revealing emotions she was certain he’d later regret. But she’d seen them and that changed everything. Alexander Bishop did have a heart, a real one, beating with feelings and emotions, despite what he wanted others to believe. The knowledge made him more human. More of a man.

The kind of man who could steal a woman’s heart if she weren’t careful.

James and his tapping foot brought her out of her musings. His right foot jerked in rapid staccato, his eyes fixed on the floor. Francie followed his gaze but noted nothing out of the ordinary. Why was he staring at her stockinged feet?

“James?”

He twitched his nose. “Yes, Miss Jordan?” Three taps from his shiny black shoes. Little ones this time.

“Do you know why Mr. Bishop requires my presence?” If she kept him talking, he might concentrate on his speech and forget the tapping and twitching.

The butler cleared his throat and clasped his hands together. “I think perhaps it has something to do with,” he hesitated, “your dog, Miss Jordan.” James’s face turned bright pink. “Mr. Bishop was not pleased to find him on his favorite chair again.” His high voice dropped to a whisper. “Said he was going to take the animal and make a rug out of him.”

“He did, did he?” Francie hid a smile. Alexander tried so hard to make everyone fear him, but just yesterday she’d spied him playing fetch with George when he thought no one was watching.

“He’s in his study, I presume?” She pushed her door closed and headed down the hallway toward the spiral staircase. Her hand glided over the polished railing as she descended, the feel of mahogany smooth beneath her fingertips. The heavy puffing of the little butler followed close behind. Francie stopped before the study, took a deep breath, and knocked twice.

“Come in.”

Stay calm. Stay calm
. Francie opened the door and stepped inside.

“We seem to have a slight problem,” Alexander said from across the room. He stood with his back to the
fireplace, feet planted wide apart, arms crossed over his broad chest. As usual, his attire was perfect, from the carefully folded snow-white cravat to the high black gloss on his shoes. His jacket and trousers were a deep, dark blue that would make his eyes sparkle if he weren’t so determined to hide behind a mask of cold indifference. Alexander Bishop, Master of Blank Expressions and Bland Comments, controlled every word he said and every gesture he made.

Unlike Francie, whose face revealed her thoughts before she could, and whose words said volumes more than
intended.

She advanced into the room and stood beside George, who lay half-sprawled, half-curled on the large, overstuffed chair. He lifted his head to sniff the air a few seconds, opened one golden eye, and content with his findings, sank his big head back onto the soft cushion.

Of course, George remained oblivious to the major conflict he’d created. His tail thumped against the arm of the chair as Francie ran her fingers through his thick coat and concentrated on her next words.

“Well,” she said, clearing her throat, “George certainly is clever, isn’t he?”

“Clever?” Alexander took a step toward her.

“Oh, yes, clever for finding his way inside the house three times.”

“Onto my favorite chair,” he added, taking another step.

Why didn’t he seem angry? He should’ve been furious if he’d been spouting off tales of turning George into a rug. But the closer he got, the better Francie could see him. She didn’t miss the slight flaring of his nose or the strong set of his jaw. And then there was the muscle that twitched on the right side of his cheek, just enough to indicate extreme agitation.
And the scar. It was white.

Alexander Bishop may not show it, but he
was
furious.

Best to get George out of there. Fast. Francie let out a little laugh that sounded like a squeak. “Well, yes, there is that. I think I’ll just take him with me now and get him settled in the barn.” She turned her attention to George who had both eyes closed and was snoring. “Come along, George. Wake up. It’s time to leave Mr. Bishop to his business.” The dog opened one eye but didn’t budge.

Alexander now stood so close she smelled his spicy cologne. Nevertheless, when he spoke, his voice mere inches from her ear, she jumped.

“You seem to be having a little problem, Francie.” The way he said her name, a low velvet rumble wrapped in a whisper, made her go all hot and cold inside. She didn’t like it when he lowered his voice. He was toying with her.

“No,” she answered, avoiding his gaze. “I can control George.” She slipped her fingers under his thick leather collar and pulled. “Come along, George.” The dog didn’t budge. “George!” She yanked and the dog rewarded her with an irritated grumble. Alexander cleared his throat. “You do indeed exhibit immense control.”

Francie ignored his sarcastic tongue as she straightened and moved behind the chair to George’s hindquarters. “I can control my dog, Mr. Bishop.” She pushed at the animal’s back legs. “It’s just…” She gave another push. “He’s not used to...” She tugged.
“Sitting...on...furniture.”

“I see.”

Her head snapped up. She thought she heard a hint of laughter in his voice, but when she met his gaze it was blank, his face expressionless. She looked like a fool. George was her protector. Her best friend. Why then was he lying there, like twenty sacks of flour, all soft and half-dead?

“George!” She hooked both hands in his collar. “Down. Now!” Francie yanked with all her might. George yelped and leapt forward, barreling into her with the force of a horse. Francie’s legs flew out from underneath her as she collided with Alexander, sending them both toppling to the ground.

She landed square on top of him, or more specifically, on his muscular legs and the region in men deemed unmentionable. Francie tried to roll off, but a sharp pain shot through her right shoulder and she groaned as she fell back, clutching her shoulder.

“Francie? Are you all right?”

Did she hear concern in his voice? No. If he had his way, he’d probably let George have another go at her.

Pushing a clump of hair out of her eyes, she turned to search for her assailant. George lay curled in front of the fire on the Aubusson rug, none the worse for their encounter.