A Taste of Seduction (An Unlikely Husband) (16 page)

Francie shifted in her seat and stretched her arms. Alexander scowled, but his eyes remained closed.

She glanced at Mrs. Vandemeer who slept soundly next to her, eyes closed, mouth open, thin body propped against the burgundy squabs. Had the woman not let out the occasional snore, one might think her dead. Francie leaned forward and whispered, “How long are you going to continue ignoring me?” If he weren’t going to attempt conversation, then she would.

“I’m not ignoring you,” he muttered, his tone as low as hers. “I’m tired.”

“As you should be. Any man who keeps the hours you do must be exhausted.”

A silver eye popped open. “What are you implying?”

“Nothing.” She ignored the edge in his voice. “What could I possibly be implying? Your business is your business.”

“Exactly.” He closed his eyes again.

“What you do and with whom is none of my business.”

“Glad we agree,” he mumbled.

“But if it were, then I would take it as my duty to inform you, your behavior has set the servants’ tongues wagging.”

Both eyes opened. “Behavior?
My
behavior has set them talking? What about
your
behavior? Running around Drakemoor barefoot, skirts hiked to your knees? Stealing a pair of my riding breeches? Digging in that infernal dirt all hours of the day and night? Spending hours in the kitchen,
cooking
with Mrs. Jenkins? For God’s sake, you dare to tell me they’re talking about
my
behavior?”

She picked at a loose thread on the sleeve of her gown. “I’ve always thought shoes too confining. I love the feel of grass between my toes. And marble is so refreshing on a hot summer’s day. As for the breeches...” She shrugged. “Uncle Bernard never minded when I borrowed his on occasion.”

“Well, I do mind. I mind very much.” Alexander leaned toward her, close enough for her to see the gold flecks in his silver eyes. “Ladies do not wear breeches, and they do not immerse themselves in dirt or show the cook how to make rosemary bread,” he said through clenched teeth.

“Rosemary and thyme bread,” Francie corrected.

His face turned a deep shade of purple. “I swear to God, Francie, you’re going to drive me to Bedlam,” he said under his breath. His eyes narrowed as he studied her. “However, Newgate may have a certain appeal.”

“Newgate’s for criminals. People who do horrible things, like commit murder and the like.”

“I know,” he said, his lips curving at the edges.

Francie backed away until she hit the burgundy velvet squabs behind her. He was only tormenting her. Of course, Alexander would never harm her.

He glanced at Mrs. Vandemeer’s sleeping form and then snagged the ribbons on Francie’s bonnet, tugging them toward him. She had no choice but to follow. When he’d brought her within inches of his face, he stopped. His silver eyes glowed as he whispered, “But most of all, a lady never, ever kisses a man as you did the other night.”

Francie tried to pull away, but Alexander wrapped the ribbon around his fist, bringing her closer still. He devoured her with his gaze
that breath by breath settled on her lips. “Never, ever,” he murmured.

How dare he accuse her of unladylike behavior when he was the cause of it? And what of him? “And a gentleman should never kiss one woman and court another,” she hissed in an equally hushed tone.

He released her with such force she fell back against the squabs and landed on her elbows. “Stay away from me, Francie. Just stay away.”

“It was just a kiss,” she said, trying to underplay that night.

Mrs. Vandemeer’s body leaned sideways at an arresting angle, her rather large bonnet squashed against the carriage window. Quiet snores erupted from her thin lips.

“Just a kiss?” he growled. “How many other men have you kissed like that?” His eyes narrowed to silver slits. “How many have you allowed such intimacy?” He ran a hand through his perfect hair three times, making pieces stick out. “How many, Francie?” His words fell out in a low, furious tone. “How many have been inside your mouth, tasting you? Touching you?”

Her cheeks burned. “None.”

“None,” he repeated. “I shouldn’t have either. You do realize that, don’t you? Only your betrothed should be permitted such liberties. Only your betrothed should know you taste like honey and whimper when he touches your breast.”

Oh, if only the carriage floor would open right now.

“And we both know,” Alexander whispered, “I’m not your betrothed. I’ll never be your betrothed.”

Her heart splintered beneath his words. Why should she care he’d just declared he’d never marry her? Was there some part of her that hoped he would? Some part of her that wanted him to?

“And now I have to go on, seeing you every day, knowing what you taste like in my mouth, knowing what you feel like beneath my fingers, and try to forget.” His voice grew rough. “I’ve been living in hell these last days. A hell of my own making.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” she said, turning to face him. “It just happened.”

“No, damn it, it did not
just
happen,” he bit out. “You may not have known what to expect, but I knew exactly what I was doing.” A tortured look crossed his face. “I knew,” he repeated in a raspy voice. “And yet I didn’t stop. I couldn’t stop. Don’t you understand? I wanted to kiss you. I wanted to touch you. I’ve wanted to since the moment I laid eyes on you.”

Alexander wanted her? Goose
bumps crept along her arms.
Alexander wanted her
.

Something wasn’t right. He’d just admitted he wanted her, seconds after telling her he’d never marry her. “You want a mistress, not a wife.”

He cursed under his breath. “I would never do that to you. Or Philip. I owe him my life. You deserve a husband who can love you and make you happy.”

She stared at him.

“I’m not capable of that kind of love.”

“I see.” She turned from him and looked out the window.

“I doubt you do. Did you know I was a stable boy at Drakemoor before Philip took me in?” He let out a short, harsh laugh. “My parents both worked there. My father was a groomsman when he could keep his head out of a bottle. When he couldn’t ,I tried my best to do his job. My mother was a scullery maid who lived her life plagued with one ailment or another. I only desired a normal life with two parents who loved me. But they were too consumed with their own demons to spare an ounce of attention on me. When they died, I couldn’t cry. How can you cry over something you’ve never had?”

“Surely, they loved you in their own way.”

“Of course they did. I’ve got the scar to prove it.” Alexander pointed to the jagged white line running from his eyebrow to his cheek.

“What happened?” Once again, her heart ached for the child he once was.

He ran a finger along the scar, tracing the crooked path down his face. “I tried to protect my mother from a beating. My father didn’t like my interference.”

“I’m so sorry.”

He shrugged. “It was a long time ago.”

“All families aren’t like that. My aunt and uncle raised me and they loved each other very much.”

“I’m sure they did,” he said. “But I gave up on ‘happily ever after’ a long time ago. I’m a man of reality, not fairy tales.”

“Then I’m sorry for you, Alexander.”
Sorry you will never permit yourself to love or be loved
.

He met her gaze, his eyes dark and piercing. “So am I,” he murmured. “More than you’ll ever know.” Then he closed his eyes
, snuffing out their conversation and the small flame of hope in Francie’s heart.

A little over an hour later, silent and withdrawn, Francie stepped away from the shiny black carriage and entered Madame Druillard’s shop with a yawning Mrs. Vandemeer. Alexander fell in behind her, equally quiet and subdued.

She could care less about the latest fashions or the finest silks, but her father had been so eager to bestow this gift on her she couldn’t refuse him.

Every time she thought of her conversation with Alexander
, her head ached and her stomach lurched. He’d been honest with her and she’d tried her best in her most subtle way to persuade him to reconsider his position on marriage. How could she have been so bold? What must he think of her? She’d practically begged him to offer for her.

Why would she do such a thing when she and Alexander couldn’t even agree on dinner selections? Yet, she couldn’t deny the fire that flared between them when they were together. If opposites did indeed attract, then she and Alexander should be melded together.

Mrs. Vandemeer plunked in the nearest chair and busied herself with the tea and biscuits situated on the table before her. Francie glanced at Alexander out of the corner of her eye. Three other women in the shop watched him also, smiling and giggling in an effort to attract his attention. He ignored them all, working his way toward the back of the shop and a petite woman dressed in black who must be Madame Druillard.

Francie studied the older woman from a distance, curious as to what manner of person drew women from every corner of England, each as eager as the next to own one of the modiste’s creations. Madame Druillard was a tiny woman, somewhere in her early fifties, with sharp features and coal-black hair pulled back in a bun. She reminded Francie of a little bird with her beak-like nose and pointed chin. Her skin was alabaster, her lips deep red. Francie couldn’t discern the color of her eyes as they darted back and forth, from Alexander to the large book spread out on a table before her.

Francie moved closer, curious to hear what Alexander was saying to the older woman.

“And of course, she’ll need ball gowns. Several
, in fact.” He rubbed his jaw. “I thought perhaps gold with a burgundy trim for one. Royal blue and silver, also. To match her eyes.” He paused. “And green. When she wears green, her red hair shimmers with streaks of gold.”

“Hmmm.” Madame Druillard tapped a long fingernail against her chin. “Where is she, your mademoiselle? I must see her.”

Alexander cleared his throat. “She’s not my mademoiselle. She’s…” he paused, “…she’s my sister.”

Madame Druillard lifted a sleek brow. “Sister? I see. Where is this
sister
, monsieur?”

Francie stepped around a bolt of dark green fabric. “Madame Druillard?” She smiled at the stern-looking woman. “I am Francie.”

The older woman turned. Her black eyes moved with great precision from the top of Francie’s pale green bonnet to the tips of her scuffed cream shoes. Heat rushed to Francie’s cheeks at the woman’s bold scrutiny. The three young women in the corner of the shop turned to stare as well, assessing her as they would any rival.

Madame Druillard tilted her head one way and then the other, appraising, considering, assessing. After what seemed two eternities, a slow smile spread about her thin lips. “Sister, eh?” she repeated, threw back her head
, and laughed.

“Yes,” Francie managed. What was so amusing?

“If you say so, my children, then so be it. Come, dear, let me look at you closer.” She motioned Francie forward with her tiny hand. Francie obeyed, stopping a few feet from her. “Now, Monsieur Bishop says you are in need of a wardrobe, yes?” She fingered the fabric of Francie’s worn gown. “Yes,” she murmured, “you are very beautiful. You should be draped in silks and satins,
non
, Monsieur Bishop?” she asked, sliding a gaze in his direction.

Alexander gave her a curt nod but said nothing.

“Yes, that is what you shall have. And the hair,” she said, gesturing to the red curls peeking out from under Francie’s bonnet. “Take the bonnet off.” Francie untied the ribbons and slipped the bonnet off her head. “
Non!
As I guessed. You are not a schoolgirl. When you have silks and satins draping your body, you will be
magnifique
.”

Francie blushed. “Thank you, Madame Druillard, but I have no need for silk or satin. Perhaps one would be fine. No more than two. I do need day gowns, but five should be sufficient.”

“She needs everything,” Alexander said as though Francie hadn’t spoken. “From top to bottom. Inside and out.”

Of course he was talking about her chemise and pantaloons. “Alexander!”

He threw her a quick, disgusted look and turned back to Madame Druillard. “Her father is an earl. We can’t have her looking like a poor relation any longer. He wants her clothed in the finest garments you have.”

The modiste smiled. “As you wish.”

“Now let’s talk about design.” Alexander pulled out a chair and sat down beside Madame Druillard.

The modiste flicked a few pages of the book she’d been looking at and said, “I think we should begin here.”

For the next hour, Alexander and Madame Druillard pored through the big black book, discussing everything from day gowns to cloaks and gloves. They ignored Francie unless they were debating a particular color or design. Then they scrutinized her person in great detail.

“I think this is the one,” Madame Druillard murmured, draping a swath of pale pink material over Francie’s shoulder and down the front of her. “Look at the way it brings color to her cheeks. A glow almost.” Her black eyes narrowed. “And the red hair. Tsk. Tsk. It is like fire.”

Alexander cleared his throat. “Fine.”

“Yes, it is very fine,” Madame Druillard murmured with a knowing smile.

Alexander looked away and busied himself with the black book. “These are the ball gowns?” He flipped through the next several pages. “Unacceptable. All of them.”

“Why do you say this, Monsieur Bishop? They are beautiful gowns and they will look exquisite on mademoiselle.”

“Absolutely not.”

“May I see them?” Francie inched toward the intriguing black book. She hadn’t cared that Madame Druillard and Alexander chose her wardrobe as though she weren’t there. She was only doing this to please her father. In truth, the selections were perfect for her. The sea-foam greens, sky-blues, pale pinks, vibrant yellows, soft lilacs, all of them were among her favorite colors.

“There’s nothing to see,” Alexander said, slamming the book shut.

Madame Druillard slid the book toward Francie and opened it. “Monsieur Bishop, perhaps you might tell me what is the problem?”

“The problem,” he bit out, “is this.” He jabbed a finger at the bust line of a yellow gown. “And this,” he said, pointing to another on the opposite page. They were cut quite low.

“Yes? This is the style. It is the...rage...as you say.”

“Not for Francie it isn’t.”

“It’s not
that
revealing,” Francie said, looking at the upside-down sketch. It was much lower than anything she’d ever worn, but it wasn’t obscene.

He flashed her a cold look. “Stay out of this. I want to see something else. Something without a plunging neckline.”

Madame Druillard smiled. “You are very protective of your sister, Monsieur Bishop.”

Francie blushed. Alexander said nothing but the twitch on the left side of his jaw told Francie he was not one bit happy.

The older woman leaned over and flicked through several pages. She pointed to an elegant gown with a much less revealing neckline. “Perhaps this will be more to your liking.”

“That’s better.”

“
Bon
. Good.” Madame Druillard sat down again. “Now, let us discuss colors.”

“Burgundy trimmed in gold, sapphire trimmed in silver, and cream trimmed in burgundy.” He rattled the color combinations off without a moment’s hesitation.

“Ah, Monsieur Bishop, it would appear you have given this much thought. Yes.” Madame Druillard nodded. “I agree. Mademoiselle will look
magnifique
.”

“Fine.” He pushed back his chair and stood.

“We are not finished yet, Monsieur. There are still more gowns. And the undergarments. We have not spoken of those.”

Alexander shoved his hands in his pockets. “She can choose the rest.” He met Francie’s gaze. “I’ll be outside.” With that, he turned and quit the shop.

When he was gone, Madame Druillard turned to her with a smile and whispered, “He is not your brother.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“To me it is,” she said, her black eyes shining. “To one who knows what it looks like to see a man enchanted by a woman, as your Monsieur Bishop is with you.”

“He barely tolerates me. And he told me nothing will ever come of the two of us.”

“So, he has been considering this, no?” The modiste laughed. “That is a good sign. A very good sign.”

“Of what?” Francie asked.

“You shall see. It will come clear soon enough. Now,” Madame Druillard said, turning back to her black book, “we must find you undergarments.”

“Yes. Undergarments,” Francie repeated.

“And if I might make one very small suggestion. I think I know of a way to uncover Monsieur Bishop’s true feelings.”

“You do?” Francie stared at her. “How?”

“Change the gold and burgundy gown. Choose the design with the low neckline.”

“Alexander will be furious,” Francie breathed.

“Exactly.” Madame Druillard smiled. “So furious perhaps he will forget himself in his anger and state his true feelings.”

“It could be disastrous.”

“Or wonderful. The choice is yours.”

Francie smiled at Madame Druillard. “Let’s do it.”

***

“The next time you offer my services, I’d appreciate it if they did not include a trip to Madame Druillard’s.” Or a long carriage ride with Francie and an ancient chaperone
who couldn’t stay awake for longer than three blinks at a time.

“Why?” Philip set down his glass of sherry. “Madame Druillard is the best modiste in London, perhaps in all of England.”

Alexander poured two fingers in a glass and took a healthy swallow. “Just the point. She is very talented and well aware of the latest fashion. Unfortunately, I found some of those fashions quite distasteful.”

“Francie told me about the ball gown,” Philip said, trying to hide a smile.

“I find no humor in a woman exposing her breasts to a bunch of mauling ‘would-be suitors.’” Alexander glared at Philip. “And I would think, as her father, you would want Francie to display a bit more modesty.”

“Indeed I do,” Philip replied. “But I had
you
there, Alex. I knew I had nothing to be concerned about.”

“A good thing, too. I think the little minx could have been persuaded to wear one of those gowns.”

Philip laughed. “You sound like an outraged husband.”

Alexander ignored that comment. “A few things will be sent next week. The ball gowns and the rest will follow in two weeks’ time.”

“Excellent,” Philip said. “Now we can plan a ball to introduce Francie into society.”

“You mean a husband-hunting party.” Alexander poured another drink. Just the thought of all those men fawning over Francie put him in a mood. She wouldn’t understand their true intent. She was too naïve, too trusting. She’d trusted him, hadn’t she? Knowing her, she’d smile and converse with the worst of them, misinterpreting a touch on her person as a sign of clumsiness or awkward shyness. And all the while, the lechers would be groping for a hint of silk skin or a feel of satin curves.

The earl coughed. “I’ll thank you not to mention the word
husband
in front of Francie. She’s not thrilled with having this ball anyway and if you make her think she’s going to be someone’s prize, she’ll never agree to it.”

“Well, that’s what it is, isn’t it?” Alexander snapped. He’d been in a foul mood since he’d stalked out of Madame Druillard’s yesterday afternoon. Francie’s incessant cheerful chattering during the two
-hour trip home had done nothing to improve his temper. By the time they arrived at Drakemoor, his head pounded and he wore a permanent scowl.

Blast the woman
, she was driving him mad. He should never have let Philip talk him into escorting her to London. Like a besotted fool, he’d chosen most of her wardrobe, taking care each color was a perfect match; sky-blue to intensify her eyes, sea-foam green or lavender to offset her fiery mane. He must’ve sounded like an idiot.

Alexander cursed under his breath. He’d chosen rich fabrics and flattering styles to enhance Francie’s natural beauty—and lure a bevy of young bucks and old lechers to the marriage market. Thank God he’d had the good sense to leave before Madame Druillard flipped to the section on undergarments.

“Alexander?”

“What?” He looked up from his whiskey and met the older man’s blue gaze.

“Unless you tell me differently, I
am
going to plan a ball for Francie,” the earl said. “And she will no doubt have numerous suitors lining Drakemoor the morning after.”