A Taste of Seduction (An Unlikely Husband) (19 page)

Francie turned away. No, she’d bet he hadn’t lectured Lady Printon on her choice of clothing.

“Well, well, what an exquisite pleasure,” a man’s voice said from behind. It was a familiar, soft, honeyed voice. Francie turned and froze.

Jared Crayton stood before her, the picture of casual elegance in a black cutaway and trousers, his snow-white cravat darkening his bronze skin. Many a mother looked into those moss-green eyes and prayed to have him for a son-in-law, even though he was a second son. But Francie knew what evil pounded through his veins, just below the surface of civility.

She had to signal Alexander immediately so he’d take care of this beast before he took his next victim.

“So, you’re Francie Jordan.”

Francie turned to the woman beside Jared Crayton. She was beautiful, with rich, black hair, woven with tiny sapphire beads and gathered in ringlets atop her head. Eyes the color of a clear sky on a chilly morning stared back at her. A half-smile flitted across the woman’s face, as though she couldn’t quite bring herself to spread her lips wider. She wore a cream silk gown that clung to her small frame and matched the exact hue of her skin. It
, too, dipped well below Alexander’s standard of acceptable.

Sapphires dangled from her neck and ears.

“Allow me to make introductions,” Jared Crayton said with a gallant sweep of his hand. “Lady Claire, this is indeed Miss Francie Jordan.” His smile deepened as his gaze traveled from Francie’s eyes to her bosom. “Francie, this is Lady Claire Ashcroft, the daughter of the Earl of Belmont.”

Francie forced a smile and extended her hand, sliding a glance in Alexander’s direction.
Blast the man!
He had his back turned to her. Lady Claire brushed her gloved fingertips against Francie’s palm and withdrew. “You’re Montrose’s daughter,” she said, her blue eyes narrowing a fraction.

“Yes, I am.”

Lady Claire turned to her escort. “Jared, be a dear and fetch me some punch, please?”

“Certainly.” He turned to Francie, his voice soft and intimate. “May I refill yours?”

“No.” The word flew out of her mouth. “No, thank you,” she repeated, in a more demure tone. She wanted him to be gone so she could slip over to Alexander.

Jared Crayton swept his gaze over her bosom once more, leaving no doubt he approved of her gown, before he turned and headed in the direction of the refreshments.

“I understand you’re Alexander Bishop’s sister,” Lady Claire continued as though there hadn’t been a break in the conversation.

Heat surged to Francie’s cheeks.
Sister
. “Y...yes,” she stumbled over the word.

The woman shifted her gaze to Alexander a moment before gliding back to Francie. “That’s what Alexander told me.” She gave Francie another quarter
-smile. “He said you were like brother and sister. Actually,” she added, dropping her voice to a whisper, “he told me he felt sorry for you.”

“He felt sorry for me?”

“Well, yes. He said you were something of a poor relation, raised in a little village without proper education or social skills.”

Alexander said that about her?
“I see.” Poor relation? Without proper education or social skills? When she got her hands on him, she’d yank his silly cravat so hard she’d make his eyes bulge.

Lady Claire’s soft voice tinkled with laughter. “He likened you to a little country mouse journeying to the city. Quaint but quite backward.”

“Quaint but backward?” She’d yank until his eyes popped out.

“Don’t take offense, Miss Jordan. He meant no harm.”

Meant no harm? She was going to cry…
after
she assaulted Alexander with his cravat. “I’m certain he didn’t,” she said, forcing out the truth. “You must have found it quite entertaining to think of a village girl like me living in a place like Drakemoor.”

The black-haired beauty laughed again. This time, her smile spread in white magnificence across her face. “I must admit, it did give us a little chuckle. Drakemoor is one of the grandest estates for miles around. It needs a mistress of impeccable breeding who can bring dignity and honor to the position.”

Impeccable breeding. Not a bastard child, even if she were the daughter of an earl
. “Excuse me, Lady Claire, I’m not feeling very well.”

“I understand.” The other woman’s words drifted to her. “I understand completely.”

Francie sifted her way through the throng of guests and made her way outdoors, not stopping until she stood before her garden on the far side of the house. She closed her eyes and inhaled the scent of lilac and roses. It reminded her of Amberden, her own slice of heaven.

The tears came then. Great, gulping sobs wracked her body and fell in tiny paths down her cheeks. She tasted the salt of her anguish, her shoulders shaking with sorrow. She didn’t belong at Drakemoor. No matter how much she loved her father, she couldn’t stay here. Not with Alexander. Not when she had to see him every day, knowing he didn’t want her here, knowing he and others like him ridiculed her for her simple ways.

“A beautiful rose in a rose garden,” a soft voice called from behind.

Francie jumped, startled by the intrusion, but didn’t turn around. “I’d like some privacy.” She swiped at her eyes and sniffed.

“Soft and fragrant as a rose is sweet Francie,” the voice continued as though she hadn’t spoken.

“I want to be alone,” she said with a little more force, sniffing again.

“Skin like velvet, tempting to touch, to kiss.”

A chill crept up her spine, spreading through her body with slow, persistent intent. “Please go away.”

“Such beauty blanketed in such sadness. Would that I could take away your pain.”

A hand touched her shoulder and she spun around. “How dare you come here after what you did to my
aunt.”

Jared Crayton stared back at her, his handsome face cast in a scrap of moonlight. “I have no idea what you mean.” His charming smile made him look boyish and innocent.

“Don’t try to deny it was you who assaulted my aunt.”

He had the audacity to look affronted. “Why would I do such a thing? Do you think me some kind of beast?” He reached for a stray lock of hair that had fallen to her shoulder but she jerked back before he could touch her.

“You could have killed her, all because she wouldn’t tell you my whereabouts.”

The smile faded. “Insolence cannot be tolerated in the lower class. Your aunt shows no respect for those above her. She should consider herself fortunate to have suffered nothing more than a little blood and bruises.”

Whether he came right out and said the words, she knew he’d been the one to attack Aunt Eleanor. She pushed past the anger and disgust swelling inside and said, “Any man who would strike a woman is not a man.”

Jared Crayton’s hand shot up so fast Francie thought he would strike her. But then he stilled, watching her shrink back, her arms shielding her head.

“No need to fear me, Francie,” he said, lowering his hand toward her and turning his palm upward. “I’d never hurt you.” He stepped closer.

“Get the hell away from her!”

Alexander
. Francie turned and ran toward the shadowy figure approaching, mindless of the rose thorns snagging her gown and prickling her bare arms.

“Are you all right?” Alexander clutched her to him, his voice raw.

“I’m fine,” she managed.

He reached out to touch her cheek, hesitated, then drew back and released her.

“Well, well.” Jared Crayton approached them. “Isn’t this a charming little scene? Alexander Bishop saves the day.” He smirked. “Rescuing his little sister from the clutches of evil. Your intentions toward Francie are as brotherly as mine, Bishop.”

“Enough,” Alexander bit out.

“Oh, enough, is it? I daresay it won’t be enough until one of us gets between those creamy, white thighs of hers.”

Alexander let out a low, feral growl and charged the other man, striking his left jaw, then his right, then his left again, with bone-chilling accuracy. Crayton stumbled backward and tried to escape but Alexander grabbed his cravat, yanked him forward, and delivered several blows to his midsection. Francie watched in horror and awe as the ever
-proper Alexander Bishop proceeded to decimate the Duke of Worthington’s second son.

“Stop,” Crayton choked out, his words garbled with what Francie guessed to be a mouthful of blood. “Stop. I...beg you.”

Alexander grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket and hauled him forward. “Keep away from her,” he ground out. “Don’t come near her again. And stay clear of Amberden.” Crayton moaned in response. Alexander swore under his breath and threw him to the ground like so much rubbish. Then he turned and grabbed Francie by the arm. “Let’s go,” he said in a tone that brooked no argument. “He won’t be bothering you again.”

A sliver of moon lit the path as Francie followed Alexander toward the back of the house, accompanied by a chorus of crickets and a medley of night sounds. Nature’s song drowned out the faint chords filtering from the open windows. She much preferred the rhythmic chirping in the darkness to a crowded room packed with eager young suitors begging a dance. It helped settle her jumbled nerves and her breathing slowed to even breaths, matching the cacophony around her. When they reached a small copse of elm trees, Alexander stopped.

“Let me look at you.” He released her arm and cupped her chin with his fingers. He moved closer, his breath fanning her face.

“I’m fine,” she managed.

“Did he hurt you?” Alexander’s fingers swept over her face.

“N...no,” she stammered. He was much too close for her to formulate a single thought.

“Then why does it look like you’ve been crying?” he asked between clenched teeth. “What did he do?”

“No, that was...He didn’t touch me.”

After studying her a moment more, Alexander seemed to accept her words and let out a heavy sigh. “Thank God. He wasn’t invited, you know.”

“I assumed as much.”

“He must’ve been determined to see you.”

A shudder ran through her at the thought of what might have happened had Alexander not intervened. “How did you know where to find me?”

He shrugged. “I didn’t. When you left the ballroom, I gave you a reasonable period of time to return. Then I started searching.”

She let out a little half-laugh. “You were watching me? You seemed much too involved with Lady Printon to notice anything.”

“I notice everything about you, Francie,” he said in that low, gruff voice that made her insides quiver. “Sometimes too much.” His fingers slipped from her chin to her shoulder.

Her heart skipped a beat
, then pounded wildly. “Then you are quite the actor for I thought you were completely enamored of Lady Printon and unable to see anything but her.” Once the words were out, she wished she hadn’t said them. They made her sound petty and small, as though his love interest in another woman mattered to her.

“Jealous, Francie?” His fingers trailed down her arm, leaving little prickles of heat where he touched her.

She jerked away from him, angry he could affect her with the slightest touch. Angry also that she cared about his relationship with his paramour.

“Of course I’m not jealous! One would have to care in order to be jealous, would one not?”

“Yes,” he agreed, in that too-low voice again.

“One would have to care.”

“And since you and I obviously do not care for one another in anything other than a familial capacity,” she said, careful to avoid his piercing gaze, “there’s no reason to even consider jealousy as a viable emotion.”

“Indeed.”

“Indeed,” she whispered, wishing she could make herself believe her own words.

Alexander cleared his throat. Twice. She waited for his sarcastic rebuttal. He had one, she was certain of it. After all, hadn’t she read somewhere the one who cares the least or not at all, as in this case, possessed the most leverage in a situation? She waited for his quip. And waited.

“Look at me, Francie.”

She inched her gaze to meet his, thankful darkness hid much of her face.

“I left for exactly five minutes this evening, during which time Crayton must have sought you out. Aside from that, let’s see...” He tapped his chin with his forefinger. “You danced with James Trumane, Earl of Westhaven, first, followed by Adam Montale, Earl of Kilander, then Alex Drexel, Marquis of Rentworth.” He paused. “You danced with him twice. Oh, I almost forgot Jason Gilian, the Marquis of Penton. And, last but certainly not least, that gangly fellow lapping along behind you all evening, Lord Steven Grosepeak, Earl of Starling. He also brought you punch.”

Francie stared at him. He’d just named every partner on her dance card.
In order. “How?” she asked, finding it difficult to breathe all of a sudden. “Why?”

Alexander gripped her arms with both hands, taking a step closer until not more than a breath separated them. “I wish to God I knew,” he said on a ragged sigh. “Every time I saw one of them touching you, I wanted to tear
him away.”