A Taste of Seduction (An Unlikely Husband) (21 page)

Silence filled the night, wrapped itself around them, as he waited for Philip’s response. When he spoke, his voice was soft, his words gentle. “You and Francie care for one another. She’s full of love. Let her shower you with it. Let her teach you how to love.”

Alexander shook his head. “Love? You’re the only one who’s ever shown me love. I wouldn’t know how to love a woman. To care so much you think your life will end if you can’t see her smile, hear her voice, feel her touch? I’ve never loved a woman like that.” He drew in a deep breath. “Nor do I want to.”

Philip swiped at his eyes. “Sometimes it happens whether you want it to or not. That’s what living is all about, Alex. Cherishing those moments when she does smile, when her voice is filled with laughter. When love shines in her eyes and her touch is for you alone.” He sniffed. “That makes it worth the risk.”

“Not for me, it doesn’t,” Alexander said.

“Those are only words and they won’t stop what’s in your heart. You’ll see, Alex. One day, you’ll see exactly what I mean.”

***

Francie sat cross-legged in the middle of the bed, staring at the door. It was half past two
-o’clock in the morning and she still hadn’t heard Alexander’s footsteps traveling past her door on the way to his room. Where was he? Had he left with Lady Printon? Was he spending the night with her?

A sinking feeling settled in her stomach like a ball of dough that refuses to rise. She tucked her toes under her batiste nightgown, battling visions of Alexander’s strong fingers moving over Lady Printon’s well-endowed body. Was he touching her the way he’d touched Francie tonight? Giving her the same pleasure? Heat shot through her like a fire gone wild as she recalled every detail of their encounter.
His hands pressing her to him, his manhood moving against her, his mouth at her breasts. She shuddered. And his tongue...oh, yes, his tongue…exploring, plundering her most private parts, shattering her into a million fragments of pleasure and ecstasy. She trembled again and wrapped her arms around herself.

Dear Lord, what happened out there this evening, in the blackness of night, against the rough bark of an old elm tree? And what would happen now? Her gaze darted to the crumpled gold and burgundy gown hanging in the corner, the jagged little snags and tears on the left side serving as a reminder of her narrow escape from Jared Crayton. She glanced at the bodice
, which dipped low, even more so when it hung from a hanger with nothing to hold it up, and remembered Alexander pulling the fabric down, exposing her breasts, lowering his dark head.

Francie squeezed her eyes shut but memories of the evening still invaded her brain.

She heard a noise on the stairs and her eyes flew open. Alexander was coming. Francie stilled her ragged breathing and listened. Nothing but a quiet, insistent scratching on the door. She bounded off the cream counterpane and threw it open. Mr. Pib stared back at her, his wide gray eyes flecked with gold. He flicked his caramel tail in the air and walked past her, rubbing against her leg.

“You little devil,” she whispered, closing the door behind him. “How did you get in here? You’re supposed to be in the barn.”

The cat jumped on the bed, turned around three times, and curled himself into a tight ball.

“If Alexander finds out about this, he’ll string you up by your tail.” She crawled onto the bed and rubbed Mr. Pib behind the ears. “But lucky for you, I believe he’s not home tonight.”

Saying the words out loud, even if only to her cat, made Francie miserable. He’d gone to his mistress. She’d tormented herself with those thoughts for the last three hours. Perhaps it was time to find out if they were true.

Before she could reconsider her actions, Francie grabbed her robe and headed for the door. If he were still at Drakemoor, he’d be in his study. Not with his mistress. Her heart skipped three beats as she hurried down the winding staircase, her bare feet padding a muted staccato. She reached the bottom of the stairs and slowed, turning toward Alexander’s study.

What if she found him in there? What would she say
? I want to understand what happened tonight? Why did you pretend to ignore me at the ball and yet you knew my every move? Or perhaps, a confession of her own would be in order. My heart broke every time I saw you and Lady Printon in each other’s arms. I want you to smile at me the way you smiled at her
.

I think I’m falling in love with you
.

She gasped.
No
. She pushed the thought away. Loving a man like Alexander Bishop would bring nothing but heartache. Nothing at all, she reminded herself as she turned the knob of his study and peeked inside.

George barked twice, his golden eyes glowing in the semi-darkness. He lay in the middle of the Aubusson rug, his tan coat blending into it. Next to him was a long scrap of white cloth. When he saw the intruder was only Francie, his tail thumped three times and he plopped his head between his paws.

“What is it, boy?” Alexander’s voice came to her from across the room. He sounded strange, as though he’d just woken up and was still groggy. “Nothing? Good boy.” She heard a clunk. “Good...boy.”

She slipped through the door and closed it behind her. George’s ears perked up at the click, but he settled again, his golden eyes following her.

“What a mess, George,” Alexander said. Did she detect a slight slur in his words? “What a godddd...damned mess.”

Francie inched closer. Alexander lay sprawled in his chair, eyes closed, one hand clutching a decanter, the other a glass. His hair stuck straight up as though he’d run his hands through it several times. But it was his manner of dress, or lack
thereof, that held her mesmerized. The ever-proper, ever-meticulous Alexander Bishop had discarded his cravat, which explained the white cloth at George’s feet, and ripped his shirt open to reveal a mat of black, curly chest hair. A coil of heat sprang from deep inside Francie and wrapped itself around her tighter and tighter until she found it hard to breathe.

“Gooodddd damned mess,” Alexander repeated, opening his eyes to tiny slits. He leaned forward and lifted the decanter, pouring a healthy swallow into the glass. Liquid sloshed over the sides and onto the desk and floor. “Hmmmph,” he muttered, squinting at the glass. He lifted it and threw it back in one gulp.

Well, at least now she knew he hadn’t gone to Lady Printon’s. Francie inched backward. Perhaps she’d let him alone to his drink and his “goddamned mess.”

“Philip doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” he mumbled.

Philip?
Francie crept forward three steps.

“It would never work.” He shook his dark head. “Never, George. Not now.” He lifted the decanter to his lips. “Not tomorrow.” He took a drink. “Not ever.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “But she’s so damned beautiful.”

Who?

“That hair. The color of...” He rubbed his jaw. “Of what? Hmmm, let me think.”

Francie touched a stray curl.
Whose hair?
She held her breath, taking tiny steps closer.

Alexander’s lips curved into a half-smile. “Of course, that’s it,” he said, his head resting against the back of his chair, his eyes still closed. “Hair the color of—”

“Oooph!” Francie’s foot hit the leg of the chair and she lost her balance, toppling head first onto the plump cushions of his favorite green chair.

“What the—” Alexander blurted out, his eyes flashing open. He darted around the desk so fast she thought she’d imagined his earlier inebriated state. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Alexander towered over her, hands on hips, the scar on his face white with anger. Francie pushed out of the chair in the most ladylike fashion she could muster.

“Answer me. What, may I ask, are you doing here, at this hour?” He pointed a finger at her robe. “Dressed like that?” His speech was perfect, enunciated with clarity and form. What had happened to the man who’d been slurring his words a few moments ago? She wished
he’d
come back. He seemed so much more approachable.

“I...was...worried about you,” she managed, clutching her middle and training her eyes on George. Dogs were such fortunate creatures. They needn’t get involved in things like relationships or worry about saying too much or too little. A couple of feisty barks, a little wag of the tail
, and a spot by their master was all they required.

“Worried about me?” he repeated, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “How charming.”

She tried not to notice the dark mat of hair or the tiny spiral ending in a V at his trousers. Her face heated with the thought of
not
thinking about it.

“Yes, well,” Francie said. “I didn’t hear you come up and I thought perhaps you’d fallen asleep somewhere.”
Like Lady Printon’s
.

His dark brows pulled together in a straight line. “You were checking up on me?”

“No!” she said, denying the truth. “Why would I do such a thing?”

He cocked his head to one side and studied her, his silver eyes narrowed, his mouth turned down at the corners. “Why indeed?” he mused.

It was odd to see him in this state of undress and dishevelment, and yet, his mussed hair and open shirt seemed to fit him better than the starched, buttoned-up lifestyle he insisted upon.

Francie took a step backward. “Well, now that I know you’re fine and not in danger of getting all crumpled...” She blushed, looking at his bare chest again. “I mean, now that I know you’re here...” She shook her head. “No, that’s not what I meant.” She twisted her fingers in front of her. “Of course, you’d be here.” Her gaze skirted around him, settling on George. “Where else would you be?” The next words flew out of her mouth so fast, she couldn’t stop them. “Unless you were with Lady Printon.”

She gasped and clamped her hand over her mouth.

“I see,” Alexander said.

She inched her hand away from her mouth, one finger at a time. “And that would be none of my affair,” she blurted out.

“No. It wouldn’t be.”

Heat rushed to her cheeks. She had to get away. Now, before she opened her mouth again and made some other totally ridiculous statement.

“Lady Printon is a very beautiful woman,” Alexander said.

Francie pushed past the agony in her heart and murmured, “Yes, she is.” Of course, she was beautiful. But did he have to announce it in front of her as though she couldn’t discern the fact from a mere glance?

“She’s a woman who presents herself well, as a true lady, regardless of title or distinction,” he continued.

What he meant was she didn’t run around barefoot or try to steal his breeches for riding.

“And she possesses a most agreeable temperament,” he went on in an even tone.

She wouldn’t dare disagree or raise her voice to him was more like it. Unlike herself, who spoke her mind at every turn
.

“Who has no contrived expectations of what a relationship should be.”

She would permit him other women
.

“Any man would be proud to be with her.”

She’d heard enough about Lady Printon, the perfect woman Francie would never be. The one Alexander really wanted. “Good,” she bit out, meeting his silver gaze. “I hope you’ll both be very happy.” She had to get out of here before the tears started. And they would, once she accepted the fact that what happened under the elm tree tonight meant nothing to him.
She meant nothing to him
. Francie yanked the door open and ran down the hall.

Alexander stared at the spot where she’d stood just moments ago. “But that’s the problem, Francie,” he whispered, his voice ragged and filled with anguish. “I’m not happy. Not anymore.” He ran a hand through his hair and closed his eyes. “Not without you.”

Alexander heard the scream from somewhere deep in his brain, a piercing shriek that went on and on. No beginning. No end. He tried to rouse himself from his slumber, wanting to make it stop.
Dear God, make it stop
.

He blinked his eyes open. He was in his study, still dressed in evening clothes, shirt wide open, jacket discarded, trousers wrinkled, reeking of whiskey.
And a head pounding almost loud enough to block out that infernal screaming.

He shot out of his chair. The high-pitched wailing that filled the air belonged to Francie. He bound out of the study and up the stairs, following the sound to Philip’s room. Dread poured through him as he pushed open the door.

Francie knelt at Philip’s feet, her slender fingers wrapped around one of her father’s big hands, her cheek resting on it. Her eyes were closed, her face streaked with tears that fell unheeded onto her pale yellow gown. The screams tempered to a whimper, like a wounded animal alone in the wild with no hope for survival.

Alexander edged into the room, moving toward her and the man he’d thought of as father. His chest tightened, like someone squeezing hard with both hands, forcing every ounce of emotion from him. Pain ripped through him, gouging great holes in his heart.

The earl sat in a chair in full evening attire, eyes closed, a hint of a smile upon his pale face.