A Taste of Seduction (An Unlikely Husband) (5 page)

“Hmmm.”

“He wouldn’t even consider the possibility,” Francie continued, frowning at her uncle who didn’t seem to be listening.

“He was a scruff of a boy, dark and dirty.” He shook his head. “Pathetic little urchin.”

“There was nothing pathetic about this Mr. Bishop, except perhaps his behavior.” Her eyes narrowed. “Not even a proper introduction.”

“Used to hide in the stalls when the earl and I came for our morning ride.”

That got Francie’s attention. “You were friends with Lord Montrose?”

Uncle Bernard’s gray eyes darkened. When he spoke, his voice grew distant, as though transported back all those years to those very stables. “We were friends. Good friends. Philip was one of the only ones who accepted me.”

“Why wouldn’t everyone accept you?” How could anyone possibly find fault with such a wonderful man?

He removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. “It was all very complicated,” he said. “Very complicated indeed.”

“I don’t understand.” There was something sad and wistful in the tone of his voice.

Her gaze swept over her uncle’s face, noting the small grimace he made when she asked him. His eyes were closed, his gray head resting on the faded green squabs. Wrinkles weaved their way from the ends of his eyes like a patchwork quilt. His mouth was a fine straight line, only half
-visible beneath his bushy beard. He looked tired and weary and suddenly every bit of his sixty years.

“I was your aunt’s tutor.”

“Yes?” It was no secret Uncle Bernard was brilliant. He’d taught Francie everything from Latin to mathematics.

He opened his eyes and held her gaze. “It’s not acceptable for a tutor to fall in love with his pupil,” he said in a flat voice.

Francie reached over and grasped one of his hands. “I think it’s terribly romantic,” she assured him.

He continued as though she hadn’t spoken, “Especially when that pupil is the daughter of an earl.”

His words struck her and she pulled back, staring at the man in front of her. Aunt Eleanor? The woman who buried her hands in piles of rich, dark earth and sewed her own clothes? Francie tried to find the words to speak, tried to push them out, but they lay lodged in her throat, like an extra dollop of thick fudge. If Aunt Eleanor were of noble birth...then her mother was, too.

“I know we should have told you before, child.” Uncle Bernard’s words filtered through her shock. “But how does one inform a young woman she is the daughter of an earl and a countess, without addressing deeper, darker secrets better left alone?” His voice lowered. “Secrets that serve no purpose save to hurt and bring pain, and once discovered, will mark her for the rest of her life?” He shook his head. “We couldn’t do it. Not until that scoundrel, Crayton, threatened your safety and made it absolutely necessary.”

“My mother...” Francie managed, formulating a half-thought in her jumbled brain.

“Was a countess, as
well.”

“And I...” she began, trying to acknowledge what her brain was telling her.

“Was born of love and not position.” Francie met his gray gaze, willing him to tell her what she already guessed. His eyes misted when he spoke. “You were born of love. A forbidden love.”

“What are you saying?” She held her breath, preparing for the blow.

“Your mother was another man’s wife.”

Of all the possibilities she’d considered growing up
—and there’d been many—she’d never once thought she was the product of an illegitimate union.

“Philip and your mother were childhood sweethearts. He offered for your mother, but her father laughed at him, telling him he wasn’t wealthy enough. Determined to win her hand, Philip set off for the Far East, gambling in everything to turn a quick profit
: silk, lace, jewels, spices. When he returned eight months later, he’d tripled his wealth.”

“Then why didn’t he marry her?”

Uncle Bernard’s voice dipped, filling with sadness. “Couldn’t. She was on her honeymoon. Her father forced a match with an earl. One with deep pockets and a lot of land.”

“Was she happy?”

“She was happy when she found out about you, child,” he said, skirting the question.

“And the Earl of Montrose never knew?” There were so many unanswered questions swimming in her head. How had the earl and her mother gotten together again? What of her mother’s husband? It seemed patterned after one of the old Greek plays she and Uncle Bernard read about, where everyone who loves anyone dies or ends up alone.

“No, he never knew.”

Before Francie had time to ponder her uncle’s words, the carriage jostled and rumbled to a halt and the sound of the driver’s high-pitched whistle filled the air.

“What’s happened?” Francie leaned over to pull aside a thin, dingy curtain.

Through the small window, she could just make out a horse and rider. Both were silhouetted against a brilliant golden backdrop, both were huge, and both made Francie shiver. The rider dismounted and turned toward the carriage. She flipped the curtain back in place and scurried to the other end of the cushion, as far away from the door as possible.

Seconds later, the door flung open and a deep voice filled the carriage. “Miss Jordan?”

It was Mr. Bishop! Another shiver ran along her spine, though she couldn’t say why. It wasn’t as though she feared him, though his huge body dwarfed the opening of the carriage. It wasn’t fear at all. It was just...just that she had never met anyone so intimidating.

“Yes?” Could that small voice really be hers?

He leaned into the carriage, pinning her with his silver-gray gaze. His hair was ruffled from the ride, a stray lock hanging over his forehead. “It seems I was in error. The earl requests your presence posthaste.” His tone was clipped, his mouth firm and unsmiling.

“Of course.”

He gave her a quick, almost imperceptible nod and turned toward Uncle Bernard. She heard the startled sound, low in his throat as though the sight of her uncle had caught him unawares. But how could that be? Surely he’d seen a second figure in the carriage when he opened the door.
Very odd.

Even odder was Uncle Bernard’s response. “Good day, young man.” A hint of a smile peeked
from beneath his bushy beard.

“Bishop,” the other man corrected. “Alexander Bishop.”

Uncle Bernard nodded. “Mr. Bishop. I’m Bernard Jordan.” His smile broadened. “Miss Jordan’s uncle.”

The two men stared at one another like opponents on a dueling field. Mr. Bishop broke the silence first. “The earl tires easily these days. I’d like Miss Jordan to speak with him as soon as possible.” With that, he turned and closed the carriage door.

They made the ride back to the earl’s estate in silence. Francie kept thinking about the encounter between her uncle and Mr. Bishop. It helped keep her mind off the impending meeting with her father. Something passed between the two men, something more than casual interest.

“What did you think of Mr. Bishop?” she asked, keeping her voice light. If her uncle knew she
were digging, he’d close up tighter than a pillbox. That was one thing about Uncle Bernard. He did not like to be pushed, pulled, or bullied into anything.

“Hmmm?” he asked. “Mr. Bishop?” He gave her a faint smile. “Fine young man.”

“Why do you say such a thing?” Nothing she’d seen so far in Mr. Bishop’s demeanor prompted her to think of him as fine. Bold, irascible, rash. Now those were words she’d tie to his name without a second’s hesitation.

Uncle Bernard shrugged his bony shoulders. “He’s got a way of commanding a presence I admire. And he knows what he’s about.”

“That adds up to arrogant in my book,” Francie said.

Her uncle chuckled. “Give the poor boy a chance before you condemn him.”

“Boy? I hardly think Mr. Bishop resembles a boy,” she said, recalling his broad chest and cold eyes. “As a matter of fact, I don’t think he was ever a boy.”

“Now there’s where you’re wrong. Your Mr. Bishop was a child just like the rest of us, full of hopes and dreams. Perhaps his got trampled on when he was just a tot. But, no matter, just like the rest of us, that child is still in there, hidden beneath layers of refinement, no doubt.” He stroked his beard. “But he’s still in there.”

Francie wanted to inform her uncle that even if Mr. Bishop had once been a child—and that was still open for serious debate—then he’d most likely never done anything that even bore a hint of resemblance to children’s activities. She couldn’t picture him climbing a tree or making mud pies or jumping in puddles. Or even hugging a dog.

Before she had a chance to voice her opinion, the carriage rolled to a halt. Drakemoor. Francie’s breath caught in her throat. In a matter of minutes she’d meet the Earl of Montrose.

Her father.

Uncle Bernard leaned over and squeezed her hand. His kind gray eyes warmed her. “It will be all right, Francie,” he whispered. “He’ll love you as much as I do.”

***

Francie found herself seated once again in the massive cream room with the burgundy sofa. She ran her fingers over her pale blue gown, smoothing first one wrinkle
, then another and another until she’d worked a pattern along the fabric. When she reached the end, she started over on the other side.

She had just finished another round of smoothing wrinkles when the oak door opened and a giant of a man entered, leaning on a black cane. His eyes never left hers as he worked his way toward her, one hobbled step at a time. He had broad shoulders and a thick build with large
, beefy hands. Despite his age and apparent infirmary, Philip Cardinger, the Earl of Montrose, commanded a powerful presence.

His light
-red hair curled about his head with a dusting of white, and his blue eyes sparkled with unshed tears. Francie met his unwavering gaze, a single tear slipping along her own cheek.

“Francie,” he breathed.

Her lips trembled as she offered a half-smile. She dug her fingers into the pocket of her gown and produced the locket. “I have this locket.” She stood and opened her hand.

His blue eyes swept to the small gold object resting in her palm. He took another step toward her and reached for the locket. “May I?”

“Of course.”

He took the locket, his long fingers brushing hers. His red head dipped low as he studied the picture. Then he reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a similar
-shaped locket.

“I have its mate,” he said, handing her the other half of the locket. His lips curved into a sad smile.

Francie took the locket and tried to still the clamoring in her chest. She looked down at the cameo, stared at the beautiful, smiling woman with the jet-black hair and emerald-green eyes. Her mother. Tears blurred her vision and she reached up to swipe at them.

A strong hand closed over hers. “I miss her still,” her father whispered, reaching for her. Francie went to him, burying her head against the warmth of his chest where his heart beat steady and comforting.

Tears came for both of them then, pouring down like an afternoon shower. “I swear I never knew about you, child. If I had any idea you existed, I would’ve torn this country apart, village by village, to find you.”

Francie sniffed and dabbed her eyes with the handkerchief her father tucked in her hand. “I know,” she murmured against his chest. “I don’t understand why my aunt and uncle didn’t tell you about me.”

He tensed at the mention of Aunt Eleanor and Uncle Bernard. “Things were very complicated. Perhaps they had their reasons.”

Francie wanted to ask more, but the underlying firmness in her father’s voice stopped her. Whatever his suspicions, he wasn’t going to reveal them to her.
At least not yet.

The earl loosened his grip and held her at arm’s length. “You’re beautiful, Francie. Your mother would be so proud of you.”

“I wish I had known her.”

“As do I.” He fingered one of her curls. “But we can’t change the past. All we can do now is forge a future.” His smile broadened. “And it will be a great future for you here at Drakemoor.”

Drakemoor. Francie never considered staying. She’d only wanted to press the earl for assistance and then head back home in her rickety carriage. But now, after meeting him, after crying in his arms, she realized she wanted very much to get to know this man.

But living in such a grand place, larger than any she’d ever seen? Her whole house could fit in the two rooms she’d visited today.

“I...” she hesitated, “…am not accustomed to living in a place like Drakemoor. I fear I might not adapt well.”

The earl ignored her blustering. “We need to sit down before this old man topples over.”

“Yes, of course.” Francie moved to the side, allowing him easy access to the nearest chair. She sat in its mate, a comfortable burgundy brocade.

“Now, what’s wrong with Drakemoor?”

Heat seeped into her cheeks. “
Nothing
. Nothing at all. It’s absolutely beautiful.”

“Then why don’t you want to live here?” He coughed and cleared his throat.

How could she explain? She clasped her hands in her lap and searched for the words. “I’m not used to such grandeur. I’ve spent my whole life in a little cottage, helping my aunt grow herbs and wearing homemade clothes. I wouldn’t know how to act in a place like this.”