I Thee Wed (19 page)

He hoped she would never regret last night. He just wasn't sure that either of them could be sure of such a thing. When something changed one's life, one was bound to suffer from those changes, somehow.

A
S she dressed and arranged her hair, Francesca tried her best to avoid becoming excited about the evening's ball. After all, the point of a London Society event such as this was making matches, wasn't it? She had no interest in matching with anyone!

Unless that anyone is Orion Worthington?

No, despite her enjoyment of his company—and his touch, and his kiss!—she still had no intention of losing her independence in something as restrictive as holy wedlock. That was not for her. It was true that she had seen a few good matches in her life. Her mother had fallen in love, and had married a fine man and had a child, herself. Her grandmother had fallen in love and married another fine man, and had twelve children, to boot!

Francesca knew that marriage was a perfectly workable solution—but only some of the time. Marriage also could be a trap into which a woman disappeared, losing herself in her husband's needs and losing her life within the context of his.

So it wasn't the matchmaking she was looking forward to, certainly not!

However, she did love to dance.

Francesca stood before the large oval mirror, studying a most unusual vision, indeed—herself, poured into golden silk and adorned with seed pearls and lace, a pair of large pearl drops dangling from her earlobes. She gave her new gown an experimental twirl, noting the dramatic sweep of the lightweight silk as it brushed over the tops of her matching dancing slippers. And look! She had somehow managed to braid and coil her recalcitrant dark curls just as dear Mr. Button had instructed, with ribbon and pearls in the style he'd used to create a garden-vine pattern of her bodice. It was perfection! Upon closer inspection, Francesca decided she looked rather like an exceptionally decorated and gilded cake—curls at the top and slippers at the bottom—with her own admittedly excellent bosom making up the middle tier!

Mr. Button was a genius, indeed. And an extremely fast worker. Francesca hadn't truly expected to receive the dress for weeks, despite Attie's numerous assurances that it would be ready in time for the Duke of Camberton's ball.

It was not until Francesca made her way skipping down the stairs to meet the others in the front hall, twirling the matching reticule from her wrist all the while, that she realized just how much of a genius was the renowned Lementeur, known to her as Button!

Judith actually gasped. Out loud. Francesca greatly enjoyed the look of obvious, albeit brief, astonished consternation on her cousin's lovely face. And, for once, Francesca did not feel outshone by the serene Judith, even as she wore a perfectly lovely silk gown of palest cornflower blue. Perfectly lovely and perfectly appropriate.

“Is—” Judith shook her head in wonder. “Is that a Lementeur gown?”

“Yes!” Francesca gave another spin, this time for her audience's benefit. “I think it's quite pretty.”

“Pretty?” Judith pressed her lips together. “Women wait months—years!—to get on Lementeur's client list. And the gowns cost nearly a hundred pounds!”

Francesca blinked and looked down at herself in disbelief. “Oops. Perhaps I ought to have insisted upon paying for it, after all.”

Judith seemed to be having trouble breathing. “But—are you saying it was a
gift
? From Lementeur
himself
?
H
-
how?
”

Francesca smiled benignly at Judith. What a marvelous moment. “Would you like one, too? I shall ask him for you.” In all truth, Francesca had never wished to be in competition with her cousin. She was above all that sort of thing, after all. Or she would be, very soon, perhaps tomorrow, after Society had seen her in this gilded confection of a dress!

Her gaze fell upon her uncle, who also seemed a little taken aback by her appearance. He was looking her up and down. “You look acceptable . . .”

Francesca widened her eyes in surprise.

Then a surly expression formed on his lined face. “For once.”

Ah, that was better. Francesca felt much more comfortable with her uncle scowling at her—familiar and sure of her place in the world.

Finally, at long last, she dared to look at Mr. Worthington. He stood quite still, his appearance lean and dark next to Sir Geoffrey's ostentatious frilled shirt and embroidered waistcoat.

It was the picture of a lone wolf standing next to a sheepherder. Was she the only one to see Orion Worthington for what he truly was?

Perhaps not. Though he looked much like he usually did, save for the finely cut evening attire, Francesca had seen past his understated clothing and studious expression to the naked magnificence beneath. In fact, according to Mr. Worthington, she was the only woman who had ever had the privilege.

Francesca's gaze locked with Orion's, his eyes a deep blue
deepened by the black fire of his desire. It was a desire she knew was reflected in her own gaze.

He wants me.

I want him right back
.

A few too many seconds had passed for propriety, and Orion knew he should have already commented on Miss Penrose's gown. But how could he be expected to speak when he could barely draw breath? His chest tightened and his fingers twitched. His mouth had gone dry. And all he could think was,
That stunning woman is mine.

She had been lovely in her plain and frumpy gowns. He'd thought she was astonishing naked on the rug. However, he'd not properly prepared himself for the sight of Francesca draped in shimmering, golden silk and twined with ribbon and pearls. It was almost too much richness to comprehend.

He vaguely remembered seeing Button sitting on the floor of his office in a pool of golden cloth, a strand of pearls tossed over his shoulder. Now, as if by magic, that scattered mess had become a shimmering setting for the jewel of Francesca, one that set off her summery skin, complemented the golden gleam in her dark brown hair, and presented her generous bosom for the world to enjoy.

She was nothing less than a goddess in gold. And not some out-of-reach perfect goddess, but an earthy, voluptuous goddess of laughter, and cake, and Bolognese sauce, a bit of divine female with a sweet, hot liquid center and the capacity for loud, enthusiastic orgasms.

Eventually he managed to make his mouth work. “You look very nice, Miss Penrose,” he said simply.

Francesca knew that he had likely said the very same thing to Judith when he saw her, but she also knew that he had not looked at Judith as if he wanted to strip every stitch of silk from her body and lay her down on the carpet for seven hours.

Oh heavens. Yes, please. Let us turn back the clock a day so that you can be all mine again.

She bobbed a little curtsy. “Why, thank you, sir,” she said
airily, turning back to Judith. “Are we quite ready to leave? I am greatly looking forward to dancing!”

Sir Geoffrey harrumphed. “This is the Duke of Camberton's ball. He is a major patron of the Royal Fraternity of Life Sciences. We are not going there to dance!”

“Of course not, Papa,” Judith said soothingly. “Francesca fully realizes her responsibility to represent the family well before the Fraternity, I'm sure.”

Francesca smiled at her very frustrating uncle. “Francesca fully realizes her responsibility to dance until her slippers fall to pieces!” And she said it out loud. Or rather, muttered it. Whispered really, after her uncle had turned his back on her.

You lump of cold porridge!

But no matter. She was on her way to a real London Society ball. In a wonderful dress in a carriage with her family and a magnificent man.

A man who is going to marry your cousin
.

Pish and tosh. I shall not allow that to spoil my first English ball!

However, when she was seated next to her uncle, across from Judith, she had to admit that her cousin and Mr. Worthington made a handsome couple. The biologist in her could not help but calculate the high probability of tall, blue-eyed, extremely attractive offspring.

By the time the carriage had crossed the three-quarters of a mile to the grand Mayfair home of the Duke of Camberton, Francesca had lost a certain amount of her gaiety to the sobering understanding that perhaps he was not her Mr. Worthington after all.

*   *   *

O
RION ASCENDED THE
ornate staircase and stepped into the Duke of Camberton's shimmering ballroom. Judith was at his side, and Sir Geoffrey and Francesca were directly behind. He had been dragged to a number of the Duke of Camberton's events during the past months as escort for his cousin, Bliss.
Until he heard Judith catch her breath and tighten her gloved hand on his forearm, he never even considered that first-time guests might be surprised at the extravagant ballroom.

Judith raised her eyes to the four monstrous crystal chandeliers overhead, her lips parting in awe. “Impressive,” she said.

“Quite,” Orion concurred.

Francesca, never one to favor restraint, gasped loudly and released a mellifluous string of Italian superlatives.
“Bellisimo! Molto bello! Favoloso!”

Orion stifled a smile, secretly amused at the unleashed exuberance that was Miss Francesca Penrose.

In truth, Francesca had not exaggerated. The Duke of Camberton's ballroom was as lavish as anything Orion had seen in St. James's Palace, the home of the Prince Regent himself. It was a shining testament to Neville's—er, the duke's—unlimited resources and exquisite taste.

Beneath their feet, an iridescent marble floor stretched out, inlaid with a subtle basket-weave pattern of cream and rose. The pale mint green walls towered at least three stories high and were offset by moldings painted with gold leaf. There were immense palladium windows, stately doors opened to the fragrant outside terraces, and a dozen marble columns draped in rich fabric. Along the walls, every manner of manicured greenery and exotic potted palm was displayed, each set in an individual golden planter.

Amid the overwhelming splendor, there were two main focal points in the room. A grand marble staircase swooped down from a mezzanine above, hinting of many a grand entrance. Orion thought that in Francesca's magically inclined mind it might be the chandeliers that ruled the ballroom. Hundreds of candles blazed in four huge, multitiered fixtures, their flames refracted endlessly in the glass. The effect was that a magical luminosity shimmered down upon those below, accenting every jewel, every bit of silk, satin, and brocade. Beneath such grand lighting, it seemed that every woman
might appear beautiful and every gentleman tall. The notion made him smile.

Within moments, the party of four had been swallowed in the ebb and flow of finery, and Orion noted that Sir Geoffrey gravitated toward a small gathering of Society members. Francesca wandered off by herself toward the sweets table. He could not help but watch her walk away. Her decadent bare shoulders and golden curves looked as if they belonged here. Indeed, the entire ballroom appeared as if it had been designed around Francesca, for she was just as luscious, just as unrestrained, as the Duke of Camberton's decorating tastes.

The voice of the duke himself jarred Orion from his dreamy reverie.

“Miss Blayne,” Orion heard him say. “You look lovely tonight. Welcome.” Neville bowed graciously before Judith, and she answered with the daintiest of curtsies and her sincere gratitude for being invited to such a fine event.

“On the contrary,” he said, his boyish face set off by a friendly smile. “I am honored that you and Sir Geoffrey could join us this evening.” He turned to Orion. “Mr. Worthington! I am well pleased to see you.”

“And I you, Your Grace.” Orion bowed courteously.

The duke waved off the social niceties. He and Orion had been friendly acquaintances nearly a year, as Neville was a school chum of Orion's brother-in-law, Elektra's husband, Lord Aaron Arbogast. Neville was a bookish man, with dark hair and pale skin, slight in build but kind of heart. Orion had always enjoyed his company. In fact, he thought Neville a rarity in the aristocracy, presenting himself as a gentleman of science first and a duke as an afterthought.

“It has been too long,” Neville said, grinning at Orion. “And no more of this ‘Your Grace' nonsense.”

“Indeed, Your . . . er . . . Neville. It's been months, I'm afraid.”

“Is your apprenticeship with Sir Geoffrey progressing
nicely?” The duke smiled again at Judith, sure to include her in the conversation.

Suddenly, Orion found himself in a pickle. The truth was, he had no grasp of the state of his apprenticeship. Orion couldn't say he had much by way of affection for his mentor, or even a working familiarity.

He answered as judiciously as possible. “I may need more time to answer that question correctly, Your Grace.” He glanced at Judith, who remained pleasantly impassive, her hands clasped to her waist, her lips set in that smile-yet-not-a-smile she so often displayed. She showed no interest whatsoever in the conversation.

The duke raised an eyebrow. “Oh? How so?”

Orion had no desire to be disrespectful of Sir Geoffrey. Not only did he rely on that alliance to further his career as a scientist; he had never been one to gossip behind another's back. “It has been quite an education working with such an accomplished member of the Royal Fraternity of Life Sciences,” Orion said diplomatically. “It is my hope that I shall join your ranks sometime soon.”

“Splendid!” Neville leaned closer to Orion, clearly ready to move on to the next topic, one that must have interested him a great deal more than Sir Geoffrey and the Fraternity, if the twinkle in his eye was any indication. “Might you have accompanied your cousin, Bliss, here this evening? I made a point of sending her an invitation, along with the rest of your family, of course.”

“Ah.” Orion scanned the huge ballroom for the telltale signs of a cluster of Worthingtons—formal dress a little too colorful, smiles a little too open. It took him mere seconds to locate Archie and Iris, his brother Dade, and yes, his cousin, Bliss.