I Thee Wed (5 page)

“Oh!” She practically tripped over Mr. Worthington. He was leaning against the wall outside the kitchen door with his head tipped back against the whitewashed plaster and his hands folded before him. He looked rather like a guard, albeit a rather tousled and unkempt one.

Oh, I like you unkempt. Tousle me, too!

He opened his eyes and straightened slowly. “Miss—” He cleared his throat. “Miss Penrose,” he said, greeting her with a distant nod, as if they had happened upon each other in the garden on an afternoon.

He was beautiful, but really rather odd.

I like odd. I am odd as well.

“Are you hungry?” She always had the impulse to feed people, and he was standing outside the kitchen in the middle of the night.

His gaze locked on hers for a single, flammable second. The force and heat that struck her made her take a step backward. Her heart began to race.

Merely biological imperative,
she reminded herself.

“So that is what this is?” As he frowned, the force of his gaze increased.

Francesca froze. “Did I say that out loud?” At his nod, she swallowed. “Ah. Well. Um. Yes, I think so.” She waved a hand vaguely, trying to catch her breath. “Involuntary and—”

“Unwelcome.” His voice grated slightly on the word, as if it had been pulled from him.

She blinked. “I was going to say ‘completely natural.'” Heavens, he was arrogant! Unwelcome, indeed! She happened to know that in Bologna, she was considered quite a catch—and not just for her cooking!

“It is this English damp.” She put her hand to the thick
braid that hung over her shoulder. “It makes my hair so frizzy,” she explained sorrowfully.

“Your hair . . .” He gazed down at her. If she had not just seen the flaring sexual heat in his gaze, she would have thought his expression cold. His hand lifted and his fingers twitched, stopping an inch from her plaited locks. Francesca held very still.

Then he dropped his hand, pulling back as if burned. “Your hair is of no importance,” he said gruffly. “It would not matter if you had none at all, if this is simply instinct and reproductive drive.”

Francesca, feeling bereft at the loss of his touch, folded her arms and lifted her chin. “I rather think my own drive would be perhaps lessened if you had no hair.”

Then she had a mental image of him as an older man, still standing at her side after a loving lifetime, lean and craggy, those blue eyes sharp and piercing. Her belly quivered in response.

Or perhaps not.

They remained that way for a long, breathless moment. Francesca became aware of the lateness of the hour, and the very excitingly inappropriate nature of their attire, and the fact that she could catch his sandalwood scent and the heat of his body every time he exhaled—or was it every time she inhaled?

The moment lingered, and stretched—

A sudden creak, the sort of sound a house makes in the night, snapped the tension of the moment. They stepped away from each other simultaneously. Mr. Worthington cleared his throat.

“Good night, Miss Penrose.” He bowed slightly. Francesca enjoyed that, because his dressing gown sagged open a bit and she got a marvelous glimpse of hard, rippling abdominal muscles.

She paid him back by dipping a curtsy, knowing that the neckline of her nightdress, borrowed from Judith, gaped just
a bit. “Good night, Mr. Worthington.” She straightened and tried not to laugh at the gob-smacked expression on his face. “I do hope the rest of your night's sleep is undisturbed.”

She turned and left him there, and if she threw just a little more swing into her hips than was strictly ladylike, well, there was no one else to see, was there?

As she turned the corner and began to climb the narrow stairs into the main house, she heard him release a long, shuddering breath, and smiled. It served him right.

“Your hair is of no importance,” he had said.

Ha!

I
F Orion normally found five minutes of small talk to be unbearable, it was because he had never before been subjected to “morning calls.” For most of an hour the next morning, he was expected to sit in the Blayne House drawing room and make conversation with two ladies and three idiots—rather, suitors of Judith. Occupying the sofa opposite the chairs containing Miss Blayne and Miss Penrose were Nicholas Witherspoon, Sir Humphrey Cavendish, and Asher Langford.

Since Miss Judith Blayne was always gracious and mildly interesting in a suitably noncontroversial manner, it was no particular hardship to pass the time in her company.

On the other hand, Francesca made him most uncomfortable. Miss Penrose, he corrected himself, absently tapping his fingers lightly on the book in his hand. The cousin of the woman he was supposed to be pursuing. She might someday be his cousin, too, in a way.

The thought made him flinch slightly. Which was
ridiculous. The physical attraction he felt was only the biological imperative at work. She'd said it herself last night.

Last night, in the dark and still hours, with Francesca in her nightdress, scented with orange blossoms and bread dough, which should not have been the slightest bit arousing, yet was . . .

“What is it that you have brought, Worthington? Something amusing, I hope?”

It was Nicholas Witherspoon, an incurably fashionable dandy who feigned interest in biology in order to maintain his family's three-generation membership in the Royal Fraternity of Life Sciences. The Witherspoons, according to Nicholas, were so wealthy, they practically defecated gold doubloons. Every sentence he uttered concerned himself, his wealth, or his family's reputation and wealth. Orion judged Witherspoon to be the king of the idiots, or rather “suitors,” as Sir Geoffrey had named them.

“Not to worry, boy,” Sir Geoffrey had murmured when he'd virtually ordered Orion to sit the calls with the ladies. “None of them have half your intellect. My daughter wouldn't have anyone less than a brilliant scientific mind to wed!”

Indeed, Miss Judith Blayne seemed entirely unperturbed either way by her gentleman callers.

Small wonder. The idiot of the second order, a Sir Humphrey Cavendish, was a stout man of middle age who had been knighted for his service in keeping the war effort well supplied with cart wheels. Orion granted that the wheel was an integral part in the forward momentum of an army, but the man himself was an unimpressive specimen. Sir Humphrey had a ridiculously long handlebar mustache that dipped itself into the tea and then dripped onto his coat. Orion could not actually judge the depth of Cavendish's conversation, for the man spoke in an entirely unintelligible whuffling mutter that reminded Orion of a discontented wolfhound.

By far the most devoted of Miss Judith Blayne's suitors was the Honorable Asher Langford, third son of the third son
of a middling important lord. Asher seemed a likable enough fellow, but Orion did not feel that Sir Geoffrey's plans for his daughter were threatened, for Judith seemed not to even notice Asher's shy adoration. Furthermore, Asher, though he had no possibility of inheritance, seemed to have no purpose in life except to play the harpsichord and devote himself to Judith.

“Well, Worthington? Are you planning to share with the class?” Nicholas Witherspoon gestured languidly to the book Orion held in his hand.

Orion ignored him, but turned to present the bound volume to Judith. “My sister's work. A book of her botanical paintings that she has had published.”

Miss Judith Blayne took the book,
Wildflowers of the Cotswolds
, by Calliope, Lady Porter, readily enough, thanking Orion politely, but after a brief peek into its pages, she set it aside on the sofa cushion next to her.

Orion could not avoid seeing Francesca grab it and take it away into a corner, where she delved greedily between the covers. “Oh marvelous,” she breathed.

Her tone was but a whisper, but Orion heard her as clearly as any of Nicholas Witherspoon's sarcastic jests. After several minutes, Francesca lifted her head. “Judith, this is lovely! It is art and science!”

Orion thought the illustrations were quite good, himself. Then why did he hear himself dismiss them? “My sister's specimen drawings are quite correct, but there is no new knowledge represented in the volume.”

Francesca simply shot him a pitying look and turned another page. “I think it is quite magical, the way one almost expects them to come to life.”

“Magical?” Nicholas Witherspoon snorted. “Women love to believe in the intangible, don't they, Worthington?”

Francesca stiffened on her cushion by the window. It was the inevitable moment of Someone Belittling Her. It was a trial, spending all her time putting arrogant boors in their places. Still, she shut the book and gamely opened her mouth.

Mr. Worthington beat her to it. “Air is intangible, Witherspoon. Don't you believe in breathing?” His tone was very bored. “If not, feel free to stop anytime.”

Francesca subsided on her window seat, blinking rapidly. Orion Worthington might have been a knight in gleaming armor at that moment. He had defended her . . . hadn't he? Or was he simply weary of Nicholas in general? That seemed far more likely. Francesca decided that she didn't care, and sent Mr. Worthington a grateful smile across the room.

He must have been watching her, for he drew his head back sharply at her smile. His dark blue eyes went nearly black for a moment, throwing Francesca back into the memory of the night before. The shadowy hall, the silent house, the moment stretching on and on while her heart pounded—

She tore her gaze away and turned it downward, staring blindly at the book in her hands.
Be still,
she ordered her stuttering heartbeat. After a moment, she set the volume aside and smoothed her shaking hands on her skirts.
Breathe
.

Such commands did little good to soothe her jumpy nerves. Mr. Worthington had the ability to disturb her usually cheerful disregard for the opinions of others. She cared what he thought of her.

I like him.
Except that she didn't . . . or rather, she shouldn't!

I want him to like me
.

How incredibly tiresome. And disturbing. The realization made her assess herself in a way she was unaccustomed to doing.

Did he think her pretty? Did he like her hair down, as it was today, or ought she have put it up, like Judith's flawless chignon?

Francesca had never been one to worry about her appearance. She had often wondered why other ladies wanted to take so much time on their hair and gowns, when there were so many more interesting things to do. Still, sitting in the parlor next to Judith and her exquisite sky blue silk gown, Francesca felt rather like a country mouse.

She hadn't bothered to update her wardrobe once she'd arrived in England. After all, why bother with fine feathers when she had no intention of attracting a mate? She did not intend to marry, ever. Not like Judith, who assumedly had set her cap for Mr. Worthington.

Her cousin's plan would succeed, of course. Judith was beautiful, in that classic English rose way that Francesca had only heard of before moving to London. Judith was thread-of-gold and moonlight wrapped up in tasteful silk and cool serenity.

Not that Francesca envied Judith either her looks or privilege. Judith's world would make Francesca madly twitchy with restlessness. She planned to take big bites out of life. Her family's unfortunate fate had taught her that life was brief and frail. She longed to do things, to see places, to dig deep into the curiosities of life and taste heartily of its flavors.

Judith didn't even seem to notice all the magic of the world around her, not even shy Asher Langford's silent longing for her.

Well, perhaps she envied Judith just a little.

Dowdy. That was the only word Francesca could think of when she looked down at her own practical brown gabardine. Of course, her figure was quite good. She'd have to be blind not to realize that. She looked perhaps not like a mouse but more like a governess—one with rather more bosom than might be deemed appropriate in the guidance of the young.

Why should she suddenly care? In Bologna, all the women in her family dressed sensibly. They dressed for the weather and for the task at hand—and the task at hand was rarely to sit and look pretty for the admiration of men. Such a notion was shallow, and silly, and useless. Women in Italy were never useless. In Bologna, women were encouraged to pursue their talents. Art, knowledge, science, and above all, food. For her cooking alone, Francesca was an accomplished woman in Italy!

So why did she suddenly desperately long to sit prettily merely for the admiration of Orion Worthington?

He certainly wasn't looking at Judith, Francesca thought with a tiny twinge of petty satisfaction. When he'd entered, he'd cast his cool gaze at the assembled gentlemen. She could practically see him filing them away under the label “no competition.”

That wasn't strictly true, she realized. While Judith certainly showed no preference for any one fellow, and that included the arrogant Orion Worthington, there was one young man whose interest in Judith ran far deeper than a mere interest in acquiring a wealthy ornament to his comfortable existence.

Poor Asher Langford. Although he was handsome, in a fair-haired, vaguely poetic fashion, and every bit as tall and well shaped as Mr. Worthington, Asher was so painfully shy that it seemed all he could do to walk into the parlor and sit in the presence of the lovely Miss Judith Blayne. Past that point, he seemed capable of no intelligent conversation, or entertaining wit, or even any words at all.

Sometimes Francesca ached for Asher Langford. What must it be like to love someone with all one's heart and never be able to say it out loud? Then again, what woman wanted a man who didn't care enough about her to risk saying the words?

Her gaze slid to Mr. Worthington again. Orion Worthington didn't seem to fear anything or anyone, not even his overbearing mentor, Sir Geoffrey. Then again, didn't one have to risk losing something to feel fear?

I don't like him. So there. I fancy him, but I don't like him.

The aforementioned passing fancy was only her normal physical drive in action. Intelligent people did not allow themselves to be ruled by their biology. She would inwardly acknowledge the attraction, and then she would forget it.

She sighed. Anytime now.

Asher Langford cleared his throat. Everyone in the room turned to gaze at him expectantly. When someone spoke rarely to never, it did tend to draw attention when they finally broke their silence.

Asher paled at their unified regard, then swallowed, then blushed furiously. “Miss B-Blayne,” he began. “Will you be attending the Duke of Camberton's b-ball next week?”

“Oh how boring.” Nicholas Witherspoon sent Asher an arch look, clearly meant to quell his stammering attempt to gain Judith's notice. “Another ball. I grow so weary of endless social obligations.”

Judith stirred but clearly hesitated to answer.
Yes, Cousin, what possible answer would be in agreement with both men?

Francesca felt a twist in her chest as she watched Asher sink into his shoulders, hunching and drawing back.

“Oh for pity's sake,” she muttered. Shooting a hard glare at the insufferable Witherspoon, Francesca set aside the pretty book and rose to her feet. “Mr. Langford, I declare I feel quite suffocated in here.” Another significant narrowing of her eyes at Witherspoon. “Would you care to take a turn around the gardens with me?”

All of this was terribly forward by British standards, of course. Judith turned to blink at her, her lovely features redistributing themselves into a faint frown.

Oh no, mustn't make a real frown, Cousin. Someone might realize you are human after all!

There was no danger of that, of course. Judith's expression soon smoothed itself into serenity once more. “Do not forget your bonnet again, Cousin. The sun is quite bright today.”

Francesca cast a doubtful look out the parlor window at the English sky, which in truth was only a slightly brighter gray than usual. If Judith ever saw a vivid, blistering Italian summer day, she would wilt like a plucked daisy! With a shrug, Francesca gave in. “Very well.”

Judith smiled faintly, then nodded to the servant
Pennysmith, who stood at the drawing room door as if he were simply a more fully dressed version of the fig-leafed marble statuary on either side of it.

Pennysmith, in turn, nodded to one of the underbutlers, who nodded to one of the footmen, who left the room, presumably to find someone to tell someone to tell Eva, Judith's maid, to fetch Francesca a bonnet because she intended to venture twenty yards out-of-doors on a cloudy day.

I will never understand this place.

With a twinge, she suddenly recognized that there was a very great possibility that this place would never understand her, either.

Asher, in the meantime, had stood, sat, stood again, clasped his hands before him, released them, tugged at his waistcoat, clasped his hands again, and then, at long last, nodded jerkily in Francesca's general direction in acceptance of her invitation.

Shaking off her sudden bleakness, Francesca made herself send poor Asher a brilliant smile.
“Meraviglioso!”
(Marvelous!) “I could not ask for a more congenial companion.”

In the corner of her vision, she thought she saw Orion Worthington twitch slightly. Was he thinking that she was common for being so forward? Or that silent, shy Asher was not anyone's notion of congenial?

She cast a superior glance at Mr. Obnoxious Worthington as she glided to Asher's side, tucking her hand into his belatedly extended arm.
I happen to like silent, shy men,
she tried to convey with her smile. In reality, it was somewhat true. Shy men were predictably good listeners, and Francesca dearly loved to talk.