While You Were Spying (Regency Spies Book 0) (29 page)

“I didn’t notice,” he said when he held her hand again. “All I see is your beauty.”

She blushed, her eyes widening and her lips parting enticingly in surprise. His felt his desire for her double.

“Don’t say things like that.” For the moment they were immobile, facing each other as the couples at the end of the line filed past them.

“Why not?”

“You know why,” she hissed as a couple paraded past them.

“Tonight I don’t care.” They moved together again, as the forms of the dance dictated. “I propose we call a truce, forget our differences, at least for tonight.” Or longer, he added silently.

She pursed her lips, considering. She danced away from him, then gave him a stern look when she spun back. “For tonight.” She sounded like a strict schoolmistress — a disciplinarian trapped in the body of a deity. “This will probably be my only betrothal ball. I suppose I should at least
try
to get on well with my betrothed.” She smiled at him, playful.

His desire flared.

“At the
very
least,” he answered.

She stepped forward and, taking advantage of their momentary closeness, he put his lips to her ear. “I want you.”

He stepped away from her, and she from him, and this time he did see her stumble. He barely suppressed his smile of satisfaction. He took her hand and, as the music ended, gave her a roguish smile.

“Another dance?”

“Not just now.” She sounded out of breath.

His grin widened. “You’re breathless. Let me fetch you a refreshment.”

“Lemonade,” she breathed.

He raised an eyebrow. “I think we can do better than that.”

Protocol dictated he fetch the refreshments for her, but he wasn’t about to relinquish her hand or give any of the dandies and young blades present an opportunity to ask her to dance. Locking her hand in his, he led her to the supper room, nodding cordially at the dozens of well-wishers, but not stopping to speak with any of them. He was calculating how soon he could see her alone.

He stopped a passing footman and took two glasses of champagne, handing her one as they entered the supper room, where they were met with more congratulations. Francesca made valiant attempts to speak with each of their guests, but Ethan dragged her away. He was not in a mood to share.

Picking up a plate of Lady Brigham’s new china, he inventoried the table again, seeking Francesca’s favorites.

“Everyone must think we’re incredibly rude.” She gestured to Lady Ennerdale. The woman was standing with her mouth open, as a moment before Ethan had hauled Francesca from the elderly woman’s side in the middle of her felicitations speech.

“More likely, everyone will think we can’t wait to be alone together.” He gave her a lingering look. “Not far from the truth.”

“You shouldn’t speak so,” she scolded, following him down the length of the table toward the desserts.

He turned his attention from the feast for a moment, raised one of her imprisoned fingers to his lips, and murmured, “I do a lot of things I shouldn’t.”

She took a quick breath and her eyes darkened. He held her gaze a moment longer then began loading the plate with delicacies—strawberries, pineapple, sugarplums, and a slice of cake.

“Good Lord!” she said peering over his shoulder. “I hope you will help me eat some of that.” She was laughing. That at least was a good sign.

He tossed her a grin. “Don’t count on it. I’ll wager your mother didn’t let you eat anything all day.”

She shrugged, and he knew he was right.

“I thought so. No arguments. You’re to eat everything on this plate, including”—he added two of her favorite chocolate tarts—“these.”

He offered the heavily-burdened dish to her, but she didn’t take it. Her face had drained of color and she was clutching her hands together so tightly that the skin where her fingers pressed was stark white. Behind them, someone cleared his throat.

“I see you haven’t lost your taste for chocolate tarts.”

E
than stared at Benedict Malevent, the Earl of Roxbury. The earl offered a chilly smile.

“What are you doing here?” Francesca’s voice broke slightly on the last word, and she cleared her throat, putting her small white hand to her neck.

Roxbury took in her every agitated movement. Her former betrothed smiled, outwardly reassuring, but the expression, tight as the man’s posture, added no warmth to his ice-blue eyes.

“I was invited, of course,” Roxbury answered. “I thought you knew.” His tone seeped smugness. The man was obviously pleased that his presence had taken her by surprise.

“Oh.” Francesca scooted closer to Ethan, and though he angled his body to welcome her, he kept his stare on Roxbury.

He knew the man, of course. In London, they moved in similar circles, belonged to some of the same clubs. He’d never taken much notice of the earl. Never had a reason. But now he found he loathed the man.

Ethan could see why women, why Francesca, would find Roxbury handsome. The earl was impeccably dressed, all in black. The dark color emphasized his unusual eyes—pale blue, almost watery in color. They gave him the appearance of looking through, rather than at, those he addressed. His brown hair was carefully styled to appear tousled, a look that contrasted with the stiff formal manner in which he held himself. He’d clasped his hands behind his back, but now that he brought them forward to take one of Francesca’s, Ethan noticed the man wore black leather gloves instead of the usual white silk deemed appropriate for formal affairs.

“Your name on the guest list must have escaped our notice.” Smoothly, Ethan took Francesca’s hands in one of his before Roxbury could grasp her with his leather-clad fingers.

Roxbury’s glacial stare locked with his. “Lord Winterbourne.”

“Lord Roxbury.” Ethan inclined his head.

At the rise in tension, Francesca recovered. “I didn’t expect to see you here, Lord Roxbury.”

“Really?” Roxbury said with raised eyebrows. “Quick-witted as you are—”

Francesca’s limp hand fisted closed in his, and Ethan felt her jerk.

The earl’s mouth twisted as he took in the action as well. “I would have thought you invited me intentionally.”

Francesca blinked in confusion. “Why would I do that?” Her hand gripped Ethan’s like a vise.

Roxbury reached for one of the chocolate tarts on the plate Ethan still held in his free hand. “Why, to gloat over your catch, of course.” He nodded to Ethan, laughed, but there was no amusement in the sound. He held up the tart. “You don’t mind, do you, Cesca?”

Ethan prickled at hearing the man address Francesca by a nickname. No other gesture belied their former intimacy as clearly.

Roxbury bit into the tart and said, “It’s not as if I’m depriving you.” His derisive gaze swept over her, and Ethan had to make a monumental effort not to slam his fist into those gleaming white teeth.

Ethan settled for placing the plate on the table and pulling Francesca closer. He understood exactly what had happened now. The idea of inviting her former intended would never have occurred to Francesca. It was not in her to lord her successes over others, and Roxbury knew that as well as Ethan.

But Lady Brigham, poor misguided woman that she was, had no such qualms. Still, the question remained: If Roxbury perceived the reason behind his invitation, why had he come? Curiosity? Or perhaps—Ethan scowled—perhaps the earl anticipated that his presence would upset Francesca.

The silence between them lengthened.

“Have you been in Hampshire long?” Francesca’s stab at conversation was almost as contrived as Roxbury’s smile.

“No.” Roxbury again bit delicately into the tart, careful not to allow any crumbs to fall on his clothing. “I came in this morning from Fountainview.”

“Oh!” She blinked. “Oh! But that’s wonderful. I had heard that you had lost the estate, that the mortgage—”

“Fountainview is doing well,” Roxbury interrupted. For the first time Ethan saw the man’s composure falter. His pale eyes went icy.

“Oh. Of course.” Francesca stumbled over the words, her face flushing with embarrassment. Ethan felt her hands tremble before she regained control of them. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

Roxbury made a cutting gesture. “Think nothing of it.” He shook his head at her, appearing disgusted. “You’ve always been one to—” With a grunt and a glance at Ethan, he shut his mouth, apparently thinking better of the criticism on his tongue.

Ethan wished the man had said it. He needed only half a reason to blacken both of those pale, water-colored eyes.

“My
personal
affairs are secure,” Roxbury said with a quick glance at Ethan. “Thank you for inquiring.”

There was another awkward silence, which neither Ethan nor Roxbury attempted to alleviate. Ethan stood stonily, Francesca’s hands in his, watching the earl transfer the half-eaten tart from one gloved hand to the other.

“And, forgive me for not knowing”—once again, Francesca broke the taut silence—“everything has been such a whirlwind of activity. Are you staying at Tanglewilde tonight?”

Ethan tensed, not having considered the possibility. Tanglewilde was not a large estate, but many of the guests had been given rooms for the evening. There was no way in Hell he’d allow Roxbury to sleep under the same roof as Francesca, this night or any.

Roxbury gave her a small, condescending smile. “No. I’m staying at the inn in that—er—
rustic
little village nearby.”

Ethan felt some of the tightness in Francesca’s hands ease. “And will you be in Hampshire long, or do you return to Surrey tomorrow?”

Roxbury set the chocolate tart down, rubbing his black-gloved fingers together to dislodge the nonexistent crumbs. He’d taken no more than two small bites, obviously not fond of the dessert. “I start for London in the morning. I have business in Town.”

“Then we won’t be seeing you again after tonight.” Ethan made no attempt to disguise the warning in his tone. He wanted Roxbury in no doubt that further contact with Francesca would not be allowed.

Francesca squeezed Ethan’s hand, silently urging him to be cordial.

“What Lord Winterbourne means to say is we wish you a safe journey,” Francesca said.

Roxbury looked amused. “I’m sure.” Roxbury’s perceptive gaze met Ethan’s. Ethan stared right back. “Once again, my congratulations.” Roxbury bowed and strolled out of the room.

“Actually”—Ethan lifted his champagne glass from the table and turned his gaze on Francesca—“that wasn’t what I meant.”

Francesca scowled at him. “You have to at least
try
to be civil.”

“Civil?” He offered her the plate again, and she took a sugarplum from it. “The devil take civility. That
was
civil.”

She shook her head and popped the sugarplum into her mouth. “Perhaps for you it was.”

He watched her, wondering what she had seen in Roxbury. Now that Ethan had seen them together, he was certain he’d been right in assuming there was more to their relationship than she would admit. But now was not the time to quiz her about the more personal aspects.

That didn’t mean he couldn’t inquire about more general matters. “What was that about Roxbury’s estate being mortgaged? You’ve mentioned it before.” He offered her the plate again.

Francesca nodded, swallowing her sugarplum. “Fountainview, Roxbury’s estate in Surrey, is heavily mortgaged. It’s been poorly managed for two or three generations.” She reached for a square of cake.

The history was beginning to sound familiar. Roxbury’s father and grandfather had both been profligate gamblers and had wasted the family fortune, leaving the current earl with almost nothing. Unless Roxbury married well or was heir to some vast fortune no one was aware of, the earl would lose the estate. Or perhaps he already had.

“You heard that he lost the estate?” Ethan asked.

She shook her head, licking a crumb of the cake from her lower lip. “No. I suppose I just assumed.” She darted a glance at Ethan. “I know I shouldn’t do that, but bad habits are hard to break.”

“Damn it, Francesca.” Ethan wanted to shake her. Maybe if he rattled her brain enough, she would realize how exceptional she was, wouldn’t allow a man like Roxbury to cut her down.

Her eyes had widened at his words, and she was staring at him. He reached out and rubbed the bare skin of her arm where her gloves ended.

“You don’t have any bad habits,” he said, lowering his voice. He grinned, trying to lighten her mood again. “Not compared to me, that is.”

She gave him a weak smile.

“You’re an intelligent woman,” he went on. “Why did you assume Roxbury lost Fountainview?”

She looked down, dug her slippered toe into the plush rug.

“I supposed I didn’t see how Roxbury could amass the funds to pay the mortgage. His financial ventures were never very successful. I remember he had business in France on occasion, and with the situation deteriorating so quickly he must have lost money.” She glanced up at him, then back at the rich gold carpet. “And then after I—I mean,
we
—”

Ethan raised an eyebrow at her slip, but she didn’t see.

“After
we
called of the betrothal, he was left with no means to pay his debts on Fountainview.”

“He needed the money from the marriage that badly?” Ethan stated baldly.

She shot him a glance. “He never said so.”

“Then he was not the one who called off the betrothal. You did.”

She set the remaining bite of cake back on the plate and shook her head. “It was a mutual decision.”

Ethan snorted to himself. He did not believe for a moment that Roxbury wanted to end the betrothal with a woman whose father’s fortune, while not vast, was comfortable enough to assure Roxbury of saving his estate in Surrey.

“So, the question is, how has Roxbury managed to keep Fountainview?” He said it more to himself than Francesca, but she answered.

“I supposed he must have found other funds.” Francesca picked up the last bite of cake and nibbled it. “He is a resourceful man.”

Ethan didn’t doubt it, but he was curious that she had thought to say so. She reached for a strawberry from the plate next, and he stared as her lips closed around the plump red fruit. And quite suddenly, Ethan no longer wanted to discuss her former betrothed.