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‘Nonsense. Everyone knows who everyone else is. Damn ridiculous idea if you ask me, all this prancing around in masks.’
Ben noted Lord Huntley had not deigned to don a mask of his own, leaving his red-rimmed and wrinkled eyes unadorned. Surely a mask would be of benefit to this man, even if it were purely to draw one’s eyes away from his generous jowls.
‘I think it is rather fun,’ Lady Somersham said and Ben had to wonder if she was just saying it to be perverse. Lord Huntley made him want to run in the opposite direction and he never had the awful prospect of having to one day be intimate with the man hanging over him.
‘Where’s your father?’ Lord Huntley barked, looking around as if Lord Pottersdown might be hiding behind a pot plant or marble statue.
‘I’m not sure,’ Francesca said, her eyes involuntarily flicking towards the doors that led into the ballroom. The gaming tables, no doubt. These past few weeks Ben had learned a lot about Francesca’s life just by listening to gossip. The ballrooms and dinner parties were rife with it and, although there was a lot of exaggeration and a few things that were clearly completely fabricated, you could glean some very interesting things if you filtered the dross out.
‘Losing more of the family fortune,’ Lord Huntley snorted derisively. He’d come to the same conclusion, it would seem.
Ben saw Francesca’s cheeks redden under the delicate rim of the mask and for an instant got the urge to manhandle Lord Huntley outside and send him on his way for embarrassing her. Then he remembered that he wasn’t her protector, he wasn’t anything to her, just a man who had once been a boy she’d known. A man she might not even remember.
‘Wait here,’ Lord Huntley commanded. ‘I’ll go fetch him. We need to pin down the agreement for this marriage.’
‘I’m still in mourning...’ Francesca said, but Lord Huntley had already departed, heading through the ballroom with his rotund belly leading the way. Not once had he even acknowledged Ben’s presence.
* * *
‘I’m sorry,’ Francesca said, trying to fight the tears that were building in her eyes. ‘That was incredibly rude, you shouldn’t have had to see that.’
Really she was apologising for Lord Huntley, the oaf of a man who would one day soon be her husband. The thought made her feel peculiarly queasy.
Trying to focus on the man in front of her, she couldn’t help but notice how he was the opposite of Lord Huntley, being tall and broad shouldered. She could tell there wasn’t a single ounce of fat on him even through the thick material of his jacket. His skin didn’t have that sickly grey tone to it, instead there was an unusual but healthy tan on his cheeks as if he spent a large portion of his day outdoors.
‘The best way to avoid discussing your marriage to him tonight is to not be here when he returns with your father,’ the masked stranger said nonchalantly. Feeling her eyes widen, Francesca tried not to splutter. Most people would politely ignore the exchange they had just witnessed, but it seemed the man in front of her wasn’t about to do that. ‘Come on,’ he said, a gleam in his eye that Francesca found vaguely familiar.
Offering her his arm, he flashed her a rather seductive smile as she hesitated. What she should do was wait here for her father and the man who was angling to become her future husband and listen while they discussed her like a horse for sale. Not that she had any illusions that her presence would make any difference to the outcome. She had absolutely no say in whom she married or when, both her father and Lord Huntley had made that perfectly clear.
Feeling rebellious, she took the man’s arm and allowed him to lead her through the ballroom away from the direction Lord Huntley had disappeared in.
‘You must tell me your name,’ she said, peeking up at him from under a carefully curled ringlet that framed her face. Her hair was difficult to tame, but her current maid was an expert at fighting the curly locks into submission and making her look presentable. As long as she didn’t go out in the rain.
‘Ben,’ he offered.
‘I can’t call you Ben.’
He shrugged, smiled at her and said, ‘That’s all you’re getting. This is a night of mystery after all.’
‘Well, Ben,’ she said, leaning in so no one would overhear her being quite so familiar with a stranger, ‘now you’ve removed me from having to discuss my future with Lord Huntley, what do you propose?’ She felt reckless, giddy. Francesca knew it was because she was near to hysteria, her emotions running high at the thought of having her whole future decided for her and a marriage to another man she did not like.
‘We could go somewhere a little more private,’ he suggested, that glint in his eyes again. Francesca trawled back through her memory, trying to place the man. They must have been introduced before, otherwise why was she finding him quite so peculiarly familiar? It was a sensation rather than anything else, a feeling rooted deep inside that she knew the man escorting her around the ballroom.
‘I don’t think that’s wise,’ she said. Years earlier she might have been tempted. He was a good-looking man and she was desperate for a dash of romance, of adventure. But she wasn’t a giddy debutante any longer, far from it. She was a widow in her late twenties, and that meant she’d had plenty of time to realise that liaisons with strange men in dark corners never ended well for anyone, no matter how tempting it might be.
She glanced at the man beside her and saw he wasn’t surprised by her answer. Francesca knew many widows had a looser sense of what was acceptable behaviour and what wasn’t, with many of them engaging in discreet affairs, but she wasn’t one of them. Her father had made it clear when she’d been forced to go back and live with her parents that she would keep her reputation pristine and pure so no potential suitors would be put off. It had worked, she thought glumly, she wasn’t even out of her mourning period for her first husband, Lord Somersham, and she was practically betrothed to Lord Huntley.
‘Then dance with me,’ he said, pausing before changing direction to the dance floor.
‘I’m not meant to dance,’ she said, gesturing to her half-mourning clothes.
‘Surely this world is more fun if you do one or two things you’re not supposed to.’
She felt herself hesitate. She would love to dance, especially with this man by her side. He was strong and young and had a vitality about him that neither her late husband or Lord Huntley had ever exuded. Imagining what it would be like to be swept around the ballroom in his strong arms, she felt herself nodding.
Trying to close her mind off to all the whispers and disapproval that would be coming her way, she allowed her companion to lead her into position. Francesca loved to dance, she’d loved to dance since she was small and had often roped in anyone and everyone to be her dance partner. Governesses, maids, the grouchy old butler, even Ben Crawford, the skinny little son of the estate manager she’d spent her summers playing with.
Ben. She looked up quickly, but the idea was absurd. This man, this charming and confident and attractive man in front of her, was not Ben Crawford. The son of an estate manager wouldn’t be so self-assured in a room full of lord and ladies, and of course he couldn’t be here, he’d been transported to Australia all those years ago. Francesca suppressed the feelings of sadness that always threatened to overtake her when she thought about her childhood friend. Now wasn’t the time.
She glanced at her companion again. He did have something about him though, the same cheeky smile and the same mischief in his eyes. Perhaps that was why she thought the man looked familiar. He reminded her of the friend she had lost all those years ago.
The music started and Francesca felt the pleasure diffuse through her body. She felt as though she was walking on the clouds whenever she danced, loving the instinctive way her body would move to the music. Her partner was both well practised and a natural dancer, twirling her round effortlessly and all the time managing to keep those lively eyes fixed on her and a smile on his lips.
For a second Francesca wondered what it would be like to have a man like this slip into her bed every night, to feel his hard body on top of hers and his soft lips on her skin. Instinctively she knew he would not be selfish in taking his pleasure and a blush spread across her cheeks as she imagined an unending night of passion with him.
‘Now you must tell me what has put such a beautiful blush on your cheeks,’ he murmured, leaning in close so his breath tickled her ear.
Francesca was unable to speak, knowing her voice would come out as a muted squeak if she opened her mouth.
‘Perhaps you’re thinking of moving in just a little closer,’ he whispered, pressing his hand ever so slightly harder into the small of her back. Against her better judgement Francesca allowed her body to press closer in to his, feeling the delightful swish of his legs against hers as they danced. ‘Or perhaps you’re imagining how it might feel if I kissed you here,’ he said, raising a finger and oh-so-briefly trailing it across the skin of her neck.
Now she was imagining that.
‘Or here.’ His fingers had dropped to her collarbone.
Guiltily Francesca glanced around the ballroom to see if anyone had seen the entirely inappropriate touch she’d just allowed. No doubt the gossips were already judging her for dancing when she was still in half-mourning. Even though this was a masquerade ball she was under no illusion that no one knew who she was.
Thankfully the music stopped and she felt the spell break. Her companion stepped away and bowed formally, only the sparkling of his eyes hinting at the inappropriate way he’d acted during their dance.
‘I hear the private terrace is a beautifully secluded spot,’ he murmured in her ear as he escorted her back to the perimeter of the ballroom. ‘If you go out of the ballroom, through the third door on the left and into the library, there are glass doors leading on to the private terrace there.’
He bowed again, then placed a kiss on her gloved hand before disappearing off into the crowd.
Francesca watched him go. There was no way she could join him on this private terrace, no matter how much her body wanted her to. Sighing, she turned back to look for her father and Lord Huntley. It had been a wonderful interlude with her mysterious gentlemen, but nothing more. She had to focus on coming to terms with marrying yet another man she did not particularly like.
Chapter Two (#u02c47a9b-0722-5b3f-8e55-b6c2d280610d)
Ben watched her from a distance. It was strange seeing the girl he’d once known so well gliding across the ballroom, turning heads as she went. When Ben had been sentenced to transportation at the age of twelve, Francesca had only been ten. Of course she’d been pretty, but in a wild and unfettered sort of way. Now she was elegant and there was no hint of the girl who used to race him across the fields on horseback or dare him to boost her to the top of a hay bale.
It was unsettling, talking to her again. For eighteen years he’d been unable to rid his thoughts of her. They’d only been children when he’d been arrested for stealing jewellery from her father, children who had spent every moment they could together. He’d loved her then, in the pure and innocent way one child could love another, and he knew she had felt the same way. Even when her father had cajoled and threatened her, trying to stop her from speaking up in Ben’s defence, she’d spoken out, she’d protested his innocence. It hadn’t changed the outcome—no one had been willing to listen to a ten-year-old girl when her father—a viscount, no less—had told a different story, but she’d defied her father all the same. All for him.
He’d thought about her a lot over the last eighteen years, wondering how her life had turned out, wondering if she would still be living in luxury as he toiled away under the heat of the Australian sun. Once he’d finished his sentence and little by little bought up parcels of land, turning them into one of the largest farms in Australia, he thought he might move on, but still he couldn’t forget about her.
Ben wasn’t so naïve to think she even remembered him from all those years ago. She’d probably never thought of the young boy who she had played so closely with, but he hadn’t been able to forget her. So when his friend Sam Robertson voiced his plan to come to England Ben had been eager to accompany him. He wanted to look her in the eye, to see if she was the same girl he’d known all those years ago or if she had been irretrievably changed by almost a lifetime of socialising and living by the rules of the ton.
Never had he expected to feel quite so unsettled at seeing her again, though. She was beautiful, but Ben had known a lot of beautiful women throughout his life and none of them seemed to have this power, this pull. Throughout their dance all he could think of was sweeping her away from the ballroom, finding some deserted room and depositing her on something soft so he could spend the night exploring her body.
That was why he’d had to leave her, to give himself time to dampen down the entirely inappropriate desire he was feeling. Of course he knew she wouldn’t take him up on the offer to meet him on the private terrace, but he’d been unable to resist making the suggestion, just in case she decided to surprise him.
He didn’t know what he wanted from Francesca now. All his thoughts had been on seeing her again, looking into the eyes of the girl he’d once cared for so much—he hadn’t thought past that initial meeting.
Liar, the little voice in his head called out. He knew exactly what he wanted from her. He wanted to gather her in his arms and sweep her away somewhere private. Somewhere he could spend the whole night becoming acquainted with the most beautiful woman in the ballroom.
‘Who was that?’ George Fitzgerald asked as he found his friend at the edge of the ballroom.
‘A very pretty lady,’ Ben said with a grin. ‘Can you do me a favour?’
‘Of course.’
‘She’s finding it a little difficult to slip away from her companions. Could you go tell her that her father is a little worse for wear and is recovering in the library, show her the way—it’s the third door on the left out of the ballroom. Do it discreetly, but not too discreetly.’
‘You have a trick for everything, don’t you?’ Fitzgerald said, clapping his friend on the shoulder and making his way through the crowd.
Ben watched for a moment then slipped away, wanting to get to the library before Francesca. It would be private and, if they were caught alone together, no doubt a scandal would ensue, but it was unlikely that would happen. Everyone was too caught up in the revelry of the masquerade ball to notice their absence. He just wanted a few minutes alone with her, a few minutes to find out what her life had been like in the years he’d been away. If he could just hear she was happy, then maybe that would be enough for him. Maybe.
* * *
‘Lady Somersham,’ a deep voice said quietly in her ear, ‘I’m sorry to interrupt.’
It was another gentleman she did not know, with a simple black mask and a serious expression. She turned to him, smiling apologetically at the two older ladies she had been conversing with.
‘Your father is a little indisposed. He has been asking for you.’ The message was delivered quietly, discreetly, but Francesca knew her two companions had heard every word. Feeling her heart sink, she summoned a breezy smile.
‘Please excuse me, ladies,’ she said.
‘He is in the library. Shall I escort you?’
Francesca shook her head. As much as she would like someone to share the burden of her father with, a stranger at a ball was not the right person. Not for the first time she wished her mother could be persuaded to go out in public, but she hadn’t attended a ball or event since Francesca’s debut ten years earlier.
‘Thank you, it is a kind offer, but I should see to my father on my own,’ she said, feeling a ball of dread in the pit of her stomach. Over the past few months, during the time she’d been only in half-mourning and allowed again at social events, her father had been indisposed four times. On one particularly cringeworthy occasion she’d had to enlist the help of a very kind footman to carry him out to their waiting carriage.
The messenger let go of her arm as they exited the ballroom and motioned to one of the doors on the left. ‘He’s in there,’ he said, before bowing, then disappearing back into the ballroom.
Francesca took a moment to compose herself before she reached for the handle. Sometimes her father was a violent drunk, but most of the time he was emotional and downcast when he’d imbibed too much. In some respects this was worse than when he lashed out. Seeing the man who had been the backbone of her family throughout her childhood break down and cry was hard to bear.
‘Father,’ she said, adopting a sunny smile as she entered the room. Everything was quiet and dark, not even a solitary candle flickered. Francesca paused, listening for some sign that her father was in the room, conscious or not. There wasn’t even the hint of heavy breathing.
‘You came.’ A deep voice startled her from the direction of the glass doors on the other side of the room. As she peered through the darkness she could see they were open and a man was silhouetted in them.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘This is where we agreed to meet,’ he said.
Remembering the offer of a quiet liaison on the private terrace, Francesca frowned.
‘I’m looking for my father.’
‘There’s no one else here.’
She swallowed, feeling her mouth go dry as she realised what a precarious position she was in. If she was sensible, she should feel scared, being alone with an unknown man. If she was sensible, she would turn around and head out of the door and back to the ball.
Against every ounce of common sense she possessed, she stepped further into the room.
‘You tricked me,’ she said, trying to catch a glimpse of the man’s face. She should know everyone who was invited to this ball. Her social circle was surprisingly small, with the same hundred or so people being invited to each ball or social event. It was irritating her that she couldn’t place him, not even when she felt as though she knew him.
‘I gave you the freedom from your own conscience to come and meet me.’
‘You tricked me.’
She saw him grin in the darkness, a flash of white teeth, and heard a low chuckle.
‘Maybe a little,’ he conceded. ‘But you wanted to come. It was just the consequences of being found here with me you wanted to avoid.’ The confidence emanated from every bit of him—he was certainly a man who knew what he wanted.
‘Goodnight,’ she said firmly. Part of her had wanted to come, to be wooed by a mysterious stranger and feel that giddy freedom of being irresponsible for one evening, but she wouldn’t ever tell him that.
He crossed the room quickly, moving from the glass doors to her side in six steps, placing his hand over hers as she reached for the door handle.
‘Five minutes,’ he said. ‘Give me five minutes and I promise you won’t regret it.’
‘I know I would regret it,’ Francesca murmured, feeling the heat of his hand through her glove. He was standing close and she could sense the power of his body, but she didn’t feel scared at all. If she’d been cornered by anyone else she would be panicking, wondering if they would allow her to leave with her virtue unscathed, but she felt peculiarly at ease with the man standing next to her, as if she’d known him her whole life.
‘Who are you?’ she asked.
‘Spend five minutes with me and I’ll tell you,’ he said, his voice no more than a whisper in her ear.
Indecisively she glanced down at where her hand still rested on the door handle. What she should do was walk out of the room and never think of this man ever again. She should seek out her future husband and ensure he agreed the details of their marriage with her father and saved her family from financial ruin.
Slowly she turned around so she was standing chest to chest with the mysterious man.
‘Five minutes?’ she asked.
‘Five minutes.’
‘Then you’ll remove the mask.’
‘You have my word.’
Francesca stepped to the side and around her companion, leading the way to the glass doors and the terrace beyond.
The terrace was lit by the flickering light of a few lanterns, placed at strategic intervals along the stone balustrade. It was cold, icily so, but the air was crisp and dry and the sky clear. All in all, quite a romantic spot her mysterious companion had chosen.
‘Why am I here?’ she asked as he came to join her, resting his arms on the stone balustrade and looking out over the garden.
‘Only you can answer that question,’ he said.
Thoughts of her impending marriage to a man she could not stand, of wanting to escape, to have one night, even one moment of freedom, of adventure, flashed through her mind.
‘Why did you ask me here?’ she corrected herself.
