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‘I wanted to be with you. Alone. Away from the other guests.’
‘Why?’ she asked, her mouth feeling peculiarly dry and the question coming out as a little breathless rush.
He looked at her with a half-smile on his lips and she felt all the air being sucked from her body.
‘Can a man not want to get to know a woman away from the prying eyes of society?’
Francesca laughed. ‘No.’
He shrugged. It seems a foolish rule that two people can never be alone together. How do you ever truly get to know someone?’
‘You don’t.’
‘How do you know if you want to further an acquaintance then?’ he asked.
‘You don’t,’ she said, knowing that she was standing too close when she could feel the warmth of his body next to hers, but was unable to step away. Never was she this reckless, but there was something both charismatic and comforting about the man standing next to her. He made her feel like she wanted to fall into his arms, feel his lips on hers and spill her deepest secrets.
Francesca felt a wave of sadness wash over her. This would never be her life. She was moving straight from one unhappy marriage to another which promised to be even worse. There was no room for a reckless liaison, no room for this sort of scandalous behaviour. Normally that didn’t bother her, but tonight she wanted more than she could ever have.
‘How then am I supposed to find out what’s caused the sadness in your eyes?’ he asked.
Glancing up at him in surprise, she wondered if she were that transparent that he could read her every emotion. ‘I am in mourning,’ she said, wondering if he would accept that as an explanation.
‘Did you love your late husband very much?’
She thought of his indifference to her, his belittling. His downright contempt as the years went on and she didn’t produce the heir he was so eager for.
‘No,’ she said.
‘Then why the sadness?’
Looking up again, she wondered why she felt so easy in his company. He was a stranger, a man too confident and self-assured for his own good, a man she should feel wary around, but she didn’t. Instead she felt as though she wanted to spill her deepest, darkest secrets.
‘Surely a woman like you has everything?’ he pressed. ‘Wealth, family, servants to do your every bidding.’
‘Appearances can be deceptive,’ Francesca said. It had been a long time since either her late husband or her family had been wealthy. All the money had been squandered in failed investments and business ventures years ago. Living back at her parents’ house had been depressing after being mistress of her own household, but it was made even worse when she’d explored the empty rooms which had once been filled with luxurious items of furniture, when she’d seen all the servants except the cook and two maids had been dismissed.
‘So you’re sad because your family is not as wealthy as it once was?’ he asked.
Francesca laughed. If only it were that simple. She wouldn’t mind the lack of money, not if she had some say in her life to come. Seven years she’d endured her first marriage. It had been loveless and, although Lord Somersham had never been violent towards her over the years, his resentment had grown as she failed month after month to get pregnant. He’d belittled her, bullied her, made her hate him more with each passing day. She doubted her next marriage would be any better.
‘I don’t want money,’ she said quietly, ‘I don’t care about fine dresses or jewels. I don’t even need a lady’s maid to dress my hair and press my clothes.’
‘What do you want?’ he asked the question quietly, turning his masked face towards hers.
‘I want to be happy. To not be forced into another awful marriage, to have the freedom to choose who I spend my time with and how.’
‘You’re a widow, surely you have some degree of choice in the matter.’
‘No.’ She didn’t, not if she wanted to save her family from complete ruin. She didn’t want to spill all the sordid family secrets, no one needed to know that her father owed various lenders debts the size of a small country.
The man next to her looked pensive, as if some great debate was raging inside him.
‘I should be getting back,’ she said.
‘No.’ He caught her hand, holding it softly. ‘I’m sorry, I should not have pried.’
‘Will you remove your mask?’ she asked, peering up at him.
‘I don’t think you really want me to.’
‘Of course I do, I feel as though I know you...’
‘Wouldn’t it be better to have this one mystery, this one little bit of magic?’ He looked down at her with dark eyes and she had the overwhelming urge to ask him to hold her. She thought there might be something rather comforting about having those strong arms wrapped around her.
He was still holding her hand, she realised, and his thumb was tracing lazy circles across the satin of her glove. She wondered if he could feel the places the material had thinned and almost frayed—it had been a very long time since she’d had money to spend on new clothes.
‘Can you hear the music?’ he asked.
With her head tilted a little to one side she listened. Coming from the open doors of the ballroom on the other side of the house were the first soft notes of a waltz.
‘Lady Somersham, will you grant me this dance?’
Placing her hand in his, she felt her body tremble as he pulled her in closer and began to dance. He was a natural, guiding her expertly around the small space with just the pressure of his hand in the small of her back. As the music swelled Francesca felt her worries begin to melt away until it was just her, her mysterious companion and the waltz.
After a minute she glanced up at him and found him gazing down at her. Again she felt that bubble of recognition, this time deeper inside. She felt at ease with this man, she realised, as if they had been lifelong friends.
‘I feel as though I know you, Ben,’ she said, seeing the easy way he smiled and wondering if she was being foolish. Surely there was no way he could be the Ben of her childhood, the boy she had loved and lost all those years ago. He’d been transported to Australia, all because of her father’s actions, and he probably hadn’t even survived, let alone made his way back here eighteen years later.
He spun her, pulling her in closer at the same time, and for a moment they were chest to chest. She could feel his heart beating through his jacket. And then the music moved on, he relaxed his grip and they were a more decorous few inches apart again.
‘Perhaps you do,’ he said. ‘Or perhaps I just remind you of someone.’
‘Ben...’ she said quietly, all the time looking up into his eyes for some sort of confirmation.
He smiled at her, but his expression gave nothing else away and she sighed. She was probably just being fanciful. For so many years she’d longed to see her friend again, longed to hear that he’d survived, that he’d thrived despite what her father had done to him.
As the music slowed Francesca wished this moment could last for ever. While she was dancing there was no Lord Huntley pushing for marriage, no debts, no family falling apart under the strain. It was just her, the strong arms around her waist and the music. Soon it would be back to reality, back to everything she wished to escape.
‘Thank you, Lady Somersham,’ her companion said, bowing and placing a kiss on her gloved hand. ‘It has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance tonight.’
It was over. The fantasy was shattering and soon it would be as if this moment had been nothing but a dream.
‘Your mask?’ she asked, already knowing he would refuse.
He hesitated and she saw the internal debate raging as a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. ‘Best not. Best to have one little mystery in life,’ he said.
She didn’t protest. Maybe he was right. Maybe it was better not knowing who he was, that way she could make up her own story.
He raised his hand as if he was going to stroke her cheek, but his fingers paused less than an inch from her face. Instead he smiled sadly.
‘Goodbye, Frannie,’ he said and then he was gone.
Francesca felt the air being sucked from her lungs as her whole world tilted. Frannie—only one person had ever called her that.
‘Ben,’ she called out, but already he had gone. Disappeared into the darkness like a phantom.
Chapter Three (#u02c47a9b-0722-5b3f-8e55-b6c2d280610d)
‘Why the long face?’ Sam Robertson asked as he came and sat down in one of the comfortable armchairs in Lady Winston’s drawing room alongside Ben and George Fitzgerald. Lady Winston was Fitzgerald’s aunt and their hostess for their time in London. She’d been kind to them, accepting Ben and Sam as if they were her relatives alongside Fitzgerald.
Up until recently Ben had been staying at her town house alongside his two friends, but he’d craved a little privacy to conduct his affairs and had rented a set of rooms nearby. He did, however, drop in most days for at least one meal, or to partake in the particularly delicious mid-afternoon snack Lady Winston insisted on serving. The platter of cakes, scones and biscuits was enough to keep ten men going for an entire day, but between the three of them they often devoured it completely.
‘Do you remember when we were on the transport ship together,’ Ben said after loading his plate up with biscuits and cakes, ‘I told you about the girl I used to be friends with? The one whose father falsely accused me of stealing the family jewellery.’
‘Of course. Francesca, wasn’t it?’
He nodded. ‘I saw her last night. I talked to her.’
‘Did she remember who you were?’ Robertson asked.
‘It was at the masquerade. I was wearing a mask.’
‘The lady in violet,’ Fitzgerald said, understanding dawning in his eyes, ‘The one you asked me to escort to the library.’
‘Did you want her to remember you?’ Robertson asked.
Ben shrugged, trying to act nonchalant. Of course he’d wanted her to remember him. For so long she’d haunted his dreams and, if he was completely honest, she was one of the main reasons prompting his return to England. He had needed to see she was happy, that her father hadn’t completely ruined her life as well.
Now he had set eyes on her again, his feelings were even more complicated. As they’d danced on the terrace the night before he had seen the recognition slowly dawning in Francesca’s eyes and he’d been all ready to reveal his identity to her, but then an unfamiliar stab of uncertainty had stopped him. She was a lady, the daughter of a viscount. He might be a wealthy landowner now, but his origins still meant he was an imposter in society. What if she shunned him? He’d taken the easy way out, the coward’s way, and had slipped away before she confronted him about his identity.
‘Did you tell her who you were?’ Fitzgerald asked.
He shook his head. ‘I planned to...’
‘So what happened?’
Ben shrugged. ‘She probably doesn’t even remember me anyway.’
‘Unlikely,’ Robertson said. ‘Surely she’d remember the man her father had falsely arrested?’
At the end of that last summer before Ben had been arrested there was a robbery at Elmington Manor, Francesca’s childhood home. A large amount of jewellery was stolen, along with some cash and other small valuables. The hue and cry was raised and the magistrate along with other upstanding men in the community began their search.
After a week a small locket had been found in Ben’s possession. It had Francesca’s initials on it and immediately Ben had been arrested. He’d begged his accusers to just go and ask Francesca, to confirm that she’d given him the locket as a gift, as a token of their friendship.
The magistrate refused, no doubt eager to stay in favour with Lord Pottersdown, but one day a week into his incarceration Francesca had turned up anyway. She told anyone who would listen that Ben was speaking the truth—she had given him the locket. Over and over she told the magistrate that her father had set the whole thing up, that he had framed Ben in a desperate attempt to cover his own debts. Of course, no one had listened. She was just a girl, a ten-year-old who was obviously infatuated with a common thief.
Eventually her father had arrived and dragged her away. Ben would never forget the moment the door of the county gaol closed behind her; in that moment, his heart had broken. Three months later he was sent to the hulk ships that lined the Thames and a year after that he was aboard a transportation ship to Australia.
In the eight years of his sentence and the ten years since he’d acquired his freedom he hadn’t ever been able to forget his childhood friend. He’d dreamed of coming back for her, to rescue her from her cruel father. As he’d grown older he’d let go of any thoughts of rescue, knowing that by now Francesca would be living her own life, but he’d never given up the hope that one day he might see her again.
What he hadn’t expected was the attraction he’d felt for her. When he’d last seen her they’d both been children. He had loved her, there was no denying that, but in a way one friend loves another. Now he felt something much more primal, much more pressing. He desired her. Francesca was beautiful now, sleek and elegant and graceful. When they’d danced, he’d felt raw desire for the woman in his arms and it had taken all his self-control not to kiss her there and then on the terrace. Even though once they had been very close he knew it was unlikely a woman of Francesca’s status would allow herself to be seduced by him.
‘So you’re just going to leave it?’ Robertson asked, his voice a touch incredulous.
Ben shook his head. He couldn’t leave it like that. He had just needed to regroup, that was all, decide what he actually wanted from Francesca before he saw her again.
‘She was very pretty,’ Fitzgerald said quietly. Probably the most perceptive of the three friends, George Fitzgerald had a way of seeing past the façade and getting to the heart of a problem.
‘She’s changed a lot,’ Ben said carefully.
‘And she’s a widow...’
‘Not that kind,’ Ben said quickly. She was a respectable woman, he knew that much, and he also knew how reputation mattered to the ladies and gentlemen of society.
‘Fair enough. Isn’t she engaged, though?’ Fitzgerald asked.
‘Not yet,’ he said, thinking of the boorish man he’d met fleetingly the night before. He couldn’t imagine the girl he’d once known married to such an oaf and likely that was the source of sadness in her eyes. She’d said as much, with her desire for a little freedom in her choice, in her life.
‘Then you have a window of opportunity, surely?’ Robertson said.
‘I do,’ he said quietly. First he needed to work out what he wanted from Francesca—only then would he seek her out again.
* * *
Taking a deep breath, Francesca looked up at the building in front of her. It was in a desirable part of London, the street lined with trees and well-dressed men and women strolling along the pavements arm in arm. Really, she shouldn’t be nervous.
Telling herself not to be so silly, she crossed the road and climbed the five steps that led to the front door. There she hesitated, not knowing what the correct etiquette was when visiting a gentleman’s rooms.
Francesca had been an unmarried debutante for two years, unhappily married for seven, and then a widow for almost a year now. That made ten years of adulthood in which she had never visited a gentleman’s rooms. Many of her contemporaries would whisper and giggle about their affairs, taking pleasure in sneaking off behind their husbands’ backs to meet their lovers, but she had never done anything like that. So she lifted the knocker and let it drop a couple of times, all the while feeling completely out of her depth.
‘Good morning, miss,’ a pretty young girl said as she answered the door. She was dressed in a French maid’s uniform that had been popular for a certain set of the ton to instruct their maids to wear a couple of years earlier.
‘I’m here to see Mr Crawford,’ Francesca said quietly, hoping no one would overhear.
‘I’ll see if he’s in, miss, if you’d like to wait here.’
The maid indicated a spot in the hallway where a couple of chairs had been set out for waiting visitors. Francesca perched, ready to flee at the slightest sign of anyone recognising her.
Two minutes later the maid returned, almost skipping down the stairs.
‘Mr Crawford will see you,’ she said. ‘Follow me.’
Feeling increasingly nervous with every step, she followed the young maid up two flights of stairs to the top floor of the building. There, lounging against the door frame of an open door, was Ben. Without the mask it was unmistakably him, the boy she’d called her closest friend throughout their childhood. He gave her a half-smile, full of charm, and despite her nerves Francesca felt her heart flip inside her chest.
‘Lady Somersham,’ he said, his voice low, ‘What a pleasant surprise.’ He didn’t look surprised to see her, he didn’t look as if anything in the world could ruffle him, especially not the mere reappearance of an old childhood friend.
‘Mr Crawford,’ she greeted him formally, her upbringing taking over as her mind went completely blank. She wanted to reach out, to touch his face, trace the lines with her fingers and convince herself he was really there and not just a figment of her imagination.
