Chapter 17 #2
“I have behaved in the most reprehensible manner,” he said. “Francesca, I am sorry. There is simply no excuse for my harsh words earlier this evening.”
Relief flooded her, making her knees useless—she found herself clutching his lapels as he gripped her waist, offering her his strength and support. “Why? What has happened? What is wrong?”
He shook his head, but his hands pulled her close. “I don’t know,” he murmured, and his eyes closed. He kissed her cheek several times, her jaw, her throat.
She shivered, desire an instantaneous flood, no matter how upset she was.
She realized he was shaking as his mouth moved over the swell of her breasts.
She held on to him as if he were a ghost that might vanish at any time.
“Can’t you talk to me? Calder, how will our marriage ever succeed if you shut me out this way? ”
He flinched, meeting her gaze, now holding her face in his hands. “I don’t want to talk, not now, not about anything,” he said. And his mouth claimed hers.
It would have been so easy to cave into his desire—as there was no mistaking his raw need—and be swept away to a very safe place. Instead, her mind raced as he kissed her, again and again, hungry and insistent. They could not solve their problems this way. She pushed him away. “No.”
He was out of breath. His eyes widened. “No?” And suddenly she saw a gleam in his eyes.
She knew him well enough to know that he thought her refusal a challenge. She braced her hands against his chest. “You have given me a terrible fright,” she said slowly. “And I think I have every right to know why.”
He stepped away from her now, raking one hand through his hair. “You do have every right,” he said finally. “But I also have the right not to share every single aspect of my life, every single thought, with you.” He became wry. “You really do not want to know.”
She was very still, in some disbelief. “Actually, I do. But you are right—there is no law, no rule that says I must be privy to your private thoughts.”
He smiled at her, just slightly, but it was genuine enough.
At least their crisis was over, she thought. “Why did you tell me that I could end our engagement?”
He hesitated. “I was in a very black mood. I regret my words. And I am more than sorry. If you let me—” and he smiled far too seductively “—I will show you just how sorry I am.”
“Is that it?” she asked incredulously. “You indicate that you wish to end our engagement—that you wish for me to back out, sparing you the cruelty of doing so—and you will offer me no explanation?”
“No,” he said flatly. His smile was gone. “Do not push me now.”
The warning was clear. His good mood and the Calder Hart she had come to know and love was clearly in jeopardy. But she could not help herself. If he was having doubts about their future, she simply had to know.
She went to stand before him, laying her hand on his chest, over his heart. “Do you want to end our engagement?” she asked.
He did not react with surprise; he did not protest or deny it. His jaw flexed, hard, his eyes turned black and he stared.
Oh my God. He wanted to end it.
Her hand fell from his chest. She stepped back, away from him.
“Let’s go inside,” he said roughly. He smiled a little at her. “I promised you that champagne.”
“No,” she whispered, refusing to move. “We have been honest with one another from the start. We agreed there would never be any lies between us. If you have doubts about us—about me—you owe me the honesty we agreed upon.”
He wet his lips. “I never want to hurt you. It still remains the last thing I ever want to do.” He added, “Please, Francesca, leave this alone.” And it was a plea, the first he had ever made to her or anyone that she knew.
But she could not hear him now. He had doubts, grave doubts. “You wish to end our engagement,” she heard herself say. It wasn’t a question. Her world began to blacken and spin.
“Don’t push me,” he said harshly. “Not now, not tonight.”
She somehow managed to remain upright. She became aware of Hart holding her arm. “Let’s go home, Francesca. I think we could both use a good scotch.” As if he hadn’t just warned her with real anger to let the past hours alone, he brushed his mouth over her cheek. There was urgency there.
She thought she nodded. She needed to think, never mind that she felt dangerously shocked and incapable of any thought at all.
Hart was guiding her inside and across the reception hall.
It was oddly empty except for staff, and she was vaguely aware that most of the guests in the salon had taken their seats with their suppers.
Somehow, Hart had his arm around her waist. She briefly closed her eyes, leaning against him.
Even now, when her every instinct told her that he was the one she should run from, she found comfort in the strength of his powerful body, in the strength of him.
His step faltered.
She felt his tension and knew it had nothing to do with their recent conversation. She looked up at him. “What is it?”
He met her gaze, his expression lightened. “Are you at all inclined to sleuth tonight?”
She followed his gaze, surprised. A very handsome gentleman had just entered the house and he was handing off his walking stick and gloves. “Why? Who is that?”
“That, my dear, is Lord Randolph.”
Francesca instantly forgot the previous moments and stared.
Randolph was a few years her senior, perhaps twenty-seven or-eight.
He had dark hair, fair skin and even from the distance separating them, she realized his eyes were a brilliant, remarkable shade of blue.
“Yes, I do want to sleuth—how could I even consider missing this opportunity?” she asked, never removing her gaze from her quarry.
He was a striking man, the kind of rake even a good woman like Gwen might fall victim to.
How interesting it would be if he were Gwen’s former lover and employer and now in the city, while the Slasher was on the loose.
And hadn’t Maggie said the gentleman she had met on the street corner the night of Kate’s murder had remarkable blue eyes?
Francesca bristled inwardly. How she hoped that Randolph was their Slasher!
Hart smiled at her. “I can see the gauntlet being thrown. Let me introduce you, then.”
“Wait!” She met his gaze. “You made some comment about his reputation.”
“Ah, yes. He has the unenviable reputation of being absolutely dour.”
“Dour?” she asked.
“Apparently he lost his wife and children in a fire, Francesca,” Hart said somberly.
“Although that was quite a few years ago, he rarely smiles and is known to be dour, grim and reclusive. He avoids society, female company of all kinds, and seems to have no intention of ever remarrying. That, I suppose, is what has really set the gossips off. He is a wealthy catch and the ruling matriarchs are terribly annoyed with him.”
“Perhaps he cannot be blamed, having suffered such a tragedy,” Francesca said. She began to think that he could not be the rake who had seduced Gwen. “Quickly, Hart, before he goes in to dine.”
Hart hurried forward, Francesca following. It was a relief to be investigating again. “Randolph, good evening,” Hart said very pleasantly.
Randolph started as he recognized Hart. “Hart, good God, is that you?” He smiled slightly as the two men shook hands. “What an amazing coincidence,” he said.
“May I introduce my fiancée, Miss Francesca Cahill?”
Randolph was clearly surprised by that. “You are engaged?” He then flushed. “Miss Cahill, Harry de Warenne at your service, and may I add my congratulations?” He bowed.
“Thank you. Do you know my sister or brother-in-law? They are your hosts tonight.” He wore several rings, Francesca noticed, but only one on his left hand. The stone was black onyx, an unusual choice, and some carving was upon it. It was also gold.
“Yes, I know Montrose rather well. He has a house in London not far from mine,” Randolph said.
“Oh, so you are from England,” Francesca smiled. “I had thought your accent Irish.”
Randolph glanced at Hart. “Your fiancée is very clever. I am from Ireland, in fact, although the majority of my family is English. We are the black sheep, actually, us Irish de Warennes.”
“I am sure you are hardly a black sheep,” Francesca said lightly. “So you prefer to reside in London? I am partial to the green Irish countryside myself.” Actually, she loved London, having been there numerous times, and she had never been to Ireland.
Hart said smoothly, “I am surprised to see you here. Usually you send your lieutenants to manage your business affairs.”
Randolph shrugged. “This time there were matters that required my personal attention.”
Francesca became thoughtful. “I am friends with a very beautiful woman and I believe she is from the vicinity of Limerick. Perhaps I should invite her to our supper party. You might know her. She resides here in the city now.”
“Perhaps, although I would doubt it. Who is she?” Harry de Warenne asked.
“Her name is Mrs. Hanrahan, Mrs. David Hanrahan, although we are so close, I call her Gwen,” Francesca said, her smile never slipping, her gaze unwavering upon his face.
And his polite expression did not change, not in the slightest. “I am afraid I do not know the woman in question,” he said.