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‘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.
‘I think you can call me Ben, Frannie,’ he said with that roguishly charming smile. ‘It’s not as though we’re strangers.’
He was right. They were far from strangers, but the boy she’d known had grown up into a man she didn’t much recognise. A man her body was reacting to in a most inappropriate way.
‘What brings you to this part of town?’ he asked, still leaning against the doorframe.
With her eyes narrowing, Francesca took in his appearance. He was wearing a shirt and trousers only, no jacket and no necktie or cravat. His shirt was half-untucked and opened at the neck, revealing a hint of the bronzed skin of his chest underneath.
A moment of realisation dawned and her hand rose involuntarily to her mouth. It was the middle of the day, but that didn’t mean to say he didn’t have company.
‘It’s a bad time...’ she began to say, starting to back away. How could she be so foolish? He was a grown man, a man who wasn’t tied by the expectations of society like she was. She felt unexpected jealousy and quickly tried to tamper it down before it could show on her face.
‘Not for me.’ Ben caught her by the hand, then stepped back, motioning for her to enter his rooms first.
They were sparsely furnished with just the essentials. A small sitting room with a couple of chairs alongside a writing table and then a bedroom leading off the sitting room with a bed and wardrobe. It didn’t look as though Ben had brought much of his own to personalise the space, but if the rumours were to be believed he had only recently arrived from Australia and as such probably wouldn’t have much more than his clothes and a few of his dearest possessions with him.
‘Would you like me to call for something to drink?’ he asked, motioning for her to take one of the chairs. He perched on the windowsill, leaning casually back against the glass.
Now she was here, Francesca didn’t know what to say. At the ball three nights ago when she’d realised who the mysterious man in the mask really was she’d barely been able to believe it. Ben, the boy she’d loved ever since she could remember. The one she’d carried in her heart all these years, never daring to hope she might see him again. And now he was here, in the flesh. All six foot of him, and he was grinning at her like they were twelve again.
‘You’re looking well, Frannie,’ he said softly.
His words and his tone unnerved her. His voice was low and gravelly and it cut through her body and penetrated her soul. There was something about the way he looked at her that made her want to throw herself into his arms and find out just how strong the taut muscles were. Ben had aged well and barely looked his thirty years; only the faint few lines around his eyes gave away the life he’d lived already.
Self-consciously she touched her hair. Ten years ago she’d been considered a diamond of the Season. That was after hours of her maid taming and curling her hair and strapping her into beautiful dresses, but Francesca had still felt like a fraud. Then she’d been more at home in breeches and a shirt with her hair loose and streaming out behind her.
Now she was twenty-eight. Many of her friends had children the same age as she’d been when Ben was sent away. She was no longer young, no longer so smooth and polished. Years of living with a man who gradually resented her more and more had caused her to age a little. Ben, with his handsome tanned face and muscular physique, was probably used to pretty young things throwing themselves at him.
‘So are you,’ she said.
It was true. The boy she remembered had been all arms and legs. Tall for his age but skinny, with a cheeky grin that had been too big for his face. He’d been tanned then, too, a consequence of spending every waking hour running through the countryside.
The man in front of her bore a passing resemblance to that boy, but the changes were innumerable. He was taller now, with long legs and a broad body, no longer skinny, but a frame filled with hard muscle. His hair was still the same dark brown and his eyes a dark, deep green, but his face had changed over the years. The smile was still there, but layered behind the cheekiness was years of experience and Francesca knew instinctively it had charmed hundreds of women.
‘You left the masquerade without saying anything,’ she said, not knowing how to start. She could hardly come out and tell him she’d thought about him every day for the last eighteen years.
‘I didn’t want to embarrass you,’ he said quietly.
Francesca nodded slowly, feeling the pain at the instant reminder in their difference in circumstances. It had always haunted them, always kept them apart even as children. Again and again her father had threatened to have Ben whipped if he caught her running wild around the estate with him again. He wasn’t deemed suitable company for the daughter of a viscount. Now was no different, not really. Francesca was expected to marry well again and keep herself scandal-free until then. Socialising with an ex-convict would hardly be keeping a low profile.
Lord Huntley. She’d almost forgotten about him in the heat of the moment. The man she was destined to marry as soon as her mourning period was over. He would be livid if he knew she was here. He might even call off the marriage. Even though she despised the man she had to marry him. Yet still she could not bring herself to leave.
‘Sit down, Frannie,’ he said, motioning to one of the chairs. She obeyed, glad to sink into the soft fabric. This whole encounter had drained her already and a seat was welcome while she worked out what she had wanted when she came to see Ben.
‘How are you here?’ she asked. There were so many things she wanted to know, so many questions she barely knew where to start.
‘I took a ship from Australia,’ Ben said, grinning as she rolled her eyes at him. Already she was beginning to feel more at ease.
‘You know that’s not what I mean.’
‘I think my life story might be a little too long for you to listen to.’
‘I don’t need your life story,’ Francesca said, leaning forward in her chair, ‘Not all of it at least. Just what you’ve been doing for the past eighteen years.’
‘This and that,’ he said. ‘I’m more interested in you.’
‘This and that isn’t a proper answer.’
‘I served my sentence,’ he said and Francesca noted the subtle flash of pain in his eyes as he remembered the years he must have spent toiling under the hot Australian sun. ‘Then I was lucky enough to be taken in by a kind man who mentored me and showed me how to thrive in a hostile land. I had good friends and I built a life for myself out there. A good life.’
What he wasn’t saying was the pain he must have felt at everything he’d left behind. His father and siblings, people who cared for him, people who loved him.
‘How about you?’ he asked.
‘I was married,’ Francesca said, wondering how to condense the last unhappy decade and a half into a few sentences. ‘And now I’m a widow.’ It was depressing when she said it like that. Eighteen years Ben had been gone and all she had to show for it was a dead husband she hadn’t much liked and now the prospect of another marriage she was being forced into.
‘My Frannie,’ Ben said, slipping from his chair and kneeling in front of her. With callused fingers he reached up and stroked her cheek, and Francesca instinctively closed her eyes and sank into the caress. She didn’t know this man, not how he was now, but everything about him seemed right. Her body and her heart were telling her to fall into his arms even though she’d barely exchanged a hundred words with him. ‘Such sadness,’ he said, ‘What can I do to make you smile again?’ The words were almost a whisper and conjured up thoughts of all sorts of inappropriate actions. She could almost feel his lips on her skin, his hands on her body, his legs entwined with hers. Unconsciously she leaned forward ever so slightly, catching herself at the last moment and recoiling sharply.
‘I need to go,’ she said, the words catching in her throat. Thoughts of Lord Huntley flooded into her mind and she had to blink away the tears. He was her future, not the man in front of her.
Lord Huntley with his wobbling jowls and mottled skin. What a contrast to Ben who was the embodiment of vigour and health. At the masquerade his eyes had seemed to penetrate to her very soul and today she felt as though his lips were teasing her, inviting her in.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said and stepped towards the door.
Her hand was on the doorknob when she felt a soft touch on her arm. He must have moved as quickly and silently as one of the big cats that she’d seen the previous year at an exhibition. The black panther had stalked around the tiny cage as if constantly on the lookout for prey.
‘Wait,’ he said. His fingers burned through the material of her dress and she felt the heat of his skin on hers. Taking a deep breath to compose herself, she turned and found Ben standing directly behind her. They were close, far too close for propriety, but she’d thrown all notions of good behaviour away when she’d knocked on a bachelor’s door. Slowly she raised her chin so she was looking into his eyes.
It was a mistake. The moment her eyes met his she knew it was futile to resist. It might not be today or this week, but one day she would succumb to those eyes, to the man behind them.
‘I missed you, Frannie,’ he said, raising a hand and tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered, caressing her neck like the most intimate of lovers, and it took all her self-control not to sigh with contentment.
‘I missed you, too,’ she found herself admitting. She needed to get out of his rooms, needed to escape before she did something she would regret. Something that would put her whole future, the future of her entire family, in jeopardy. ‘But I can’t see you again.’
‘Lord Huntley?’ Ben asked, an amused look in his eyes.
‘He wouldn’t approve.’
Ben leaned in, his breath tickling her ear. ‘Sometimes it feels good to be just a little bit bad, doesn’t it?’
Francesca swallowed, knowing if she tried to speak her voice would come out as a series of squeaks instead of words.
‘I should go,’ was all she managed to repeat eventually. Ben smiled and leaned forward, kissing her cheek with a gentle brush of his lips. Francesca was mortified by the small sigh that managed to escape from her throat and knew she was turning pink.
‘If you wish,’ he said, his eyes never leaving hers.
Nervously she groped for the doorknob again, her fingers slipping in her anxiety to get away. After two more attempts she had it gripped in her hand and twisted, almost falling out into the corridor. She’d hoped the spell he seemed to hold over her might break if she put a little distance between them, but it didn’t seem to make any difference. With a hurried little curtsy that made her feel completely ridiculous, she scurried off down the hall, feeling his eyes on her back the entire way.
Chapter Four
Ben pummelled the punchbag, feeling the wonderful burn in his arms as the seconds ticked by. He was at the Smith-Hickory Boxing Club, a rundown boxing gymnasium close to Charing Cross. It was owned by a rugged middle-aged man called Kit Hickory, who looked as though he’d taken one too many punches in the face as a young man with a crooked nose and a marked asymmetry. It wasn’t a gentleman’s boxing club—Ben had been in one of those when he first arrived in London and had left after a few minutes. That sort of boxing was more prancing and pontificating than actual punching and defending.
Here he felt at home, among the working-class men, the men eager to take their frustrations out on the punchbags and their fellow patrons. Ben didn’t feel uncomfortable when he attended the events of the ton, but it wasn’t his world. This was more where he belonged.
‘Lighter on your feet,’ Kit Hickory called as he walked around the gym. ‘Punch, punch, duck. Guard up. Guard up!’
The older man was shouting at the two youths fighting in a roped-off boxing ring. They were good, made better by Hickory’s coaching, both destined to be local fight champions one day soon.
Turning back to his own punchbag, Ben began to punch again, feeling the tension seep from his shoulders and neck as he hit the bag over and over. He was annoyed at himself. Francesca’s visit had unbalanced him and he hated to be unbalanced. These past ten years since finishing his sentence he’d strived to always be in control, to always be the one calling the shots. Frannie had challenged that.
Although he had expected to be affected by seeing his childhood friend again, he had never thought she would cause such a reaction inside him. Every waking moment he thought of her, of the graceful way she glided into the room, the way her cheeks pinkened when she was thinking something inappropriate. He had always prided himself on being in control of his emotions, on never letting anyone too close. It was a lesson he’d learned on the convict ships, to look after yourself before anyone else, and the only people he normally made exceptions for were the men who were more like brothers than friends: George Fitzgerald and Sam Robertson. Now all he could think about was making her his. Every time he looked at her he felt his body react to her. These past few nights he’d woken in a hot sweat after very erotic dreams where she’d done unspeakable things. Dreams that meant he’d had to douse himself in cold water as soon as he woke.
It wouldn’t be easy, Francesca had been raised to be a dutiful wife and daughter, free from even the faintest hint of scandal. She might desire him—he’d seen that raging in her eyes during both their meetings—but she wouldn’t allow that to jeopardise her duty.
Throwing a particularly hard punch, he let out a deep growl. Duty be damned. After everything they’d been through surely they deserved at least a few weeks of happiness.
‘Women troubles?’ Hickory asked quietly behind him.
Ben grunted. He didn’t particularly want to share his deepest thoughts with the reprobate that ran the boxing club. They would likely be halfway round London within a day.
‘Loosen up your shoulders,’ Hickory said. ‘It’ll give you more power behind your punch.’
The older man moved on and Ben took a few deep breaths, trying to let the tension ease from his shoulders. He tried a few softer, experimental punches and immediately his thoughts wandered back to Francesca. The way her entire face lit up when she smiled, the light smattering of freckles over her nose that she’d had as a child and still had now, no doubt to her dismay. The soft curves of her body and the hair that he wanted to pull from its immaculate style and run his hands through as he kissed her into submission.
Then there was the sadness in her eyes, the sense that the intervening years had not been easy for her either. He found himself drawn to her, wanting to know her body and soul.
Closing his eyes, he stepped back. ‘Enough,’ he murmured, unwinding the strapping from his hands. This needed to stop. Somehow he needed to exorcise these thoughts, whether by fulfilling his fantasies or finding a way to move on from the woman who had haunted him for so long.
* * *
Francesca peered out from behind the curtain that covered the window of her carriage. It was hired, their family carriage having been sold many years ago, but her father had insisted on hiring one and a set of horses for the duration of the Season. For appearances, he’d said. Just like almost everything else they did. Their house was furnished for appearances. She had fine clothes for appearances. And they threw lavish dinner parties for appearances. All of it just served to make their money problems worse and Francesca was under no illusion that people didn’t know quite how in debt they were.
Slouching back, she felt the despair she always had when she thought about money. Their family had once been one of the richest in England, but years of gambling, poor investments and poor judgement on her father’s part had landed them in the position they were in now. Her marriage to Lord Somersham had been arranged with the idea that his wealth would trickle through to her family, but he’d ended up being just as poor a custodian for the family money as her father. The last few years of her marriage had been a familiar cycle of borrowing and the calling in of debt. When her husband had died the title had passed to some distant relative, but there had been no bequests, no tidy little allowance for his widow, meaning that once again she’d had to return home to her parents, once again a pawn in her father’s quest for more money.
Sometimes she thought about refusing, thought about withdrawing from society, perhaps taking up a position as a governess or companion. She didn’t want fine things, didn’t particularly enjoy the continuous cycles of balls and dinner parties and nights at the opera. Then she thought of her sister, twenty-year-old Felicity, the lively, kind girl who saw everything with those huge brown eyes. She deserved a chance. And the only way she would get that chance was if Francesca married Lord Huntley.
She wasn’t sure what arrangement Lord Huntley had made with her father, but she had extracted the promise from him that he would provide a decent dowry for her sister, allowing Felicity a modicum of choice about her future husband.
Trying to push the thought of another unhappy marriage from her mind, she glanced out of the window again, straightening as she saw Ben emerge from the darkened doorway. Already everything about him seemed familiar to her, his gait, his stature, even the way he turned the collar of his coat up to combat the icy temperatures.
She wasn’t quite sure why she was here. It mortified her when she thought of how she’d fled from his rooms in Gower Street, her imagination filled with images of him embracing her, kissing her, doing all the things a widowed lady shouldn’t. She should have left it at that, but she found herself drawn to him, unable to leave him behind entirely, but not able to trust herself to see him face to face again.
As he passed the carriage, head bent against the cold wind, she sunk back against the seat. She’d just needed to see him again, to convince herself that it hadn’t been a dream. For eighteen long years she’d agonised over his fate, imagining him a broken man, worn down by years of hard labour and then the difficult life of an ex-convict. Never had she imagined the confident and seemingly successful man that he’d turned out to be.
A few steps down the road he paused, turned quickly and in a couple of paces was back by the side of the carriage. Before Francesca had a chance to react he’d swung open the door and hopped inside.
‘Lady Somersham,’ he said, settling back on to the seat opposite her. ‘What brings you to this part of town?’
She’d preferred it when he’d called her Frannie.
‘I...’ she started to say, but couldn’t think of any lie convincing enough.
‘It would appear that you are following me,’ he said, fixing his eyes on hers and making her squirm under the intensity.
‘No,’ she said quickly, although that was an outright lie. She had been following him and right now she couldn’t think of any other excuse as to why she might be in this part of town, peering out of her carriage just as he left whatever establishment he’d just been in.
‘Boxing club,’ he supplied helpfully.
‘What?’
‘You were wondering where I’ve just been.’
Feeling completely flummoxed, Francesca took a deep breath and composed herself. She was a lady, the widow of a viscount, the daughter of a viscount. Probably the future wife of an earl. All her life she’d been coached to stay calm and serene whatever the world threw at her. Surely she could do that when faced with Ben Crawford.
‘I was following you,’ she said slowly, giving him a half-smile as if they were conversing about something as dull as the weather.
‘Couldn’t keep away?’ he asked.
Francesca felt her stomach drop away from her as she realised it was the truth. She hadn’t been able to keep away from him. Whatever she told herself, whatever lies she concocted to cover this embarrassing little episode, she’d just wanted to see Ben one more time.